Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Coal

I chew coal for extra nrgy
Wind turbines
blow a deadly breeze my way

In the migrant trailer
in which I live
I flex my biceps in front of the mirror
to reassure myself I still exist
and am capable of continued survival

I grin into the mirror
with my black teeth
Script for the company store
is scattered on the rug like fallen leaves

I have a woman
but I’ve misplaced her
I go looking for another chunk
of coal

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Inkspeak: Moreau by Mark Sheeky

I went to an island, a world populated by strange beings,
machines of meat developed for … unknown fetishistic purposes.
I asked a retile creature, ‘take me to your leader.’
We cut through harsh forests
I saw many strange beings
made from other bits of thing.
I was taken to a fine house.
A man was there, he said his name was Moreau.

Books From The Pantry: Loving Lou Salomé by Stefano Santachiara

Loving Lou Salomé by Stefano Santachiara:

An historical novel based on works, correspondence and random thoughts of Lou Salomé, free as the travels, encounters and relationships that she lived through in the cultural centres of Europe between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Santachiara interprets even the most subtle nuances of Salomé’s spirit and narrates an extraordinary life: scholar, traveller, poetess, writer, philosopher, psychoanalyst.

Stefano Santachiara (born in 1975, Carpi, Italy) is a former journalist of Il Fatto Quotidiano, and of the periodical Left Avvenimenti. He also collaborated with the Italian TV Channel Rai3. He is known for his reports on corruption and environmental damage, as well as for the scoop in the first case of relations between the Democratic Party and the ‘Ndrangheta, when the businessmen involved filed a claim for compensation, but the court rejected it by stating that Santachiara’s investigation was based on true and documented facts. His first book The Dirty Laundry of the Left (I panni sporchi della sinistra), written with Ferruccio Pinotti for the Chiarelettere publishing company, has reached five editions. His other works include self-published essays Soccer, Carrion and Leopards (Calcio, carogne e gattopardi) and Social Feminism (Socialfemminismo). Recently he has completed a movie script based on his historical novel Loving Lou Salomé.

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Dr Carla McGill

COYOTE

He appeared on the paved path
on the old railway trail
near foothills, long slope
of the rocky wash.

Near crevices where winds form,
blast down the valley, leaves spinning,
stunned trees, even the dry river
stones stupefied by its force.

He was stock-still, the wind twisting
around his tail, and glancing my way,
ears alert. Ancient chaparral ancestors
stirring in his pale eyes, yelps
and howls from a thousand open
plains already sounding in unknown
and guarded inner places.

No one else was around but the lizard
near my feet, anticipating possibilities.
Nearby brush, rustlings, stirrings.

Then he was gone, as if by magic,
disappearing, no sound in the thickets
by the path, collecting heat as it bore down.

The winds stirred again,
a couple of blasts, no birds
anywhere that I could see, no brush
rabbits, just the dead bee I then came across,
and the dog collar, tan with gold flecks,
half-buried in the dirt.

Now I hear everything from all directions:
heavy bison steps, antelope grunts,
bobcats hissing, wind tearing through hedges.

There’s another lizard, minding his way
as we both acknowledge that today
something nearby will be devoured.

PHOTO OF MY AUNT

She was not posed, but staring off
from the gazebo at a party, her hand
almost to her head as if shielding
her eyes from the sun. Straining
to see something, she looked
curious, as if I could tell by her gaze,
as if she knew what it all meant,
as if she saw what was about to happen,
as if she knew it was there, the ultimate
end of all things that we found familiar,
the end of wondering. On the ground
behind her, at the edge of the gazebo,
her purse, silver clasp glinting in the sun.

WHAT I FOUND ON THE BEACH

Gray pebbles, ceramic shards,
pieces of plastic, rope, shell
trifles, abandoned claw tips.

Then, buried in seaweed,
it shone through, purple
with streaks of red,

shining glass, orbicular,
no cracks or chips. Wet,
cold, yet still exuberant.

It seemed to ignore being found,
and went on as it had been, silent,
on my dresser, waiting for the sun.

WINDS, STONE, ICE

Hard to get up, open to assaults
of bright winds, glossy fields
in the distance, flickering
and shimmering, blinding
and flashing with energy.

On the other hand, stone walkways
are dignified, but stable to the point
of fatigue. The gray and black flecks
run all through, repel everything,
explain nothing. They fossilize in the cold.

Glaciers on the horizon, gleaming
like answers to questions, like
ancient wisdom, like stories
that put one to sleep after wincing
and blinking and shivering all day.

