Showing posts with label Issue 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Issue 2. Show all posts
Issue 2: Contributors
J. P. Dancing Bear is the author nine collections of poetry, most recently, Inner Cities of Gulls (2010), and Conflicted Light (2008) both published by Salmon Poetry. His poems have been published in hundreds of publications. He is editor for the American Poetry Journal and Dream Horse Press.
Shaindel Beers’ poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She is currently an instructor of English at Blue Mountain Community College in Pendleton, Oregon, in Eastern Oregon’s high desert and serves as Poetry Editor of Contrary. A Brief History of Time (Salt Publishing, 2009) is her first full-length collection. Find her online at http://shaindelbeers.com.
Jessie Carty received her MFA from Queen’s University of Charlotte and continues to reside in North Carolina. Her writing has appeared in publications such as The Main Street Rag, MARGIE and The Northville Review. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, At the A & P Meridiem (Pudding House, 2009) and The Wait of Atom (Folded Word, 2009). You can find her all around the web, but most often at her blog: http://jessiecarty.com.
David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in England, and spent several years in Vienna before moving to Phoenix in1978. He recently had a poem included in the anthology, BIRDS, from the British Museum, and won the Slipstream Chapbook Contest with From the Age of Miracles.
Mary Christine Delea is the author of The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky, two chapbooks, and numerous published poems. Most recently a Poet-in-the-Schools and a university professor, she is currently a stay-at-home writer. Delea is from Long Island, and now lives in Oregon.
William Doreski's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently Waiting for the Angel (Pygmy Forest Press, 2009).
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 19 print and digital poetry chapbooks and a full-length collection, Lovesick, published by Press Americana.
Leigh Anne Hornfeldt lives in Kentucky with her husband and three young sons. She wrote her first (and probably best) poem at age six while "camping" in the back of a pickup truck. Her poems have appeared in Plainspoke.
S. K. McGillis is currently in his second year of the MFA in Creative Writing (poetry) program and Portland State University. He lives in Portland with his wife, Leah, and their two dogs. He has been writing poetry for five years. His poetry has previously appeared in Pathos Literary Magazine and Watershed Literary Magazine.
Sherry O’Keefe is a descendant of Montana pioneers and a graduate of MSU-B. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Switched-on Gutenberg, Terrain. Org., Barnwood Poetry Review, Avatar Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Two Review, Babel Fruit, Soundzine, The High Desert Journal and Main Street Rag. Her chapbook, Making Good Use of August was released in October 2009 from Finishing Line Press.
Scott Owens is the author of six collections of poetry and has over 600 poems published in journals and anthologies. He is editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, Vice President of the Poetry Council of North Carolina, and recipient of awards from the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Academy of American Poets, the NC Writers’ Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC. He holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and currently teaches at Catawba Valley Community College.
Penelope Scambly Schott’s most recent books are Six Lips and a chapbook Under Taos Mountain: The Terrible Quarrel of Magpie and Tia. Her verse biography A is for Anne: Mistress Hutchinson Disturbs the Commonwealth won the 2008 Oregon Book Award for Poetry.
B.T. Shaw is the author of This Dirty Little Heart. She lives in Portland, where in spring and summer her hands are more often dirty than not. Currently, her chard is under siege from leaf miners. If you don't know what a leaf miner is, consider yourself lucky. If you have suggestions for battling leaf miners or if you wish to send a poem to The Oregonian's Poetry column, write to B.T. at poetry@news.oregonian.com.
Scot Siegel contributed photography for Issue 2.
Scott T. Starbuck is the Interim Creative Writing Coordinator at San Diego Mesa College, and lives near The Clackamas River in Oregon. You can see his fossil art at The Spirit of the Salmon Fund and hear him read two poems at Fogged Clarity. Pudding House published his new chapbook of nature and protest poems, The Warrior Poems, in June 2010, and his next chapbook will be published by Mountains and Rivers Press.
