GAS Featured Poet: Kathleen Hellen

 

Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, Kathleen Hellen’s work has been nominated multiple times for Best of the Net and the Pushcart. She is the recipient of the James Still Award, the Thomas Merton prize for Poetry of the Sacred, and poetry prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review. Hellen is the author of three full-length poetry collections, including Meet Me at the Bottom, The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, and Umberto’s Night, which won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and two chapbooks.

… a second’s delay

“They make a desert and call it peace.”—Tacitus

  

sunlight bleaches barricade. buildings in the empty 

streets appear like chalk in frame,

a man in Arabic, explaining, 

the voiceover, translating

they shoot at legs … 

the annexed lands creating barriers: failure

of contradictory interpretations. failure 

(with accusations) 

… rat-tat-tat-tat as natural

sound as sorry, the reporter says, slipping 

dangerously close to engagement … failure,

a beggar 

walking away from the table.

 

little capitalists

  

Who grind your dreams like an Arabica, pull up your pants, step outside each morning when the birds are interfering with the playlist, the rumble of the world like a hunger—you, who charge your dreams like an electric 

vehicle. file reports. handle claims. take the temperatures. who stuff your lungs with the exhaust of Chinese markets, avoiding detours flagged by migrants. who point your snout toward truffles e.g 5G eg. sick leave. bend your knee to shadows asking for the rent. the interest on the loan. the next installment. who buy into the ads that subtract you. 

On the bookshelf where the weight has bent my thoughts, the gloomy ghost of Marx looks down, a paperback.

hallucinating the end of the world 

 

the grass is buttoned with explosives

toadstools—in trinities of clover

 

mock portobellos, slippery juliets

in their caps, the glut of mucus 

 

tricksters, pretending to be oysters

champagne sponges swamping poisons 

 

shamans, conjuring in pyramids of mud 

sleeping deities, sprouting each 

a universe, then annihilating.

Su Zi's Essay/Interview with Chester Weber

Chester Weber

There are endeavors which transcend culture, which transcend time, which have centuries of esoteric skills, and which ever lie under threat of extinction.  Sometimes, those practices have been memorialized in museums, visited in a hush; sometimes, those practices have modern play -- a common enough notion when considering theater. That which is lost we rue. Unfortunately, modern culture encourages an agoraphobia that has progressed to a bomb shelter mindset; children meet cartoon creatures and rarely pet a real rabbit. Eventually, some of us sense this loss of felt fur and become seekers: we begin to look to our most ancient lore, our most revered traditions and lost arts. Eventually, there will be a habit we can add to our lives that brings us that ancient comfort, be it birdwatching or the herbal garden; however, we cannot be true to history without eventually remembering the horses.

When one practices a skilled endeavor, there is craft involved, there is history. We walk where our ancestors once did. So too did horses. Our history is built with their strength: our roads and vehicles based upon the width of a hitched pair of horses and is thus the measure of what we build to house those vehicles since. Horses are our heritage; yet, they have been forgotten too often, and what they have to teach us is being lost.

Horses require land, and it is the land itself being taxed and stressed these days—a veritable tumult in atmosphere. With the human sprawl thoughtlessly ejaculating concrete into agricultural lands, those of us in areas of human density might feel only the need for food without care of where it comes from: the core of disposability. Yet it is the land which tells the air here is glowing green life, or here is a smelter of poison. Yet, we still revere that ancient lost green. Our language includes a horse pasture as an homage to natural beauty; our iconography includes horses in a variety of ways—yet some cities resent even a two-mile loop for a leisurely carriage ride welcoming visitors. This amputation of horses from human life parallels the untethering of human concern from the very planet upon which we live.

