mgversion2>datura mgv2_83 | dot com | 01_16 edited by Walter Ruhlmann Š mgversion2>datura & contributors, January 2016
Contents Bill Abbot
Withdrawals
Gary Beck
Web Life Learning Process
Dorsaf Garbaa/Peter O'Neill
Ma féminité ce soir/My Feminity, Tonight
Cathy Garcia
Flash Tears and Despair Loin du compte
Beth Duncan Hanami
Dots Replacing Hearts
François Ibanez
A l'autre bout de la toile Harmoniques sombres L'amère vertu de la fin
Strider Marcus Jones
The Cup
Roger Leatherwood
The View From Eight
Karla Linn Merrifield
When in April We Tune In Academy-Award Performance Amazon.com Wish List
Margaret O'Driscoll
I Just Googled A Name
Neil Slevin
WhatWentWrong
J.J. Steinfeld
Surreal Musings Existential Texting
John Sweet
on the first morning of his life as a mortal
Book review Imene Bennani
Here is the Desert by Dom Gabrielli
Publicité mgv2>publishing 2015 titles: And Agamemnon Dead – The Dark Pool – A Few Bullets Short of Home – Documentaire Humain – Poem Without a Title
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Withdrawals by Bill Abbot My computer started making noises the other day, So I took it to be repaired. It seems that the arm on my new hard drive was clicking‌ I left my computer in a strange house on the other side of town With the repair person, And went home To a computer-less world. The light seemed dimmer somehow. The sounds echoed. There was no reassuring whir of a CPU fan motor. I realized that I was finally alone. I couldn’t remember how to turn on the books on my shelf. I had lost the schematics on how the dishes were washed. I could not surf the net to remind myself How to clean the bedroom. I sat, alone, in an empty room, Realizing that the computer revolution Was going on without me. Realizing that all of my friends Were happily typing away on email And Facebook, and Twitter. Realizing that I was not. I called my friend, but his line was busy. I realized that I was now a pedestrian on the information superhighway. 5
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 I went to the library to keep myself in contact, But was thrown out when I forgot myself And went to www.naughtygirls.com. They would have closed too early for my tastes anyway. I went to a friend’s house and sat on his couch Just so I could listen to his fingers on the keys, Just so I could see the faint glow of the monitor Reflected off his glasses. I went home a few days later, After he ran out of food, And curled back into bed, alone. I considered suicide, but couldn’t browse The Kevorkian website.
I knew that without my computer, I could not resist playing solitaire At work, And I knew that playing solitaire at work Would get me fired. And I knew that if I was fired, Then I would lose my apartment. And I knew that if I lost my apartment, That there’d be nowhere for me to plug in my computer When I got it back. And without my system, I would be left behind By the computing world. I couldn’t rush upstairs to check out Any website that was advertised on television. I couldn’t play retro-simulators Of Colecovision or Atari. 6
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 I couldn’t access my file that contained All of the information That made my daily life survivable: Where do I shop? What do I eat? Does the toilet paper go over or under the roll? Do I still have parents? Do they have email? Did they hear that my computer was down, take all my stuff that’s still in their basement, and sell it on Ebay? Do I get a cut of what they made? But the worst thought was that I could not update my web page. I couldn’t put up that animated gif that looked so cute, I couldn’t read my guestbook to see if anyone had been there. I couldn’t see the counter. What if the economy collapsed? What if my web page had the one crucial piece of information that would save the Western world? What if the president had emailed me for clarification on that data? I wasn’t there to answer it. It’s all my fault that the Western world is collapsing Because I don’t have my computer. That might be a capital offence. I don’t want to die. I would have answered, Mr. President, I promise. I just couldn’t get online at the right time. … If anyone sees my computer repair guy, Tell him that I need my computer back. It might, after all, be important.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Web Life by Gary Beck Social networking a constant in the information age, a digital distraction that disrupts abilities to use the brain properly, does not deter users from frequently connecting to unproductive sites.
