Thursday, May 2, 2019

Three Poems By Sudeep Adhikari

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from Kathmandu, Nepal.   His poetry has recently appeared in the venues like Boned, The Magnolia Review and Mojave River Review. His 5th book of poetry "anti-philosophical deep dreams" was released by Pski's Porch Publishing, New-York, USA in March, 2019.

a worm-hole took me home

on my way to the wood,
i once saw rivers,
with crazy turbulence
on the concentric lives
of a fallen tree-

and the micro-trajectories
of little atoms
on the wall
of an eroded rock-face-

while a spider by the side
was silently
weaving a space-time rupture

to take me to the world,
that has somehow gone
into a comfortable oblivion-

amidst the countless
rat-races, i am supposed to come first.

 the sacred dragonflies

the green of the mountains
encircling the holiness
of my mother, 
are now covered
in milky white drapes;

the temples are quiet,
silently watching
over the sufferings,

still you can hear
the gods talking, and
the buzz of dragonflies
flying like helicopters

over the little
patches of her distant remains. 


we somehow look
into your distant past
when you were there
all alone-

making a rupture
in timelessness-

drinking beams of light
and the liquid fields
of cosmic architecture
to be
the unseen lonely one.

is not that strange ?
the way a being bathed
in super-seas of light,

somehow appears
to be the darkest one,
a beautiful yin and yang-

painted on the canvass
of an inconceivable breadth. 

Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Paper Fingers Zine on the Last Day of Poetry Month

We created a PDF file for the Paper Fingers Zine we created at the Paper Fingers event at 317 Collective in March. You can delve into the whole project at It contains the work Rockford area writers David Pedersen, Micky Torpedo, Richard Vargas, Tim Stotz, Travis Legge, Dylan Garcia, Jesus Abraham Correa VII, Erica Toldeo, Sky Garcia, Thomas L. Vaultonburg, Christopher Simms, Sharon Nesbit-Davis, Dannie Mathews, and many others. The art department/ilustrators include Joe Tallman, Sarah Reed McNamara, Jenny Mathews, Lucian Kuranz, Taylor Hopkins, Jesus Abraham Correa VII, Asa E Burnley, Jack Mathews, FoodStamp Davis, with photography by James Hogan, Jenny Mathews, and Ryan Burritt.

It's really rewarding when a project is received well. We sold out the print run of Paper Fingers at Art Scene. And had one helluva time with our cohorts at 317 Art Collective to boot. Thank you so much to everyone who collaborated with us to make this happen. We'll definitely be doing another zine soon.

Here's the link to download the PDF - Paper Fingers PDF

Here's the donate button if you want to throw something our way.  It's appreciated.

Poster by Joe Tallman

Monday, April 15, 2019

"The Streak," By Thomas L. Vaultonburg

I never had any real issue with Tiger Woods' personal life. None of that was any of my business. The only thing I resented was that they were portraying him as this great family man the whole time. Really selling it. Using that lie to sell consumer goods. And even after it was exposed as a lie people went on defending it until the evidence was so massive that no one could defend it anymore.  

It's taken until late Monday night for me really to put my finger on what I find distasteful about worshipping the "greatest comeback ever" from a man who is only 43, and caused almost all of the setbacks he had to "comeback" from in the first place. And it's this: every one of us probably has parents and grandparents who worked their entire lives, most of the time in pain and exhaustion, just so that we could have a chance to do the same, maybe even a little better. But we don't tend to show any damn respect for that, or heap the glory on  people who work harder and longer than these athletes ever will, and for no adulation, no fortune, no fame. 

The Streak is a poem I wrote for my book Flesh Wounds  It's an homage to all the members of my family who worked their asses off so I could eventually do what I love for a living. 

Lou Gehrig

The Streak 

   The announcer fawns 
   Over the Iron Man: 
  ` “Number 63 has played 
   In 120 straight 
   Football games, 
   An amazing feat 
   Of endurance.” 
   I do the math: 
   Sixteen Sundays a year, 
   Three hours a pop 
   For nearly eight years, 
   360 total hours, 
   Or maybe five or six 
   Weeks of my granddaddy’s 
   Life in the field and 
   The mill afterhours, 
   Covering the rent 
   2,750 straight months, 
   Playing hurt through three 
   Heart attacks, seven children 
   And five disbanded 
   Pro football leagues. 
   Now let’s talk about 
   A fucking streak.
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Watching Notre Dame Cathedral Burn On Television

I went to a community college where I was very fortunate to study with a group of professors who had all started there in 1965 when it opened. They included the actor Aidan Quinn's father, Michael, who was just one helluva good professor. I studied Shakespeare, poetry, short stories, and classics with him. He had been forced to commit entire Shakespeare plays to memory as a student at Trinity. He knew these pieces inside out. All of this for $15 dollars a credit hour. Best of all, he was very generous with his time, and often entertained my dumb-ass as I asked him endless questions about what we had just talked about in class. 

Notre Dame Cathedral is burning this afternoon. Unlike many people, I have no conflict about my feelings about this. Nor will I apologize for them. 

Many of the English professors at that time had studied with the Jesuits at schools like Loyola. It was an education in education to see how they approached texts by authors whose backgrounds and ideologies clearly were in juxtaposition to their own. In general I never remember religion being injected into any of the lectures, nor do I feel I was ever punished for expressing clearly divergent viewpoints. 

