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Yes, Poetry Vol. 3, Issue 12: December 2012
yespoetry.com twitter.com/yespoetry facebook.com/yespoetry editor@yespoetry.com Editor-in-Chief Joanna C. Valente Assistant Editor Stephanie Valente Cover Image: Marcin Majkowski
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Contents 4 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15
Salvatore Rex Alan Haider Jamez Chang Minh Pham J.R. Solonche Felino A. Soriano Contributor's Notes Editor Biographies Submission Guidelines
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SALVATORE REX Photographs for Frank O’Hara
Suppose we were never told to smile in photographs. Children scowling at silent cameramen– the newest of them crying under harsh light. Grooms looking into the horror of permanence, the sorrow on faces. How lovely our mantles would look then.
what the fuck is your problem, he said. I was 14 and the sky was a terrible red. It was the end of the springtime the perfectly maintained grass on his father’s lawn bent away from us in the wind. The sun was leaving us, committing itself to the blackness like letting yourself fall into warm water: first, the fingers toes, foot ankle and before you know it you’re gone. We walked home from the corner store together. I stood against the brick drinking a sweaty, glass-bottled coke. what do you think dyin’ feels like? I dunno– nothing? We walked and the sun died. I could feel the residual heat from the sidewalk, the shaky recollection of touch. I hadn’t kissed a girl yet. Sometimes other kids would hold hands at school, I would spent lunchtime in the bathroom stall. Yes, Poetry
5 I had figured out how to cry without making sound; my body would rattle but sometimes you could hear a momentary gasp of air, a stutter in the breathing. That’s all. The streetlights were on when we returned; the world was became a horrible industrial yellow. I reached for his hand on the sidewalk outside of Marcus’ house, he ripped his fingers from me so quickly you would’ve thought I was trying to break them off. I hadn’t yet been looked at like that, like I was something to hate. I felt my lungs deflate, my stomach turned over on itself: I believed him. He said, what the fuck is your problem, and ran the rest of the way home. We never spoke to each other again, I would walk alone in the evenings to get candy, sometimes a coke. Eventually I stopped. He walked past me every day without looking I learned how to shake without moving.
Scopophilia pts I, II, & III I. Sometimes I let you walk in front of me so I can watch the way your ankle falls into your shoe. I could barely hear your voice beyond the screaming of the traffic nearby, I want to tell you how scared I am of dying, but I can’t stop watching the delicate machinations of your legs hitting the sidewalk. II. After the hurricane settled in I drove around watching fathers weeping in front of broken houses. There were sirens everywhere, Yes, Poetry
6 you could smell the ocean a mile inland. Tired mothers clutched the youngest ones, their arms broken branches dangling, whispering, Dear God, what is this? No one answered. III. We laid in bed afterwards. You opened the window with your shirt off. Brooklyn danced around us, and I cried the whole drive home knowing I was the worst fuck you’ve ever had.
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ALAN HAIDER From Child We board the rocket to another planet without a say in the matter Two worlds are merged into one and in combination pieces of each are lost Beautiful rainbows form from light shown through the heavy vapors present in the bottle As the sun goes down the shadow grows and the rainbows disappear By the dawn all that will remain is an empty vessel
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JAMEZ CHANG Picture-Day Card Picture-Day photos, 8 of her, wallet-sized, our 6-year-old Crystal needs cutting loose. 2-front teeth missing, as she smiles around scissors. Inside the white envelope: a card, Photo ID, in case she gets lost. A free public service, courtesy of DiversityDesigns, Inc. But I never asked for the reminder— that she could go missing, along the card’s corner is a logo: small silhouettes of 3 children running, and I count off my own, and she’s old enough to run. Twelve vibrant colors, instructing parents: What to do if your child is missing; Immediately call local law enforcement; Calendar portraits available online. It's the brightest missing-children card I have ever seen, but I still won’t allow it, not on my person, not in my world, because missing is for keys and receipts and wedding rings, for teeth, even, not Crystal. Yes, Poetry
9 The bold italics above perforated line say different: Cut out and put in your wallet. ---------------------------------------------------------------And it’s me who won’t follow directions, not showing cards to strangers not explaining, how my daughter might’ve looked, on her day missing.
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MINH PHAM Ba-Less After the fall of Saigon A father was dragged away From his house by the Viet Cong, Leaving behind a pregnant wife. Seven years locked up Behind bamboo prison bars The father tried to imagine His firstborn’s face. But he could not. At home, his son tried to fix Wooden cabinets and mud shingles With a yellow plastic hammer Left behind by his father. The son waited for his father to come home In front of their alleyway. When he saw an unfamiliar shadow, The son held up his hands High into the sky, begging to be picked up. But his father only smiled at a boy Strange to him and walked to his wife And held her in his arms. A year later, a second son was born. The father picked up the newborn And held his tiny fingers. For the first time, the father knew How it felt to hold a son in his arms. While the first son stood in the corner And learned, for the first time, How to cry out for a father.