Learning Process by Gary Beck Search engines, online databases, make people more unlikely to remember information that comes too easily to be retained, as long as computers provide our knowledge continue to function.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Ma féminité ce soir de Dorsaf Garbaa Avoir mal à en hurler... Mais hurler en silence.. Car ma féminité ce soir se révolte. Elle est là, elle me sourit Elle est là depuis si longtemps… J'ai essayé de l'enrober J'ai tenté de l'expulser … Mais toujours elle est de retour Perpétuelle, fâcheuse … J'ai cru l'avoir parfois humidifier.. Mais elle sait et l'a toujours su Me fendre en milles et un mirages Me torturer... Elle envoûte mes nuits, S’amuse à m'attiser… À m'enterrer subitement, Dans un cocon malveillant… Difficile de lutter, D'écarter sa mollesse … Car ma féminité ce soir s'aliène. Que faire contre ce silence ? Contre ses fables qui délabrent… Que faire dans l'épreuve ? Contre cette féminité qui dégrade... 9
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Car moi ; le silence de moi, nuit Je m'ennuie Le jour et la nuit Alors je fume Je me parfume Je m'enrhume Je traîne Ma peine Flemme Dans ce lieu Je m'ennuie mieux À cœur caverneux.. Qu'on l'en ôte les chimères De ses cieux à mon aveu... Car ma féminité ce soir se rebelle.... Elle hausse les murailles et s'emballe.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 My Femininity, Tonight... Transversion by Peter O'Neill from a poem by Dorsaf Garbaa
To hurt, and then scream, But to do so in silence... As tonight my femininity revolts She is there, smiling at me She has been there for a long time I tried to clothe her I attempted to expulse her... But, as ever, she returns again Perpetually pissed I thought, at times, that I could humour her But she always knows, as indeed she has always known, How to smash me into smithereens, Just to torture me
She bewitches my nights Amusing herself by poking me Burying me subtly In a malevolent cocoon It is so hard to fight back To avoid her quagmire My femininity tonight, she is craZed
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 What to do in the silence, Against her decadent fables? What can I do against this test, Against her who so degrades me? For I – this silence here which is me In the night, am so bored And, so I smoke Put on some perfume Catch a cold LaZily I train My pain In this site Where I become so bored Inside this cavernous heart To remove all the chimeras Skyward, which is my confession... For my femininity rebels tonight, She raises up the walls, encircling me.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Flash de Cathy Garcia Déflagration des corps fantasme d'altérité flashe-moi mon amour miroirs synapses désir poudre dorée à se prendre pour un ange self under control autocombustion désir de soi dans le regard de l'autre tissage de la toile de séduction électrique déhanché nudité Narcisse brûle sous ses paillettes (extrait de Douze volcans sur la lune, inédit)
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Tears and despair de Cathy Garcia Tears and despair Tears and despair Joli trousseau Comme un morceau de blues Un morceau dans la gorge que l’on ne peut Ni avaler ni recracher Ni avaler ni recracher Mon homme is happy like a grave My love is joyeux quand je tombe Tears and despair And a glass of champagne Rough silence With a glass of pain Je peux voir mon reflet Lune pâle Pas même gothique There’s surely something funny we can play Like a dark song entre deux cups of heavy rain Notre vie is like a lonely fellow Par une nuit d’hiver Loupant the last train Loupant the last train (extrait de Le baume et le pire, inédit) 14
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Loin du compte de Cathy Garcia Si on regarde bien notre vie Et ce que nous avons partagé Nous, je veux dire toi et puis moi On est loin loin loin du compte Parfois un coup de folie C’est vrai, me reprends Et sans plus réfléchir Je viens te parler Comment avais-je pu Oublier la règle Hier soir encore Suis désolée, suis désolée J’ai encore oublié la règle Et suis venue te parler C’est clair il est temps Que je nettoie mon grenier Tout plein de poussière De vieilles toiles d’araignées Et des rats qui nichent dans une terre Où rien n’a jamais poussé J’y ai vu pourtant une porte Qui donne sur l’extérieur Et une très grande fenêtre Comme une belle baie vitrée J’y ai même porté à bout de bras Une machine à laver 15
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Et je ne crois pas que cela soit impossible De venir à bout de toutes ces saletés Je pourrais même en faire un bel atelier Mais je sais je dois faire attention Dans mon rêve, un cristal Sur mon bureau était brisé T’en fais pas, je me garderais bien De venir t’en parler Je n’oublierai plus la règle Quelle écervelée je fais De ne pas avoir encore compris À quel point on est Loin loin loin du compte Loin loin loin du conte de fée. (extrait de Le baume et le pire, inédit)
