GAS Featured Poet: Miriam Sagan

 

Miriam Sagan is the author of over thirty books of poetry, fiction, and memoir. She is a two-time winner of the New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards as well as a recipient of the City of Santa Fe Mayor's Award for Excellence in the Arts and a New Mexico Literary Arts Gratitude Award. She has been a writer in residence in four national parks, Yaddo, MacDowell, Gullkistan in Iceland, Kura Studio in Japan, and a dozen more remote and interesting places. She works with text and sculptural installation as part of the mother/daughter creative team Maternal Mitochondria (with Isabel Winson-Sagan) in venues ranging from RV parks to galleries. She founded and directed the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College until her retirement.

Hypochondria

Beneath my ribs 

inside the bone cage 

a terrarium of topsoil 

oak root and branches 

imitate networks, veins, arteries.

Inside me 

serrated fingered leaves fall 

but not till spring 

acorns ping 

forests house truffles, caterpillars,

gall wasps 

devour the humous 

that once was me.

Birds nest, fledgelings 

fly out of my mouth 

in augury.

Whatever I’ve called myself

doesn’t matter 

any more.

Containment

The small cell 

with one window and 

one long boring tattered 

paperback, 

but no chocolate or coffee, 

is like a well-apportioned grave: 

bed, sink, toilet 

although only the living 

need these.

So what’s the point?

I’ve set the scene 

but without action, 

plot points, or denouement.

In this way 

it is not only like a coffin

but freedom. 

Su Zi's Review of "This is My Body" by Jonathan Fletcher

The chapbook has a two-hundred-year history, and a search overview describes the chapbook as originally a type of street literature. Certainly today, there’s a potential for multiplicity, for revealing voices that might be too Other for the increasingly oppressive monotone of the more corporate presses. For anyone dedicated to the literary arts, a support of the chapbook is more than crucial.

Some chapbooks become into existence through the auspices of an institution, and the book is intended to be laudatory, the author presented as a debutante to literary society. In the case of Northwestern University Press, an established institution—that of an expensive school—presenting a chapbook seems to be more of an aristocrat endeavor than a funded effort at street literature. Since chapbooks tend to be the annoyance of booksellers --and thus often require special order-- a well-heeled sponsorship of a chapbook does present a middle ground between world bank publishing and that of the threadbare independent press. Thus, we might approach these works with our determination at inclusion still held dear.

If finding new voices is the reader’s goal, the chapbook often contains poems that were individually published, often by periodicals with their own position on the publishing spectrum. A discerning reader will not let the voice of status overshadow that of the work itself, although authors are pressured into the Sisyphusian task of complying with a market that rarely considers the work for its own merit. What can be equally annoying to a serious reader is a superficial introduction to the work itself, as if the work were a magic trick instead of an artistic endeavor with the potential for layers of nuance. In the introduction for Jonathan Fletcher’s This Is My Body (Northwestern University Press, 2025), the work’s introduction, with two authors, seems to consider the first poem only, a childhood recollection. Nonetheless, this first poem, “Jonathan”, contained the striking stanza

As we bathed together,

 compared bodies—mine brown 

and foreskinned, yours light

 and circumcised—we wondered 

whose was better, cleaner. 

And while the introduction’s authors find the work “nakedly intense and overwhelming at times”, they appear to leave it to the reader to discern the vowel shifts from “brown/foreskinned” to “light/circumcised” and the triple alliteration of “we wondered whose” that speaks to a consideration of technique, in addition to the intimate action portraited.

Each poem in this collection is a portrait of an intimate moment, many of which might create binaries of experience among readers—those for whom the poems resonant, and those for whom the poems frighten. Fletcher’s language seems conversational and smooth, balancing topics often barely whispered. In “Medusa”,

       The way you attach 

electrodes to my scalp,

 let them drape behind

 my head, I must 

look like a Gorgon. 

