A Magazine of Many Arts

This is the fifth anniversary of the website.  Sadly, I have to postpone the grand posting I’ve been working on because my father died this week and his funeral is today. So I will spend the day crying and laughing and hugging people and will postpone this anniversary.  It’s a tradition in my family to postpone dates.  If we can postpone Christmas, I can postpone an anniversary, right?  I will see you in two weeks with the special anniversary post.

I must say I’m disappointed to only have one comment for my first giveaway, but my page views are up so I will console myself with that.  I will try this again in a couple of months.

Would people prefer a different type of prize for a contest, or is there another reason we had so few people chiming in?  I would like to get some more feedback for the authors since writing can be such a solitary task.

I’ll accept comments for the rest of the week, if anyone else wants to play.

Starting next week will be a month devoted to Polu Texni favorite, Colleen Anderson, with an interview and one of her poems a week.

Some happy news and some sad news…

I was thrilled to see this news: “A Good Catch” by Colleen Anderson in Polu Texni, was nominated for an Aurora award. Congratulations Colleen! It made my day to see Polu Texni’s name on Locus.

Canadians can register to vote for Colleen or other favorites.

The sad news is that K. D. Wentworth passed away this week.  I published her story “The Turquoise Horse” in my first editing venture, Vision Quests, Science Fiction and Fantasy Tales of Shamanism, by Angelus Press.  She was a very easy person to work with, very professional, and I enjoyed her work.

Whew, so this break went on way too long. It was partially due to an overly busy work life and some changes in my schedule that left me without a good weekly time for updates. I have a number of great poems that are going to be going up in the next few weeks, starting with one on Monday. I’m putting a bunch up right now, so I can guarantee weekly updates for the next few months.

She found the words of others in general
to be prayer-dull
even so everyone came to her to speak to her
the devils came, goblins came, gods and demi-gods came,
demons came, mermaids shed their tails and came
in a nutshell
all came, from the cesspool of creation to its finest
and they all gave her words, always words and
nothing but words
no soft meaning, no gentle thought
she found that there is nothing but words to dry the ink on a quill
and nothing but words to dull a freshly sharpened pencil
if only they’d keep their words! she’d think, but they never did
once there came a man
he was just average for a man but
he kept his mouth shut
she was so startled that at first
she forgot to be surprised and just begged him
to come closer like all the others
he did, and when he was close, very close,
he kissed her lips, softly at first, then with desire, feeding her
moisture, gently
their tongues were soon as one and they were shedding clothes
on the floor and took pleasure in one another
It lasted as long as these things do
and when they were still on the floor, close
to one another
he said to her without meeting her eyes: I love you.
she had too, just until he had spoken
as his words spilled from his lips, her desire and passion,
everything she might have given him
vanished like hot breath in winter, like the green from leaves in fall
like the life from someone dying
and she made him go like all the others
after all, somebody else was already waiting to throw words
at her oh so tired ears

She had never been a good wife
staying out till all hours
coming home wet and wild
with flesh stuck between her teeth

She had fallen for his best lines
reeled him in, netted a husband
After marriage she dropped the camouflage
became a bit of a disappointment

When she joined the band she found her place
forgot for awhile who she was
rattling spoons over her scales
and singing of shipwrecked loves

She stopped looking at other men
remained mute upon the rocks
traded her shell bras for ones of lace
sailors watching still ran aground

Perhaps she needs to try again, harder
loving words are bait enough
but pearls last longer when held in the hand
her husband but a shoal against the sea’s allure

She had tried to be a good wife cooking
calmly stirring the bowl’s contents
but she couldn’t help dip the spoon and lick it
add pepper to fish heads and fingers

Not all sirens give warnings but she will
write a note on handmade, scented paper
will not eat her love but leave him
with fishwife memories when the ocean calls

Empty Pockets.
Discard jewelry, belts, umbrellas.
Remove shoes, hats, coats, any articles of clothing with sentimental value.
Take off glasses.
Pull out IVs, ventilators, feeding tubes, catheters, implants.
Scrub away tattoos.
Urinate. Defecate. Retch. Shed any remnant of mortal consumption. Wipe hunger from the buds of your tongue, pleasure from the palette.
Forget what seemed to matter, desire, ambition, possession, love, sources of fear.
Close your eyes. Breathe deeply.
Expect a little sting as memory is wiped clean.
Let go of the world.
Step forward.
Behold the nothing of all, void of unencumbrance.
Do not look back.
Pass.

The con was great. I worked my butt off on getting my table ready for the art show, and managed to fill the space. Remind me next time to reserve less space and focus on my best work, OK? Still, I thought my table looked pretty good.

On the table you can see my dolls, some of my jewelry, and the cameos I’ve been playing with lately. On the wall are the mixed media fabric pictures, mostly tarot cards but some classic illustrations as well. On the right you can see my daughter’s pictures, including some that appeared here first. It’s a big hodge podge of different media and styles, but that’s what keeps it fun for me.

Click twice to see a larger version.