The old motel
with it’s teal doors to paradise
it’s walls cracked white paint of forever
it’s staircase that nobody ever figures out who comes and goes
the clamor of maidspeak
and I think about groggy bedheaded breakfasts and the sunrise over pool
toast, eggs, orange juice, terrible whir of politics on the lobby television
and I have been here in every city and in every time
I have seen all of these pools.
Come on, we all do this, you probably did it today.
You told yourself you were going to get something done, then you put it off. You had plenty of time to get it done, but hey, what fun is that? I wanted to work out early this morning, didn’t happen. I’ll just do it tonight, right …..
So to all my procrastinating partners, here is a poem for you:
Procrastination
Procrastination is a lot of fun
Why work now, have some fun
Do it later, why do you run?
Keep pushing it off, your time will come
Skip the work, let’s go play
I’d rather talk and visit
Work just gets in the way
my thoughts are mad dogs here.
frustrated, I pace between the hours
snacking on the bitter, stale tart
of half-forgotten dreams.
I am a wake for the living.
woefully mourning the Morning’s birth:
the dawn of an endless cycle
of moving, eating, talking,
of being fucked and fucking over,
of loving, hating, aging
while all the while pushing forward
towards something… someone…
anything to augment
my refracted sense of self, of import…
of purpose…
Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Edgar Allan Poe
Revisiting a poem
that I clung to in youth, I feel compelled to share with with everyone because it still relates to me. When I was a young child seeking out inspiration, I sought out the classics, the ancient mythologies, and the timeless words of writers before me. As the curiosity I had within me grew, the sense that was suddenly ballooning up inside me could not be held back as I wanted nothing more than to “swallow the world whole” so to speak. I could hardly holdback any longer diving into the books that surrounded the endless space of walls in my father’s personal library where he not only regarded knowledge as a virtuous and satisfying obsession, but one that he encouraged both my brother and I to take advantage of. Without being able to properly describe to anyone at that time that I was seeking out something I could not yet understand at such an early age, every spore in my body was pulled to a copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s Complete Collection. It may have been the weathered and worn appearance of the book, or perhaps the smell of the pages that held the smell of time, and within its essence called out to me, as I knew that within its almost faded cover was a treasure to be found, and one that I can admit to have gained a richness no words can truly describe. Seems only experience and discovery can properly explain what I came upon in that initial moment of our introduction.
In my recent moments of pondering I have been compelled to think things through from a philosophical perspective and in doing so have begun to reread some of the early influences from Plato, and Aristotle. Through this new influence I was able to write some poetry not intended to summarize what my reading have been about, but more as a personal response as to how I come to examine what I am seeing in my journey through life. I hope that you all enjoy what I have come to gather in dissecting my views in response to some of the questions that come to us all and have been pondered upon in current times, and even in ancient ones.
People wonder why, they’ve got their assumptions to something they’ll never quite understand
I’m on the defensive, since I’m under assault fighting my mind and the world abroad
If I were faster I would choose flight and fly away from this grand display of flaying buffoonery
Our Bohemia staff has worked hard and is super proud of our new Fall issue. We have put together an art and literary magazine that shows our creativity and included content that we like and was fun for us to assemble. We put our hearts and souls into every issue and enjoy making them. We are writers, poets, photographers, and artists from all types of backgrounds, but are all excited to work together to bring the world our work! We create to share. We hope that there’s at least one thing in it that you really enjoy, and if so then we did our job. We still need all the support we can get by way of passing on links to the issue to your friends and family. If you know someone who you think might like our BoHo journal– we would love the rec. We are still up to the challenge of keeping this publication alive and thriving! Thank you <3
Follow this link to view an electronic copy of the Fall issue:
Check out www.bohemia-journal.com in order to find out how you can submit work to the magazine and/or order a subscription. Our winter issue themes are “Angels & Demons” and “Twisted Love Stories.”
Read. Enjoy. Have a blessed day! BoHo forever.