Though punished

by no goddess, I feel

cursed. Though not quite

a Hippocrates, you diagnose,

 treat. Though no oracle,

you foresee recovery: (15)

The resonance is the now, often-fraught medical experience—a cultural hotspot, too ubiquitous now to be a taboo topic. Even the specificity of electrodes is balanced by the classical allusion. Once again, Fletcher uses a subtle vowel shift to shift the point of view. A look at the assonance shift from the a vowel of “Way/attach/scalp/drape” gives us that physical moment of touching, which shifts to the more distant view posited by the allusion to a monster and the use of “cursed/punished”.  That intimate perception, those personal reckonings that too often happen because of medical settings, are still also too often the taboo topics that surround the stigmas of disability.

Fletcher’s portraits of intimate moments do give the work the overall feel of memoir, but the work doesn’t follow that as a sequence. In the closing poem “Boys”, the scene is of a slumber party and action figures, with sound effects and off-stage directions (“time for bed”),  a scene culturally seen as utter normalcy. The poem concludes with

[...]Our heads atop

 your X-Men pillows, our bodies beneath 

your matching comforter, we’d fall asleep,

 warm and peaceful, in one another’s arms. (26)

the rhyme here of “beneath/asleep” does not conclude the poem, but leads up to it, as if musically introducing the concluding assonant that sonically seems a sigh.

Whilst those who bean count status might just become aware of Fletcher’s sublime offerings through the ivory influence of the press, for those to whom the work itself matters would be advised to add Fletcher to their personal collections. His social media profile, and this chapbook’s acknowledgements, show him to be a diligent producer of work. This Is My Body is a strong start for a writer worth watching.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

                     

Check out her author page on Amazon.

 

GAS Featured Poet: Arvilla Fee

 

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio, teaches English for Clark State College, and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous national and international journals. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling and never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). Arvilla’s favorite quote in the whole word is: "It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” ~ Henry David Thoreau. To learn more, visit her website .

The Wishing Star

 

it streaked across the sky one night,

just above the red glow of her cigarette,

she made a wish; she made a thousand

                                                                        wishes

that her trailer wouldn’t tilt to the left,

that her double shifts at the diner

would bring in enough tips to pay rent,

that her mother wouldn’t drink herself

                                                                        to death

she didn’t really believe in stars

or Santa Clause or the tooth fairy,

just wasn’t raised on foolishness,

always looking behind bushes and

                                                                        bruises

but there was something about that star,

the way it left a lingering dust tail,

that made her think maybe, just this once,

something in the cosmic universe might

                                                                        listen

My Dog Will Get Me

 

when I slowly rise from the bed,

each joint creaking

like a scarcely-oiled tin man;

he’ll lift his silken head

from his place on the duvet,

knowing it will take me

a few more minutes to walk

toward the kitchen cupboards

to make my tea and his breakfast;

when I stay in my tattered nighty

until midday, his kind brown eyes

will not judge, not even with my hair

yet uncombed, my teeth unbrushed;

we’ll putter around the garden,

looking for ripe tomatoes,

the only veggie I can still pick

without throwing my back out of kilter;

we’ll doze in the recliner after lunch

probably in the middle of a game show;

when I awake, I’ll search for my glasses,

and he’ll wait patiently, ears perked

for my shout of glee when I find them

atop my head; he’ll understand when

I’m out of dog biscuits and milk

and wag his tail when I promise

he can tag along to the grocer tomorrow;

should I grow melancholy, he’ll place

his paw on my arm and sigh in solidarity.

 

GAS Featured Poet: Mukut Borpujari

Mukut Borpujari is a graduate in English Literature and hold a Masters in Computer Application (MCA) from G.G. University, Bilashpur, CG. Based in Guwahati, Assam, INDIA, he has a plethora of poems published in top journals including The Canyon Voices Literary Magazine of the Arizona State University. He was also longlisted in this year's Erbacce-prize for poetry 2024. An active member of the Greenpeace Movement, he has a deep-rooted conviction about nature and the natural world. Apart from being an avid reader, his other hobbies include Computers & internet, and Driving. 

Facebook, Instagram, X

The Rebel 

With a flagrant disregard for existing social norms, 

something’s brewing in the anvil of thought. 

Wild rhododendrons and bougainvilleas running 

along the wall, 

as we denounce the barriers of casteism and marginalization. 

