Adelaide Literary Magazine No.12, April 2018

Revista Adelaide
About the Author:

Blues Busker A poet, creaƟve writer and memoirist, John
Sweeder has had his work published in
The young man the Burningword Literary Journal, ShanƟh, Haiku
cradles his harmonica Journal, River Poets Journal, The Opening Line
with cupped hands Literary 'Zine, and Ancient Paths Online, among
caressing it with his soul, other venues. He has completed his first chap-
coaxing emoƟon book enƟtled, Wonderwheel Dreams & Night-
from its compact form mares: 26 poems to Charm and Alarm.
as poets do with pens.

Tunes jazz from
his mouth harp
through long fingers
with knobby knuckles,
waŌing tabasco tunes
as spicy as
red beans and rice.

From street-side curbs
he plays his
rhymes and rhythms
as we tap toes
on tourist sidewalks,
listening to his free verse
rise to the heavens.

His blues driŌ skyward
like invisible scores
bestowing sharps and flats
that we store
for safekeeping
and later retrieve from
our mind’s music box.

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Adelaide Magazine

SOMETHING BLUE

by Heather Lee Rogers

Nuclear Fission Something Blue

You see our love Cocktails made too biƩer
was just good chemistry for their special day,
those first date cocktails of the bride’s mom cries
raw pheromones and cannot speak,
and evoluƟonary drive, the band
despite your ego plays songs of love
we are not divine in minor keys,
just well-dressed test tubes loud bridesmaids
mixing atoms laugh and push
and hot molecules the bride to dance…
so when our unit split
that pain of fission She cannot rest,
was our power bursƟng free her fate sealed
but I maƩer with a small dry kiss,
and was not destroyed; her garter
I am stronger and more stable and her last name
without you. pulled off by his teeth,
she is something blue
but she is beauƟful,
Her guests pretend
to like their drinks
while forcing smiles and
aching to be next.

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Revista Adelaide

Train Song Ask Me

Pitch darkness I want to open
in my childhood bed up my skin for you
I listen for the train, show you where
heart rising my bones connect firm
with the whistle note muscles to my Ɵssues
and roar that echoes through wet with tears,
two miles of barren trees the messy heart
those bold rumbles that beats and breaks
chugging through my body unschooled,
vivisecƟng the capillaries
my home town where my dreams
strong spine of missed run swiŌly
dreams and memories hot and cold,
a breath, a longing, the wilderness
a minor-chord sigh of my strange roots
tracks laid across my flesh all tangling, pulling
a seam connects your loose thoughts
my wishes to my worlds to braid them Ɵghtly,
a rushing through so many Ɵghtly to my own.
childhood midnights
chest pounding
marking Ɵme
with the thunder
of the train.

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The Cyclone Adelaide Magazine
About the Author:

Yes, screaming: Heather Lee Rogers compulsively tells stories as a
She came into the world writer and actor in NYC. Her poems have ap-
the second Ɵme peared in the following printed and online publi-
the same way as the first. caƟons: The Rat’s Ass Review, Harbinger Asylum,
Here Comes Everyone (UK), Leopardskin & Limes,
Late September El Portal S/Tick, Waterways, Adanna Literary
asked his only passenger Journal, Jersey Devil Press and the Kaaterskill Ba-
“Front or Back?” sin Literary Journal.
She said “Back”
He said “That’ll be a Rough Ride!”
She said “I know my roller coasters”
sat down.
This Ɵme, with no seat-mate,
at every big drop her legs
slammed against the bar
slammed against the bar
slammed against the bar
AŌer,
as she climbed out hoarse and sore
He said “You are BRAVE!”
She thought “Man, you have no idea.”
then She
allowed herself a Ɵny smile
raised her face up to the sun…

then She
released the bar
of her rough ride
then She
allowed back in
a liƩle pride
then She
began
again.

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Revista Adelaide

FREEDOM

by Razmik Grigoryan,
translated by Maro Ghukasyan

When I understood Երբ հասկացա,
որ հաղթանակի մեկնարկը
that the start of triumph տրվում է պարտությունից,
is made on defeat, քեզ ճանապարհեցի
I let you go տանուլ տված օրերիցս վերջինի հետ,
on the last day of առավոտը դեռ չէր արթնացել,
my lost days. իսկ արևը ննջում էր
The morning hadn't woken up yet, փակ ծաղիկների կոկոններում...
and the Sun was sleeping
in the flower-buds... Քեզանից ծորացող հնչյունները,
The sounds flowing from you, դաշնամուրդ չգտնելով,
not finding your piano, թափվեցին գետնին,
fell to the ground. ճանապարհին լոտոսներ ծաղկեցին,
Lotuses bloomed on the road, մորմոքող երգերդ հալվեցին իմ մեջ`
Your songs of sorrow հյուսելով առեղծվածը սիրո...
melted in me,
composing the mystery of love. Մեզ հետ մեկ մարմնում ապրում են նրանք,
ովքեր ամեն օր հեռանում են մեզանից
In the same body with us live they, վերադառնալու պես...
who leave us every day
as coming back.

