Under the Sea III 2014 by Sharon D. Eisman. All rights reserved.
It is hard to believe that I am publishing Issue Three! Interest and an outpouring of love for those who hunger pours in from around the country as we continue to feed people one poem and, as you shall see below, one piece of art at a time.
The exquisite art work gracing this issue is by Rhode Island artist Sharon D. Eisman. This piece is part of a series of paintings in Sharon's "Under the Sea" theme. And in the spirit of incredible generosity for our mission at Word Soup, Sharon will donate 25% of the sale of this piece to our two beneficiaries, split equally between Rhode Island Community Food Bank and Share Our Strength. Thank you so much, Sharon, for this heart-filled generosity.
Sharon is selling this piece for $375.00. Contact [email protected] if you are interested in purchasing Sharon's art. You can read about Sharon below.
The poems in this issue represent a variety of types of hunger that range from physical hunger, eloquently expressed by Neil Silberblatt in honor of his friend Paul and those who are homeless, to emotional hunger for love expressed by Khizra Syeda. And I adore Michael Mark's poem about hunger for patience by the Dalai Lama himself! Every poem is worth lingering over and savoring the messages. Praise all of you for your generosity of spirit in sharing your work and donation with us.
So grab a cup of coffee, put your Kindle and your kitty in your lap, and enjoy the voices of Neil Silberblatt, Susan Mardinly, Margaret S. Mullins, Jo Oakes, Khizra Syeda, Michael Mark, and Jonathan Travelstead.
The exquisite art work gracing this issue is by Rhode Island artist Sharon D. Eisman. This piece is part of a series of paintings in Sharon's "Under the Sea" theme. And in the spirit of incredible generosity for our mission at Word Soup, Sharon will donate 25% of the sale of this piece to our two beneficiaries, split equally between Rhode Island Community Food Bank and Share Our Strength. Thank you so much, Sharon, for this heart-filled generosity.
Sharon is selling this piece for $375.00. Contact [email protected] if you are interested in purchasing Sharon's art. You can read about Sharon below.
The poems in this issue represent a variety of types of hunger that range from physical hunger, eloquently expressed by Neil Silberblatt in honor of his friend Paul and those who are homeless, to emotional hunger for love expressed by Khizra Syeda. And I adore Michael Mark's poem about hunger for patience by the Dalai Lama himself! Every poem is worth lingering over and savoring the messages. Praise all of you for your generosity of spirit in sharing your work and donation with us.
So grab a cup of coffee, put your Kindle and your kitty in your lap, and enjoy the voices of Neil Silberblatt, Susan Mardinly, Margaret S. Mullins, Jo Oakes, Khizra Syeda, Michael Mark, and Jonathan Travelstead.
Sharon D. Eisman Artist Statement
"My creative journey is inspired by a word, a text, a thought, a sound, a pattern, texture, nature, music, function or silence. From the graceful lines of the pointed pen, the varying strokes of a broad edge nib, the translucent wash of watercolor, the nuance of the pencil, the softness of charcoal, or textures of assorted materials, my work is the expression of my life journey."
Sharon D. Eisman Artist Bio
An inspiration, a vision, a journey, expressed through the calligraphic stroke, the drawn or painted image, or the melding of mediums. A perpetual student from early on, Sharon D. Eisman's studies include RISD, RIC, and various locally, nationally and internationally recognized artists, teachers of handwriting and the lettering arts. From graphite, charcoal, ink and paint, to pens, quills, brushes, yarns, fabrics, metals, and wood, all offer their own unique experiences. Sharon continues to explore the variety of mediums, tools and styles as each provides unique possibility, and there is always something to learn.
Sharon began her lettering journey in the early 70s, and while she will always work in various mediums, lettering always rises to the surface. Since 1980, through her business, Starr Designs, she has lettered gas trucks and cement walls, painted murals and faux finishes in private homes and businesses, and created hand-lettered custom invitation designs and corporate documents of recognition both locally and in the New York area.