No to the elite. 

No to centuries of limiting beliefs and traditions, 

their insistence—the shackles of our own minds. 

At midnight, 

in the waning light of the stars in the sky, 

the silhouette of our necks interlocked like flamingos. 

I miss you. I never even met you: 

let us take a deep dive into our imaginations, 

until we find the right imagery and metaphors 

we can discuss—dissect; 

not for ego’s sake, but for love. 

GAS Featured Poet: Vidya Hariharan

 Vidya Hariharan is a manic reader and traveller. In her spare time, she wrestles with crossword puzzles. Some of her work can be found on Poem Hunter, Setu, Poetry Superhighway, Muse India’s Your Space, Glomag, Café Dissensus, Borderless, Poems India, Pan Haiku Review, Contemporary Haiku Online and Under the Basho. Her poems Beauty and Open Heart Surgery have been selected as Editor’s Pick for July and September 2024 respectively.  She also won the Editor’s Choice Award for her haiku from Under the Basho in 2024.

Breakdown

It hits you in the middle of the road,

Mid-step, in broad daylight, cars

Whizzing by, honking angrily.

You force your reluctant feet 

To move out of the way,

With blurry eyes you watch 

As pedestrians push past you.

Nothing sinks in, in your current state.

Someone warned you this would happen,

The tears will flow, the grief will come,

When you least expect it, striking deadly

Like a punch in the gut, debilitating.

 

Can I sit here and weep by the streetlamp,

Rest my weighty head on the lap of night

With my back against the smooth metal

And let my pent-up tears run and wet my neck?

Oh, I forgot to bring a handkerchief this morning.

Didn’t foresee a breakdown in the evening.

 

His face was turned to the wall, away from me

When he breathed his last. did he reject me?

Why did we argue? I am an impatient bitch.

Unaware of my moans and splutters I weep 

Into my cupped hands, with pale fingers 

Pressing my eyes, my forehead pleated with grief.

Remembrance

Cooking scents fill the air,

Father is at it again,

Loaded counters gleam, 

The kitchen is off limits, 

But grandkids sneak out

With icing on their chin,

Moms gather in the garden

Share their tales of old,

Dads sort the Christmas tree

Sharing in the camaraderie,

While Mother smiles on

From her picture on the mantel.

GAS Featured Poet: Ma Yongbo

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964,Ph.D,representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry,and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry.He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 7 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.

Line by line retranslation of Ashbery 

Waiting makes time democratic, you just said so

Then a white horse ran by, repeatedly running back and forth

Like a messenger passing straight through various rooms from the front door

Out through the back door, I waited like this for twenty-seven years.

Initially it was the honey of distortion brewed in the rooms distorted in your convex mirror

And that gesture was both an invitation and a refusal

Unfolding for me a moment that fluctuated incessantly

A crack that exists, the circulation of water in the ocean

A ring formed by a self-devouring serpent in motion 

In between is the void filled with power

This mirror of others reflects oneself at the same time

Allows all the images of leaves stacked in the depths of the mirror to remain

Like a demon in a bottle floating on an infinitely transparent surface

Longing for the light of your face, symbolic stones

They only stop temporarily in order to focus

Forming some kind of meaning, then they are quickly swept away

By the randomness of a hasty retrospective flood

This is more like a dream that a person struggles with but still cannot wake from

Maybe he doesn't really want to wake up

Finding himself in an uninhabited street

In the silence just as the last bus leaves

In the steam, the taillights flicker dimly

This is a climate without scenery, it is something nameless

Moving, appearing and disappearing, erasing some, and then adding some from the void

Adding something, originally the messenger and the message were one

How to receive the infinite return of the Möbius strip

What you have experienced, you know nothing about

And poetry is an understanding of this pain, and also a forgetting

Whether the reward is a reed flute, or separation of body and head

It will all enter a distilled space

Like bees living in the nest of the sun

And these, whether they are enough for me

Pretending that nothing happened, continue to sing

This may be the barbarian plundering in Rome

Defined safe zone, several temples scattered on hills

Let us continue with determination

Tell others the symbolism, and show the mystery to ourselves