In this Section:  Kadarijah Gardiner: Dying by Degress; Poems for Peace Award Winning PoemsLavasir Nordrum: Digital Poetry; Tongue of the Hidden by David Anderson; Poems and Poets (Garrard, Williams, Simpson, Katz, Marsden, Blakey, Nelson); Three Fantasy Novelists (Warren, Boebel, Vaughn); The End Place (Ismanah, Katz); More Books (Tarantino, Kanafsky, D. Simpson)
 

Two from The God's Eye



A New Anthology of Poems

compiled and edited by Emmanuel Williams

 

The anthology can be ordered directlly from Emmanuel Williams


 

The God's Eye

by Devreaux Baker
(and the title poem for this anthology)

You say you could die happy
in this chair in the garden
A green wicker filled
with secret spiders and moss
You say you could grow old
conjure blossoms out of your body
become a white storm of petals
filled with rain
The spiders are fearless gods
filled with miles of silk thread
weaving their own abstract world
beneath your sleeping body
You are sliding past those gossamer shapes
falling like an Alice
tumbling in the tunnel beneath the chair
scraping your shoulders and knees
sliding into the heart of bamboo
green and red and black columns
all dreaming of future lives
as garden chairs
tumbling past workers
with bodies like children
harvesting miles of bamboo
whacking and stacking and drying
the slender trees
No one sees you slipping past
into the dark aorta of earth
falling out of the chair
until you become an echo
in the mind of a spider
The tiny figure of the man
you once were
falling and falling
a whisper she weaves in
as a God’s Eye
in the center of her web


Devreaux Baker

 

 

 


Dying by Degrees

by Kadarijah Gardiner
Kadarijah’s pensées 10-Dec 2010

“Take your time,
Slow if you please
Take your time.
Take it with ease.”
This song from my youth
Has wisdom yet,
And “yet” has wisdom too.
For time is running out
I felt it, I feel it through
My fingers’ very fiber.
I enjoy the sound of his breathing
Beside me on the bed.
Exhausted he is by the shock
Of seeing me, feeling me, so near collapse.
I'll be still, with the weight of the tray on my knees,
But no weight in my heart,
Just the knowledge that I'm still here
That’s weight enough, God knows.
Weight enough for me to sleep.
Reading Eliot’s Little Gidding together
Was a link to life and a taste of heaven,
Both world and senses linked.
My veins are in a sort of recovering shock still.
An odd feeling when I move, or if I don’t.
I sense their independent life.
Are they wondering what’s happened?
Did they think their work was done?
That they could “knock off” now?
But oh, I see is that why I am still to go on?
For if I stopped and went into the beyond,
They wouldn’t.
So they keep on working,
Always working for more than
Eighty years!
Poor things, all of them
The veins, tissues, arteries, lungs heart and all of them,
I don't blame you for conking out occasionally
But you see, we will have to move on soon
So we had better (much better!) sort ourselves out
Now and get to our proper place, all of us
So we can really “go home” all of us, by
God’s Almighty Grace.
 

KG
 

On November 14, 2013 Sharifin Gardiner wrote that Kadarijah had passed over at peacefully in her sleep a 12.10 UK time at the St Peter and St James Hospice. The room, he added, was full of flowers and a great feeling of peace.

 

SICA Poems for Peace Award Winning Poem 2012



Cold Mountain

— Wayne Lee


Han-shan says after a moment of bliss,
This is better than where I live. I see
Cold Mountain disappearing into mist.

My life among these thousand-meter cliffs,
my days of hermitage and poverty
evanescing in a moment of bliss.

I look in the mirror and I see wisps
of white, like clouds among the leafless trees,
Cold Mountain disappears into mist.

This day and the years gone by are endless
ripples, like rivers flowing to the east —
Han-shan vanishing on moments of bliss.

I have no desire now to reminisce
about my profession or family
as Cold Mountain disappears into mist.

Some may ask, did Han-shan ever exist?
Yes, I did, but now I have been set free —
a puff of smoke in a moment of bliss,
Cold Mountain disappearing into mist . . . . 

