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Stone Soup Servings Presents: Tom Daley

 

Stone Soup Servings is a regular series for Oddball Magazine that features upcoming performers at Stone Soup Poetry, the long-running spoken word venue in the Boston area that has recently partnered with Oddball Magazine. Stone Soup Poetry meets from 8-10 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery at 106 Prospect Street with an open mike sign-up at 7:30 p.m

On September 2, we welcome back poet, playwright and teacher Tom Daley, who will be performing his Emily Dickinson play Every Broom and Bridget—Emily Dickinson and Her Irish Servants at the Amherst Poetry Festival in Amherst, MA on Sunday, September 21, 2014. A sample from his more recent work follows.

 

After a Stroke, and Infected by the Bacterium, Clostridium Difficile,
My Mother Listens to the Morning News on Public Radio

For the Wichita pox and the measles
For the tuberculosis sanitarium, for the penitentiary
For the southern plains’ slithering ice
For the tuberculars and their casino
For the pneumonia, sleeping out among the text messages
For the exposures in the felled rivers
For the slopes of Styrofoam, for the exaggerated snowfall
For the visionary amputations, for the magi with their gangrene
For the mash of single digits, the Creole Hot Lips
For the burning patriot in front of the gold-domed state house
And the New Year’s without pumpkin soup

Bless the insurgency, the renunciations
The really bad guys versus the recapitulations
The fighters who are paid more than the farmers
The tribe or the sidelines
Bless the bypassing, and the directly
Bless the coin, the worry, the women
Bless the advocates who cause the clock
Bless the spermy development, the opportunities
The decade troops. the sensible combat, the timeline of provide

I inhere and strategize
I mind neither sweetness nor phenomenon
I conflict with the walker women, the wheelchair sameness
I startle in the stubble where they topple
I expand with the dry diapers
I know they cannot know the gentle
I know they cannot blind recoveries
I know they are deciding my hydration
They are a hybrid and a wind chill
They are nearing their trances
That thing that happened to us
Their songs and despondencies
Their malfeasance, their dreadlocks, their tinted hair
Falling in a single braid to their waists

All interview long the cock’s crow
Can single out the twenty-third psalm
The bishop has declared the earthquake the will of God
To build a new land out of beleaguered infections
To starve in the honor of the voodoo chiefs
Of the revolution’s pact with the Devil
The hardest part is the living, the borders stacked like cordwood
The night wails, the dogs who list and keen
Always the staving off solid ground
The blunt of feed and house
The windowsill as projectile, the mattress as move forward.

 

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It’s All One Thing #43: The Son of Green Arrow

 

It all started when I gave my son some old Green Arrow/ Green Lantern comic books to sell
which we figured could be worth hundreds of dollars. They were from the 1970’s and one
even had a cover with Green Arrow and Spiro Agnew, Nixon’s Vice President, on the cover
who had to step down due to corruption charges that somehow caught up to him from Maryland.

Now my son is giving to me a new Green Arrow which turns out to be the Son of Green Arrow
who lives in a world which is I guess the Watergate Legacy which led to the crucifixion of Green Lantern
                                                                                 over 35 years ago.

Now the son of Green Arrow lives in a world where the gangs rule Seattle City and the hero must go about rescuing
all those who would rather die than live in a world of Zombies who only want to eat you and turn you into one of
them. Green Arrow abandoned the city says the gansta villain and he’s not going to get it back from the gangs.

Meanwhile back at the ranch I got into a terrible argument with my Godson about would you believe it
Ukraine and the Malaysian jet shot down there. The far left had developed a theory that a Kiev government
jet fighter shot down the airliner not the E. Ukraine rebels with a BUK (Russian) missile and when I mention
this I get an explosive reaction since my Godson had been following events in Ukraine so closely that he said
he was watching the E. Ukraine web site as the story of the loss of the plane was breaking and saw them
bragging about shooting down a “bird” and then taking the whole thing down as quickly as possible when
it became known that it was a civilian plane that had been blown up.

So my son (who also Facebooks with my Godson’s old girl friend who is journalist working on the Ukraine story
from the point of view of W. Ukrainians who want to be allied with Western Europe) hands me with the Green
Arrow comic book that turns out to be the Son of Green Arrow a down loaded picture of WW II memorial
that shows a squad of Russian soldiers spray painted into superheroes or pop icons led by G.I. Joe and followed by
the Joker with Santa Claus bag open just behind and Superman in the center of the tableau and Captain America too.