________
Bohemia is a monthly journal that features artists, poets, writers, photographers. The magazine’s content reflects the best talent in our region, Central Texas. In addition, we follow our interests: which includes reporting on the arts all over the world. We are always looking for submissions.
Bohemia’s online readership is broad. The monthly issues receive hundreds of “views” and our blog receives hundreds of hits per day (and growing everyday!). You can view and download issues at issuu.com/verymandy for free. Print copies are also available to purchase and we have over 300 subscribers.
Go to our site, www.bohemia-journal.com, to find out more.
Bohemia is a blog. Subscribe to our blog, bohojo.wordpress.com.
Bohemia is a facebook feed, “like” us at www.facebook.com/bohemiajournal.
Follow us on twitter too– www.twitter.com/bohemiajournal.
Our local team calls itself — BoHo Waco! We are BoHo Waco! We love Waco!
Name the animals, and the shapes
Categorize the anxieties
Color within the lines themselves only
Make wedding cakes of mud and twigs
Watch the seed unfurl to Heaven
Count every other ant
Wiggle your fingers to attract fireflies
Nestle a rock in your hands, and tell it your name
Skip to the sounds the stars are making
Laugh at the fortress of your ego
Cut and paste a new perspective
Sit and wave as the seasons pass
I spend my days thinking about the modern kiss, the wind bringing sweetness on the wind, (honey breezes) and how you smelled before perfume, flesh and heat and salt, I spend my days thinking about dreams, riddles, I am the alpha wave and the omega wave, I am Holden Caulfield and Ponyboy Curtis, and Stephen Dedalus, I am I am I am, don’t drag me kicking and screaming from my mind, I am my daydreams, I am my introspection, I spend my days on more dreams, currency/bankroll = rubbish and raw, bring me something you didn’t see with your eyes, bring me something you didn’t hear, bring me something that came naturally, I spend my days dreaming of perfect little glances, shining little stars, and warm hearts, I AM THE SPIRIT OF WHAT IF, I AM THE SPRYTE OF WHAT IF, I AM THE SPEAR OF WHAT IF, I spend my days thinking of why you so pretty, I spend my days thinking off steam, I spend my days so that you can call me nobody if you want.
Back in July, I posted about my life with The New Yorker – absolutely my favorite magazine. This time, I would like to write about my second favorite publication: The Atlantic, originally founded as The Atlantic Monthly in 1857. That’s right, for 155 years it has been a premiere journal of art, culture, politics, and news. Now, this is NOT another story about hoarding. I do read it every month, then I pass my copy on to a friend, or I recycle the issue.
The light is slanted in the fall.
The leaves blow down the street.
There was no answer to my call.
Dust motes hover in the hall
where many friends would meet.
The light is slanted in the fall.
It’s hard to believe that it’s only a month until the submissions deadline for the October issue! We’re looking for poems, short stories, and visual art and photography to bring our issue to life. The theme for October is fairy tales, ghost stories, and childhood, so ruminate on stories that used to tickle your imagination for inspiration.
This poem was written by Isis Lee for our November issue. She was asked to write a poem that exuded a fairy tale feel and theme. Isis is nominated for a Bohemia Award in poetry.
Isis models for Bohemia from time to time.
The Woods Alive Beyond the Darkness
By Isis Lee
In the forest past the dark
Beyond the lives that men do seek.
Lives the hum and buzz of life
On past all the shade of trees,
There light is held to rest the shadows
Of the secrets nightfall dreams,
Home
We are twin moons that dance in orbit
Elliptical in nature, our paths never cross
By the naked eye the distance seems minute
Something one could pinch their fingers closed on
But we are rarely close enough to touch.
As Baylor University’s Beall Poetry Festival begins on Wednesday of this week, Bohemia took some time to catch up with A.E. Stallings, one of the poets headlining the festival.
