GAS Featured Poet and Musician: Neil Flory

     Neil Flory is the author of mudtrombones knotted in the spill (Arteidolia Press, 2023).  Nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize by swifts & slows, Flory’s poetry has also appeared in various other journals such as Superpresent, Sleet, shufPoetry, Down in the Dirt, and Fleas on the Dog.  Flory is also a composer of experimental music and a pianist whose enthusiasm for improvisation in live recital settings knows no bounds.  He lives among the wooded hills and lakeshores of Western New York State with his wife, published poet and fiction writer Elaine Flory, and their three hyperactive cats.

  

Light

 

Paradox/miracle of afternoon light through bare branches

 

Hope/death of Hope, like trying to cross the raging river on 

a thin cracking log barely stretched from bank to crumbling 

bank

 

Here we are in the midst of it, but we can’t harmonize 

an intimation

 

My single shadow interwoven with the countless forest-shadows,

another constant from the ancients (I notice them every day despite

our cheap technology, ever erroneously exalted, popular myths of its 

distinctions flashing vivid high definition across screens the 

size of continents)

 

And each found himself in his own subterranean tunnel.

Dim lamps every fifteen feet or so, significant gaps in their 

coverage. Leading to who knows where.  The belly of the 

mountain stretches on, our path until discovering a fabled shaft 

of light instantly the spark shift as even the thought brings it all 

blazing back, the leafless giants, twining myriads of shadow-dances, 

cool spring air on the back of the neck and blessed steep resistance 

of the hill again immersed, in this midst.

 

And finally what does it matter if yes, it soars too far above 

our understanding’s reach? Perhaps that was never our true 

harmony in this at all, stagnant mirage shining instead to 

futile long distraction in divergent heat.  

 

No, we won’t turn.

Step again now, in all trust; there won’t be another crack.

All you need now is to focus forward and balance, in fullest experience

we can harness of all resounding fact of every woven shadow rendering

in vivid sharp relief the miracle (yes, paradox unforgotten) of afternoon 

light the size/scope/life of warmth of this whole open 

vibrant world

 

Neil Flory · apparitions of deep memory (recorded live)

GAS Featured Poet: Jason Ryberg

Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry,

six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,

notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be

(loosely) construed as a novel, and countless

love letters, never sent. He is currently an artist-in-

residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted

P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an

editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection

of poems is “Fence Post Blues (River Dog Press, 2023).” 

He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster

named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe,

and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the

Gasconade River, where there are also many strange

and wonderful woodland critters. 

 

 

Van Gogh Stars

 

 

Out here, the sky is

alive and swirling with Van

     Gogh stars and the wind

     is an orchestra of tree

     frogs, cicadas, and crickets.

 

 

A Small Rabble of Sweat Bees (Sleight Redux)

 

 

It’s just a bird singing through an open window, and a

woman closing the door to a dream of a lone tree on a

hill with just a single leaf on it (the tree, I mean), and

opening another one to a bowl of peaches, apples,

nectarines and clusters of grapes, just sitting in the sun,

on a wooden table (like one of those old paintings of

some rich lord or lady’s spread, back in the day, but maybe

also featuring, there, a few fish and some game hens,

recently caught that very morning, no doubt) crawling

with what looks to be a small rabble of sweat bees.

The fruit, I mean.

 

 

 

  

Review of Su Zi's DANKE by Jonathan Fletcher

Danke

Su Zi

Ethel Zine and Micro Press

2024

49 pgs.

$10

“Darkest moon cycle: / ritual of dawn and dusk, / wet wind bends dry grass. . .” (Su Zi 3). And so begins Su Zi’s Danke (2024), a chapbook-length poem in quatrains.  Though small in dimensions, relatively short in word count, Danke is anything but lean in subtext, diction, meaning, or description.  Within the compact pages, each rich in detail, crows summon mornings, moons melt, and a horse “allows a long embrace” (ibid. 18).  Though full of such unique and skillful instances of anthropomorphism, Danke does much more than lend nonhuman characters human attributes; it invites the reader into an environment too often (and equally sadly) foreign to a modern reader. 

 

As if aware of the cultural divide between such a reader and the pastoral, the speaker addresses Red Woman, presumably one of a handful of equine characters, at various points in the chapbook.  In such intimate moments, however, the reader gets the sense that the speaker is gesturing toward them as much as the horse, and maybe even the author herself. In such moments, too, the speaker nearly (and implicitly) bemoans the tragic and irrevocable separation of humanity from its primal habitat while also (and equally fervently) celebrating, even ennobling, the nonhuman characters and their georgic environment.  Su Zi’s choice of capitalization of the common names of the various animals (e.g. Mourning Dove, Cardinal, and Warbler) only lends further support for such an interpretation.