 

About the Author

Born in Abbotsford, B.C., and raised in Bellingham, Washington, Lee earned his BA in English and MA in Theatre/Dance from Western Washington University.

He's married to poet/painter Alice Lee, and they live in Santa Fe where he works as an editor and educator. 

His poems have appeared in Tupelo Press, The New Guard, Slipstream, Conversations Across Borders, The Floating Bridge Anthology, Uphook Press, New Millennium, The Ledge, The California Quarterly,
New Mexico Poetry Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, Adobe Walls, Malpais Review, Mas Tequila Review,
Fixed & Free, New England Anthology of Poets, Poets Against the War and other journals and anthologies.

His awards include the 2012 Mark Fisher Poetry Prize and the 2006 Santa Fe Reporter War Poetry Contest, and he's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize
and two Best of the Net awards.

He is also an elder in the ManKind Project. 

Visit his website.

 

 

Poem Awarded Honorable Mention

 

 

 

Recipe for Peace

— DevREauX Baker

Bare your feet, roll up your sleeves
oil the immigrant's bowl

open the doors and windows of your house
invite in the neighbors, invite in strangers off the street

roll out the dough, add the spices for a good life
cardamon and soul, cumin and tears

stir in sesame and sorrow, a dash of salt
pink as new hope

rub marjaram and thyme, lemon grass and holy basil
on your fingers and pat the dough

bless the table, bless the bread
bless your hands and feet

bless the neighbors and strangers
off the street

bake the bread for a century or more
on a moderate heat

under the olive trees in your back yard
or on the sun filled stones of Syria

in the white rocks of Beirut
or behind the walls of Jerusalem

in the mountains of Afghanistan
and in the sky scrapers of New York

feast with all the migrant tongues
until your mouth understands

the taste of many different homes
and your belly is full so you fall asleep

cradled in the skirts of the world
curled in the lap of peace.

 

 

 

 

 

  Devreaux Baker

Mendocino, California

Devreaux Baker is a 2011 recipient of the PEN/Oakland Poetry Award for her book, Red Willow People. Her awards include a MacDowell Poetry Fellowship, a Hawthornden Castle International Poetry Fellowship, the California Arts Council Award, the Helene Wurlitzer Poetry Fellowship, a Hawaii Council on Humanities International Poetry award and a 2012 Women's Global Leadership Poetry Award. She was an editor of Wood, Water, Air and Fire; The Anthology of Mendocino Women Poets and has current or recent poetry published in Crab Orchard Review, Borderlands Texas Poetry Review, ZYZZYVA, Liberty's Vigil, The Occupy Anthology, and New Millenium Writings. She has taught Poetry in the Schools with the California Poets in Schools program, and conducted workshops in France and Mexico. Her books of poetry include Red Willow People, Beyond the Circumstance of Sight, and Light at the Edge.

"My earliest memories are of listening to my Grandmother recite poetry, on long car trips, at her house for sleep-overs, or through the many storm seasons that blew hurricanes into our lives and caused us to huddle together in the safest room of the house; our kitchen. In times of crisis or of celebration, my Grandmother would invariably head to the land of poetry to revive interest, soothe frayed nerves or calm the restless spirits of my brothers and sisters.

To be raised in a household where poets are highly esteemed and poems are recited as entertainment was a great gift. I was making books before I could read, and carrying them around with anxious pleasure, thinking that I was going to be able to fill them with my own poems, as soon as I learned how to write.

Poetry is a constant teacher to me. I sit down to write most times never knowing what poem is going to appear, and that is the great mystery that keeps me coming back, to drop so far into the unconscious that I lose myself and allow the “other” to step forth.

I am continually surprised and fulfilled by this deep sacred connection to all life that gifts me with poetry. "

 

Digital Poetry, Where the Artist and Scientist Meet in Wonder

LAVASIR NORDRUM 

Beginning as a photographer, Lavasir has worked with large format computer graphics since 1990. The result is a new medium he calls "digital poetry."

"I try to animate data," Lavasir writes, "just as a poet breathes life into words. My point of departure is always a photograph. (Just as) a poet strives to create an image in the mind of the reader, I am striving to breathe life into a picture based on a kind of poetic prologue."