Perhaps it’s a matter of if we see ourselves as transient, or rooted, mused Chester Weber, in a recent (20 February 2024) interview. Weber was born in the community in which he resides, is raising his children there as well, and says that “My family has been here in the horse business since the roads were dirt. We were raised with the values of stewardship of the land.” He thinks that people feel when “it really is your home” that they are “rooted there, are people who care about the community and land.” Weber himself is a competing equestrian, having had “some luck in the sport of carriage driving”. While the history of carriage driving extends to before that of written language, Weber says that “there’s a lot of tradition in horse sport by its own nature. It became a joy, a hobby, a sport. Horse sport grows in popularity because of these magical creatures, the horses and this energy that is very open and pure”.  

It might seem impossible to remember when the arts and the sciences, the loftiest doings of humanity were all seen as that of craft. It does us well to remember the musical arts, a revered history that involves collaboration. So too does it happen that a dance with a horse becomes its own ballet. “Driving horses is a lot about harmony. The art of it is the ability to connect. I am proud when I train, and I make the most beautiful music. Horses have taught me about life and people. Horses communicate in nonverbal ways; they communicate in energy. Horses are these magical creatures. That ability to create harmony has to do with creating synergy.” It is this energy, this joy of feeling, that draws us to the arts, all and any of them. We seek to remember what we don’t know we have forgotten.

As we stride forward, seeking solace, it is our most ancient wisdoms which resonant with us. We search beyond the sterile for that which frees us. We are required to halt and squarely consider our position. Let us remember and honor more ancient practices, as we can; but we must always honor in the now as the then, our debt to the horse.

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 teaches English and is the managing editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses, including Calliope, North of Oxford, Rat’s Ass Review, Mudlark, and many others. Her poetry books, The Human Side and This is Life, are available on Amazon. Arvilla loves writing, photography and traveling, and she never leaves home without a snack and water (just in case of an apocalypse). For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other. To learn more about her work, you can visit her website: https://soulpoetry7.com/

Neurodivergent Processing

 

people pressing,

elbows and shoulders

jockeying for position;

there are so many,

too many,

and suddenly, I can’t breathe,

the air is hot and humid

with a million moving lips,

and there are lights everywhere,

florescent overhead,

luminescent signs saying open,

saying 50% off sale,

saying buy one get one free,

and the noise rises

up, up, up to the vaulted ceilings,

creating a ringing in my ears,

so many voices and sounds,

chatter, laughter,

the squeak of tennis shoes,

the man at a kiosk

asking if I want to try a sample,

a sample of what, I don’t know;

I can’t look at him,

can’t think, can’t hear;

I’m drowning in a sensory pool,

the water closing in over my head,

the smell of fish and pizza and tacos

nearly making me ill;

I strip off my jacket

as if the release of this one layer

will somehow free my body, my mind,

but it doesn’t—so, I walk outside,

leaving the crescendo behind

and stand, eyes closed, in the muted air.

Room to Breathe

 

I broke free of skyscrapers,

            free of concrete,

            free of freeways,

            free of suits,

office-gray cubicles,

long lines at the coffee shop,

overpriced bagels and lattes;

some called it a mid-life crisis;

I called it coming to my senses,

although I have to admit

the new yellow convertible

smacked of middle-40s.

But I never felt more authentically

me—the first time I saw a sunset

free of obstructions,

free of constraints,

free to blaze like flames

in the wide Nebraska sky.

 

You Know

 

You never really know someone,

they say—but you do know;

you know when he slips out at night,

you hear the squeak of the hinges;

you know he’ll be down on 5^th street

and that there are dealers and users

congregating like brothers and sisters,

lighting up, blowing out, snorting;

you know he’ll come back high;

he’ll hug you and be sloppy-mouthed,

pupils shrunk to pinpoint black;

you know that he’ll deny everything

in the morning—make that noon-ish,

when he finally rises and breathes

unbrushed breath over your shoulder

while you are trying to eat your lunch;

you know, but don’t say anything,

that he will not look for a job today,

nor any day after because that is work,

and he doesn’t have time for that—

you know he simply lives

to keep his hands from shaking

to keep the demons off his back.

