Poem by Sagine Corrielus

To Patience

You are a virtue which
many do not have, which I do not have. Waiting and waiting
as the tiny clock ticks away the time we have left.
Thus, your lack drives me crazy. Making me wonder,
making me think. And in your absence,
I am a stone cold wind of fury. Capable of demolishing
anything in my path. A soft silent yearning,
a harsh summer’s heat, an ungraceful Giselle.
I am everything and nothing all at once, each tiny
discrepancy causing me unrest. But really who am I to deny
your healing, gracing me with your prowess.
Your keen sense of stability conducting me away
from the wind, the destruction, the self-loathing, the hate.
And into the soft, quiet, maudlin center of a thousand lullabies,
making me want. Yearning for the calm, I am everything and I am nothing.
A flame slowly extinguished, with a deep sense
of profound knowledge and prudence.
Relaxing and Relaxing, drifting into the cool blue light.
Relaxing…relaxing… relaxing…

Poem by Ian Riley

Imagination

When I was just a little boy, I used to play pretend.
Never did I give a thought that happiness would end.
As I became an older boy, imagining became the norm.
Pretending was for little kids, an immature art form.
Now that I am all grown up, it’s only dreams I keep,
And even then I only dream, unknowingly, asleep.

Symphony no. 25 by Manolo Gonzalez

I had continued to practice my art most dutifully, garnering about three or four subjects every other fortnight. My art, as well as my heart, were swelling to the most sublime depths, like the strings in a symphony. It was a most exciting time, what with my studies at the conservatory and love blossoming in the stagnant Tuscan wind. 

During the mornings I would dive into the melodious sublimity of instrumentation, and in the afternoons I would relinquish all thoughts and put forward all of my available attention to her, my swan queen. We would spend the hours in a state of pure ecstasy. Whether it was love or lust, I dared not press my advantage past that of pure courtship, with hopes of marriage in the near future, of course. It was a delight watching her eyes spill fewer and fewer valuable tears. In fact, I believe that after that first night she never spilled tears at all. It was not only I who had done that, but the music that pulsed through my veins, the frequency of which penetrated her bones. 

My hidden art was, of course, a touchy subject. Although I wished to show her my masterpieces, I could not be persuaded to believe that she had the capacity to fully understand such crowning artistic achievement. So, I didn’t. It was, shall we say, exciting to my person and my art to harbor these glorious achievements. It made it all the more fulfilling knowing that while she went home in the evenings to take care of a dying aunt, I was out, making art for the whole world to relish. To keep such a fantastic secret from an innocent girl who had no secrets was both terrifying and wonderful; forbidden, in a most titillating way. There can be no love without deceit.  This little knowledge in my mind helped me through a great burst of artistic output. As if in a procession, one after another after another would fall to my instrument, with the same care taken each time. As a violinist, my arm would race back and forth across not strings, but the neck of artistic vigor. I was a factory of pure, unembellished art, and my own god. 

This spur allowed me to take a chance in performing my greatest and grandest piece. I entered into a rather large disagreement with my most mediocre maestro, and my fellow colleague who acted as more of a lapdog for him. I decided that I would save them from their own mediocrities, and do them the favor of allowing them to become immortalized in art. Doing this, of course, required some planning, as I was dealing with two subjects this time. 

On the first day I bound and gagged my colleague in my apartment, and held him sequestered in my boudoir. Luring him into my flat was no large feat, as all it took was the weak promise of sambuco. My professor, the mediocre maestro, was a bit harder to reel in, naturally, as he actually used his mind to think, and not to follow, like my colleague. I had figured out that the man was fond of the many fallen women that plagued our fair town. So, I offered to host a night of musical discussion accompanied by drink and ladies of his choosing, a custom of young bachelors. Knowing that, as he was the proud owner of a faulty memory, he wouldn’t remember to make such a call to a woman, I jotted down the address of my domicile on the Via Antonio Alfieri on a thick sheet of parchment and handed it to him. 