Sharon has taught calligraphy over the years at several local venues. She is a member, past instructor, and past president of The International Association of Master Penman, Engrossers, and Teachers of Handwriting. IAMPETH is an international association dedicated to practicing and preserving the art of calligraphy, engrossing, and fine penmanship and is the oldest and largest of its kind in the US.
Her recent abstracts, working with new and tried materials, have been an exciting (and award-winning) addition to her long history of fine pen work, detailed drawing and painting, and the various media that have been part of her work for decades.
Sharon is a member of IAMPETH, Masscribes, a New England-based calligraphy organization, East Greenwich Art Club, Wickford Art Association, Rhode Island Watercolor Society, Art League Rhode Island, Pawtucket Arts Collaborative, and West Bay Open Studios.
Her work has been published, and she has exhibited in RI, MA, NY, and Salzburg, Austria. A 2012 commission now resides in the Peace Palace at The Hague, the Netherlands.
"My creative journey is inspired by a word, a text, a thought, a sound, a pattern, texture, nature, music, function or silence. From the graceful lines of the pointed pen, the varying strokes of a broad edge nib, the translucent wash of watercolor, the nuance of the pencil, the softness of charcoal, or textures of assorted materials, my work is the expression of my life journey."
Sharon D. Eisman Artist Bio
An inspiration, a vision, a journey, expressed through the calligraphic stroke, the drawn or painted image, or the melding of mediums. A perpetual student from early on, Sharon D. Eisman's studies include RISD, RIC, and various locally, nationally and internationally recognized artists, teachers of handwriting and the lettering arts. From graphite, charcoal, ink and paint, to pens, quills, brushes, yarns, fabrics, metals, and wood, all offer their own unique experiences. Sharon continues to explore the variety of mediums, tools and styles as each provides unique possibility, and there is always something to learn.
Sharon began her lettering journey in the early 70s, and while she will always work in various mediums, lettering always rises to the surface. Since 1980, through her business, Starr Designs, she has lettered gas trucks and cement walls, painted murals and faux finishes in private homes and businesses, and created hand-lettered custom invitation designs and corporate documents of recognition both locally and in the New York area.
Sharon has taught calligraphy over the years at several local venues. She is a member, past instructor, and past president of The International Association of Master Penman, Engrossers, and Teachers of Handwriting. IAMPETH is an international association dedicated to practicing and preserving the art of calligraphy, engrossing, and fine penmanship and is the oldest and largest of its kind in the US.
Her recent abstracts, working with new and tried materials, have been an exciting (and award-winning) addition to her long history of fine pen work, detailed drawing and painting, and the various media that have been part of her work for decades.
Sharon is a member of IAMPETH, Masscribes, a New England-based calligraphy organization, East Greenwich Art Club, Wickford Art Association, Rhode Island Watercolor Society, Art League Rhode Island, Pawtucket Arts Collaborative, and West Bay Open Studios.
Her work has been published, and she has exhibited in RI, MA, NY, and Salzburg, Austria. A 2012 commission now resides in the Peace Palace at The Hague, the Netherlands.
Vecchia Bicicletta (for Paul) by Neil Silberblatt
Without complaint, it bore his weight which,
frankly, was considerable
what with all his few possessions
packed precariously onto its frame
or his.
Without judgment,
it supported him
when all others had failed him
or, perhaps, when he had failed them
or himself.
Without chastisement,
it asked no more than
“where to today?”
and carried him there
lurching ever forward
like St. Christopher bearing the Christ child
across a stream – as sure and as steady
and as holy.
It waited, patiently
until he had finished his morning pipe
savoring the smell of his favorite brand of tobacco,
the cheapest,
before offering him a ride.
Like Colline’s vecchia zimarra,
it silently withstood all,
inseparable from its master
until the end.
It sits now motionless,
grieving his absence,
quietly uttering
“Addio,
fedele amico mio.
Addio, addio.”
Poem Notes:
Vecchia zimarra: Italian for “old overcoat”.
"Addio, fedele amico mio. Addio, addio." “Farewell, my faithful friend. Farewell, farewell” (from "Vecchia zimarra" – Act 4 of La Boheme by Giacomo Puccini).