Carla McGill earned her doctorate in English from the University of California, Riverside. Her work has been published in A Clean Well-Lighted Place, The Atlanta Review, Shark Reef, Crack the Spine, Westview, Common Ground Review, Caveat Lector, Inland Empire Magazine, Carbon Culture Review, Vending Machine Press, Nebo: A Literary Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, Streetlight Magazine, The Penmen Review, Whistling Shade, Cloudbank, Paragon Journal, Burningword, Poets’ Espresso Review, The Alembic, and Broad River Review. Her story, “Thirteen Memories,” received an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train’s MAR/APR 2016 Very Short Fiction Contest. She lives with her husband in Southern California where she writes poetry and fiction.

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Trick

The woman who claims to be my wife has a lost look
She’s holding a raw egg in her hand
Dr. Oz told me
I can lose seven pounds a week
by using Garcinia Cambogia Extract, she says

I have been away for many years
held as a P.O.W.
I don’t understand what she just said
I have no idea who Dr. Oz is
My only reference is:
The Wizard of…

In grief over my presumed death
this woman who claims to be my wife
began eating wildly
became morbidly obese
I still cannot believe she is who she says she is
I think that it is a trick
set up by my former captors
I cannot remember if they were Communists
Stalinists or Maoists
I don’t understand what any of that means
if I ever did
or why this woman sitting next to me on this couch
is stroking the blond hairs
of my arm

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Alita Pirkopf

A BRIGHTER LOOK

Though the unworkable world
of my impossibility is always present,
incessant, unceasing, encircling,
it has turned ever so slightly,
causing previous decades
of different understandings,
or misunderstandings, to shift,
turning my face to the rays
of the always somewhere shining sun.

Possibility, after so long, emerges,
takes on unfamiliar shapes,
like eon-shaped, water worn rocks,
like Philip Glass repetition,
changing with continuing variation.

A SMALL TREE

stretches its branches
toward the ice night’s
cold stars. I forget
that elsewhere,
of course, is growing,

that green will come again,
turning where I stand
to tulips and tart rhubarb,
relaxing my winter will—
which now I wish
would right my brittle world.

THERE IS THIS DARKNESS

The tape
rolling
controlling
in my head
for years
showed ovens
and visits
to my
Germanic
relatives.
It plays on
the past.

Serial dreams
of a witch-
grandmother
have not
faded.
The dark closet
she placed me in
holds me forever
with my mother’s help.

But to dreams
and tapes
and documentaries
a new tape
has been added.
It plays
in the present.

A German
language
tape
I study
as I fall
asleep.

Night comes now
not always
with black fingers
or witches’ hats
but still sometimes.

WHAT I MAKE OF IT

My sons grew up
playing with their father
in summer and in snow.
They could have sailed
to Troy

            in the time
they stayed away
I wove
summer threads
into light fantasy,
and winter wool
into thicker
and heavy fabric-
ation

           until finally,
from remaining threads,
I make only this,
a story I repeat, then write,
and plan to press
between clothbound covers.
Ancient stories
in an old-fashioned book.

After receiving a Master’s Degree in English Literature from the University of Denver, Alita Pirkopf became increasingly interested in feminist interpretations of literature. Eventually, Alita enrolled in a poetry class at the University of Denver taught by Bin Ramke. Poetry became a long-term focus and obsession.

Alita’s work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Alembic, Artifact Nouveau, Burningword Literary Journal, Caduceus, The Cape Rock, The Chaffin Journal, The Distillery, Euphony Journal, Existere, Good Works Review, The Griffin, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Harpur Palate, Illya’s Honey, Lullwater Review, Moon City Review, The Paragon Journal, The Penmen Review, Quiddity, riverSedge, Rubbertop Review, Ship of Fools, Stonecoast Review, Temenos Journal, Vending Machine Press, Vox Poetica, Westview, and Willow Springs Review.

Poetry Drawer: Three Poems by John Grey

BEACH DAY

Summer’s here,
blue and cloudless,
hot and steamy
with the sun at full throttle.

A gull perches on a wooden pole,
feathers ruffling,
blood dot on its beak.
A pelican scoops some sea
up in its pouch,
sloshes down to a single gray fish.

We’re seated under an umbrella,
with just our feet in the light’s flame,
toes baked like bread.

A crab darts across the sand,
seeks shelter under my chaise lounge.
Your arm reaches up
to caress a cool glass,
filled to the brim with pina colada.
This is paradise as we know it.

Waves flop on shore,
retreat and flop some more.
A surfer paddles way out,
then returns to us
on the crest of a swell,
tall, erect, well-balanced,
like a statue on a fiber-glass base.

Everything is happening.
There’s movement in all directions.
And yet it all adds up to a calm.
I close my eyes, begin to doze.
The action never lets up.

SONG ON MY LIPS WHERE IT BELONGS

Songs come out of nowhere.
The mood is music-ripe.
I hum.
I make up words.
Initiate a melody.
I’m loud.
People stare at me.
But it doesn’t bother me
to be strolling along
and singing.
Why not?
There has to be a piano playing somewhere.

