Enhance Bring Poetry Back

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C

4. B ru i s e s

— Josef i n L au rén

5. t i m e a mong t r e e s

o

— Ch a rle s Por t ol a no

6. E va p or at e

— S i mone Ni k kole

8. T h e E m p t y N e s t

n t e

— S a ra Grey

9. s tor m

— S a muel D a n gc i l

10. N e p t u n e [T he T imes Past] — M i lene I ba r ra

11. t h e e n d i s com i ng —Vic t or Pa rl at t o

12. F e e d t h e E n t r e pr e n e u r w i t h i n You — L ady E clec t ic

13. ode to qa bb a n i — D ave D e G ooyer

n

14. T h e B l ac k N ig h t — C at her i ne M ag no

15. Sl e e p i s a f or m of h e av e n — M a s a s h i Mu s h a

t

16. E vac u at ions a n d F ool s — A nt hony Ree se

17. da r k m at t e r

— M at t hew Guer r uc key

s [ Page 2 ]

18. ode to a fly — Jen n i fer Ros s i


L ETTER F ROM THE EDITORS I hate poetry. Or at least, most of it. E.E. Cummings I can stand, but still only a scattered selection drawn from his complete works. Half of it looks more like a word scramble or some other type of puzzle book. Charles Bukowski’s volumes would be more densely packed with gems if you cut out most of the ones about betting at the races or cheap one-night-stands. Of course, then you would probably chase away half of his readers. However, I’m sure somebody would happily pick up the pages that I tear out of his book and tack it to their wall (or possibly share it on the internet, though that’s more public than many people often take their poetry habits). All of this brings me to this issue’s theme of bringing poetry back. My response is, “Where has it gone?” I am guilty myself of occasionally lamenting the possible decline of the art, but the truth is that poetry abounds! You will have to dig through piles of verse that you’ll toss right in the trash. Eventually you find one that sends you back to the top for a second read. Whether it is a strong image that hooks you, or a memory sparked from the lines, you and the author view the world through a shared frame. We offer you the following pages filled with gems that brought us into the author’s mind. We may have cut some that would have connected you with the unprinted authors. Poetry is fickle like that, and we are merely selecting machines with predilections of our own. It’s okay to dislike poems. It is my hope, though, that if you should find nothing here to quote again and again, that you don’t stop looking. In other issues, in other journals, in the books of dead writers. Because poetry lives, it’s right here. Because when you find one that makes you pause before turning the page, you will know that bliss can hide in the tiniest of moments. Enjoy these poems. Or don’t. Brian Garrison, Editor

I love poetry and like to think of poetry as my best friend. Without poetry this world seems so bland and boring. Poetry has so many powers would be defenceless against it. It speaks so many languages and has so many faces. Poetry is a universal solider of sorts. It starts and stops revolutions. It cures and gives heartache. Poetry is a gift and a curse to those who feel connected to it. The Allen Ginsbergs and WB Yeats of the worlds are ingrained into our heads. Sure it’s okay not to like poetry, but don’t forget it exists. Don’t throw it off the train and give it injures that are incurable. Bring Poetry Back, poets tell the world that you love poetry, tell everybody you love poetry, don’t hide your talent. I am glad I got to see this issue of Enhance get published. Because I really think that poetry was lost in the woods where Video games have planted themselves. Poetry is now walking among the trees lost and nowhere to go. Everybody has forgot it existed. But it is those who support poetry that will lead it back to its proper home. Poetry has really not been anywhere near what it used to be and I guess that’s what I was hoping would happen. I was hoping young folks would grab on to poetry and take it with them while they are on this roller coaster we call life. So embrace poetry and make sure to give it a pat on the back every once in a while,. Nathan Alan Schwartz, Editor THIS ISSUE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY EDITORIAL STAFF Brian Garrison Nathan Alan Schwartz Sopphey Vance CONTRIBUTING COVER ASSISTANT Devon Allen

This issue is a symbol of our promise to you: our readers and artists. There will be many issues to Enhance and each issue will have great works hand selected by the Editor In Chief and future Guest Editors. Enhance is an online quarterly literary and art magazine that explores the human’s perception of life through literature and art. Enhance is interested in publishing new and emerging artists as well as the seasonal artist in all genres. Sopphey Vance. Enhance, Editor In Chief. Founder, On Impression Did you miss past issues of Enhance? Read them for free at www.onimpression.com

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B ru i s e s

— Josef i n L au rén

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t i m e a mong t r e e s — Ch a rle s Por t ol a no Trees are Cathedrals, sanctuaries, casting long shadows, while not uttering a word to be heard, but do they speak, they do listen when spoken to, they do not preach, but reach out, teaching me to take only what I need, never to want more; as I walk among them, the wind whispers the secrets the trees wish to share with me: to be cool, calm, and always collected makes the air easier for all to breath in. It is then that I learn to pray under them for forgiveness, for the damage I’ve done; told to take a shovel to give life back to Mother Earth, digging a deep hole to plant a tree so its roots go, grow deeper than my soul will ever know; told to create a forest for others, so they too can walk among trees for trees teach patience; they know not of war as they inch their way high into the heavens.