Poetry contributes to creative diversity, by questioning anew our use of words and things, our modes of perception and understanding of the world. Poetry is also the place where the profound link between cultural diversity and linguistic diversity is forged. The language of poetry, with its sounds, metaphors and grammar, stands as a barrier against the deterioration of the world’s languages and cultures. By exploring the great potential of language, poetic creativity enriches intercultural dialogue, the guarantor of peace. — UNESCO
March 21 is World Poetry Day, a time designated by the U.N. to examine the role poetry plays in intercultural dialogue. As someone who has studied and attempted to write poetry in a foreign language and has studied minority and international literature, I can attest to the power of words in breaking down social and cultural barriers. Poetry can transport us into experiences and stories otherwise inaccessible to the American or Western psyche.
Pinterest has been hailed as a playground for the visual– for photography, art, and fashion. However, I’d like to claim a corner of it for literature. If you’re surfing the ‘net late at night, meander your way through several of these boards, or consider starting one of your own:
Source: contentinacottage.blogspot.com via Scholastic on Pinterest
Source: list.co.uk via Mandy on Pinterest
Whether you’re pinning to your own page or simply looking in from the outside, I encourage you to take a brief look at an ancient art through a modern lens. You never know what you could find, like collection of typography moustaches.
Source: flickr.com via Mandy on Pinterest
My very first blog with Bohemia examined the literature and language of the desert in the midst of a parching drought. As a college student, I came to love this kind of barren beauty. Our creative writing classes would take getaways to a tiny arts community in Southern Colorado called Crestone– a desert mountain community strewn with ashrams where the personalities were as tall as the Sangre de Cristo peaks. I also enjoyed trips with friends to Utah, backpacking away from cell phone service and the humdrum of daily routine. How I wish I could recapture that outlet for creative growth.
To quote Angela from Bones, if you stand still long enough, the desert will speak to you. Here is a poem from those dusty days.
Here
Where owl-men smoke out their wrongs
On ash-strewn evening porches
And flax-haired women pour their aches
Through last night’s broken, dreg-filled bottles
Out into the earth.
And bleed, bleed, deep, drip, drip, deep drops
Into the tongue-wet sunset paint.
Where corrugated, rusted metal
Splices splintered wood,
And children’s, even children’s hair
Grows grey and white and coarse
Here—here—all I feel is
Purge, purge, purge.
Pay never- for life is free.
But I am dark- like a night strucken tree.
Sleep- escape- this dark and cold hell…
For your dreams, are positively swell.
Sleep in silence, my good fellow
I am yellow, I am yellow.
You are green, and green is better.
My words are black- letter by letter.
Do not believe these nonexistent lines.
For they were constructed through closed blinds.
Start thinking of your mobile device as one giant blinking cursor.
As a writer, my first medium of choice has always been pen and paper, especially for brainstorming. I love an especially inky pen and some kind of textured, thick paper that makes a faint scratching sound when I write. My next medium of choice is my MacBook Pro, wide and backlit and beautiful.
Unfortunately, my computer cord bit the dust about a week ago, and it will be at least another week before I can make it down to the Apple store in Austin to replace it. So, my blog post for today takes on organic form as I must find an alternative to pen and paper to deliver my media to the world wide web. Brace yourselves for typos and weird formatting– this blog post is all about, and all developed from, the iPhone.
I wanted to take a step back and look at apps and tools on smartphones that enable writers to do what they do best. Despite the growing tablet market, there is something about being able to hold your writing device in the palm of your hand that is alluring. The more portable, the better; it’s like the proverbial notepad by the side of a bed, on standby to record ideas at 3 a.m. or on the subway or on a picnic.
Phase 1: Inspiration
They say that to write well, you must read, read, read. Poetry magazine lovers, here’s no better media for this than the Poetry Foundation app. This app holds an archive of every poem its literary magazine Poetry has published since 1912, including T.S. Eliot’”s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”. Find poems by and bios of every major poet and some unknown ones, and try out the Foundation’s topical poetry spinner if you aren’t sure what you’re looking for. Aside from typical e-reader apps such as iBooks, one beautiful app for only $0.99 is 3D Classic Literature, a beautiful collection of classics in digital elegance.
