"Last Call" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Poet of the Week

"Caw!" Ink on Paper

By J. Artemus Gordon

Last Call

Yoni Hammer-Kossoy

One crow caws

and I'm awake

blue-faced babies

on screen

where I left them

hours ago

broken bodies

struck down

by a monstrous hand.

Oh poetry – 

curly-haired beauty

obsessed over without end

where are you now?

Poet’s Notes:  This is a variation on the never-ending question of "Why Poetry?" with which I constantly struggle as a writer. On the one hand, it sometimes feels good enough simply to write poetry for poetry's sake, creating a beautiful artifice. But other times, poetry feels terribly over-matched by a world that never ceases to amaze me with its brutality and evil. There obviously isn't a single correct answer, which is one reason why I ended this poem with a question. But it is also a personal challenge to strike the right balance between beauty and social relevancy when writing.

Editor's Note:  And with this thought-provoking bit of ars poetica, we must bid farewell to Yoni as a Frequent Contributor to Songs of Eretz.  I hope you enjoyed his Poet of the Week feature this week.

"Dogrun" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Poet of the Week

Dogrun

Yoni Hammer-Kossoy

By summer's end

"True Happiness" Ink & Watercolor on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

the grassy shoal

wedged between apartments

is blistered brown

and harbors no more

than a puff of air

when the sun claws above

nearby pines.

Owners hunch alone

over cellphones

or complain in listless groups

about the unbroken heat

while their dogs 

careen around like philosophers

sputtering about happiness 

and world peace.

A toy poodle turns in place

and a husky stands panting;

both seem to be watching

a stately red terrier

lying on her side

almost straining to hear

the ground's answer

to their long-argued question.

Poet’s Notes:  I walk past a dog run almost every day and I'm never sure if it's more interesting to watch the people or their dogs. I suppose I'm naturally inclined, as a fellow Homo sapiens, to check out what's happening with the owners. But the dogs almost always seem to be enjoying themselves more, which makes a certain amount of sense, given that they're in a dogrun and not a nightclub.

I remember the day I started writing this poem had been an especially grim one for humans, combining endless summer heat with endless horrors in the news. But somehow, watching the dogs go at it, I had the feeling that Emily Dickinson's "Hope" was not only a thing with feathers, but could also be a furry ball with four legs and a tail.

Editor’s Note:  Emily Dickinson’s “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” may be found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314.

Lana the Poetry Dog’s Note:  Of course the dogs are more interesting, and Yoni is a good human to point out this obvious yet oft’ o’erlooked fact.  Woof. 

"Blood Oranges" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Poet of the Week

Blood Oranges

It's almost as easy

     to start a poem as it is

to peel an orange

any knife or finger

can poke a hole

                                                to get started

but peeling 

        an orange

gets harder

after that first stab

under its skin.

It only gets harder

to coax a spiral

from its skin

like a loose thread 

         pulled out

stitch by stitch

like a loose thread pulled

from an old sweater

word after word

until there's no sweater left

just fruit. 

--Yoni Hammer-Kossoy

Poet’s Notes:  This poem started out as a pantoum, and depending on how you look at it, either "fell apart", or "became something new" along the way. I suppose there are some purists out there who would claim a poem must possess one thing or another (form! rhyme! or freedom! to name a few), to which I answer a resounding maybe yes or maybe no. Or said differently, the only thing I think a poem must have is an initial stab of wonder, after which any and all forms of artistry can and should be used to share that feeling with others.

Art Editor's Note:  As with most concrete poems we publish, I decided not to include any accompanying illustration, allowing the poem to perform that function.

"Unpacking List" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Poet of the Week

Unpacking List

Yoni Hammer-Kossoy

Three days later 

our suitcase arrives

without fanfare or apology,

and as I dump

a spent mess of clothes

into the washer

it feels like I’m swiping

through photos

on someone else’s phone.

Is this all that’s left

of a week away?