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E va p or at e

— S i mone Ni k kole when you speak i want to be your s’s so i can resonate in your mouth sizzling tingle to your tongue i want to be your p’s so i can press against your lips i want to be your p’s and s’s together so i can be your secret whispers contaminating the unwelcome listeners blessing the deserving dreamers when you write i want to be your fingers so i can know the power of your touch first hand glimpse of greatness between the lines second hand witness of the majesty of your healing caress when you think i want to be your brain controlling the frontal to aid in planning our future and being movement when we dance touching the parietal so i can erase your pain raising your temperature when i come into a room easing into the temporal so i can replay our memories and my soothing voice in your ear obstructing the occipital of all horrific tragedies when you see your vision i want to be your eyes to behold the look of destiny front row seat in your dreams i want to be your eyelashes to eskimo kiss our kids to make all negativity disappear when you breathe i want to be your lungs so i can be filled with all your being transformed like diamonds to radiate the air

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you don’t know i want to be your nose first one to be blessed with a whiff of your cologne next to witness changes in hormones as your scent draws me nearer becoming stronger as you come closer and closer when you listen i want to be your eardrum making sweet music in the canal stealing underlying sentiments savoring leftover cadence of those worthy enough to grace you with conversation when you smile i want to be your teeth so i can brighten this dark world lighten up a room locking bodies in a shadow box with no capability to move when you love i want to be your heart so i can jump, skip and race when you see me so i can be stone as to discern who not to waste life on but for now when you hold me i evaporate into you into warmth and safety a fortress is how you protect me just so you know on our wedding day if you can’t find me i evaporated into your heart and soul where God said is my final place to reside { 22.aug.2011}

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The Empty Nest — S a ra Grey

The umbrella needed replacing The flashlight batteries left dead Used yet never replenished Regardless of what was said Bedrooms resembling crash sites Spaces besieged by entire wardrobes Made laughter common some days When earning the label floordrobes Just one day could bring about Much dirty laundry to be done With thoughts it could wait until later Put aside for something more fun Now the umbrella sits in readiness There’s always a flashlight that works For a nest so empty at times These are its little perks Flown away are the little birds Bedrooms no longer in disarray Fond memories of laughter remain The floor, clean and on display No kids’ clothing to wash daily How can you miss such a grueling chore Yet smile when the flashlight works As the umbrella stands by the door

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s tor m

— S a muel D a n gc i l Fly. Fly across the stormy days. Sing. Sing your life through falling rain. And all the unrelenting strain, Let it stay, Don’t you know every loss will one day lead to gain. Try. Try to keep away the chains. Know. Know they’re only self-sustained, The lightning only lights the way, Don’t dismay, Don’t you know that these instants are lost every day? Cry. Cry with no regard to shame. Breathe. Breathe in calming mists of gray. Just replace the inner pain. It’s okay. Don’t you know that the next life makes sure you’re repaid. Lie. Lie atop the silver plains. See. See the distant pearly gates. There’s no need to leave your place. Don’t be swayed. Don’t you know every step that way will leave a stain.

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N e p t u n e [T he T imes Past] — M i lene I ba r ra

There she goes on her way to the open flame Flames of the enemy. Touching the hems, taunting her beauty but burn, they did not. Her fluid entrance that queen-like stride; and the remarkable long veil. As soon as she lifted, tamed the angry flames, gradually She has seen it all, and survived. Unscathed.

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t h e e n d i s com i ng —Vic tor Pa rl at t o

opinions are like any good shit: we all have one and they’re pointless.

alright?”

it was 11PM and I was going through the streets of 17th street with my girl at my side, her eyes glowing at every pretty fucking thing she saw.

“no, you listen, the end is not coming today tomorrow or a year from now. the end is everywhere anywhere and just about everyday for some.

an old man, hair frizzed and lost in the time of his youth, passed us and stopped, turning and shouting, “THE END IS COMING! ARE YOU READY FOR IT?”

“just the other day, I reached the END of a book. the day before, the END of a cigar and before that, the END of a drink.