Yes, indeedy. where are the superheroes (and villains, too, I guess who make such messes of their evil they always fail)
always living on to save another victim from the suicide culture that says if it wasn’t for all you peacenik appeasers we’d
have won the “war on terror” long ago? But what of those who still remember tens of millions of Russian dead           commemorated
by the assault squad who are the forms under the swatches of bright super hero color. What is that red, white and blue
but an insult to everything they hold dear that they never, ever will forget.

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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Seven Times 11: Good-Bye

 

for Nick, Jocelyn, Nate, Jesse, Matt, and Bill

Time’s envelope opens briefly to let us out
Till we are returned, sealed, and delivered
Like a flowering cherry tree
All at once in saturated colors
Then falling apart
The petals blow away in the wind
To be trampled underfoot

Once we stood together
Our bodies both vibrating
Blood singing this is what it is
To be alive
But not anymore

Tonight, my eyes will close to open again
But yours will remain shut

 

Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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Bamboozled No More! Writer and Fan

 

The following was inspired by a radio interview about John Updike by one of his biographers and a first time caller fan.

His biographers admit their idol was a selfish brute and a whore. He betrayed his wives and ignored his children. But his biographers forgave his faults because he was a great writer. He baited and tortured those close to him for the words and details that filled each page.

Today, during the radio interview, a fan called to thank the writer for saving his life…. The fan explained that many years ago, he planned to kill himself. But he became so mesmerized by the words that filled each page, he abandoned his plan.

The writer smiled, and scribbled some notes on a napkin which would later become a character in some story. The fan smiled, and scribbled some notes on the back of envelope which would later become another paperless chapter in his life. They were made for each other: writer and fan.

 

Janet Cormier is a painter, writes prose and poetry, and performs comedy. JC prefers different and original over pretty. She loves collecting stuff, but cleaning not so much. Janet also talks to strangers… a lot. Her column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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Poem by Keith Gaboury

 

Tourist

My Bostonian legs swoop and stumble
on High Street to the harbor of hearts
I read about in a travel book. A throng

of waterfront locals are so ready to toss me out
with the fish guts as a lost California tourist
on the hunt for Paul Revere’s something

and Ben Franklin’s grave. What?
How can I be an outsider in a city
I call my own? But I am

as I clutch a cheap plastic map
with my Atlantic blue pupils
blinding blinking into the ocean deep.

And now? Now I must head home
just as the Red Sox pitch their final pitch.
Son of a bitch — ticket holders always flood

the Green Line for an hour of torture
along a mile of movement. At last,
I finally find comfort in my Brighton

enclave. Fans cheer into the wicked darkness,
I turn off my bedroom light, and a pair
of Massachusetts eyelids clasps shut.

 

Photography © Allison Goldin
Photography © Allison Goldin

 

Keith Gaboury graduated with an MFA in poetry from Emerson College and currently lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He is currently working on a collection science fiction/fantasy-themed poems.

Allison Goldin is an artist living in Cambridge. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles. She is currently studying Illustration at The School of Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

 

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Three Poems by Catherine B. Krause

 

Tomatoes

Lost and alone as she was,
Anna did company invite that day
and tossed she tomatoes at walls
as up she vacuumed the mess
but drop the floor did on that day
and came out from under her everything
so years did it take for the cleaning
and much did she sew for the reaping.

 

Kicking

A big banana kicked the bath
and watched the Watch unearth the earth
beneath the moss and lists of life,
the crud that crudded up her drain,
so when the weathered earthly scourge
was fully, wholly menacing
she tallied up her soul to find
the understanding laryngitic thought
beneath the babbler.

 

Atomic

Struggling to finish before the bite but here it comes – devouring every taste bud – sweating and
gulping down ice water – biting down hard on bread – swallowing chocolate syrup – the bite doesn’t
stop – head to the toilet and touch – another bite – rub the eyes – another – crying and crying –
crying to the reward pathways of the brain.

 

"Firmament" © Dr. Regina Valluzzi
“Firmament” © Dr. Regina Valluzzi

 

Catherine B. Krause is a programmer born in Indianapolis, Indiana. Her poetry will be appearing this year in Rabbit Ears: TV Poems and has previously appeared in Reckless Writing, Gargoyle and Tipton Poetry Journal. She is the author of two chapbooks: Classifieds and The Leopard Slug.

Dr. Regina Valluzzi explores abstract scientific concepts through complex geometric paintings. Many of the subjects of her abstract drawings and paintings are taken from topics in Physics research. Soft Matter Physics and Biological Physics ideas are often seen, arising from her main area of research for many years.