The next evening I awaited him dutifully, wearing my best waistcoat and breeches, as I sat in my study with my colleague bound in the next room. When he arrived, we chatted about Brahms and Bach and then, once he was filled with vino rosso and limoncello, I began my latest masterpiece. So grand a piece required an act as bold as leaving my front door unlocked, which I did, and began to prepare the two men, laying side by side on my large oak table, by disrobing them and sharpening my instrument. 

To Evening. Sonnet by Ugo Foscolo

Perhaps because you are the image of that fatal quiet

so dear to me, you have come,

O Evening! And when happy summer clouds 

and the gentle west wind are your escort,

and when from snowy restless heights

you send shadows and darkness into the world,

you descend summoned always, and gently hold 

the secret ways of my heart.

You make my thoughts wander forms

that vanish into eternal nothing; meanwhile 

this cursed time flees, and with it, the throng 

of cares with which it me destroys;

and while I gaze on your peace, that warlike spirit 

sleeps, that yet within me roars.

translation by Nick Benson of Ugo Foscolo (1778-1827), ‘Alla sera,’ published 1803

Un Amor by Manolo Gonzalez

It was a glorious afternoon in Firenze when I first laid eyes on my beloved. She was holding an old wooden rosary in her porcelain hands as she walked out of Il Duomo, with bright red lipstick on her lips and nail polish to match. After my first masterpiece I had gravitated around the cathedral looking for new inspiration. Artistically speaking, this quiet Tuscan town was the ideal place for art and artists such as myself to flourish. The city once inhabited by Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci, masters of their craft, truly, would serve as nurturing mother to my art; an art that would have enchanted the world had I lived in the time when I could have the patronage of the Medicis.

She walked slowly, with purpose and yet with hostility down the twisting narrow passages of the city, as moist eyeliner made a zigzag down her round cheeks. I followed her to a yellowing derelict building on the Via Ghibellina, and stood watch outside what I guessed was her window from the cobbled streets below. Several men of no particular importance or significance, especially to my art, made their way in and out of the building in timed procession. Very musical, I thought, and gave the matter no more thought.

After about midnight, she left her abode and strolled down the streets with fresh tears in her eyes. Not letting such beauty pass up, I persuade the enchantress into a dim Spanish tavern, Salamanca, with wooden floors and blood red paint on the walls. Flamenco filled every corner of the room as I walked in and took a place next to her at the bar. After some persuasion and charm, of which I have an abundance, she granted me the honor of buying her a glass of the establishment’s sangria. Her bright red fingers circled the rim of the glass as she spoke; her neck bowed and twisted with every sip and clenched every time she encountered a piece of floating fruit. The sound of hidden despair rang in her voice and filtered through the room as I fixed my eyes solely upon hers. 4/4 time of the handclap began the Catalan rumba that would become our first dance as inamoratos.

The guitar strings pulsed as I held her fair hand in mine; the vocalista’s heartache vibrated in her eyes, as the bongos and guiro lead our steps in time. Over the sangria I had learned nothing from her; over the flamenco, I learned everything. Un Amor. Without the utterance of words, our hearts conversed, matching a joy that perhaps only the practice of my art could match. At the end of our dance, the slightest glimpse of a smile twisted her face exposing pearl-white incisors. Her sadness captivated me, and my joy beguiled her. She glanced at the crumbling clock on the wall and announced to me that she had to return home for a previous engagement.

I lead her back to her home on the Via Ghibellina that night, hearing her steps click to the beat of our shared flamenco. Before she went in for the night I caught another glimpse of her pearl-white incisors pronouncing the resolution that we should rendezvous again soon. She went inside and I took up my spot under the gas lamp which limply lit the pathway, and watched at her window. A small man wearing a waistcoat much too small for his bulging stomach entered the palazzo some time after she did, which made me ponder if perhaps he was her previous engagement. I then started to ponder who my next artistic subject would be.