A wine-stained t-shirt

from when we watched

the sun set 

in astonished hush?

Four sodden socks

after a mad dash

across cobblestones?

A fistful of red rocks

clatter from my bathing suit

and I suddenly remember 

the naked sea

so cold, so salty.

Poet’s Notes:  As the inimitable George Carlin put it, "Sometimes you leave your house to go on vacation. And you gotta take some of your stuff with you." Indeed, packing for and planning vacation often seems to take more time and effort than the actual trip itself. And what about when you come back from vacation? It's truly unsettling how fast I usually find myself sliding back into the normal day-to-day routine of things. This poem is a reflection on the dynamic of going away and coming back, and the surprises that sometimes make unpacking more than just a physical act.

Editor’s Note:  I will add that in the act of unpacking, sometimes I wonder if I have truly returned home or if I just left my true home... 

"Cloudy with Errors and Pacing" by Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Poet of the Week

Editor's Note:  Toward the end of every year, Songs of Eretz must bid farewell to Frequent Contributors who have decided to move on to other projects.  Sadly, this year we must say goodbye to Yoni Hammer-Kossoy.

In his all too brief year with us, Yoni put the "Eretz" in Songs of Eretz quite literally.  His crisp style of poetry with its Middle Eastern flair helped set Songs of Eretz apart from other venues.  He will be dearly missed.

As a final tribute to this up-and-coming poet, Songs of Eretz will feature Yoni as our Poet of the Week for the week of November 26, 2018.  We invite you to enjoy one of Yoni’s poems every weekday this week, beginning today with "Cloudy with Errors and Pacing".

Cloudy with Errors and Pacing

Yoni Hammer-Kossoy

Dear reader,
in a far-off where or when,
bundled and burdened
by day to day troubles,
trudging knee deep
through frigid drifts --

I'll never know why or how
you're reading this,
if you're one to savor
every pixelated word,
or like a gobsmacked castaway
at an all night buffet
barely rest between one verse
and the next.

I give you this seed of sunlight
harvested at an early hour
bright with birdsong

and purple clouds drifting in the west
like a rumpled bedspread.

It was the longest day of the year
and the heat set in
with the finality of a second opinion,
while everywhere trees
were busy adding another ring
under their skin.

I'll never know why or how
but someday this seed in your hands
might grow into anything,
or stay nothing at all.

Poet’s Notes:  The title of this poem is borrowed from something Michael Ondaatje said recently https://lithub.com/michael-ondaatjes-golden-man-booker-speech-is-really-great/ when accepting the "Golden Booker" award: "I've not read The English Patient since it came out in 1992 and I suspect, and know more than anyone, that it remains cloudy with errors and pacing." Beyond being struck by the wonderful humility of his statement, it prompted me to explore the idea of how writing is a delayed conversation between writer and reader. An act of catch and release of a moment back into the world, and whatever happens after that is anyone's guess.

Special Double Feature: “Opening the Blinds” & “Domestic Ditty” by Sierra July, Poet of the Week

Opening the Blinds

Sierra July

Skin so cold, a warm touch burns

Eyes shaded, jaded, begging please open the blinds

Heart cowering like a bird in that small rib cage

But with kind words, love, trust builds

Eyes glow as light finds its way in; the heart flies free

A smile of thanks reflects the joy inside

And is mirrored on the parent's proud face

Poet's Notes:  Thinking of how there are many works about families but few of them about found families, I wrote this piece. For all of the children who went through hard times and reawakened because of the love of their adoptive home, and the adoptive parents that grew and changed just being in their strong child's presence, I thought this would be perfect at a time meant for giving thanks.

Editor’s Note:  It is amazing what Sierra packed into such a short poem!  The poetic conceit, enhanced by her thoughtful notes, is well executed.  The intra-line rhyme and assonance in line two are stunning.  Her play on hot and cold is again nicely done.  With its theme of being thankful for family, this one makes a perfect poem for the day after Thanksgiving.