Stations of the Cross by Neil Silberblatt
At 20, he should be on some college quad
broadening his fields,
or vice versa.
Instead, he is asleep in the same
urine and vodka-soaked clothes in which
he walked until he and his shoes gave out
not in that order,
having blown his last paycheck
on smokes and yet more vodka.
“I am not a morning person,” he mumbles
as he resists being awakened at 5:30
when the dark is still dark.
The other times of day
will be no more forgiving.
At 54, or 45,
the figure changes according to her mood,
she sets up her twin-size inflatable mattress with
her emphysemic hair blower,
one of her few belongings to accompany her
lone t-shirt and orphaned sweater.
Her hours working at a local hotel are inadequate,
she says,
to afford better.
From the time she arrives
until the moment sleep silences her,
she yammers incessantly on any topic or none
registering complaint upon complaint to all and none
as though filling the space with her noise,
while her blower’s breath fills her bed,
will displace a greater absence.
At 58, he more closely resembles the inverse of those numbers
or a scowling scabbed Old Testament prophet
Ezekiel, perhaps
shorn of his beard –
except on those days or weeks
when he forgets to shave
if Ezekiel had a two-pack-a-day habit
which he could not afford to keep up
and wore a cheap watch which, like its owner,
had long ceased to work
and whose racking coughs leave even the listener gasping
which this Ezekiel blames on his damned sinuses
because he does not want to, or cannot afford to,
go to the damned hospital
and find out the damned truth.
At 56, he has raised more bottles than children
though he is dry now, or so he says,
and boasts of his 32-year fidelity to his childhood sweetheart and his beloved Red Sox,
neither of whom can return his affection.
Offering what little he has
to those with less,
cracking the same jokes
over and over
and over
in case the listener has forgotten the punch line
or because he has.
Each of these pilgrims is safe and warm,
for now.
For the night, their wanderings on the road to Golgotha
are in abeyance.
In the daylight, like Breughel’s peasants,
they will resume being lost.
Neil Silberblatt was born and grew up in New York City, lived for a (long) time in Connecticut, and is now a “wash ashore” on Cape Cod. His poems have appeared in several print and online literary journals including Verse Wisconsin; Hennen’s Observer; Naugatuck River Review; Chantarelle’s Notebook; Oddball Magazine; and The Good Men Project. His work has also been included in Confluencia in the Valley: The First Five Years of Converging with Words (Naugatuck Valley Community College, 2013), an anthology of selected poetry and prose; and in University of Connecticut’s Teacher-Writer magazine. He has published two poetry collections: So Far, So Good (2012), and Present Tense (2013). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and one of his poems – Recycling Instructions – received Honorable Mention in the 2nd Annual OuterMost Poetry Contest judged by Marge Piercy. Neil is the founder of Voices of Poetry and, since 2012, has organized a series of poetry readings – which have featured a diverse array of accomplished poets and writers and talented musicians – at venues in New York and Connecticut and on Cape Cod.
Penelope Abandoned by Susan Mardinly
You deem it worthy to elope with catastrophe,
wild bells ringing like the wedding of dark trees
falling into the clasp of earth.
Do you seek the transient wind,
hearing Pegasus hooves
as if they were not the treads of seduction,
the fervent mouth of the black hole,
not knowing if there were another side
to this tunnel of voluptuousness?
Half a century ago
when I was svelte and captured
the looks of those who traded a shallow tale
for a night fling with stars,
I too danced on the edge of the milky way
trading my songs in a cascade of magnemite
and tornadoes of the sun.
I nested on a foreign planet,
waiting like Penelope
for my hitchhiker to return home from his sirens,
quelling the voices of young men
who plied their instruments:
only wilted stalks to my true heart.
Did you, like Odysseus, return home
trailing the dust of weeping Ariadnes
birthed in licentious duplicity,
extinguishing the navel of my universe?