Phase 2: Brainstorming
Shake for a writing prompt? Who knows what crazy word mashups could ensue (but let’s save that for another post). Check out the Writing Prompts app for some quirky ideas. If poetry or songwriting is your capacity, try RhymeNow Free Edition when you’re stuck on a line. The Dictionary.com app delivers the same practical reference as its namesake website, also with a complete thesaurus and no internet connection required.
Phase 3: Writing and Editing
Alas, the iPhone keyboard and screen are certainly not ideal for long-form writing. However, a good app and a little patience can go a long way. If it’s a novel or short story you’re writing, A Novel Idea is an interesting free app to test out. With it, you can map out your setting, theme, characters, and plot, scene by scene. iTalk Recorder can help the spoken word poet or traditional writer on a roadtrip record audio notes. Evernote is a great (also free) resource for writing, storing, and editing pieces of text. You can also attach an audio file, image, and tag a location with your writing, plus sync the iPhone account with your online account and Facebook and Twitter. If you are willing to fork out $4.99 for an app, Poet’s Pad makes a smooth one-stop-shop writing/brainstorming/editing software for a small device. Including writing prompts, form assistance, stanza reordering, and word association suggestions by emotion, this device is a fresh alternative to block text editing, allowing you to take it image by image, line
by
line.
No matter how you swing it, though, writing on a smartphone is slow and prone to glittery distractions such as texts, games, social media. This post, for instance, has taken me over a week to write. Help!
Phase 4: Publishing
Depending on your outlet of choice, bloggers are most likely to post via WordPress or Tumblr, both of which have functional albeit limited smartphone apps. My publishing app of the day will be WordPress. One unique multimedia story publisher is Blurb, an easy-to-use self-publishing software. Although designed for print (they make beautiful, reasonably-priced photo books including several I designed with our wedding pics), they have a micro-blog capacity online that can later be converted to a print capacity.
Final words of wisdom: Even the daintiest of hands and the wisest of writers can play a clumsy fool by late-night phonelight.
The Celebrity Poet is an inside joke, an oxymoron. Ask a person on the street to name a living poet and they might be able to name Billy Collins or Mary Oliver. A more well-read individual might proffer Seamus Heaney, Rita Dove, Philip Levine, or Kay Ryan. But even a student of literature like myself can find herself quietly embarrassed to find that another Poet Laureate or major award winner has been named – whose name I have never heard.
On Thursday, the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to Tomas Tranströmer, a Swedish poet whom I haven’t read. Some critics have decried the selection as Eurocentric over such alternatives as the Syrian poet Adonis, Japanese Haruki Marukami, or dark horse Bob Dylan. I’m not out to analyze the artistic or political biases of the Nobel committee—I’m sure it’s no picnic choosing between the world’s greatest contemporary literary minds.
In a writing career, rewards are few and far between.
I’m grateful to the for the chance most years to familiarize myself most years with a “new” writer, and for thrusting literature into the limelight for even a brief few days. Tranströmer is perhaps Scandanavia’s most famous poet, whose work is frequently translated into English by his American friend and poet Robert Bly. His work is known for a spiritual quality, bringing into words the moments and sentiments that most often go unspoken.
You can probably count in the single digits the number of poets whose book sales alone make enough to support them. The majority of us are bivocational copywriters, journalists, editors, critics, and professors, relying on fellowships and workshops and late nights to sustain from poem to poem.
As for Tranströmer, I hope the prize money and consequent book sales will enable him to produce even greater poems in the last years of his life, or to support and promote struggling artists who write, not for the love of fame or money, but for the love of the art.
“Alone” by Tomas Tranströmer
I
One evening in February I came near to dying here.
The car skidded sideways on the ice, out
on the wrong side of the road. The approaching cars –
their lights – closed in.My name, my girls, my job
broke free and were left silently behind
further and further away. I was anonymous
like a boy in a playground surrounded by enemies.The approaching traffic had huge lights.
They shone on me while I pulled at the wheel
in a transparent terror that floated like egg white.