From the long overdue (re)readings (VI)

Insofar as Stella's and Fried's historical reflections accurately mirror the character of contemporary art (and to a large extent they do), I may almost certainly expect, as I walk into a gallery, to confront either a bunch of autonomous icons pretending that I am not present, or a covey of 'difficult' autodidacts intruding into my space and making theoretical demands on me. After years of such confrontations, it has become increasingly clear to me that our twentieth-century characterizations of the work of art as this ravishing, autonomous entity that we spend our lives trying to understand, that makes demands on us while pretending we are not there, is simply a recasting of the work of art in the role of the remote and dysfunctional male parent in the tradition of the Biblical patriarch. Even art critics deserve some respite from this sort of abusive neglect.

—Dave Hickey, 'Prom Night in Flatland. On the gender of works of art,' in The Invisible Dragon. Four essays on beauty. Los Angeles: Art issues. Press, 1993. 39-50 (46-47).

Poem by Lauren Castaldi

My Girls

We marched three in a line
Sipping frozen smoothie drinks
Tinted tropical colors to match our vibrant bathing suits.
And I can see myself in you, but I was more daring.
More intrigued with my dangerous side.
But your innocence is lovely
And I know you play ignorant because you are smart
One of the few kids who knows it’s safer to stay young
More rewarding to live in youth as long as you can.
I was the opposite.
I tried to grow up as fast as I possibly could
I thought it was better that way.
And I know you remember when I hugged you in the waves
Sand covering every inch of our bodies as we rolled around in the surf
Now you help me hold your little sister
But I keep it a secret that I hold both of you for dear life
Because the pull of the waves is that strong.
I put every muscle I have into keeping you from being sucked away
A little girl battling the persuasion of the ocean.
And although you are young for your age, you are wise.
But my favorite is when you laugh, oblivious to anything else in the world but your own delight.
And we walk down the sidewalk three in a line
Holding hands with our shirts on and wet bathing suit butts
Three blondies, my two girls in the Florida sun.

Poem by Lauren Castaldi

Losing.

Call me the Queen of Losing.

I’m a pro.

I can lose hair ties, money, wallets, socks, and shoes

Earrings, brushes, clothes, homework

Car keys as I’m running out the door

My dog.

That girl I was babysitting two seconds ago

Basketball games, card games, board games.

Fights, disagreements, debates

Dignity, respect, self-control

My train of thought, my formulating idea

The disappearing images of my early morning dream

I can even lose you.

And none of this is even hard to do.

But none have quite the magnitude of losing you.

And if you want a reaction, I’ll give you a fucking reaction.

I’ll yell, scream, cry and crumble

I’ll give you tears with a slur of inaudible words.

That ugly uncontrollable What’s-Wrong-With-Her-Face cry, too.

Because silence isn’t satisfying

And it’s no fun to wonder at my cold shoulder.

But don’t ask to look me in the eye

If you don’t really want to see.

And losing myself wasn’t hard to do.

In fact it was quite easy when I had you.

But now I’ve lost you too.

[after Elizabeth Bishop, 'One Art']