Larina Warnock works for a nonprofit organization in Corvallis, Oregon. She is a graduate student at Saint Xavier University. Warnock's work has been published or is forthcoming in The Oregonian, PEMMICAN, Today's Caregiver, and others. Her poetry has been recognized with awards from Writer's Digest Poetry Competition, the IBPC, and The Guardian Poetry Workshops.
Paul Watsky has published one full-length poetry collection, Telling the Difference (Fisher King Press, 2010) and two chapbooks, More Questions Than Answers and Sea Side (tel-let, 2001, 2003), co-translated with Emiko Miyashita Santoka (Tokyo, PIE Books, 2006), and has poems in such journals as Poetry Flash, The Cream City Review, onthebus, The Asheville Poetry Review, and The Pinch.
Issue 2: Contents
Poetry
“A Caution to the Mapmaker” -- David Chorlton
“There You Are” -- J.P. Dancing Bear
“Crows” -- Howie Good
“tending the past” --S.K. McGillis
“Losers’ Blues” -- Paul Watsky
“Broken Branches” -- Larina Warnock
“In a moment’s notice” -- Sherry O’Keefe
“Water, Water Everywhere” -- Shaindel Beers
“A Brief History of Almost Everything” -- Scott Owens
“Bad Day” -- Mary Christine Delea
“Hot Zone” --William Doreski
“Flowering Plum” --Leigh Anne Hornfeldt
“Genus Fortunella” -- B.T. Shaw
“Fertility Goddess, Malta, circa 3000 BC --Penelope Scambly Schott
“Three Incidents on I-84” --Scott Starbuck
Featured Poet and Interview
Selected poems from Paper House by Jessie Carty (Folded Word, 2010), and interview with Jessie Carty by Untitled Country Review Editor, Scot Siegel.
Issue 2
Come on in. The water’s fine…
“The ideal poem is enjoyable to read aloud. It has elements of light and dark, and it reveals some truth greater than the sum of its parts. The ideal poem takes us into some uncharted territory and reveals the world we think we know in a new light.”
- UCR Interview with Duotrope, July 12, 2010
I am pleased to present the second issue of Untitled Country Review. Our summer collection examines more uncharted territory. Here, we find David Chorlton glimpsing through desert fences lightning drawing maps on the sky. Here, we meet J.P. Dancing Bear in the warmth of a den of foxes and watch “dawn coming through the open arms of trees."
And it's not all about nature, friends. Turn these pages and discover Paul Watsky leaning on a gate at a Giants’ game, the hometown team in a slump, but there's jazz on the streets of San Francisco! And, here, we find bluegrass and country, summer swimming holes and covered wagons. We have love and death and reservation drums; discrimination and salvation. Here we find Little Red Riding Hood, ancient sacred texts, Aerosmith’s "Sweet Emotion," and a fertility goddess…
And much more… So come on in, enjoy the summer fun!
Scot
Scot Siegel, Editor
Issue 2: David Chorlton
Postcards from Along the Fence
I
This is a nice enough spot
to spend a few days
if you like sparse vegetation
and perspective.
When nobody else is around
the fence appears so natural
you’d think it had been here first
and the desert was planted around it.
II
Some people say the fence is ugly,
that it spoils the view
toward the mountains in the south,
but when you think of it as art
it becomes a river of steel
flowing between banks of light
and there’s no way short of magic
to get across.
III
Yesterday we stopped off
to see the graveyard
for the nameless ones
who died while crossing over.
There are plenty of vacancies.
You just climb into the hole
and someone comes along
to bury you. You don’t even
need papers.
--David Chorlton
Issue 2: David Chorlton
A Caution to the Mapmaker
The easy part is marking
where mountains rise through desert,
grass and woodland
until a single peak prevails
but you will never map the thunderhead
gathering around it.
You can measure any journey
taken through a canyon
and away from the roads
without ever knowing
the pace of the heart that powers it.
Lightning draws faster than you can.
Whatever you commit to paper
the rain will wash away
in repeated monsoons.
You record the terrain
while smugglers and the jaguar
find their way by scent
and memory;
they will still be here
after being declared extinct.