SURROUNDS

The woods are thick and the trail is narrow.
I smell the piney closeness, almost overpowering.
And my feet look for their place
on this tiny gauge track.
The warblers have all the sky for palette,
fill it with song.
Wildflowers, yellow and pink and blue,
take up the space their roots endow,
always room for one more blooming.
So much green, so much trunk and bark,
and breeze and sprouting,
my identity holds fast
to the next thought and the next.
Better to give myself up to the surrounds,
whisper the cinquefoil and the tortoiseshell.
My breath concurs.
My soul vacillates.
My heart takes one more step..

Inky Interview Special: John Grey, Australian Poet, USA resident

Poetry Drawer: An Awkward Meeting in a Coffee House by John Grey

Poetry Drawer: Two Poems by John Grey

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.

Poetry Drawer: Seems There Are by Joel Schueler

Seems There Are

less people you can call friends
money can’t buy you back again,
you lost you
you’re losing me too,
fourteen angels and fourteen more
cannot untie the you from before.

Joel has a BA (Hons) in English Literature & Creative Writing from the University of Wales, Aberystwyth. He has just finished his first novel and his works have been accepted across eight different countries in over two dozen publications including the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Bangalore Review, & The Brasilia Review.

Poetry Drawer: Two Poems by Anne Mikusinski

Bedtime Story

Our tale

For tonight

Is
Submitted for your approval

And
Brought to you
By the overtired
Spaces in my brain
Embellished
By imagination’s
Wishful thinking
It’s beginning simple
Two people
In a room
One reading
The other playing some
Sort of music
That fits the scene

Or not.

Eventually the music stops
The book is closed
There might be an embrace
Or, maybe more
Before it fades to black.

Interlude

Tonight’s pipe dream
Is littered
With tiny notes
Written in my second language
Hidden
In different rooms
When found and read aloud
You laugh at my accent
Soon silenced by a glare
You draw close
Removing them from my hands
To kiss my fingers
All is forgiven

And Again..

Tonight’s pipe dream
Is sponsored by
All the lovely pillow talk
We haven’t had
Those idle

Conversations
Delivered softly
Your voice a rumbling purr in my ear,
Sleep is overrated.

Anne Mikusinski has been writing poetry and short stories since she was seven.
She finds inspiration in music and art, and sometimes, even little things that happen every day. Her influences range from Robert Frost and Dylan Thomas, to David Byrne and Nick Cave

Books From The Pantry: Deep Dark Light by Mark Sheeky

Congratulations on your new book, Deep Dark Light, which is a surrealistic work in three parts, combining poetry and prose. Can you tell us about it?

Deep Dark Light is a combination of poetry, with lots of images, and a short story. It’s an experiment in form, inspired by classical music and how each section or movement of, say, a piano concerto is organised to portray a certain idea or mood, yet the whole thing is inter-related, too. The majority of poetry books are simply collections of poems about various things. Sometimes collections are themed, which gives the reader more of a strong sense of what the poems are about or how they are supposed to make you feel. I wanted to structure a book like that but include any form of text, breaking free of poetry to include stories, letter-like essays, thoughts, notes, and images. Perhaps the closest analogues are William Blake’s mythological books, but there was no intentional influence from those.

Deep Dark Light has a theme too. It is a somewhat surrealistic work that has a feeling like a journey or quest, always searching and trying to understand, looking for light. Some of my writing is rather abstract, and this is designed to evoke a music-like feeling, a journey from darkness to light, rather like a symphony by Beethoven or Sibelius.

I bet everyone thinks this is a very odd book already! Perhaps it is. For me, the writing process was something of a quest; I find that many books are. I think that many writers quest and seek things while writing, and that this often manifests itself in the story itself. So many books are about looking for an ending, the narrative reflecting exactly the psychology of the author. Do the writers notice? As a reader, I didn’t until I began writing, and then I saw this pattern in so many novels. I hope some people will find it inspiring.

How did you structure the novel?

The first part consists of short poems with illustrations. These arose from a period of introspection, a searching for artistic meaning. This opens the gateway to a second part about a larger quest for meaning. The reader is also asked questions and, hopefully, engaged in this unusual dialogue. Parts of the second part involve physics and philosophy.

The final section is a surrealistic story that brings together some of the thoughts and ideas explored, and on some level unifies and concludes these. It is the story of George, a man searching for his lost love who has been kidnapped or taken somewhere. George begins before a vast door at sunset, and is pulled forwards through various fantastical worlds, ultimately towards love, daylight.

What philosophy do you explore?

The short philosophical pages, which are often something like prose-poems, are generally about the nature of thought and reality. They’re strongly related to Descartes; my own Meditations on his.

What inspired you in the first place?