In these projects, images and sounds are written, sampled and evolved in conjunction with each other with poetic intent. Simultaneously, by one hand or one sentiment. Shaped... like sculpting with clay. Kneaded by one hand. Now from the sound or the text-side, now from the image side. Hopefully achieving oneness, or coherence in the expression.

                            — Lavasir Nordrum on the Digital Poetic Process 

Back in 1997 Lavasir participated in a research project sponsored by the Research Council of Norway. His challenge was to render visible the essence of research about culture and traditions. He produced a series of five pictures on the theme "Myths, Magic, Miracles: Meeting the Modern" and out of sixty artists, was one of five invited to exhibit his work from this effort. His objective? "To visualize different aspects of man's search for the spiritual." 

"For the last twenty-five years or so," writes Lavasir on his website, "my work has been assembled on computer screens. It allows for many ways to reenter the stories, re-living the sentiments in the photographic images. Samplings of time and place yet belonging only to themselves. 

Going into my archives from the pre-digital, the many formats, shapes, and sizes of negatives there, no longer appear as single instances, more like fragments of a whole. Samples from one life. 

This then becomes the alphabet or grammar in new photographic composites or remixes.

In an illusion of having godlike, almost total control, of every aspect in the expression. When photographing new images, it often takes on a function of filling gaps and holes in this project. The work is then presented. In frozen moments. For a while, until the same or other fragments of an image catch a new wave of inspiration. Never ending change. The possibility for any given moment to retell itself.

And again, as always, the only things that fulfill the longings are the joy of recognising the unexpected. The demaskings, the recognition of meaning or depth. The retelling of the untold. Learning something new and something old at the same time."

One of Lavasir's recent projects, Sendings and Receivings, is a an exciting collaborative project of mentalpropell.com, a meetingplace for digital poets to show and discuss their digital work.

Says Mentalpropell, "We worked together with Lavasir Nordrum in his project, Wherever You Go — There You Are, a digital poetry project with ambitions to poetically observe the wider cultural, religious and geographical meaning of borders. We also interpreted each location for our own project, Sendings / Receivings.
 

"Our starting point was the beach of Guadalmesi, the point in Europe
that is closest to Africa. We then moved to the beach of Eddalya in Morroco, the point in Africa that is closest to Europe. In both places the suited gentlemen explored the meaning of borders. Eirik V Johnsen, Kristian Pohl and Lavasir Nordrum walked the beaches in May 2012." 

Read more about Lavasir's Process and his other projects on his website.  Video clip right from Wherever You Go — There Your Are.
Also on
Lavasir's Facebook page, a May 12 entry.

 

 


>>
 

Tongue of the Hidden

DAVID ANDERSON       

'The Tongue of the Hidden’ or ‘The Teller of Secrets’ was the name Persians gave to Hafez, the Sufi and metaphysical poet of the 14th century. Persia is of course what we know today as Iran.

I started working on a short film on Hafez in 2007,
inspired by the work of a Scottish/Iranian artist, Jila
Peacock.  She make shape poems with Farsi 
calligraphy, turning them into exquisite animals.

The film is all computer animated but I tried to keep it relatively simple, and give it a hand-made appearance.

It is in two parts: Peacock and Fish.

In Peacock you can see how Hafez uses the language of ‘drunkeness, wine and the tavern’ to refer to the spiritual, being ‘intoxicated’ with the Divine. What also appealed about this poem was that it referred to Jesus giving a context for Christianity in Islam, which is often overlooked, and also, even in the 14th century, Hafez refers to the fundamentalist view — “And those that turn to Mecca as their only haven, Now at the knowledge of your lips tumble at the tavern door.”

The human condition continues and we face the same issues today. Hafez himself was banished from his home town, Shiraz, and was often at odds with the authorities. I was very fortunate to be able to travel to Iran in November 2008, before all the serious trouble started, and show the Film in the Tehran Short Film Festival. It won first prize for animation and was very warmly received, which was a delight for me as I wasn’t sure what they would think of a British outsider making a film about their cultural hero, who is quoted like Shakespeare by politicians and taxi drivers alike.