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J.R. SOLONCHE Ahab's Widow
I wait for him as every whaler's wife. I write him letters everyday. I tell him how he grows bigger and stronger. I tell him of his first words and of his first walk on his own. I write, "What a lovely little pip he is. " I write, "I call him that sometimes, instead of Malcolm." I write, "Rachel says he's often mischievous." I write, "Come home to us safely." At dusk, as the sun goes down behind the white clapboard house and the elms' shadows reach out across the lawn to meet the ocean's lip, I climb the stairs to pace the widow's -walk. I fold my hands on the rail and pray and blow a kiss out to sea, then go inside to kiss the boy good-night. I sleep in a bed wider than oceans. I dream on sheets whiter than wedding gowns.
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FELINO A. SORIANO from Aggregations: the quintet gatherings after— Jon Faddis bounce light tributary ballad nuanced neoteric geometry outlining outside’s rendition of triangular talisman (halo in the horizontal entice) tumbling on(ward)to oscillating neck of rotating breaths of the Van Gogh etchings onto whirl weaving circles cycling into generational view-congregations spinning alternating ventures of the rhythms’ dancing enlarged on the gorging reference on/of conversational understanding
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Contributor's Notes Jamez Chang’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in FRiGG, Prime Number, Lines + Stars, Boston Literary Magazine, Poydras Review, Marco Polo, and Yes, Poetry. After graduating from Bard College, Jamez went on to become the first Korean-American to release a hip-hop album, Z-Bonics (1998), in the United States. He lives in Englewood Cliffs, NJ with his wife and 3 daughters. Visit www.jamezchang.com Alan Haider is an emerging writer who currently resides in South Florida, where he was born and raised. His work has appeared—or is forthcoming—in print publications such as Turbulence, The Main Street Rag, Star*Line, and Nazar-Look, and also in various zines online. Minh Pham is currently working towards a M.F.A. in Creative Writing at University of California, Riverside. He was born in Saigon, Vietnam and became a Riverside, CA native at age eight. He began to gain interest in writing during his childhood when his father told him Vietnamese folktales and when his mother told him stories of how she survived through the Vietnam War. Salvatore Rex is currently living in Long Island, New York. He is a musician and poet. His music can be found here: salvatorerex.bandcamp.com and his words can be read here: salvatorerex.tumblr.com Four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and nominee for the Best of the Net Anthology, J.R. Solonche has been publishing poetry in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s. He is coauthor ofPeach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books) and author of the forthcoming collectionBeautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions). Felino A. Soriano has authored 54 collections of poetry, including Quartet Dialogues (white sky ebooks, 2012) Of language|s| the rain speaks (quarter after press, 2012) and Of oscillating fathoms these nonverbal chants (Argotist Ebooks, 2012). He publishes the online endeavorsCounterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info.
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Editor Biographies Joanna C. Valente was born in Manhattan, New York. She attends Sarah Lawrence College as a MFA candidate in poetry writing. In 2011, Joanna was the recipient of the Friends of Humanities/American Society of Poet’s Prize. She is also the founder and editor of the magazine, Yes, Poetry. Joanna is a graduate of SUNY Purchase College, where she received a BA in creative writing and a BA in literature. Her work has appeared in The 22 Magazine, La Fovea, The Medulla Review, Owen Wister Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Uphook Press, The Westchester Review, among others. In her spare time, she is a mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com Stephanie Valente lives in New York. One day, she would like to be a silent film star. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from dotdotdash, Nano Fiction, LIES/ISLE, and Uphook Press. She can be found at: http://kitschy.tumblr.com
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Submission Guidelines -Please send all submissions to editor@yespoetry.com. -We consider previously unpublished work, although simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Copyrights revert back to writer upon publication. -Submissions are on a rolling basis, so we ask you not to submit more than once per month. -Don't forget to include a third-person author biography with your work. We also encourage you to link us to your website or blog. Poetry: Submit up to seven poems. In the subject line of the email, please write “Your Name_Poetry Submission.” Either copy and paste your work into the body of the email, or attach as a .doc file. We welcome all types of poetry. Photography: Only submit original work; it can be a stand-alone piece or part of an entire collection. Submit up to five photos with an artist's statement. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Photography Submission.” Music: Please send mp3 or mp4 files only. In the subject line of the email, write “Your Name_Music Submission.” Other: If you are submitting a review or interview, please send in a .doc file. It must not exceed 2,000 words. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Other Submission.” If you would like to be involved or have any other questions, please direct all emails to editor@yespoetry.com.
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