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Dots Replacing Hearts by Beth Duncan Hanami Our families are slowly dying Dissolving into individual TVs Modems attached to our fingers Instant access any time we please. Our feelings are limited To square boxes marked send Happy faces and punctuation marks No dots needed at the end. Our hearts are no longer on our sleeves Hugs and kisses by cell phone Voices of dashes and dots Replaced the need to go home. When will we begin to see As a newborn needs to feel Our spirits too are suffering All sensation we bury and conceal.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 A l'autre bout de la toile de François Ibanez Décohérence Point limite de séparation Mon double Quelque part D'une muqueuse épaisse Lointaine Rejoindre l'unique S'affaire innocent Si par là même Les morts-chats Dansent encore Toile tissée dans le vide Cristallin
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Harmoniques sombres de François Ibanez Déconstruction patiente L'horrible silence Certitudes défaites Les injustices malsaines et noires Caressent et cassent Obsédant à observer Toujours dans l'effacement Le non-là à jamais quoiqu'il Je ne sais pas dire le comment J'explore la chair qui bat Les harmoniques du réel gris et dur Jamais les astres clairs et beaux Ceux du désir qui flamboie pour toujours Dans un souffle prendre le risque
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 L'amère vertu de la fin de François Ibanez Les longues langues et Qui sortent Et résistent Sans appel qui frappent l'esprit Froide agression le mal est là toujours La haine se déverse Sans cesse Comme un fluide merveilleux Qui fait apparaître les champs A Nus C'est le jus noir Qui danse Sortant des bouches
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 The Cup by Strider Marcus Jones a smelted celebration of victory and carnal coronation moulded in dark historythe chalice divine to inhuman crime blessing unjust law and futile war. mine, holds the coffee i pour into me, or sometimes tea when i want to see who are different in the present. upturning the cup and turning it such to read the leavesa gypsy's lore and ancient blood has always understoodwho and what controls the plot, keeps us in the base and dregs looking up, without the legs to climb the slippery clay into dark deceit counterfete 21
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 deception and decay. take back how to think, stand at your own sink and wash away this cold custodian, old Eton and Bostonian suited slick affrayof corporate hoodies and big house bullies hunting and shooting laughing and looting, smeared in oils that anoint herding us to the vanishing point.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 The View from Eight by Roger Leatherwood Craig moved all the cubicles on the eighth floor in the early weeks of January, facing the eastward ones to the north. Then he moved the southern ones to the west. The workers came in after the break and had to be reassigned. The ones who'd been here last January remembered a similar thing last Christmas holiday. Craig, by doing this, affected his own specific, local kind of progress in the office of Spartan Web Services and Socket. The newer workers, mostly the seasonal wave who came on in November for the holidays and would be gone by April 30th, were at first upset. Then they realized their personal belongings were shifted as well. That they weren't all that personal. Or valuable. And while the view wasn’t much different, they were momentarily inspired to work a little harder coding and bypassing regulatory restrictions in the way their code tracked customers. The older ones, who'd managed to rise above the minimum threshold of being laid off weren't so invigorated. They watched as the seasonal wave cleared out their desks in the coming months and business returned to normal for the rest of the year. The processing of updates was as endless and monotonous as ever, an occasional bump near the end of June with the summer season, an assembly line of incomplete callbacks and socket updates only decorated by another view of the office and their neighbors. Computer monitors hummed and fingers tick-tacked on keys. Craig kept his desk and chair at the window by the corner. The pillars had never allowed an unrestricted view. He'd been keeping an eye on the skyscraper being erected across the causeway on the old First Insurance Building lot. They broke ground back in 2009 and were finally finishing after 6 years. Craig saw girls in there smoking and drinking and entertaining older men, some of whom could be seen to take off their clothes in the dying sun some evenings, across the way. He spent another day overseeing the workers, telling himself he’d leave here when that high-rise was finally finished. But the offices across the way were always being redecorated, and no signs were ever hung. He thought he would turn his desk as well next January. The other way, facing the workers instead of out.