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Adelaide Magazine

Freedom ԱԶԱՏՈՒԹՅՈՒՆ

Freedom – grave of fighters, Ազատությո՜ւն`
Golden ladder – for those who go to heaven, գերեզման
Lifestyle – for elects. բոլոր պայքարողների,
Freedom – an oath made by yourself, ոսկե սանդուղք՝
A victory of invisible towards the visible, երկինք բարձրացողների,
A foundry – for body and soul, ապրելակերպ՝
Where everyone chooses ընտրյալների…
the measure of mixing with you. Ազատությո՜ւն`
ինքդ քեզ տված երդում,
Just be: աներևույթի հաղթանակ
In case of your absence առերևույթի հանդեպ,
Life will become dull ձուլարան՝
like a stopped heart. մարմնի և հոգու,
ուր ամեն ոք ինքն է ընտրում
քեզ հետ խառնվելու իր չափաբաժինը…

Պարզապես եղի՛ր.
չլինելուդ դեպքում
կանգնած սրտի պես
անզգա կդառնա կյանքը…

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Homeland Revista Adelaide

The praisers of your name ՀԱՅՐԵՆԻՔ
Always forget about you in the Անունդ գովերգողները
Alien shores: քեզ միշտ մոռանում են
You can't swim օտար ծովերում,
You drown. լողալ չգիտես,
խեղդվում ես:

*** ***

We had forgoƩen about water, Անապատում քայլելիս
While walking in the desert: մոռացել էինք ջրի մասին,
we were together. իրար հետ էինք,
Now I become thirsty հիմա,
siƫng by the spring. աղբյուրի կողքին նստած,
ծարավում եմ:

*** ***

Every evening when we sit to have a cup of coffee Ամեն երեկո, երբ նստում ենք սրճելու,
You are the most real between us, մեր միջև ամենից իրականը դու ես լինում,
As you are always absent. որովհետև միշտ բացակա ես:

About the Author:

Razmik Grigoryan is an Armenian writer, who was
born on January 27, 1985. He is already the au-
thor of two poetry books. But he writes not only
poems, but also short stories, which have been
published in Armenian some literary magazines
and newspapers.

Razmik is also filmmaker (parƟcularly documen-
tary films). Here are the translaƟons of his poems
from the book “From the spike to the bread”,
published in 2017.

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Adelaide Magazine

BIG HEADED ANNA

by Stephanie E. Dickinson

New Orleans, Louisiana. 1913. Yearning. the not so preƩy ones. When I was a baby crying
out in hunger a large graceful creature soaring
Big-Headed Anna Imagines Herself as over me heard. Was it a snowy egret that became
a Strange, BeauƟful Name my mother and fed me fish milk? What kind
of thing is Big-Headed Anna? Answer me.
*
Bayou dularge. 1916. Singing Fragrance
1913. If I cut my eyelashes there would be no
feeling. I would have to move my ear lobe be- Big Headed Anna Imagines Taking
tween the grist’s flint or the Ɵp of my nose to the Bayou Missionary For a Husband
understand about touch. To show you how or- *
chids thrive in snow and spongy soil, an earth-
worm loses its head and grows another. Tallow, Bayou DuLarge. 1916. I know he sees me, Big-
bone, flesh. My neck thinks of me as its lily. Wan- Headed Anna who sings in the choir, the one set
dering toward the French Quarter under a talon in the back row with the baritones, so her pump-
of moon, I sing in a beauƟful whisper. Hush liƩle kin head doesn’t offend the town ladies. He’s
briƩlestar who lives underwater. My big head founded a church in Sierra Leone, that needs
hides under my bigger hat. I shiver listening to the whatever the congregaƟon can give. I feel him
river, the coƩon barges. The Mississippi ruts with struck by all the white, the pale flesh of the sanc-
Chouteau swamp. Decatur Street breeds surly tuary air, the perfume of the peonies, heavy as a
pecan trees. Sweat drips from my eyelids. I walk full pew. Riding his horse since dawn, his stomach
the streets, strange beauƟful names, Carondelet, rumbles through his robes, and he hopes the
Esplanade, Dumaine, Marigny, Bienville. Heat meal that will be his thanks proves ample. The
collects in the narrows of camellias, in the eaves people of the dark conƟnent beckon him. The
and guƩers. Everything’s in suspension. I’m an women, bare-breasted, the men, long-limbed.
octoroon in pale blue. I’m a hoop-skirted belle BeauƟful people. Their obsidian skin. His eyes
emptying my chamber pot on the heads of Yan- leave us. He’s watching an elephant cloud shape-
kee soldiers, a Storyville sweet girl swathed in a change into a hyena with her cubs above the sa-
silk kimono haunƟng gardenia-thickened parlors. vannah; his gaze follows the purified cloud ani-
My lonesomeness comforts me. Our Father who mals, how he might appear in the sky too—ashen-
art in New Orleans hallowed be Thy name. King- white and aimless, because the color in him has
dom of the Fiery Throated Hummingbird and been banished. He’s pondering the first hymn
White Alligator Thy will be done. SomeƟmes I taught to his converts, the bright orange of their
love water. I love standing tall. And then I grow feathers, and gold dust they daubed their fea-
small--a tree lying on its side. A dugout canoe tures with. Harmonies like God himself. I rise with
floaƟng off into the Egg Nebula. An old spirit in- the choir, fat with muƩon-leg-sleeves and lace
habits me, a wise and tender being. I forget what collars. There’s a fly walking along the chalice of
place I came from. The deep swamp is my home. I the Holy Communion. His arms rise and fall, his
was leŌ in a nest of large sƟcks and placed in a
mangrove tree. The birds are my friends, the
preƩy ones with long white feathers and red legs,