In Danke, Su Zi wisely eschews ornate language for plainer (though not plain) diction.  Though not exactly minimalist in nature, Su Zi’s descriptions are simple (though not simplistic) in syntactical construction.  Take, for example, the following quatrain: “never forgetting / hungry years, palomino now learns gentleness. / following difficult steps / those of a beloved ghost” (ibid. 7).  Or, to take another example: “grass is burnt with frost / yet my red sister searches / for sleeping green roots / disinterested in grain / it seems she dreams of sweetness” (ibid. 31). Or, yet another example: “these simple moments: / cranes come to peck corn and dance, / sun sweetens damp air / so Sister Mare cleans all seeds, strolls soft-eyed in golden light” (ibid. 35).  Though arguably quiet and reflective, Su Zi’s minimal language emotionally charges such otherwise interior moments.  Though neither metered nor rhymed, Danke operates with an informal rhythm.  It operates with alliteration and assonance (“awful arctic air” being an example of the former,” “flit of the left oat” an example of the latter) (ibid. 23, 21).  It operates with anaphora: “this moment’s wet wind / this moment’s intimacy / this forever in the now” (ibid. 19).  Though never overwhelmed by such conventional poetic devices, Danke allows for just enough and, in doing, so not only informs and enlightens the reader but transforms them.

Although Su Zi’s chapbook-length poem is indeed a quick read, it is one that stays with the reader long after.  It is one that begs for a reread. Several, in fact. Don’t pass up this literary revelation. Pick up Su Zi’s chapbook today, and let it settle within you. Let it rumble.  Let it rise.  You won’t be disappointed.

Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Columbia University School of the Arts.  His work has been featured in numerous literary journals and magazines, and he has won or placed in various literary contests.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, he won Northwestern University Press’s Drinking Gourd Chapbook Poetry Prize contest in 2023, for which he will have his debut chapbook, This is My Body, published in 2025.  Currently, he serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow and lives in San Antonio, Texas.

GAS Featured Poet: Mahdi Meshkatee

 

Mahdi Meshkatee is a UK-born, Iranian poet, author, and artist. His translation of the children’s novel Witch Wars by Sibéal Pounder has been published by Golazin Publication Company. His work has been published by a number of magazines, including October Hill Magazine, Nude Bruce Review, and Inscape Magazine. His writings are a continuity of attempts at decoding himself. Instagram: @Mahdimeshkatee  Linkedin: Mahdi Meshkatee

I Missed a Key

 

The stains on the page are your tears.

(you haven’t shed them yet)

 

Last night in the great theater hall

The crowd gave me a huge standing ovation

An encomium I deserved after years of struggle

To be able to express myself. They cheered me on as I approached

The grand black piano at the center of stage, 

spotlight on me without being afraid

To lose for the second time in my life, the first the time I committed

Suicide but it went wrong, and I stayed alive.

 

I began with a piece from Schubert, Romantic

Challenging and shattering the ways of the world.

Then I moved on to Beethoven, some were intoxicated enough

To dance seated, and then stand up to elevate their movements

Rising and falling inaccurately on notes high and low.

I registered the moment into my brain, imagined myself dancing along

Hands up, feet moving on the ground as I was taught

When I was only eighteen and my sister brought me a drink

And from there it only took two to make us jump to the dance floor

Bodies expressing themselves after years of being told

To be careful not to show much, to keep close, to always consider

The worst outcome possible, and grow concerned, conservative and cautious

So much so that liberty becomes a distant notion and not so palpable

As for you to reach your hand out and grasp it.

 

The music flows, crescendos and diminuendos, ends, dins rise, noise floats over

The people happy with who they were, and happier with who they are, now,

In illusion as to the divisible nature of time

That there exists a time past present future

As if Schubert died like Beethoven died like Mozart died like me

When my piano broke and my key was stuck 

In the lock

And nobody came 

Not even my mom

To open the door

I sat behind

Crying 

For so long

until I was twenty-five

And dad came home

Groceries at hand and

Silently opened the door

To the same increment of time.

Sadness Shouldn’t Be Buried

 

Sadness shouldn’t be buried in a graveyard

 

It shouldn’t be buried next to the cashier 

Who celebrated his 60^th birthday as 

A loving husband and papa.

 

It shouldn’t be buried next to the child

Who was drowned in a frozen lake

‘fore blowing a birthday cake.

 

It shouldn’t be buried next to the writer

Who was soon going to be published

And missed the right train.

 

Sadness should be felt, written about, cried over, lamented, reminisced, performed, lied, feigned, promised, maimed, mocked, longed, wanted, desired, haunted, gone, afloat, 

in the air, 

not in the 

ground,

Where the dead lie.

GAS Featured Poet: Ron Riekki

 

Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize.  Right now, Riekki's listening to Gary Jules' "Mad World."

