Handshake 14
The Selected Poetry of W. Gregory Stewart
a yule of witches working in the nude
Shameless plugTravel Agent
Lida Broadhurst
Clerk, newly-hired, strides to counter, Much rubbing of hands, bright glint of smile. "Yes, yes, Madame, I am here to assist you." Smile waning like moon, he listens As with heavy accent, she reveals A tale, tangled as seaweed. Heavens, he thinks, left alone with a mad woman, While the others chatter long at lunch, Insensitive to his rescue. Casts his mind through remembered manuals But this figure does not shine as any example, Thus he begs for repetition, hoping for sense. But comes only that same torrent of babbling. She stops to breathe, deeply, deeply, Disturbing the thin fabric of her gown, Long and edged with something green. Perhaps if he repeats it, she will find it foolish, "Now, Madame, you planned to board our ferry, Your sisters could not accompany You, your mother being distraught. She mumbles something, he tries to soothe, "Yes, of course you are ravishing, Madame," Hands shaking, she mutters something. He forces brief nervous smile, says, "Your pardon, He was so ravishing," imagining shipboard intrigue. More mumbles, ravings, the woman's unbalanced, A fine one to cast blame for an unpleasant journey. Gulping, he whispers, "Oh, he ravished you." Frowning, considering. "One of our captains, But they're so well-trained." A glare. He continues, "No of course, They are not trained for that." Violent shake of her hand. "Oh, not our boatman, Some wandering animal, you called him a bull." His mouth settles to smirk, "Well I have heard Our men so described, Women tourists delude themselves..." He waves condescending hand, "No, Madame cannot be called such Yes, your gown purchased from Istria, and .." Delicate sniff, "your scent as well because.." Much agitation, "you are a princess. Indeed. Forgive me, which kingdom did you mention?" Totally undone, he gazes at floor, Puddled with what he thought dirty water, Realizes too late it should have dried Months ago. Months, the word frightens him, Dries up his thoughts. Comes nearer, Sees swelling of stomach like waves. A princeling? What might he inherit? Hears footsteps, finds himself, Damp with relief, Makes his voice airy, bothered by minor Dilemma. "Oh, Mrs. Montague," And then finds nothing to say.
In Coldhouse
Through miles of ice extruded from its windows, the Sun setting frigid: splendor in coldhouse! Fire forged in crystals ambering from its chimneys: crystals that resonate with the susurrus of trapped voices, the sonic menace of shifting ice floes in the cellar. Gelid minds in hebetude lie dreamless in the attic, seeking solace in stasis. Hearts are hibernating in closets frore as Pluto, and darker still: red glaciers creeping through the atria. A fire is frozen on the hearth, ironic and waiting... a knock at the door, the telephone rings, and a snowflake shivers in the cloisters of coldhouse.
In a recent review, Richard L. Levesque said of Dreams and Nightmares: "Unless you've been in a coma for the past nine years, then you already know that Dreams and Nightmares has established itself as the premier zine for genre poetry."
Billy Wolfenbarger said: "One of the very best poetry magazines of fantasy/horror...."
t. Winter-Damon agrees: "fIn wIn of th mUs hEr..."
Bob Frazier, long-time editor of Star*Line, says of D&N: "Never ceases to step out to the edge....D&N deserves a Grammy."
Tipton Snavely: "Never read it."
The Kiss
Hillary Lyon
Help me drive these iron stakes into the unyielding earth, help me unroll coils of spiked wire across arrowed heads, help me keep the woods at bay. In the shadows of trees, they move like natural things, graceful and fleeting, their brassy eyes lanterns swaying in a windless night. We move inside the house, feeling the locks on doors and windows, leaving garlands of prayers, building great smoky fires to obliterate the stars. Through a broken mirror one has entered among us. I touch my own vein. I will lean into your shadow for this kiss.
the winter of our discontent
W. Gregory Stewart
one morning in the winter of our discontent I arose from the bed of our discontent and stepped into the bathroom of our discontent. after using the toilet of our discontent I looked into the mirror of our discontent - my eyes were bloodshot. then I went into the kitchen of our discontent for coffee (whitened with cream from discontented cows) and breakfast, but on looking into the refrigerator of our discontent, I could find nothing but the leftovers of our discontent.