The seconds grew – there was space in them –
they grew as big as hospital buildings.You could almost pause
and breathe out for a while
before being crushed.Then something caught: a helping grain of sand
or a wonderful gust of wind. The car broke free
and scuttled smartly right over the road.
A post shot up and cracked – a sharp clang – it
flew away in the darkness.Then – stillness. I sat back in my seat-belt
and saw someone coming through the whirling snow
to see what had become of me.II
I have been walking for a long time
on the frozen Östergötland fields.
I have not seen a single person.In other parts of the world
there are people who are born, live and die
in a perpetual crowd.To be always visible – to live
in a swarm of eyes –
a special expression must develop.
Face coated with clay.The murmuring rises and falls
while they divide up among themselves
the sky, the shadows, the sand grains.I must be alone
ten minutes in the morning
and ten minutes in the evening.
– Without a programme.Everyone is queuing at everyone’s door.
Many.
One.
Pestilent freeloaders: An L.A. party, minor celebrities,
Wasted debutants, hopeful screenwriters and the ilk, drug dealers
& I’m not amazed by you
Backtrack, I fell in love for whatever reason
Pasty skin and reddish blemishes
Black rimmed eyes and nude matte finishes
Everyone’s ugly when you really see them
I fell in love for whatever reason
He tracked his t-shirt’s mass production
With Pac-man stamps & permanent vigilance
Everything old was always new again
I fell in love for whatever reason
He played it cool, I played it stupid
I looked young; he looked androgynous
It’s no more than what you make of it
I fell in love for whatever reason
A daily dosage, more than recommended
That’s your gun? You can’t be serious
It only works if you’re uninhibited
I fell in love for whatever reason
An artist, a freak, a scenster, a kid again
I did it once, I thought it was pretty good
Again again again, again again
An interlude so we can dance
Anything’s cool, if you say its cool
Anything’s cool, if you say its cool
Anything’s cool, if you say its cool
Shhhhhhhhh, don’t tell secrets
The $ickly mix spin white horse parties
The freckled debs who smile are sorry
Envy me you vile entity, in vie she and I’m your enemy
I fell in love. Scratch.
Back room closets
Black denim pockets
Two sheets lost, the mood feeds toxins
I fell in love
I fell in love
I fell and its time to get free
Can’t see myself with a boy in skinny jeans
The ride’s been nice but, say,
You don’t amaze me.
This is my first writing as a result from a critical thinking exercise given by Binary..we were sitting outside in the back..Can you draw a visual in your mind?
Common Grounds,
rustic,
peaceful,
comfortable,
technicolor dreamland of painted visuals,
Subtle whispers of a Summer afternoon sigh,
filling the atmosphere with the definition of Calm
Bee Poem (20 Little Poetry Projects)
This is a dripping honeycomb of a night
and everyone notices but the bees. They’re too hung over
and will probably sleep till morning and dream
the sound of one phone ringing in the darkness;
dream the scent of heather and exhaust.
Callie told me yesterday that the bees had stolen all her journals;
she said they’d come in the night dripping bathwater, the bees had come
from the Arctic Circle dressed as ptarmigans
wearing white coats and frowns, and surrounded her
the way honey envelops the tongue, only they tasted of pennies,
they tasted the way a heart attack sounds,
Callie said.
The bees are wide awake and listening for sirens
now, so hush. If I should die before I wake
it will be too soon. If I should croak
don’t tell the bees. I only remembered how to live again
because I heard them singing to their babies.
I know it won’t be long now. The flies have conquered the flypaper.
They’re as victorious as a white flag
and twice as poisonous. The scarlet hand of justice
is crushing the bees and Callie says
tomorrow will be the last tomorrow, and that’s why tonight
is so sweet. Forget the nectar–
swallow the bees; their tantric wingbeats will open your throat
wider and wider until the night swallows you. What do we taste like, ma soeur?
I’ll tear up the moon to find out. I’ll squeeze it until it hums me a lullaby
and lick honey from the skin of the night.