I travelled across Iran and found the people to be highly cultured, sensitive and generous. Iran has its roots in one of the great civilisations. The west owes much to that inheritance and also to the profundity and beauty of Hafez.   

.
>

 

                     

 

To

PEACOCK     [ part 1]

Until your hair falls through the fingers of the breeze,
My yearning heart is torn apart with grief.

Black as sorcery, your magic eyes
Render this existence and illusion.

The dusky mole encircled by your curls,
Is like the ink drop falling in the curve of J,

And wafting tresses in the perfect garden of your face,
Drop like a peacock falling into paradise.

My soul searches for the comfort of a glance,
Light as the dust arising from your path.

Unlike the dust, this earthly body stumbles,
Failing at your threshold, falling fast

Your shadow falls across my frame
Like the breath of Jesus over withered bones.

And those that turn to Mecca as their only haven,
Now at the knowledge of your lips tumble at the tavern door.

O precious love, the suffering of your absence and lost Hafez
Fell and fused together with the ancient pact

 








 

 

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            davidandersonfilms.com

   

         

Emmanuel Williams  & Sofiah Garrard • Mardijah SimpsonRasunah KatzRasunah MarsdenMaria Blakey • Paul Nelson


EMMANUEL WILLIAMS & SOFIAH GARRARD                          images and poems: a collaboration

Years ago I published a collection of nature poems, and asked Sofiah Garrrard, an artist working in the English city of Canterbury, if she would illustrate the book. Which she did, with great delicacy and skill. Last year,  she asked me if I would be interested in another collaboration, only this time with me writing poems inspired by her paintings. I said,”Yes.” Over 40 picture/poem pairings are now done. Here is a sample:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Two birds talking
They’ve given us another book, Mildred.
They keep thinking they’ll make it all better
if they can find the right words
for the right ideas
and call them Truth.
I sense a growing desperation, Charles.
The birth-rate’s dropping. Too many of them
have too little and they’re angry.
Reading only re-arranges
that which is already known.
I love them dearly.
Let’s go perch somewhere
and sing to them.


emmanuel williams                                                                                                                                   green chair gallery

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___________________________________________________________________________________

MARDIJAH SIMPSON

A taste for words

He used to say
You cannot help a thirsty man
by writing H2O on paper
and giving it him to drink!’

The arabesques of words
enchant the eye
but to fully savour them
is the mouth’s delight.

Nibbling with tongue and lips,
tasting the tooth’s edge,
the orchestra of throat and cheeks
captured in the ears’ curl.

The juxtaposition of consonants,
the languorous beauty of vowels
slipping through the syllables
a banquet in each breath.

 


......................

The promise

When the wind swings
and the sky hides its clear blue gaze
behind a haze of grey,
like wisps of wool caught on thorns,
spinning tales of rain

When the first light’s gold
is buried under a rough blanket
wrinkled across the sky
like a restless sleeper over the day
haunted by dreams of rain

When the light shouts orange in the west,
rIots of red and purple fruit the sky,
hint at banquets; flesh and juice.
Lightening strobes the crowd waiting
to stomp to drums of rain.

When the small clouds sail high
dry and white in the sky blue ocean
despite blushing pink at bedtime,
like empty silver wine bladders
dry-eyed swigged of rain

When the dark drifts down,
the stars fade in the sky
and a bird calls in the night
heralding the promise kept -
the hot sharp smell of rain.

An Australian poet, Mardijah Simpson has had poetry published in Landmark, Northern Perspective, Yellow Moon, Overland, Poet’s Union Anthologies, Shifting Ground, Living Room, The milk in the sky and Fishtails in the dust and broadcast on ABC Radio’s Poetica. She also writes for national art and tourism magazines, holds a Master’s of Adult Education, and is a member the Alice Springs community enterprise, Ptilotus Press.

On being a poet, Mardijah writes: "It never feels as if I am writing poetry but more the experience of poetry writing me. It comes in waves, sometimes not for years and then they burst out like desert flowers bursting out within days when the rain falls after years of drought. The record, I recall, soon after I came to live in the desert, sixteen poems appeared in one weekend!!