* * * * * *

Domestic Ditty

Sierra July

 

Bed warmer, turned alarm, rumbling before stalking away

Twittering joining the morning chorus of brethren outside

Wagging tail, tapping a joyful beat on the cold kitchen tile

Huffs of pants and whimpers begging for breakfast scraps

Cooing from the trip-initiator curling around your legs

Chirping from the now resting winged serenader

Exiting the door, turn, smile, lock up and await work's end

When returning home will mean an evening reprise

Poet's Notes:  Since I was on the subject of family, this one is an ode to pets but specifically cats, dogs, and birds, since I've owned and loved all three. Rather than just writing about the obvious joys of these animals, I focused on something that some might not think of and may even take for granted, save the bird owners--the gift of a lively, melodious home.

Editor’s Note:  This one dovetails nicely with Sierra’s Thanksgiving Day poem and with "Opening the Blinds", making it perfect for a double feature and final farewell.  

I hope you enjoyed this final tribute by Songs of Eretz to Charter Frequent Contributor Sierra July.  It was so nice getting to know her over the past several years, and I for one will continue to follow her poetry career with great interest. 

"Around the Table" by Sierra July, Poet of the Week

Around the Table

Sierra July

Traced hands with paper feathers attached

Guests from close by dropping in,

Calls from those afar

Laughter travels and fills each room

Starting with the family table

Where all have gathered

Feeling warmth from holding hands in grace

From the smoke rising off the food

And from their contented hearts

Even when their plates have emptied soon,

Their stomachs a good while later

Memories of family still live on

Poet's Notes:  This one was written with Thanksgiving in mind, though my goal was not to make just another seasonal piece but a poem that could conjure the warmth of familiar bonds and friendship no matter what time of year. The dinner could be on any night and the gathering on any day. But I did also include an image that could paint a sense of Thanksgiving nostalgia--the first line, thinking of how teachers made kids trace their hands or use paper plates to make the body of a turkey and then cut paper feathers to attach to it.

Editor’s Note:  Ah, the traced hand turkey!  Universal symbol of the elementary school aged child’s Thanksgiving experience.  Sierra has certainly captured the spirit of Thanksgiving with this and the many other nostalgic elements of her poem.  From the editors and staff of Songs of Eretz, we wish you all a happy, warm, and comforting holiday. 

"Who-Knows-Where" by Sierra July, Poet of the Week

Who-Knows-Where

Sierra July

White breath clouds, synchronized puffs in air

Streetlights click on, joining starlight

Mittens no good, their hands find each other

Crunch of their feet in snow

Masks their raging heartbeats

Blush powdering both faces from cold? Thrill?

Neither can guess by the shade of red

Café ahead, should they stop, warm their blood?

Knowing smiles, of one mind, both carry on

Continuing their walk who-knows-where

Content with heating their hearts instead

Poet's Notes:  Since one of my first poems was a sentimental romantic piece, I decided to make this one on a similar note. I thought of two people walking along a cold city street, and the rest of the details came later. What are they doing? Where are they heading, and why? Questions like these made this poem come together. Just as I thought of questions to get started, I decided to make a few a part of the storytelling.

Editor’s Note:  I love the way Sierra combines hot and cold in this winter romance.  

"Love Blooms, Air Thins" by Sierra July, Poet of the Week

Love Blooms, Air Thins

Sierra July

Thorns stab her heart from a smile

And she knows, feels

The first flowers of love creep inside

Stifling her heart though,

For a while, they were pretty things

Betrayal sapped her leaves dry,

Withered, yellowed

Like the complexion her tired eyes

Caught in the mirror

Those leaves lie in the bathroom sink

With apologies and promises

More blooms grew, bit, escaping

Up, out her sore throat

Each day, she wondered if today was when

Her heart's garden would leave her

Asphyxiated

Poet's Notes: A fictional disease, Hanahaki, inspired this one. Made popular in Eastern writing and art, the disease entails someone having flowers bloom in his or her heart, often from one-sided love, and then coughing up the petals until the victim has the flowers removed by surgery and loses their feelings, dies, or in the best case scenario, has their feelings returned and naturally recovers. There have been many modifications to this general premise, and this poem is merely my take on it.