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 When in April We Tune In by Karla Linn Merrifield Leonard on Knopf.com pops into my Yahoo inbox on National Poetry Month, day 7. “These Heroics” is a short poem of sexy stature. Cohen tender. Cohen sardonic. Crooner in the rough, he comes to join me and the good ole boys who’ve dropped in from Pandora®.com, my pet ’Net station, It’s the Neil Diamond cohort selection. He comes calling me Sweet Caroline, CCR chimes in naming me Proud Mary. Palpably among the living, Croce arrives as time in a bottle, Denver bows to me as mountain mama. Bliss of the Eagles from a corner in Arizona. Bliss of Elton teasing his tiny dancer twirling around this library, this nostalgic morning. The good ole boys, S&G included—and my Lenny!— hanging out, singing to me this de-digitized lyric. We party on this other side of virtual.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Academy-Award Performance by Karla Linn Merrifield My new mobile device is a Galaxy V android capable of delivering high-speed gizmo glee. Way to go Google®! I’ve got apps! Apps galore! Stroke him. Tap him. Stroke, tap. Oops! Guess I’d better trim my nails pronto. Stroke him. Tap him. Tap, tap. Among his many talented features, he can stream movies 24/7 on his mini maxi-pixel silver screen. Any flick I want to download. Instantly. The Wild One…Last Tango in Paris… Apocalypse Now…On the Waterfront— my faves. My ’droid comes strutting into my daily life shrugged into a leather jacket, gigastar packing interface protection, a warrior’s shield. I intend to leave fingerprints, dude, but I promise not to scratch you up. My new Verizon indulgence is a techno teen idol, hero for old girls who still have a streetcar desire for a little glitz, a little sizzle. Clasped in the palm of my right hand, he exudes electronic power. We connect. He rings my chimes at full volume. Now, as his human consumer-keeper, I have the solemn responsibility to name him, bestow upon my new cell phone the proper personality: I baptize thee— Brando.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Amazon.com Wish List by Karla Linn Merrifield I. Sappho’s The Moon Round and full, I turn my silvery face toward you, asleep, dreaming moonlight. II. Marie de France, Les Lais Is this love, transported over time, mythic, courtly, and infused with medieval hues? III. Meade’s Stealing Heaven (The Story of Abelard and Heloise) Tutor me, O, forbidden lover, in the anatomy of female flesh— my own, yours. IV. Sand’s The Haunted Pool Strolling the boulevards, we strut, shameless hussies in tuxedos. Men lust after us. V, Collette’s Claudine Let’s play French schoolgirl, cherie. I’ll kiss you in the cloakroom. Bise, bise. VI. Nin’s Delta of Venus After the absinthe, may I drink the dew from between your parted thighs?
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 VII. Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own Your room or mine? In the library? On your deck? Where next, lover? VIII. Sarton’s Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaid Singing To uncover the provenance of my poetic inspiration, you open my every portal. IX. Olsen’s Silences Fear not, but forge forward, I say, pausing to find the proper voice. X. Egan’s Turnabout I wait, I grow patient, for you to write our love story, kiddo. XI. Merrifield’s Dawn of Migration On angel’s wings I prescribe not rose petals, but feathers for your breasts.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 I Just Googled A Name by Marrgaret O'Driscoll I just googled a name on a random whim Clicked on a site saw a picture of him Clicked on a link to find out some more Couldn't believe what lay in store Old photographs from years gone by Taken from a book I just had to buy A quick click on Kindle, the pages I scanned I read of his exploits in a far off land I was whisked on a journey back in the day The information I got just blew me away
WhatWentWrong. by Neil Slevin Out and from my fingertips reaches a wonderful world a-waiting; and yet, yonder, just outside my door, there lies a world of truth – its windy, blowing breath and trickling waters baiting. But tapping idly I sit, staring, and stretching – straining, searching – until my raw-red heart and eyes are sore: “There’s nothing you cannot find on Google”; there is so much you cannot online explore. Behind me still, outside, 28
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 still, that other world’s still waiting, and inside I discover nothing, nothing that I could not have found, nothing I could not have learned before. So through a plastic window I sit staring, my eyes looking, longing for something more, but in darkness I see nothing – where is the interactive experience, the modern wild-eyed wonder in this store? And in this moment, beyond me is beyond my door. Never have I had so much to consider; so little to ignore. But all of it’s beyond me, beyond worth searching for.