I was the student who got into trouble for not writing down the teacher’s analysis of each poem as we studied it for our final year exams. Somehow I knew even then that poetry had to be sensed, caressed, absorbed and lived. It could never (for me) be something that was dissected and critiqued. To the teacher's chagrin I then got a prize in the national literature exam.

Writing poetry is freedom - to express whatever I want in any way I want - no longer constrained by the need to rhyme, the words themselves cluster and develop like crystals forming - patterns appear beyond my own imagination. Like an explorer, I can step softly through new country, pause to gaze at the horizon and then crouch down to examine the minute details of a moss clump's buds or a moth's wing. In poetry you can zoom from the ocean to a single tear - roar back through time on a magic carpet woven of words. It is a joyful gift." 

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   ___________________________________________________________________________________

RASUNAH KATZ

Tucson, Arizona
for Gabrielle Giffords

              I

I could write about the specific event
But the grief for the fallen
And the one who felled them
Would be the same
Even the victims would say
You are not to blame
No words can halt what happened.
I imagine a whole nation in grief
Nothing can make it stop
I imagine a room full of flowers
A field of innocent white lambs
I imagine some winged bird
Who would swoop down
Across this field of impossibilities.

Who would see with eagle eyes
How they were all carried away
Disappeared
Silenced
I imagine far off so far off
The dead weeping for us
For what we must endure.

              II

Always in moments like these
I go back to that football field
Where we lay tangled in deep summer grass
My lavender dress
Spread out in Shantung glory
Our lips lingering
The sky so wide
Forming the roof of our world.

In moments like these
When the events of men
Break open a wounded heart
I go back to that tenderness
That unattainable longing
To name things simply
River Tree Rock.

I would crawl on hands and knees
To find the light in all of this
To hear the cadence of what
Was once called grace

 

 

 

...............

RASUNAH MARSDEN

You Are My Sunshine
 

The women who loved you
And the men who loved you
Are crying sweet tears for you
Tonight, their tears are glistening
Like diamonds in the night
To light the journey, the journey
You are making, it is all we can do

I know you can’t take me with you,
Though I’m sure you wouldn’t mind,
I never thought you would leave
Before me, never ever thought
You would leave so soon, but I’m sure
You stayed as long as you could.

Just that, I’m sure it was enough.

And if you ask me, do I want
To come with you now, I can only answer
If God Wills, I will follow you wherever,
I will follow you whenever, God Wills

And if they ask me why I feel like this
I will only be able to answer
That I don’t know why, there is no why,
And I can find no dress to wear,
No shoes, no veil,
there is nothing in this world
Left to wear for you.

My light, I see your path of light
Above me arching toward your next destination
I am with you in spirit & you in me
I am surrendered to whatever will be,
whatever will be. 
       


       •••••••


MARIA BLAKEY

Poem from the end of a latihan

We are of the mountains and the sea,
We are of the sun and the sky.

We are of the stars and their beginning.
We are of the earth and its ending.

Teach us to listen,

teach us to learn.

Teach us to be free.  

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___________________________________________________________________________________

PAUL NELSON: 

Angel Hack

Never forget that it was an angel that invented swords.
Ramón Gomez de la Serna
Never forget it is the oldest Bodhisattva carries one aflame in his right hand carve a slice off duality. Never forget a sword’s a scalpel can hack at nafsu, that which fosters soul erasure, hack at the snag stifles your hike up Entrance Mountain, hack to clear a path as King Solomon might machete as mere threat to find a way into co-mercy. Nature sometimes needs a knife now & again, give gristle to the dog, liberate axis & om-fire or simply to slice up the mango. You might like guayaba pastelitos. You might be sickened by what antepasados are urging you to cut just this side of Obstruction or may be Frank Morgan alto-honking the daylight out of front row yuppies in full babble, George Cables right behind him as he was with Art Pepper on the prison tune, The Trip. Why did they chop off the missionaries heads the child asked, but they were no mere visitors, only the first line of colonialists whose angels have no swords whose single god has a beard and vendetta, whose trick is stealing fire, whose exceptional American time is running out.