One of the poems I remember vividly from X.J. Kennedy's poetry textbook came back strong and clear today as I watched the spire of the cathedral collapse. 

The Cathedral Is
John Ashbery
Slated for demolition.

I remember taking an almost absurd amount of satisfaction in choosing that as one of the poems I would explicate on one of our essay exams, and vented on my feelings for organized religion, specifically the Inquisition and Crusades. 

I got an A. We never discussed it in his office. 

Today I wrote a choppy poem about my initial feelings as I watched on the news. 

Watching Notre Dame Burn On Television

Eternal adversary of my intellect.
Stripper of my flesh.
Boiler of my bones.
Kneecapper of my dreams.

It is my turn now to be inquisitive.
To wonder if it was your god
Who was blinded to your cruelty,
Or if your god blinded you with His cruelty,
Or both. Either way,

May my mercy and compassion stretch
Further than the spines
Of my ancestors
On your rack of ignorance.
     -Thomas L. Vaultonburg

A monostich is a poem that consists of only one line 

Sunday, April 14, 2019

Outsider Poetry: Twelve Poems About Donald J. trump

Outsider Poetry: Twelve Poems About Donald J. trump: These are the 12 Donald trump poems I wrote for the Paper Fingers event at 317 Art Collective on March 30, 2019. The event introduced the p...

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Poems By David Wyman

Ice Shelves                                        

Ice shelves set to break apart in high definition.
The universe as two-dimensional hologram.

Light glinting frantically off and on
the wrinkled surface of a pond, the names

of things appearing in subtitles while  
visiting the text in a dream of an ideal language.

Its words are English, the language is not.
What makes it ideal is its perfect clarity,

how it reveals to us exactly why we make
our consumer choices in a world ablaze

with freedoms, where the definition
of talent is being true to yourself, where legends

live on among accolades and superlatives
and continue to inspire and show us what’s great…

So instead of noise, constellations of sound,
uncanny pronunciations, like dreaming in color.

A Day With Fine Angles

That voice on the radio upstairs hints  
at a way to make sense of lines
that have the eerie, seductive
ring of the inevitable. Hype
washes it away, the signal, a kind of

tangent, circular in its flight
across these gilded skies  
in a time when fact will strike the reader
as superfluous. But how
can you tell right now which one,
standing out there on the ledge,
wants to be saved and which one
wants to fly? The sacralizing mind’s
on fire all the time
like hot glass blown full of air—

and yet again we’re forced to trust
the description as being accurate
and we’re unlikely to know
where it is not. But the idea that some of our words
are missing or might’ve been erased

disturbs us, keeps us up all night
and away from the snowier summits
of consciousness that we’ve somehow
exchanged for this game, where
our trajectories almost almost intersect.

Correlative Shadow Tone
On the eve of the Mayan Apocalypse, 12/21/12

On the day before the day it all ends
there’s no waiting. Snow
swirls sideways in parentheses with us  
(here) immersed in the wonder
as if a new word was about to be spoken.

The word, its horizon continually
and unevenly moving away, intimate
wreckage, characters
in hieratic white space fracturing—
this is what we have, many lives

but most are unlived
or lived by someone else. Negative
beliefs can, by default, cast what you don’t like.
Unless the glass is opaque,
the glint only a figment, then nothing.

Say, we breathed this soot
and formed ourselves from it, say
in a universe of no delete ducks and mimes.
Part of a line coheres behind us.
Tonight, there’s no escaping the frame.

Confiscate The Number 5

They make it speak differently, ad hoc.
Jangling new coins in their mouths like that

sounds like hear or there. Like a bleep.
Seven across: cracked the famous Houdini code.

They made it speak with little to no punctuation.
Yes, and picked all the best nouns in public

but not hollyhocks, lavender or wheat.
This, says confiscate the number 5. You

say it and the saying makes it true
such as the word vector meaning

like a tic, or how there can be many even
when the word looks singular, which is

also felt when it is heard. The semantic
range of “Forget your best adventures”

makes no sense. All quotations are approximate.
Like marks on a screen too blurry to be read—

Ten years is long enough to wait. (Tic or tick?)
In the mirror, the candle is white and remains lit.

Talking Points: The Eies Of All People

Yes, they got it all teed up—
glass shattering, the eies…
Up passed the layers of city architecture
reflected in a glass tower.

Thus mere light is pleasing to the mind.
A shiny city upon a hill shining
like it does in movies or on the news,
stronger than oceans, built

soe that the riche and mighty
should not eate upp the poore…
The word stock of urban life,
its shrill heat and crowd noise,

a single thronging unified
in one augmented reality
like the radiant nostalgia of the olde ballpark.
In the verbatim transcript, it says

nor the poore and dispised rise
upp against and shake off theire yoake.
A tall, proud city humming commerce…
Today the eyes of all people are truly—

David Wyman's first poetry collection Proletariat Sunrise was published by Kelsay Books in 2017. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in BlazeVOX, Dissident Voice, Clockwise Cat, Picaroon Poetry, Down In The Dirt, The Voices Project, Squawk Back, Tuck Magazine, The Aurorean, A Certain Slant, The Wallace Stevens Journal, Old Crow Review, Spout and Green Hills Literary Lantern among other publications. He's a fan of Karl Marx, jazz guitar and the visionary poetry of William Blake. He lives in Massachusetts where he teaches American Literature and Composition at Mount Wachusett Community College.