 

Meet Me by the River

 

where the bank is muddy

and the water is cool

we’ll go on pretending

our daughter’s in school

 

we’ll imagine her home

at the stroke of four

hungry for dinner

banging the door

 

we’ll talk about boys

we’ll talk about plans

she’ll practice the tuba

she plays in the band

 

I won’t watch your face

if you don’t watch mine

we’ll go on pretending

things are just fine

 

that day didn’t happen

the freak with the gun

didn’t unload a clip

and put a hole in our sun

 

we never got the call

that ended our world

we’ll head back home,

see our little girl

 

meet me by the river

let it drown our tears;

what do we have left

but empty-nest years

Runner

 

legs stretched              long, lanky—

sweat drawing circles under armpits,

a heart beats, beats, beats, beats

in rhythm to trainers slapping pavement.

She’s going somewhere;

happiness lies

just over the next hill,

or is it the one after that?

The hills all look alike,

that row of pines no different

than the last,

but she picks up speed,

forges ahead;

perhaps one day she will outrun

herself.

 

GAS Featured Poet: Ace Boggess

 

"Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble." 

Freudian Slip

 

 

Sometimes while telling a story about my early days 

in prison, without thinking, I say during my first semester—

a Freudian slip like in the joke about the airport guy 

requesting two pickets to Tittsburgh &, 

like in the joke, it’s kind of funny & kind of sad. 

That was where I began my second education. 

My new university an aquarium full of piranhas, 

I was the clumsy, curious cat who fell in, 

somehow made it out with a few wounds 

that turned to scars I lick & lick & can’t erase. 

I learned a lot during my first semester: 

how pungent scents of watermelon hooch & 

pepper spray will cause a man to weep 

into the collar of his undershirt; 

how one must turn his head from the fist 

that hunts his face; not to mention 

how noises of voices, slamming cards, &

radio static won’t go away. 

To sleep, one finds silence within, 

a place of peace in a warzone—

Places of Peace in Warzones the title of a course 

during my first semester, which I say & 

shake my head at the joke so like the other joke 

that ends with the line You’ve ruined my life.

 

 

Anthology

 

 

So curious to see these poets’ early work

so old & out of touch I don’t connect with it.

 

So, Ashbery already wrote his inside jokes

he alone was on the inside of.

 

So, there’s James Tate writing normal lines

with none of the fantasia of his later mind.

 

So much so-so that must have been magnificent

when rhymes, angels, & ancient Greeks called to us.

 

So: Rich, Meredith, Merwin, Valentine—

a lot to take in, marveling at how they grew

 

so far beyond these early perceived greatnesses,

enchanted then by their sex lives &

 

so enthralled with love, loving, beloveds.

I’m glad I’m taking this journey with them

 

so I can say I’ve travelled in a time machine, &

oh the things I’ve seen & soon forgotten.

 

 

 

Impostor Syndrome

 

 

Do marathon winners doubt themselves, 

believe if they were better

they would’ve crossed the line a minute faster,

see failure in success, their trophies

too small, their payouts token?

 

What about farmers? Why are their rows so crooked?

As the sun rises above their plots

like a laughing emoji, surely they dread

how small & inferior their ears of corn must be, 

how green & hard their tomatoes. 

 

Writers & artists can’t be the only ones

who look at their work & say, I’ve never

created anything beautiful,

challenging, magnificent, or worthwhile.

 

Consider the divorce lawyer 

whose briefs present too much sentiment,

the trucker hauling ass a bit too slowly 

through the mountains

as if driving a tractor-trailer made of stone.

 

What of the surgeon cutting into a patient’s brain?

Do we want her disbelieving, 

doubting skills she acquired over years?

 

Here we are with our pens & paints,

unable to excise tumors or harvest a sizeable yield.

 

The sun above our heads keeps laughing, &

we want to lose control of our wheels

doing sixty on I-68 at a six-percent grade.