                           Rocket’s red glare.
     Colors don’t run but burn
                sliced by Manjushri’s flaming saber

Father/Poet/Teacher Paul Nelson is co-founder of the Northwest SPokenword LAB. Author: Organic Poetry (Oct. ‘08, VDM Verlag, Germany.) Poems/Essays in: Golden Handcuffs Review, Jacket Magazine, Fulcrum, OlsonNow Blog, The Argotist, Raven Chronicles, and elsewhere. During his 26 years in radio, he interviewed Allen Ginsberg, Michael McClure, Anne Waldman, Robin Blaser, Sam Hamill, Wanda Coleman, Eileen Myles, Jerome Rothenberg, George Bowering, and others. He was shortlisted for the Stranger Genius Award in Literature in 2010. 

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Rahima Warren • Harris BoebelOsanna Vaughn
 

HOW MY HERO TURNED ME INTO A WRITER       

RAHIMA WARREN

Once I was a psychotherapist, minding my own business, and seeing my clients. Then one day in December 1999, I wrote a story in my journal in the hope that this would stop him bugging me. Big mistake! That little story opened the floodgates. Over a decade later, I’ve retired from my practice, and have written a dark, deep, spiritual and healing fantasy trilogy, entitled THE STAR-SEER’S PROPHECY. I think that inner character - his name is Kyr, by the way – is finally happy. Well, no, he’s still bugging me to get this epic published.

How’d this happen? It wasn’t my idea! To embark on his journey Kyr had to take over my life and turn me into a writer. When those floodgates opened, a rush of intense, exciting creative energy poured forth and swept me along.

Fortunately I didn’t want to do anything but write Kyr’s story. I had no plan. I just went with the flow and wrote what Kyr showed me. His story started out so dark that I was sure I would never show it to anyone, ever! But it was so much fun to write, I had to keep on going. And I had to find out what happened. It seems like my whole life was preparation to write Kyr’s story. In various versions he has been lurking in my fantasy life since I was in the second grade. After decades of therapy, women’s groups, and personal growth work; after becoming a transpersonal counselor and working with clients for 20 years; after writing journals full of reflections, poetry and dreamwork; after many adventures, vision quests and spiritual awakenings; after surrendering to the latihan; and finally, after becoming an Expressive Arts therapist, I’d learned to trust the creative process and my soul’s hidden wisdom, and could allow Kyr’s story to pour forth without censoring or editing. Once the first draft was done, I understood what the story was about, and reshaped it quite a bit. Then I realized that I’d written an entire fantasy trilogy – and that I needed help to polish it. With the help of my editor and now publisher, Naomi Rose, I refined the still rather raw second draft of the entire trilogy into a much better third draft.

Since then, I have revised many times. Though the initial flood of creativity and inspiration has waned somewhat I still love working on Kyr’s story. I am very happy to say that THE STAR-SEER’S PROPHECY - BOOK ONE: DARK INNOCENCE was published September 2010 by Rose Press. I am also editing BOOK TWO: DIFFICULT BLESSINGS, while BOOK THREE: DANGEROUS BLISS awaits my attention.

Kyr is still running my life: urging me to learn about book design, web marketing, website design, blogging, Facebook, Twitter, etc. But I think he’s pretty happy with me, at last! 

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FLY AWAY, ADVENTURES WITH ALBERT

HARRIS BOEBEL   

Flyaway, Adventures  with Albert began, although I didn’t know it, before I joined Subud. I was going to be a “Writer” then; however I wrote nothing but derivative scraps. In four years my life drove me to either embrace the Latihan or enter the abyss. Once in Subud, the merry-go-round continued, with marriage, new life, death, uncertainty, perplexity, necessity, and I totally forgot I had ever considered writing.

Three decades had passed when I was asked what my true work was. I admitted I didn’t know. Rusdi Lane said, “I’ll test it for you. I’m good at that.”A pause, eyes closed, “Hmmmm.” Verdict. “You’re a writer.” I still had this amnesia about having tried writing, so I said “Uh, OK, I’ll give it a try,” remembering the advice that persons in crisis could tell you the truth about yourself. Following that, little miracles began. I scored a free computer, and was taught to use the DOS program. An artist self help/appreciation group was introduced at the Subud Center, heart’s balm for the beginner.