When I worked in the prison, it reminded me of the military

 

and the military reminded me of being an EMT and when

I was on the ambulance there were all these cities that were

buzzing by—Orlando and Los Angeles and Detroit and

San Francisco—and they all looked the same, the exact

goddamn same with those median strips flashing like

urban Morse Code, and the stroke patient punched me,

 

and in boot camp it was the same, the suicides so quick

and subtle, like blinking, and the prison was the same,

with the inmates stabbing themselves in hopes of getting

put on an ambulance to escape to the hospital, which was

better than the prison, with nurses in nursing uniforms and

football games on waiting room TVs and I remember all

 

the barbed wire of the prisons and all the barbed wire on

our bases, how I had to pick dead rabbits out of them, how

that was my job for weeks, a punishment for existing, and

I remember one day when the rain was light and I sat there

in uniform with a war going on and I was nowhere near it

and I opened my mouth and caught the rain and I loved it.

 

I once got to play the title character in a horror film

 

and I remember a scene where I was dragging this girl

through a swamp and the director would yell ‘cut’ and

I’d bend over to try to help her up and she’d say ‘no’

and lift herself up and we’d walk back to ‘square one,’

the starting point where we’d wait to see if the director

 

wanted us to do it again and he did, so she’d lie down

on the ground and I’d wrap my hand around her fake

hair and she’d grab my wrists so that I wasn’t actually

pulling her by her hair, but she was hanging onto me,

and the ground was wet from a recent rain and it was

 

February in North Carolina, at night, cold, and all she

wore was underwear and I’d drag her again and when

we got to the point where he yelled ‘cut,’ I’d try and

help her up, but again, she’d say ‘no,’ angry that I’d

even try and we’d walk back to square one and do it

 

again, and I wondered why she’d always say ‘no,’ but

later, when I saw the film, and she’d go on to win best

actress and I’d go on to win nothing, I realized that she

needed to hate me in the film and she needed to hate me

the whole time, not turn it off and on like a light switch

 

and when I thought I was dragging her through swamp,

it was really her that was dragging me, that I wasn’t an

actor at that level, that she was so entirely immersed

that she only saw me as monster, and even later, when

we were back in the hotel, she wouldn’t even look at

 

me, and I went to bed and I felt bad, almost like I was

guilty of something.  And maybe I was.  Maybe it was

all of patriarchy in those moments.  Maybe I was just

an amateur.  Maybe I didn’t understand Method.  May-

be she didn’t want to be in a horror film, but wanted

 

to be doing something that would earn her an Oscar.

I don’t know.  I’d lie in bed and realize that the next

day I was going to kill her.  And I didn’t want to kill

her.  I wanted to be the good guy in the film.  Later,

on the final day of filming, I talked to the actor who

 

played the good guy.  He was kind of famous.  Was

on a TV show I didn’t watch very often.  I said some-

thing about how it sucks to be the villain; his eyes lit

up, almost in anger.  He said he had the boring role.

All he did was look good and say clichés.  He said

 

that if I was going to be a killer in a movie, I had

layers upon layers I needed to explore.  He said if

he had my role, he would have went to the nearby

prisons, would have tried to meet the Death Row

guys.  I felt stupid.  He looked like a supermodel.

 

His cheeks were all empty.  His forehead was an

entire career.  I had to kill him at the end.  When

I did it, I sort of enjoyed it.  It was my best scene

in the film.  He looked like nobody had said ‘no’

to him in his entire life.  I got it right on the first

 

take.  The director yelled ‘cut.’  We disappeared

from each other’s lives.  We were brilliant.  We

were young.  We didn’t go on to do great things.

We just disappeared.  Maybe that’s what we all

did so well.  We were incredible at disappearing.

 

 

 I’m afraid of my mother, I’m afraid to lose her

 

but there is nothing you can control

in this life.  She told me one time

about how much she loves sneaking

 

off to the softball field in our home-

town.  Back then, there was only 3

channels on television.  Back then,

 

there was so little to do.  The soft-

ball games would be packed.  All

these residents from all over town

 

would come, line the fence.  It was

glorious.  You felt as if you were

at a Presidential inauguration.  All

 

this air just puzzling with buzzing

and fizzing and guzzling with sheer

hope and rage and skill and lust.

 

I felt like the world would explode

at those times.  But my mother

would go when it was empty,

 

when the games were over, and

it was just quiet and mosquitoes

and stars, and she’d go with her

 

best friend and they’d smoke and

eat oranges and she said nothing

felt better in the world to her than

 

nicotine and oranges, that they

went together like Heaven and

God.  And she told me that and

 

it stuck with me.  And she’s quiet

now and tells me she has trouble

thinking and I get quiet too, afraid

 

I will lose her.  And I will.  Because

the world is beautiful and cruel . . .