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Surreal Musings by J. J. Steinfeld No more dreams I was informed formally by a dream creature in a text message during a dream. Now, let me say I have never texted or received a text in my non-dream state. I tell the dream creature to text someone else keep its technology out of my subconscious and next time to write a letter by careful hand and put it in my mailbox on the surreal side of the street
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 Existential Texting by J. J. Steinfeld everyone should text messages to their former selves all the consciousnesses altered, lost, or stolen everyone should text messages to their future selves all the consciousnesses imagined, found, or returned in despair or elation all the former and future selves disavowing texting and all electronic devices should reply in a formal hand with letters explaining what went wrong or will go wrong so the entrance to wherever consciousnesses go can make a tiny bit of sense or, at the very least, leave a record of being
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mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 on the first morning of his life as a mortal by John Sweet here in this house where the priests bless ghosts here on these stairs where knives are offered freely by the sick and the blind he walks these halls w/out purpose he considers where his beliefs, where his lack of beliefs, have led him his childhood of television antennas and of negative space, of cut-out shapes where his father should have been, and the man wasn’t dead, no, just absent was just elsewhere and the knives are taken eagerly by eight year-old boys, and they scream happy threats at one another they turn to their younger brothers, to their older sisters, and shout YOU’RE DEAD! and then run away to hide, and so what do you do about the ones who are never found? and this is his problem w/ faith, you see, these sons and daughters so viciously murdered, so easily taken away, and these blank-eyed zealots w/ words like rancid milk falling from their 32
mg_83 | dot com | 01_16 diseased mouths, and what they speak of is a better place
what they overlook is that the atrocity itself is the most important thing is the here and now, and that anything else is only death and he considers his own boys, at their mother’s but due back in an hour, and he steps out the back door, limps across the yard w/ his one good ankle, w/ his one bad one, and stares up into the flawless sky rain on the way, but not until later this evening an entire august afternoon to spend at the lake simple joy, which is all he would ask for the people he loves
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review A review of Here is the Desert by Dom Gabrielli by Imene Bennani Here is the Desert by Dom Gabrielli. L’aile editions, 2014. 102pages, 10€ “This secret breathing”: The Poetry of Dom Gabrielli In his latest collection Here is the Desert Dom Gabrielli offers a desert of rays and roses to his readers as much as to himself.
The book is a ceaseless wandering through dunes, visions and
recollections in search for the “deep windy unknown”. Light and translucent, the poems proceed with grace and delicacy; ethereal, they take the reader on a magic carpet to a wondrous world where all the senses are engaged. The approach to the desert should be flawless, the appreciation complete. While eyes can relish in “yellow swarms” and “emerald palms”, and get hooked on “the bleeding eye of dawn”, ears are “attracted by the subtle fountain’s tickle” and the singing of the “frog of dawn”. Enchanted by “the song of the beloved”, they remain attentive “to the late skin in you/to the almond dance”. A plethora of tastes and scents render this intake partially maddening: from “salted kiss” and “perfumes sweetly minted” to “unknown sugars”
and
“cumin winds” that “simmered” on “the
parched tongue of my tasting”. Even touching ancient riverbeds and their “salts” becomes a sacred rite meant to “anoint the banks of their absences”. This plunging into the desert with all senses expectedly invites the erotic: “can I hold it This aroma of you Burning in steamy mint This erotic cloud of brown breath” Like Ondaatje’s Almásy, the poet not only values sensuality but also venerates the desert of desire and climax: The night is full of donkeys screaming sex at the stars. 34
review
Night in the desert is not only about intimacy and romance but also pain and loss: Lost the night I descended there Into the lost loves My tears silent pools For the cynical diver At once one and other The pain of sunsets pulling Amid this insane age’s obliterating rush and noise, the poet is generous enough to propose a flight from pressure to a landscape where one can indulge in loss, “dissolve into deep blue”, “lose [his] hand in dunes of golden sand”. In fact, Loss becomes that superior fantasy; a cherished state offering an incentive to sing and boast of broadness, and providing a point of departure towards brighter horizons: “I am a lost brother of a lost race/you were never lost and you sit proud”. There is no fear from loss since in this broad, versatile desert, everything can still be found “by magic”. On the other hand, there is fear from “losing the silence” and there is comfort at listening to the desert.