The first section was written in a short period when I wanted to push some sort of boundary in poetry, to write something that was somehow universal, rather than social, or about something specific. In effect these poems were about art and the serious matter of living a life of creativity. I set those poems aside for some time, for over a year, then looked at them again and thought that they deserved to be put together. They were not long enough to make a book from, so I had the idea of making those the first ‘movement’ of a larger work, a grand experiment.

You have also illustrated the book, with pen and ink. Is a lot of your writing imagery based, would you say?

Definitely. I find writing easier when I form an image and describe it, and my narrative writing is always a sequence of images. In this book, as in all of my illustrated books so far, the illustrations were all created after the poems; I wanted to make a multi-media work, but I certainly had some images in my mind before I started to write, too.

Perhaps the most image-rich area in the writing is the story at the end, which isn’t illustrated. Sometimes illustrations can strongly colour a story. Can anyone now imagine Alice in Wonderland without the famous drawings? In prose, one has to be careful not to ride over the reader and the images that their mind makes. Illustrations, in the technical sense, can do that, so my images are more like complements to the text, devices to augment the mood rather than depict anything.

The ultimate motivation for the images is that I wanted the book to look beautiful, to create a book that was a work of art in every sense. These things can’t be hurried along. All beautiful things take time and care to construct. Addition. Subtraction. Addition. Subtraction. Sculpting until everything feels right.

Did your imagination surprise you along the way, or did you have a definite plan for the whole novel?

The first set of poems were certain and written in a short period, then it was a case of making things that fitted with those, parts that made sense and chimed. I like to make a plan before starting things, working out all of the main points out, then fill in the contents with a relatively high level of detail so that a first draft is largely complete. As a painter, musician, and occasional sculptor too, I can see that all art is about starting rough and then refining. All writers probably do this too, even when they don’t form a conscious plan: by the end of the first draft, they can start to refine.

I prefer to have a skeleton that lists the main flows of scenes and characters and emotions, and use that crucial blueprint as my guide. Once you stick to that plan, the rest can be anything and the result will still work. No matter how many layers of refinement an artwork receives, one of my tenets is that a good artwork can be called finished at any stage and still work.

A global plan also gives an author a sense of feeling in advance. The key to writing, as in any art, is to feel what you want to express, then express yourself through your medium. This is a lot easier if you know what you are supposed to be feeling.

Could we have a snippet from Deep Dark Light, with commentary?

This is from the Dark section:

Dearest Lucine, I have discovered the most wonderful thing, that we are connected. Each of us lives only in the minds of others. We can know ourselves, but we cannot ever know what came before us, or what comes after us. Our lives, from our perspective, are infinite. Life, death, the passage of time, these are social constructs, things only exist in others, the people we see. We know death only through seeing it in others, and by feeling the decay in ourselves. We cannot die ourselves; we exist, then do not. How can anything experience non-existence?

We are all citadels of cells, tiny animals that work together to make us. Tiny animals, trying hard to make their own way, each sharing, loving, giving.

Our perspective of the universe is unique. This makes our experience of the universe unique, but also makes our knowledge unique, our truth unique and therefore our universe unique. There is no shared universe, we each have a personal universe, and you are in mine.

There was a time when you were alive in mine.

You exist in my memory.”

Like a lot of that section it is a written thought about existence and what is real, what is true, and what is a right path. It has elements of searching, and coping with loss, but also something larger and beyond normal life. This part also links with the story at the end, as the (unnamed) narrator here is George, the protagonist, and Lucine is his partner, the love that he has lost.

Are you working on any other literature at the moment?

I’ve been working on poetry, recently. The poems here were written some years ago, well, maybe not that long ago, but for me, they seem to be from a different epoch. So much has changed in my literary life this year, due to getting to know some really good poets and writers, and reading more of the best poetry. I want to focus on producing a good poetry collection for its own sake, and have created a theme of the circus, a rich area for characters, and also, hopefully, an alternative reflection of life. I may structure it like Deep Dark Light to some degree, adding an overall shape to it. Good aesthetics is a balance between order and chaos. Structure adds order, and looser forms add chaos. These are the condiments of literature.

Where is the best place to get a copy of Deep Dark Light?

Amazon, available worldwide.

I’d like to end with a few words from the foreword, a third party perspective on the book which your readers might find informative. It was written by Ink Pantry author Dr. Ken Pobo, Professor of English Literature from Widener University:

If you are looking for a straight-up narrative work, move along. Connections happen here—in each illustration and written piece—but these are not built from traditional forms of narrative. The words converse with the illustrations. Sometimes we clearly overhear what they say; other times we have to go strictly by impulse and intuition. In John Lennon’s song “Intuition” the speaker says that intuition takes him everywhere. Everywhere, nowhere, light, dark.”

Mark Sheeky’s Website

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