Susan Mardinly has enjoyed a career as an operatic singer, musicologist and teacher. Currently faculty at Hartt School of Music, University of Hartford, she has published in the Journal of Singing, the Journal of International Association for Women in Music and for ClarNan. Her poetry has appeared in the Denver Free Poets Journal, and as a winner in poetry contests for Voices of Poetry, Uvi Poznansky and Naugatuck River Review. Susan's first book of poetry, Deep Calls to Deep: A Journey in Ancestral Voices, is now available on Amazon and in many bookstores.
Spiny Urchins (aka loxechinus albus or whore’s eggs) by Margaret S. Mullins
Along the rocky shore of Chiloé
in mid-afternoon sun
two barefoot girls lean
on a concrete seawall.
Their short skirts flutter
in the breeze, long dark hair
cascades over breasts
that bulge from skimpy blouses.
They cut open one sea urchin,
then another, from the basket
given them by fishermen who
unload a catch of jack mackerel
onto the docks.
The girls bend to rinse
livers and guts into the tide,
squeeze lemon juice in,
loosen star-shaped saffron gonads
with red painted nails.
As sharp brown quills still quiver
with life, the girls lift and suck
buttery meat into their mouths,
roll it around, savor the tangy
taste of the sea as juices
drip into cleavage.
When the boats are clean,
nets mended and rolled,
the girls offer themselves
to tired fishermen, to relish
with them a second shared meal
of firm, smooth flesh, the rich
salty taste of the sea
on every lip and tongue.
Noshes, Talk and Time by Margaret S. Mullins
Every morning of the year
they’d gather together
high in the Andes.
At a long rough table
in the Café Sin Nombre,
they’d drink small cups
of sweet dark coffee,
eat the freshly-baked salteñas,
argue of politics here and abroad,
brag of their kids in fareinikte schtatn,
and talk the business of business.
In summer's high heat
they'd roll up their sleeves,
never mention the numbers
inked on their arms.
In winter they'd look
through the window at snow
starting to fall on Mount Illimani,
pull tight their wool coats,
never mention the cold--
that deadly ice cold--
of wintertimes spent
in far-off Buchenwald.
Margaret S. Mullins divides her time between rural Maryland and downtown Baltimore. Her work has appeared in Alehouse, Loch Raven Review, Creekwalker, Magnapoets, New Verse News, The Sun, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Sugar Mule, OVS and others. She is a Pushcart nominee, editor of Manorborn 2009: The Water Issue (Abecedarian Press), and author of Family Constellation (Finishing Line Press, 2012.) Her poetry has appeared on Writer’s Almanac and been read by Garrison Keillor on NPR.
Haiku 1.5 by Jo Oakes
from the TVs full screen
abundance loudly flows
the cupboard echoes
Jo Oakes has been writing and creating in one way or another for most of her life. "Creativity, the written word, and human connection are a vital part of my life. I have a diverse interest in anything and everything as knowledge broadens understanding and enables greater connections."
Love Poem by Khizra Syeda
Trees like lifeless skeletons
Surrounded by the night,
The way a photo develops in the dark
This too developed with no light
But as if you’ve placed the sun in my chest,
On the left side to be exact,
Glistening bright, weightlessly fluttering
Making my cheeks blush,
Like cherry rouge roses on the seaside.
The powerful yet calm of the sea,
You stand beside and protect me
A smile that can stretch around the world,
A thousand times over
That your genuine words put on my face
I’ve for now rid of the daggers that have haunted,
And ripped apart the seams of my dreams
But for you I will start anew,
Though the skeleton trees and darkness that surrounded me,
Still come in my mind with weapons to wound these…
…reveries
But your legato voice, like a prestigious orchestra,
And your warmth as calm as a fireplace on a winter day
You’ve lifted me up from the bare earth,
And given me wings, gave me a beat, a beat like a drum
I’m no longer a bird without direction,
You are my golden compass,
My lantern in the night,
The sword in my hand,
You give me strength to fight against,
The trees that are lifeless skeletons.
Khizra Syeda is an undergraduate student at the University of Massachusetts Boston, majoring in Physics with minors in Environmental Science and Creative Writing. "I have family in my country that experiences poverty and hunger every day. I am passionate about making a change in this world one step at a time through my writing and art."