But how to start? As a child I enjoyed the “Oz” and “Narnia” books so I chose a fantasy adventure format, figuring that entertaining young people in their formative years was better than birthing a pretentious tome about life that I hadn’t lived and couldn’t understand.

I started at the beginning of the alphabet. “A” is for Albert. Albert, my son, was ten at the time; I would write a nice little adventure story for him for his eleventh birthday. Fictional Albert would travel to another world, which I could create without being restricted by the realities of this one. Making it consistent was another matter. Getting him there was no problem, but once there, he had to have adventures, so I had him travel here and there, determining quickly that each chapter had to have some action or it would be boring. This need for action is what drove the story in the beginning, then the necessity of tying it all together occupied the remainder. Ten years and 500 pages later, I got him home again.

I found guidance, inspiration, call it what you will, occurred in the process, for I never rewrote any of the book, and only discarded half a chapter which went in the wrong direction. But it was a lonely process; it still is. I did not read anything during that time, not wishing to be “influenced,” and when finished, found that everybody had written a fantasy adventure for young and old alike. Rude awakening.

After futile attempts to get published I resorted to Ex Libris to self publish. Reasonable, but publicity drives sales and that is lacking in self publishing houses. What is really important is the difference between the manuscript, a stack of paper with typing on it and the neatly bound, printed volume. It is astounding! Now it is a book! And it is… Alive.


FALCON BOOKS      

OSANNA VAUGHN

The path to having my books published began with a simple intention – the intention to write a story. 

It was 2004 and I was writing lyrics for a fantasy project that included books, CDs, puzzles and calendars. Within the context of that project (which already included one major German author, but was open to more), I was given the okay to try writing a story for young teenagers. It was based on the idea of falconers who see through the eyes of their falcons. This was, in fact, more of an exercise for myself, as I was not looking beyond the present. I sent my first three chapters to the lady running the project and, to my surprise, she sent them off to ARENA Verlag, who promptly accepted to publish the book.

This all happened very quickly and defies any kind of logic, especially if you consider that I was unknown, and the book had to be translated from English into German.

The journey of writing the Falcon series (now in its fifth book) has been amazing. I write with no clear line, so letting go, trusting and following the flow is what it's all about for me. This sounds rather like the latihan, n'est ce pas? In truth, I have always sensed a direct relation between the two – the more I surrender and let go in the latihan, the more I do so when I write, which leads to even more fearlessness in the latihan. It's like a forward moving spiral. 

When people ask me how to get published, I don't really have an answer. To me it started with the intention, followed by the work, trusting the inspiration and fine-tuning the tools. After that, it was as though the universe conspired to get the books published.
 

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The End Place

by Rasunah Katz

For Tchaiko

Someone told me you were leaving
Just as I am waking up
Just as I remember your generosity
Just as my daughter begins to order
The wholesome seeds of Spring.

When I think of you I experience
Stillness a silence of the mind
In a dream I say to you
You cannot go
This is the end place
This is where it begins.

You see I am always late
I never make it on time
How many New Year’s have I missed
Can you count them.

Last night at Eva’s Hannukah party
We spoke of 2012 of community
Of medicine of scarcity of generosity
We spoke of art
The great gift we each give
The world and I thought of you
Going somewhere else to express your art.

I thought of you in that sparse walk on
   Main Street
You see I must have always seen you
So you must know that what
Is true and deep is within us
We only need to say it once
To get it right.

Shall I wait for you to return
Is that my task
Or is it to tell you
We are here in the end place
And each of us carries the seed.
Up mountains down streams through gullies
Beyond so many yellow fields
We never forgot
For our dance is for the world
Our song is perpetual movement
Our heart is one.

We are the end place
That lives to begin
Like the lamb’s singular last breath
We cross in grace.