A seeker who learns to listen to the desert in the manner of Coelho’s
Santiago, the poet is so blithe and composed, to the extent that he feels inclined to “converse/ with the amphibian’s leap”. Silence is an art in this collection. Chosen rather than imposed, it is invited to greet the solemnity of the setting, its holiness. Light rather than heavy, it is congruent with the poet’s communion and meditations. More significantly, silence is a ritual: “he writes/with her hands/on his dark body/ in silence/he bides timelessness”.
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review The poet is forever drawn to “where the desert spoke/where the song sung itself”. The desert is song and discourse; it is all the words and poems that are coming: “I lie in silence/eyes closed in my night vigil/waiting for the desert”. Broad and unlimited, the desert invites its opposites: “up the mountain/where the cool clouds gather/near the snowy summits/the English gather for tea”. Is the poet invoking contrasts to better comprehend the true beauty of the desert or is he weighing the blissful gifts of each landscape and cherishing his right to embrace all regions, all seasons, all natural landscapes? Still, Gabrielli’s presentation of the desert is not mere intense admiration or pleasurable contemplation. Even amid entranced states, there is critique. How do foreigners deal with local beggars? “where does he go/in the dying wolf light of evening/do the tourists remember his words/as they sleep on frozen money”. Poverty and need are detected, the glimpse of hope not neglected: “ten children in one room/night within night/stars within tomorrow”. The poet portrays many characters in the Moroccan setting: a robed beggar, a veiled woman, a master and his mules, and a nomad. Rather than portraying her as an odalisque crossing the “souk”, the “veiled woman” is looked at with wonder, with veneration for feminine beauty and a bowing to “the poems in her eyes”.
The nomad is not characterized as an uncivilized barbarian; neither
despised nor looked down, he is valued for his idiosyncratic self-expression; there is recognition of his charm and intelligence, his power to write and express his origins and heritage “directly/ in the wind the sun the sand”. The poet’s conviction is categorical: ““domination is in vain/vanity must be banished”. Free from the colonizer’s gaze, this is a mature approach to the desert. There is recognition, a tracing down of origins, a mapping of belonging. The I becomes we and they, all of us: “we were all Moors once/expelled from a rich land/stigmatized/the skins of our wanderings” There is an urgent plea for tolerance and understanding too: “will you banish what I banished/in the womb of tomorrow/for our children to play/sipping sweet mint tea/on the Henbel carpet”. There is even an obsession with warning from “hatred”: trust me if words do not first 36
review crackle in the boiling creases of your skin if they do not breathe on you before you infuse them with floral charms they will always stink of hatred And the breathing is there, from start to “finish”. Brief, and with comfortable space between its lines, the poems in this collection breathe. Is it the “desert effect”? Spaciousness becomes enmeshed with the poems’ texture and the textual fabric cannot help succumbing to the principle of broadness. The broadness is similarly conveyed through the beautiful calligraphy by the Tunisian artist Najeh Jegham, and which is a transcription in French, English and Arabic of some of the poems and selected lines in the collection. These serve as an aesthetic and semantic illustration of Gabrielli’s words. There is much play with space, shapes, density, and length. Some tableaux look like Berber carpets made up of innumerable letters, figures of mules, or tribesmen. Others look like camels or tents. But all are attempts to echo Gabrielli’s vision and message in a different but no less catching artistic form. The poems in their itinerary cannot help but form a circle, the roaming. Loss begins the book and seals it. There is no fixed point of departure or arrival; there are no definite shapes: we are in the spaciousness of dawn, light, and sun rays; we are in the “immensity of everything”. Perhaps, the only destination available, again,
remains the poems themselves, “the lost poems”, “the ones
written with instinct”, and which should be followed and heard. The poet did write “with instinct” and his “pen had dipped into impossible rains”. Gabrielli’s book is this “kora song lost in the dunes”, this echo “nested in the rocks”. A “smile”, do not hesitate, follow it; a “kiss”, tarry not, “pluck it now at sunset”.