Editor’s Note:  Ah, the oldest cliché in the book, the rose / Eros metaphor for love.  I usually reject poems that use this worn out poetic conceit, but Sierra’s is the exception--a refreshing, new, post-post-post modern twist on the old theme.

"Figment" by Sierra July, Poet of the Week

Editor's Note:  Toward the end of every year, Songs of Eretz must bid farewell to Frequent Contributors who have decided to move on to other projects.  Sadly, this year we must say goodbye to Sierra July, a charter member of the Frequent Contributor group who has been with us since January 1, 2016.  Sierra's eclectic mix of science fiction, fantasy, and mainstream elements, and her easy-to-follow yet profoundly philosophical narrative style of poetry will be dearly missed.

As a final tribute to this up-and-coming poet, Songs of Eretz will feature Sierra as our Poet of the Week for the week of November 19, 2018.  We invite you to enjoy one of Sierra's poems every weekday this week, beginning today with "Figment."

Figment

Sierra July

Twilight fell on two bodies

Swaying in a garden swing

Head slumped on shoulder,

Eyes closed but twitching

Trapped at rest and wake

Behind those eyelids

Red and orange light filtered through

Warmth from life or memory

Hands clasped together

But when the dream ceased

As dawn crept forward

There was no one there

Poet's Notes:  Thinking about how the light plays tricks, I wrote this with the image of a mirage in mind. I wanted not only to paint a mirage but create one, so the last line leaves the poem a bit open-ended. You can imagine one person is waking from a dream and finding themselves alone, or that the two are both a figment of the imagination.  

Editor’s Further Note:  For me, this is poem became an interesting poetic exploration of hypnagogia, a frequently overlooked state of consciousness.

"Rain of Frogs" by Ross Balcom

Rain of Frogs

Ross Balcom

"Rain of Frogs" Ink on Paper
By J. Artemus Gordon

you came into my life

unexpected 

as a rain of frogs

a Fortean love 

anomalous and phenomenal

rain of frogs

rain of frogs

your one became many:

white bellies flashing

wet bodies falling

on my highway

smashed by cars

sliding in your guts

      (let me eat your sweet guts

      let me roll in them)

rain of frogs

rain of frogs

amphibian eyes rolling

that's the look of love

      (give me love *ribbit, ribbit*

      give me love)

rain of frogs

rain of frogs

pounding my head

rocking my brain

sweet is the rain

sweet is the rain

keep falling forever

froggies keep falling

don't ever stop

Poet's Notes:  Among the strange phenomena investigated by American writer and researcher Charles Fort (1874-1932) were falls of animals from the sky, including masses of frogs. A frog freak, I have in this poem analogized the thrill of love to a rain of frogs. The adjective "Fortean" (not a word of my invention) refers to paranormal phenomena, of which Fort wrote with great style, wit, and originality.

Editor’s Note:  Enjoy a biography of Charles Fort here http://www.forteana.org/html/fortbiog.html.  Also, apparently raining frogs is an actual thing https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uN5elpiDsk&frags=pl%2Cwn.

"A Mocking Bird’s Significance" by Gene Hodge

A Mocking Bird’s Significance

Gene Hodge

He lights on the top rail

of the McDonald’s playground fence.

I eat my hotcake platter

and sip on coffee . . .

I stare out at him,

while he stares in

at me.

Holding a swirling worm in his beak,

he, with the swiftness of his species,

flies to the top of a large yellow sign—

“Eat One Of Our Juicy Sandwiches.”