   

Rasunah Katz is one of the Mendocino california poets. The photograph by Ismanah SchulzE-Vorberg is a photograph of her daughter, and not an illustration of the poem. The editor felt the feelings in the photograph and poem seemed to go togetheR


 

   


BOOKS, BOOKS, AND MORE BOOKS

 

Alice at the Home Front


New from Mardiyah Tarantino     

In Providence, Rhode Island, at the height of World War II, feisty and intrepid eleven-year-old Alice, whose father and uncle are fighting in the war, is determined to make her own contribution to the war effort. Despite her mother's disapproval, Alice dreams of gaining recognition as an airplane spotter. (Google eBook summary)

“As a child I was inspired by the unity and solidarity which swept over the land during World War II,” says Tarantino. “We as children willingly joined in the sacrifices made by our parents at the home front for the soldiers at the war front.”

Tarantino revisits many of these memories through her protagonist. Her humor and persistence will appeal to readers of all ages.

Mardiyah earned her master’s degree from the University of Hawaii. Her essays, stories and poems have been published in newspapers, reviews and anthologies. Tarantino currently lives in Cathedral City, California, where she is a member of the Palm Springs Writer’s Guild and the National League of American Pen Women. This is her third book.

Thanks to iUniverse, an online self-publishing provider with titles accepted at Barnes and Noble, Readers Choice, Editors Choice designations, for this description.   Order this book.

 

The Holy Spirit, A Gift from God

 Muhammad Isman Kanafsky first received the Holy Spirit in the summer of 1964, when he was 26 years old. He has been continuously guided by the power of God since that time. There are no words to express his gratitude to the One Almighty God, for saving and changing his life. This book is an account of his spiritual experiences, along with explanations about spiritual life.

The Holy Spirit awakens the human soul and begins the process of purification that is necessary for the human soul to grow and to progress. This process is completely beyond the realm of the heart and mind, which must be surrendered to God in order for the process to proceed smoothly. This experience is commonly known as being “Born Again,” in Christianity and can also be received in all other religions.

The Holy Spirit or the Power of God is the spiritual force that works inside of us, and the force of the Angels guide us from the outside. These forces are constantly guiding us. Because of the mistakes that we have inherited from our parents and our ancestors, along with our own mistakes, we are no longer aware of our human soul and have lost contact with the Holy Spirit. This book is an attempt to deepen your understanding, in order for you to make contact with the Holy Spirit and reawaken your human soul.   Click here to Order
 


 

Dahlan Simpson on Starting His Own Publishing Company


I have been writing sinceIwas 18 - poetry to express my feelings and investment reports to earn a living. I reasoned that poetry wasn't a safe career option! I founded a poetry club at university. As the years went by, poems came more from the heart and less from the head, and few of the latter ever saw the light of day. Borne of the heart, my poetry usually bubbled up in times of emotion and challenge. Like most people, I've felt the spectrum of the rainbow, from sorrow and trauma through to joy and inspiration. Poetry has been there as a kind of silent witness to important things my life has offered.

One experience comes vividly to mind: on that occasion, I became overwhelmed by a poem that simply landed in my head! How could that be? I have no idea. But there I was, all buckled up for take-off from Vancouver, BC, tray table up and bag under my seat, to head for the skies - to leave the place of my dreams yet again. Suddenly, words flooded into me and I fell into a kind of panic: I needed the means to write the words. Luckily, I managed to unbuckle, grab my bag, locate pen and paper, fold down the tray table and then to record the words in my head like dictation, before they were lost forever. So, here's the poem, the one that literally wrote itself whilst borrowing my brain...

Sometimes,
When I'm alone,
I see the seasons go,
The memories one by one
Flow
Through my heart...
Not a whisper,
Not a sound -
Just those tender
Treasures,
Where time...
No longer plays a part.

I started Sentimental Bloke Publishing in 1990, initially offering just greeting cards. Since then, I have also written a few books - poetry, short stories, a childrens' story (hopefully there'll be more) and investment career highlights. Some are available on this website now. Others are at various stages of completion, to be made available later. 

Dahlan and family live in Australia. Visit his Sentimental Bloke Publishing to browse and purchase his poems, card, collections, cds and more!