Poet and Writer
When the Revolution Comes
I will be right behind you,
stones in hand, though they’re heavy
and you, Papa, are a giant,
tall enough for one to stop
at the back of your head.
by Jacob Scheier
As appeared in More to Keep us Warm, published by ECW Press.
Persuasion
by guest, Dawna Rae Hicks
Come back to my arms,
do not leave me just yet;
I am not done with you.
Leave the dishes in the sink.
There is a backdrop to everything –
a sheet of stars behind the noonday sky.
You must come and wonder at it with me,
just for a little while.
The coffee will make itself, given a chance.
Let us listen like the elderly do,
to the quiet room, to the breath of god
escaping our lips. A state of bliss
where we only own what happens.
Let the tinkerers rest
from hammering away industriously
at nothing
Dawna Rae Hicks is a poet, broker and single mother living in Toronto. After a long hiatus from writing she has returned to her first love, a bit more humble. She has been published in such books as Short Fuse (Rattapallax Press), 100 Poets Against The War (Salt) and Future Welcome (a Moosehead Anthology), and the e-book Poems for Madrid, which can be found through www.nthposition.com.
The Soldier
by guest poet David Livingstone Clink
If he could speak he’d ask for some food, some water, and you’d invite him in. Taking off his boots and putting his feet up, he’d sip lemonade with you on the back porch. He’d talk about where he grew up, which sports he played, and the women he knew. He’d say this place is very much like the place he grew up in, but the sky seemed bigger in his hometown. You’d ask if he wants to stay for the BBQ, and he’d surprise you by saying yes. He’d eat his fill, wash it down with a few beers. Before it gets dark he’d say he’d lost his map. Can you tell me where the enemy is? he would ask, and you’d point beyond the trees, and he’d thank you for your hospitality, and he’d be off, walking in the direction of those trees. But no, the faceless soldier cannot speak, you don’t strike up a conversation, you don’t invite him in. He passes your house and you get a sense of relief as you watch him become a distant memory, become the landscape, the soldier as much a part of the world as that distant mountain that draws everything in, even the clouds.
From his latest collection, Monster.
monk
by guest, Domenico Capilongo
and they ask him. stop him on his way to the piano mumbling to himself. I didn’t believe it till I saw it. the mumbling. “thelonius,” they say, “mr. monk you often wear different hats when you play.” and you can see it. his eyes acknowledging the camera like it was some alien. see the way he sort of fidgets? he’d rather be at the piano. his body turned off to the side too big for the bench feet moving uncomfortable in his own skin. “do you think the hats have an effect on the music?” you can hear the pause between notes. his brain composing an off-beat melody minutes before twelve. he mumbles something and then you can almost hear him say, “what the fuck, man? it’s just a fucking hat. listen to me play. listen to the damn music. let it fill you up.” he shrugs his shoulders like he’s trying to let his jacket fall. says something like, “I don’t know, maybe.” his breath trailing, contemplating the nuance of every note of the question. watch it. listen. see for yourself.
As published in hold the note (Quattro Books)
Domenico Capilongo lives in Toronto with his family. He teaches high school alternative education and practices karate. He has had work published in several literary magazines including Geist, and Dreamcatcher. He was short-listed for the gritLIT Poetry Contest 2009. His first book of poetry, I thought elvis was Italian was published in 2008 with Wolsak and Wynn and was short-listed for the 2010 Bressani Literary Award. His new book of jazz-inspired poetry, hold the note, was recently published with Quattro Books. ( learn more at: http://sites.google.com/site/domcapilongo/)