I ignored him, not paying him any mind but as I kept walking he kept following following, following, and following... finally, I turned on dallas and stopped by my car. “THE END IS COMING. THE END IS COMING!” he shouted. I turned to look at him, my girl tugging at my arm to just let it all go. the fuck I was. “listen, I know the end is coming. no need to shout,

“but--”

“but the funny thing of the END is: we can all begin after. I picked up ANOTHER book, ANOTHER cigar, ANOTHER drink. “so, old man, your end is closer than most, but not mine. and if I do die today tomorrow or the next day, at least, I lived before.” and I left, dropping a wad of 1’s on the floor for him. I didn’t see if he took them, but I’m sure he did. money, like this poem, has an END too.

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F e e d t h e E n t r e pr e n e u r w i t h i n You — L ady E clec t ic

Take a look at your hands. The right one you call incompetent, the left one you call ordinary, but take a look again. Look closer and you will see that your left is called destined, and your right is called for greatness. Slit your soul and bleed your creativity into this world. Grow a business, and from your business give energy to this recession so we can finally breathe. Breathe a sigh of hope after you’ve inhaled your fears of failure and rejection and like trees exhaled oxygen of brand new success. Future, past, and present generations progress. It is never too late or too early to start so stop settling for second best. Listen to your curiosity and stop starving your imagination. Make love to your capabilities and feed the entrepreneur within you.

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ode to qa bb a n i — D ave D e G ooyer he taught me that i no longer needed to write poems that all poetry lived in the lids of your eyes and the curve of your cheeks that in your lips all my words resided and i had simply to capture them and release them back into the air like thousands of butterflies each with feet like razors cutting life into people walking through the streets like empty signposts cutting life into people sitting in cafes and dying and that your life was the poem that i could never write which summed up my life and destroyed me.

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T h e B l ac k N ig h t — C at her i ne M ag no

And the night is as black as my heart, a necrotic cancer that devours all joy It destroys all beauty and love between an innocent girl and a boy All beauty is lost, all happiness gone, I become an empty shell Take me please, oh lord above, and deliver me from this hell For in thy arms I will be, free as the scent on the breeze Leaving all pain and torture behind, I can begin to heal with ease To bask in the white light of your love, to leave behind the rain To dance on clouds free from guilt and blame, to know who I am and who I remain To leave in a shroud of comfort and peace, to feel that great weight let go, release To let go of my pain, to let go of my fear, To not have to suffer through year after year Wondering always wondering when it will get better Knowing it won’t and writing my letter Going out with the world all in shock That I left so early, “what a shame”, they will mock And yet I embrace thee, dark night take me soon I’ll dance with thee, love thee, and I will swoon Into thy loving arms, where you will embrace me, consume me Into thy bosom where you will keep me and rule me Into a darkness more toxic then my heart My eternal lover to have, and never to part

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Sl e e p i s a f or m of h e av e n — M a s a s h i Mu s h a

resting from tapping the keyboard all day except your mind can still sin in your dreams like when you covet your neighbor’s lunch bag in the workplace fridge or it can be hell like when you have nightmares about dogs chasing after you, teeth falling out like loose leaves, and your parents trying to run you over in a ‘67 Chevy convertible.

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E vac u at ions a n d F ool s — A nt hony Ree se

When a hurricane is coming Then its time you should be running Ain’t no time take your ground, and make a stand When the winds and rain hit land Hit so hard you cannot stand On your knees you start spit out dust and dye While your staring at sky Seeing debris and clouds past by And you’re up to your arms in chin in mud But there’s something in your blood, You lived through other storms and floods And not once did you meet your demise or drown So before you buckle down, Plant your feet and stand your ground It’ll be days before your body they are finding

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da r k m at t e r

— M at t hew Guer r uc key You are more than the scars you carry: Galaxies of doubt chasing each other in Newtonian orbits. Comforting in their predictability. You are the hope that you keep in your shadow. Dark matter. Silently powerfulrevealed in the way that it pulls on creation. Revealed in the words you won’t allow yourself.

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ode to a fly — Jen n i fer Ros s i

Tiny fly, you are reviled. Fate has not upon you smiled. Hated any place you land Shooed away by every hand. Our harbingers of dread disease are quite simply your delicacies. I do not think you mean us harm, But please don’t land upon my arm after your feast of cow manure. That, dear fly, I cannot endure.

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS In continuation of the Bring Poetry Back movement, I participated in my local Occupy group by creating an open environment for poetry. I welcome all submissions that have to do with the Occupy movement, politics, sociology, economics, capitalism, and all relevant topics. All submissions will be considered on artistic merit and not on the position of the piece. —Sopphey Vance *photo credit @ Rhaj_the_wonder

deadline december 6

poetry * art * photography short stories * memoirs [ Pag e 19 ]


O —20 [ Page 20 ]

All Original Works Belong to the Authors —Magazine Design ©Copyright Sarai Oviedo 2011


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