--David Chorlton
Issue 2: J.P. Dancing Bear
Gacela of the Foxes
for Ryan G. Van Cleave
You sleep in the warmth of a den of foxes
under the brush and the song of grass
and you know in this world you must use teeth
and wits to defend and to provide.
You don’t want to be this mathematical
in the red calculations of us or them.
You don’t want be that clever machine in the grass
with the moonlit chicken coop so close.
You have to think of the den, and the ones
who would hunt you with cousin dogs.
You want the grass to cover your reds with greens
black in the silvery light, because the moon
is an egg—the goddess of all eggs—the big catch
taunting you to feed your den with it;
you wear that every night you hunt
and return with something smaller than its circumference.
You are the slinking red in the landscape’s dream
playing with your den mates, teaching them
not to be only what others see and say them to be—
but to be red joy, red play, red laughter, among the tall grass.
under the brush and the song of grass
and you know in this world you must use teeth
and wits to defend and to provide.
You don’t want to be this mathematical
in the red calculations of us or them.
You don’t want be that clever machine in the grass
with the moonlit chicken coop so close.
You have to think of the den, and the ones
who would hunt you with cousin dogs.
You want the grass to cover your reds with greens
black in the silvery light, because the moon
is an egg—the goddess of all eggs—the big catch
taunting you to feed your den with it;
you wear that every night you hunt
and return with something smaller than its circumference.
You are the slinking red in the landscape’s dream
playing with your den mates, teaching them
not to be only what others see and say them to be—
but to be red joy, red play, red laughter, among the tall grass.
--J.P. Dancing Bear
Issue 2: J.P. Dancing Bear
There You Are
(Poem Starting with a Line by Margot Schilpp)
“No matter where you go, there you are.”
—Firesign Theater
Tell the trees you'll see them later
make it more of a promise, perhaps
a prophesy—although not so much
hoopla regarding your return. Say so
long to the birdies, chirpingly if you must,
you know to keep it short, almost
over your shoulder, they never were
great with departures anyway. Heels
clacking the asphalt, you become
the metronome for all walkers. It's easy—
making distance happen, leaving home,
turning your back from all those things
you love—so easy. You can gait the world
and you'll know if you start to circumnavigate,
when on the other side —halfway— the path
turns muddy and rocky, the moment
you begin to turn and face the things you left.
Your muscles will chirp with pain as you wade
through the muck swamp of your doing,
that darker side we all must traverse,
to come back the wiser, older, harrowed
one —don't say hero here— it wasn't bravery
at all that made the quest. Just one foot
before the other, hoping to see the dawn
coming through the open arms of trees.
--J.P. Dancing Bear
Issue 2: Howie Good
Crows
I hadn’t really noticed before
that crows have black beaks.
Of course,
from the perspective of wild birds,
man is the great mistake.
I flicked away my cigarette
and went back up.
Where was your mother born?
the other people waiting
wanted to know.
As always, I could hear
the false friendliness in my voice.
She was dying across the hall –
like wind and rain through the magnolias.
--Howie Good
Issue 2: S.K. McGillis
tending the past
your words fading a fragrance
a prayer pigments in primrose
the first death is most difficult
gardenias grow over memories
we tended your garden in grief
gained materials to paint you
the name of your mother
the smell of your clothes
what you said was white
we found a mixture of everything
your name inside of ours
we who have your eyes, your voice
--S.K. McGillis
Issue 2: Paul Watsky
Losers' Blues
Around Lefty O'Doul's gate, once
the late innings start, there's usually a pair
of axmen competing
for spare change. First up,
his wheelchair wedged near escape gaps
in the fence bars, a clueless
honker's Happy Birthday Mary
Had a Little Lamb. I save my buck
for the Take Me Out
to the Ballgame virtuoso quietly
tinkering with his reed who can
empathize, like he sat beside me these
four fogdripping garbagetime
summers, some slob's chewed-up
peanut shells eddying
around our feet, knows that going
back to June I've witnessed six
straight butcheries, and tonight
before the stretch, shamble off
terminal from a quartet of Giants'
errors amped by their failure
to collect a second hit. This streetwise
Joshua blew his horn
during vanished years of hope, meaningful
seasons when hopefulness wasn't
monopolized by imbecile
true fans: down half-a-dozen,
two outs, bottom of the ninth, the 7-
hole batter whiffs but
on a passed ball reaches first-
and now these shirtless
screamers drifting among
empty seats decide
it's rally time. I drop
my Washington in his sax case. The music
guy and I exchange
looks, a shoulder bump. I walk,
he works-My Favorite Things.