An elderly man— wearing white moccasins,

whose head has grown out

through the top of his hair—

sits at the booth in front of me, 

absorbed by a hungry fly 

eating biscuit crumbs.

Though a “far-out" morning,

and a little weird . . .

who would question the sanity

of a poet whose thoughts . . . rise like coffee vapor,

then settle on the significance

of a mocking bird’s swirling breakfast?

Poets Notes:  I composed this poem one of those mornings when something was cooking—boiling-up from deep within me.  I gave it life and delivered it in poetry.

Editor's Note:  I allowed the poet the poetic license to use "Mocking Bird" instead of "Mockingbird" for the title.  After all, the bird described seems to be "mocking" the restaurant's sandwiches--hence, it is a bird that mocks.

"sinkhole" by Alessio Zanelli

sinkhole

●

just

to allow a

glimpse of how

the swallow works and

let the unnamed dread grow

too big to conquer a thread of bleak

light hard squeeze of night creeps through

cracks into the secret void where soul appendages

contort and struggle to plug its own bores from which fast 

trickles keep on leaking out and falling to the bottom meanwhile 

running dark to feed the obscurity creating an abyss so deep as to become 

unclimbable by anything incapable of setting fire to itself or giving birth to a star

 --Alessio Zanelli

Poet’s Notes:  Provided that I can enjoy some good inspiration (i.e., it must come spontaneously), every now and then I happen (and like) to write experimental or concrete poetry. This one is both and makes use of the idea of a sinkhole (a natural hole or depression in the ground, also known as “cenote” or “doline”, which can go very deep) as a metaphor for how sometimes our spirit can get so gloomy and make us sink into the darkest blues, if not into pure despair. 

To be honest, when I started writing it I had this clear vision of a sinkhole, both physical and figurative, but I really didn’t know where such an image would take me. I didn’t use any punctuation on purpose--in fact, the poem consists of one long sentence; I didn’t use any capital letters either, not even for the title, for it looked more consistent thus; I found the pyramidal shape appropriate to the idea of an abyss enlarging below Earth’s surface or inside the soul; I added the lone special character of the first line (obtainable by alt+0149), symbolizing the aperture of the sinkhole, only when the text was finished and visually shaped. 

The poem could sound a bit dismal, but it’s not definitely hopeless, despite what the last line says. However difficult it may seem in certain situations, still metaphorically speaking, everybody can light up the darkest despondency by getting rid of its cause (“setting fire to itself”) or starting all over again (“giving birth to a star”). And, sometimes, sinking further down a while is something necessary to be able to climb up all the way back. As Deep Purple puts it in their song “Don’t Make Me Happy”, I’ll take my comfort from this hole I’m sinking in.

Editor's Note:  A recording of Deep Purple performing "Don't Make Me Happy" may be enjoyed here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p75c0RhKi4w&frags=pl%2Cwn.

"The Longing Tree" by Aparna Sanyal

The Longing Tree

Aparna Sanyal 

Trees can be life. 

But 

on your horns 

impaled, 

shedding leaves like tears 

sing sonnets of 

my careworn love. 

They carry the weight from 

the going-light

of my dimming eyes. 

Speckled along this peeling bark, 

I write 

my memories, 

so that perhaps, when you look, 

you will see me

there too. 

And when you leave this 

steepled awning of 

emerald, rust and umber, 

the stark ravens of longing that 

reside in these branches 

peck at my being, carry away 

torn bits of my soul, 

to bring 

to your side. 

Poet’s Notes:  This poem was written in response to a picture prompt—a traditional Indian Warli painting of a tree with a deer standing at its base. The leaves from the tree were shedding onto the deer’s antlers, and on the tree’s branches; birds sat looking down at the scene, a complete ecosystem in a single frame, soul-stirring in its simplicity. 

Editor's Note:  I heard Daphne, post-metamorphosis, speaking to Apollo here https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/myths/apollo-and-daphne/.