This little newsletter, published by "the eight hand gang," consists of 4 A4 size pages of poetry. Production is unadorned, but content is of very high quality. My favorite poem is by J. C. Hartley: "What the time traveller didn't tell." From Hartley's poem:
"...a Victorian male Has a need for stronger meat. To feed those dark drives You have to go underground."
Handshake also features Steve Sneyd, Andrew Darlington, and eight other poets. It is worth reading. (Reprinted from D&N #45.)
W. Gregory Stewart, 1993, The Selected Poetry of W. Gregory Stewart: Antepenult, Dark Regions Press, PO Box 6301, Concord CA 94524, signed and numbered paperback first edition of 125 copies, $3.95. There is no ISBN number.
This 36-page volume contains several nice, and one excellent, illustrations by Helen Shoenfeld, an engaging introduction by Denise Dumars, and 20 poems. I have seen a lot of Greg's poems over the years, but many of these were new to me, even though only three have not been previously published. I really enjoyed reading this chapbook, and I recommend it to all. Greg has a broad and deep talent, and Bobbi Sinha-Morey seems to excel at choosing a pleasing set of poems for a collection.
Humor walks in many of these poems, and rhythm, and delicate play with words. Many show a deep love of the natural world, and warn of consequences we may bring on ourselves through our carelessness. I don't have a favorite poem here, but if I did it might be "The Warthog," partially reproduced below:
A warthog prowls Regent Square But no one ever sees him there. Or, if they see, pay him no mind — As if they'd all gone warthog-blind.
Or, maybe the title poem (partially reproduced):
Hope and wild dogs are everywhere, untethered and hungry, equally dangerous, equally cruel. It is said the dead shall rise.
These two poems are as much about people as anything else, and this is a characteristic of Greg's work. However, he does have some undiluted science fiction poetry in this volume:
from "Infrared and Residue":
the infrared echo
of the supernova
enhaloes a parent disaster
off at tangents
(right, at angles)
until on reflection
it finds
alien eyes, blindly
it is a dance
performed among debris,
as light plays among
the residue of stellar genesis;Greg's poetry frequently graces the pages of Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, and the like, and has appeared in Amazing Stories and who knows how many other venues. This is not just because Greg's work is very good. I receive a batch of submissions from Greg every few weeks, sometimes twice in one week. He is nearly as prolific as Wayne Allen Sallee! If all genre writers were this productive, I'd need a bigger mailbox.
Dark Regions Press has produced many fine genre publications, mostly concentrating on fiction. The Selected Poetry series is the brainchild of Bobbi Sinha-Morey, who was a poet and poetry editor before she joined Joe Morey at Dark Regions. It was a good idea. She has published work by Wendy Rathbone, Jacie Ragan, and either has published or will soon have published volumes by most of the best modern science fiction and fantasy poets. These books look good and they taste good too (I mean that literarily, not literally). Antepenult may not be available for long, because of the small print run and low price. (Reprinted from D&N #46.)
Jeff N. Foster, 1995, a yule of witches working in the nude: Dormant Press, 416 E. 6th, Maryville MO 64468. Self-published. No price, but $1.50 ought to be enough.
Jeff sent me this tiny chapbook containing 13 erotic poems and I'm reviewing it because one poem really charmed me. Here is an excerpt from “Cammie”:
a photographer she shutterbugs the patrons in private pleasure temples where eyes have hands
These poems are rich with words like leprous, arachnid, and eponymous. Allusions to classical mythology, Hinduism, and Christianity are juxtaposed with mustard seeds and other tiny commonplaces. The high-toned words don't distance the reader from the fundamental subjects of these poems; instead they give the impression of a narrator attempting to talk around sex by using scientific terminology. Many of the poems are written from a female viewpoint. I can't say whether Jeff successfully gets inside women's heads, but it doesn't seem to matter: perhaps the narrator of the female-viewpoint poems should be regarded as a literary transvestite. The poems in this book don't turn me on (isn't that the main purpose of erotica?) but they are literate, well-written, and worth re-reading. (Reprinted from D&N #46.)
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