Deconstructing Time by Michael Mark
His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama,
is taking apart his watch
at 6:01a.m.
It’s part hobby, part practice, part frugality.
Jewelers are expensive
so he has learned to fix it himself.
He unfolds his 23 gold instruments
wrapped in yellow felt.
The 115 tiny metal pieces are the Rolex
he received from President Franklin Roosevelt,
delivered with a request
to allow the U.S. Army to build a road through Tibet
to support China during the Second World War.
He begins to chant
the Heart Sutra in Sanskrit.
Form is empty, emptiness is form.
In addition to saving money, he does it to understand
the way things work in the world and to look into time -
that man-made means created to measure a life.
He laughs hard enough to make some pieces tremble.
Of course, a watch cannot measure a life or even time –
not even a Rolex!
For the fourth time, he fails to fit
a silver gear under another one.
He selects a different screw, the size of a bug’s leg.
The chanting resumes.
No beginning, no end, no purity, no defilement.
Up at 3 a.m.
Two hundred standing to floor prostrations to the Buddha.
One hour of meditation for the well being of all living creatures.
One hour studying the Sutras.
Then five miles on the treadmill.
Now watch repair, to contemplate the mind, relax,
and fix the watch.
The balance spring and the pallet are not cooperating.
He groans and wipes the perspiration from his 78-year-old head
and remembers, with that famous man-child smile, when
he was a boy and he’d smash things out of frustration.
Of all the moving parts,
frustration is the most important.
He laughs and picks up a post the width of an eyelash
to fit it in a hole the size of a pore.
Without frustration, he thinks, how can I practice patience?
Audio version: https://soundcloud.com/michael-mark-9/deconstructing-time-by-michael
Michael Mark is the author of two books of fiction, Toba and At the Hands of a Thief (Antheneum.) His poetry appears in Angle Journal, Awakening Consciousness Magazine, elephant journal, Empty Mirror, Everyday Poets, Forge Journal, The Lake, OutsideIn Magazine, Scapegoat, The New York Times, 2014 San Diego Poetry Annual, UPAYA, The Wayfarer, as well as other nice places. He thanks you for looking at his profile, though this isn't him.
From an Undead Cafe in Paris by Jonathan Travelstead
I glance from a dull throb of poem
to the glass case where a young woman with olive skin
and floral print kerchief
bites her lip
over doilied plates of flaked beignets,
stacked biscuits crowned with buttercream frosting,
and tarts glistening like shellac
which I later admit looks more like the slime
earthworms leave in your palms.
She says “merci” and I am a goldfish
redundant against glass, unable to dislodge my foot
from the rut of one tangled-legged morning
you breathed your last chalk-faced lie-
the red-shuttered stucco home in Marseilles,
the faked incoming call when I asked how to say
Where is the bus station?
Sophie, I’m helpless as a sleepwalker
waking in the seat of his Mustang as it fills his garage with exhaust,
wondering how the hell he got there.
I’m an adult show’s sweaty-faced patron
who peers back between the seats, seeing if he’s alone.
How is it, Sophie, that at midnight
I can’t go out for ice cream without spotting your ear
pinking through straight black hair on a stranger biting her lip,
indecisive between vanilla or mint chocolate chip?
The marzipan candies you left between my favorite poets
and the bleach I used to fade you from my sheets-
Each memento just another dredge-hook
trawling along my mucky bottom for a body,
the undead thing I pole
beneath the shelf of ice
that only floats back to the shore
and back to the shore
in chic rags and waterlogged Italian leather boots.
You stumble into my calm cafe,
your floured, slack face an electrode
still fluttering my heart
that each day I swear has moved on,
that each day tries to beat itself away from you.
Jonathan Travelstead served in the Air Force National Guard for six years as a firefighter and currently works as a fulltime firefighter for the city of Murphysboro. Having finished his MFA at Southern Illinois University of Carbondale, he now works on an old dirt-bike he hopes will one day get him to Peru.