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles And Agamemnon Dead By Peter O'Neill et al. Paperback, 187 Pages Price: £6.00 And Agamemnon Dead An Anthology of Early Twenty First Century Irish Poetry Edited by Peter O'Neill & Walter Ruhlmann Michael McAloran -- Amos Greig -- Dylan Brennan -Christine Murray -- Arthur Broomfield -- Peter O’ Neill -- Rosita Sweetman -- Michael J. Whelan -- Anamaría Crowe Serrano -- Peadar O’ Donoghue -- Strider Marcus Jones -- Colm Kearns -- John Saunders -- Kevin Higgins -- Paul Casey -- Sarah Brown Weitzman -Eithne Lannon -- Maighread Medbh -- Jack Grady -Bob Shakeshaft "...there does indeed exist a whole world of writing out there which seems to live in a parallel universe alongside the more familiar voices which appear in the mainstream media, here in Ireland. There is nothing remarkable being said here, is it not always the case in every period, no matter what society? There will always be the majority, who somehow would appear to expound the specific values and criteria which that particular society holds up." Peter O'Neill extract from the preface
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles
The Dark Pool by Peter O'Neill Paperback, 90 Pages ISBN 9781326226978 (c) mgv2>publishing & contributors Price: €6.00 From Brigitte Le Juez's foreword With this volume Peter O’Neill offers, once again, the demonstration of his talent, a mixture of vivid imagination, erudition and sensitivity. This talent is profound and exuberant, and with the mastery of his art, poetry has become second nature to O’Neill. Indeed, his poems demonstrate at every turn his knowledge and love of the literary tradition (from Virgil) whose heir he is, although he subverts it, ruthlessly sometimes, in the style of his forefathers (especially Rimbaud and Beckett, to whom he pays homage, and Baudelaire whom he translates here).
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles A Few Bullets Short of Home And Other Poems by A.J. Huffman edited by Walter Ruhlmann Cover photograph by Nate Dworsky Š mgv2>publishing, June 2015 ISBN: 978-1-329-27151-7 Set price: $8 buy it here
About the Author A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her other poetry collection, Another Blood Jet, is available from Eldritch Press. She also has two more poetry collections forthcoming: Degeneration from Pink Girl Ink, and A Bizarre Burning of Bees from Transcendent Zero Press. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2300 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles Documentaire humain de Perrin Langda édité par Walter Ruhlmann illustrations d'Eric Demelis © mgv2>publishing, octobre 2015 Né en 1983, Perrin Langda vit très probablement sur la même planète que vous. A publié Quelques microsecondes sur Terre aux éditions Les Tilleuls du Square / Gros Textes, 2015. Codirige actuellement le webzine Cohues avec Brice Haziza. A écrit dans des revues comme Métèque, Mauvaise graine, TractionBrabant, Comme en poésie, Microbe, Catarrhe, Nouveaux Délits… Son blog : http://upoesis.wordpress.com Couverture souple, 80 Pages 6€ (HT) ISBN: 9781326454050
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles Poem Without A Title by Klaus J. Gerken edited by Walter Ruhlmann Š mgv2>publishing, December 2015 Price: 9,20₏ (HT) ISBN: 978-1-329-74041-9 Klaus J. Gerken comes with a collection of poems where art and humanity are seen as a whole and come together in a deep vision, an epiphany. Modernity is inspired by what was eon ago, like the flow of a river bed which sediments nurture the life we see. This collection of poems in four parts will make you travel through time and space and meet some of the most important figures in history, good or evil.
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mgv2>publishing 2015 titles
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