--Paul Watsky
Issue 2: Larina Warnock
Mrs. Johnson Reads a Note from Billy
I hate sports. It's got little to do with anything but personality.
I'm not fond of bluegrass and country music. A bit of Bach,
though, that can sooth the soul better than wind whistling
to the tune of a train or dust dancing behind a John Deere.
I didn't have the right to hate it here so much, but there it is.
A barn party out in BFE just don't do much for a gay kid.
You know how Brother Lucas is always talking about sin
and salvation like they're two different sides of a deer-hide
drum? I thought about that some and decided that rural life
just didn't make sense anymore. Take two steps out the door
and you'll see three teen mothers and somebody's beaten wife,
a hunting trip gone wrong, and miles of tumbleweed hypocrisy.
So last week I wrote a letter to Shepherd because it didn't seem
right to leave without telling him how I feel. I used my nicest
handwriting so I'm pretty sure he'll think it's a girl who sent it.
I wouldn't want him to face a world that knew his secret
admirer was a farm boy and a liar who felt like he had to dance
twice with Carrie and spend the night to prove he was a man.
Mom, I hope the blood went down the drain easy enough.
I tried not to make too much of a mess, knowing you'd be
the one who had to clean it up. Jesus knows Pa's half useless
that way. Don't you let him say this is your fault, neither.
You're the only one anywhere that ever loved
me for who I am and not who you wished I would be.
--Larina Warnock
Issue 2: Larina Warnock
Broken Branches
Sometimes the drums keep me
awake at night, vibrate through
my flesh like spirits pleading
for recognition, lost ancestors
that linger in memory.
I envision my roots
tangled in the calcite of Grandpa’s bones
that crumble with the tale of desertion
and the true surname he forgot to share
with anyone, just a hint that he was born
in a valley on the Great Plains.
It was there that a medicine man
said Grandpa was born at Cherry Creek
beneath the canvas of a covered wagon.
He said that my blood
carried history like thunder.
Oonchi, 84 and wounded by patterns
of alcoholism and shame, carried
stones in her arms for the ceremony.
She never called me Wasicu, but sent
me to Sundance with a prayer to Wakan Tanka.
I went to the reservation a white woman
guessing, but came away with a hint
of the history, an awareness of why
sometimes the drums keep me.
--Larina Warnock
Issue 2: Sherry O'Keefe
In a moment’s notice
I caught a flight on Alaska Airlines from Montana
to Oregon to help the man I love
help his father pass away. Getting there
is not easy. Billings to Helena to
Seattle to Portland to a remote coast
hours from any hospital. It was not yet
morning. The cabin was still
and dark. While we were in Montana airspace,
beer was complimentary. As there weren’t many
of us, we each had our own row and reached
to salute one another with our plastic cups,
tossing back wishes for soft landings and clear
passage. Crossing Idaho, a grandmother in 15E
watched her son in the next row help his toddler kneel
by the window, waiting for the edge of the ocean
to appear. He wondered out loud how it would feel.
Ocean water lapping Seattle’s shore. This salt
water with channel markers- how would it taste
and would he get a drink? His father told him
probably not, but Grandma whispered yes.
--Sherry O’Keefe
Issue 2: Shaindel Beers
Water, Water Everywhere
When he tells you he needs you like he needs air,
you’re tempted to fall back on telling him you need him
like water. But water is something you’ve always been
afraid of. Since the lake with the slippery bottom,
since the slick pondweed wrapped itself around your
ankles and you choked, sputtered, choked, flailed,
felt the entire lake pushing itself into your lungs.
Resist this temptation. You need him like the flowers
need the sun, and you know, more than anyone,
that where air is, water is not.
--Shaindel Beers
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)