Requiem by Manolo Gonzalez

Introitus. As he lay on the floor, I stood watching over him while the blood from the wound slowly spread out over the chocolate oak planks. He wasn’t dead, of course. I made sure of that. That part comes at the end, the finale, like a crescendo in a symphony. All of the curtains in the room were open, nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. I planned it that way. Everything must be accompanied by music, like a beautifully choreographed ballet. Death too can, and will be, an act of such sublimity, such operatic splendor, that calling it a work of art would be a grave injustice. But, of course, for that to become true, it must all go along with the music. So, I stood there, silent, looking down at the beginning of my masterpiece. The room was still, almost somber and then, as planned, the strings became striking and I set out for my next movement. Dies Irae. Now the fever grew, and the darkness began to show himself. I moved the body away from its blood soaked setting and placed it on top of the wooden table. I quickly shut all the windows and curtains, and locked all of the doors. I disrobed the body down to its undergarments, and quickly searched the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers and placed the articles on top of a chair. I removed all the jewelry, also put them on top of the chair, and then I removed his shoes and placed those under the chair. I grabbed a washcloth from the basin and quickly cleaned up the blood that had been spilled. The room was still once more. Rex tremendae. The madness in me, the madness of a man fulfilling and creating such beauty, was now controlling my body the same way that a ballerina loses control over herself with Tchaikovsky. Continuing on with my black dance of death, I turned off all of the lights, leaving only the light of candles to illuminate the rest of my opus, and I poured a generous glass of Bordeaux from a splendid vintage and drank the wine. The red glass matched the rouge of the blood, as if I was drinking the man’s own, and through that, drinking in the spirit of death. Slowly, to make sure that I was going perfectly along with the score, I walked into the washroom. I looked at myself in the mirror; face somber and unmoving with red streaks of blood on my cheeks, as planned, and stared into my eyes. Confutatis. Without taking my eyes off my reflection, I reached into the drawer and pulled out my straight razor. Methodically, I stropped my instrument as a violinist tunes his. One, two. One, two. Timpani. Bassoons. One, two. One, two. The feverish violins demanded that the blade be sharp. I raised the razor up to my eyes and examined the sharpness of the blade. Alas, the moment of true artistic beauty was soon to arrive! Offertorium sanctus, what beauty and splendor will befall my legacy! With the retreat of the pulsating instruments came the calm of the vocal forces. Lacrymosa. Soprano, tenor, contralto. In that calm I paced back to where the body lay. Slowly, deliberately. My glare was fixed on that pathetic slab of flesh on my table. His breathing was getting more pronounced now, indicating that he would be awaking soon, as planned. A soloist, no matter how spectacular, needs accompaniment to achieve greatness. Unbeknownst to him, he would not only become art eternal, but he would also service me as my corps de ballet. Soprano, tenor, contralto. The time was soon to be upon us as the strings became more and more nervous. I stood over the face of the man, peering down into his twitching eyelids. By this time I was worried that he wouldn’t come to consciousness in time for the grand finale, thus ruining my masterwork. This, of course, was a chance I could not allow myself to take. For this very purpose, I had prepared myself with some smelling salts in my breast pocket. Under his blood dripped nose I waved the container. The violas began to escalate as his eyelids began to flutter. I watched as one eye slowly opened and focused on my being. As the crescendo drew upon us, the other eye flung itself open. The moment of triumph—my moment of triumph—was finally among us. My eyes pierced into his eyes. I smiled as I lifted up my instrument as the music began to reach its climax. Soprano, contralto, tenor, bass, violins, trombones, bassoons, timpani, basset horns, trumpets, basso continuo! A glorious and beautiful work of sublimity and death! Amen! And then, the music stopped.

English Journal 11 (2011) is now available for viewing/downloading as a pdf here.
Thanks for taking a look! 

Luscious Frisian Fur by Jon Hill

Luscious Frisian fur cascades down her back as she throws her head back in what would better be described as an angel changing the feeling of happiness to sound rather than simple laughter.  That happiness spreads inescapably to anyone around her, and a single glance from her eyes, like pools of molasses surrounding dark chocolate, will bring anyone out of the deepest abyss of depression.  When her perfect lips form the simple crescent of a smile, forgive the cliché, but the entire room lights up. And in me it brings out an incredible mixture of happiness and longing, because even though I know she’s mine every second I’m away from her feels like forever, and then whenever I’m around her it makes up for whatever I felt while she was gone.  When people stare at her as she walks by she doesn’t understand that it’s because she is perfection, she is salvation, she is the love of my life, the reason I’m failing my classes, and everything in between.

photo by Ian Engelberger