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Revista Adelaide

elbows are flints sparking the air; they try to bring kerosene and train trestle tar and dung, not azal-
our rasping into a hosanna. The fragrance of my eas and sugar cane. In the sƟllness, the pent-up
soprano voice envelopes him. I solo. My voice no sky cries for all its old lives. Soon the boy will be
longer belongs to a girl whose face separates her born. Pay now for this figment, this wish with ten
from the rest, even her nose not sure where it toes, ten fingers. Pay me now.
belongs. My voice is a gazelle, running, its heart
close to bursƟng. I prize the blackness inside me, I Money, OK. 1907. nightcrawling
let its hot trickle shine.
Big-Headed Anna Speaks of
New Orleans, Louisiana. 1917. Listening. Her Orphan Childhood
&
Big-Headed Anna Listens to the Barren Rich Wom-
an and her Creole Surrogate 1907. I am in a field and the moon is a cool bluish
& rabbit moon. The runty boy I help over the fence,
let him dig the first potato and spit on the Ɵght
1917. The child will be mine, the one my womb red bud for luck. His Ɵny hands are earth and
can’t carry. My neighbor’s maid from the Sugar blossom. I only have to brush the soil with my
Islands, Liliàne, I’ve paid to give me the baby in fingers to bring up nightcrawlers. Vines tangle
her stomach. She likes the food I bring her, food over the potato furrows blooming yellow. They
that fills her with happiness and sleep. She hates breathe easy as we gather them one by one unƟl
root vegetables, soŌ fruits, and chicken. Chicken our burlap sack is full. We eat the potatoes raw
is stewed lizard. AŌer I sell you this baby, Miss D., like apples. Someone’s coming, the cicadas
I shall be rich and eat only egg pies. If I give you a scream. Crawl, Big-Head, be a worm inching
son I shall demand more. Promise me more for a along, press your nose into the dirt. Everyone’s
son? This is the first I’ve heard her promise me. got to eat a pound of it before they’re
Liliàne, what you are doing for me has no price. A through. Later we fry the locust with the spuds—
very high price. Do not try to cheat. I am called a green-brown husks you eat the same as meat.
white cockroach at home. Maybe that is so but And so I grow tall and need more than potatoes
I’m not a stupid Island girl. Raped for the first and bugs to fill myself up. For my birthday the
Ɵme at age 7, liƩle that she does not know. When runt boy gives me a perfume decanter, which I
she swims she starves for days. When she dances finger for hours in the willow’s shade. The per-
in the land of lava, she pitches a tent in the rain, fume dried—a film of bark and almond. Sandal-
someƟmes in the sun. I shall buy golden shoes wood. I touch the stopper behind each ear.
and fill them with buƩer. I shall always have “You’re a preƩy thing,” I say, running my hand up
buƩer. My bed will be off the ground so the liz- and down my leg, ashamed at my delight, my
ards will not sleep with me, male or female. My smiling at the decanter—the thing he found in an
insect net will be pale green. I will have many alley’s trash. When the boy tosses in a 104 fever I
pillows. Many knives. I demand you fan me. Pay stay by his side. Big-Head, I’m so hot. Bring me
me now. I am an orphan too whose parents each cold.I ask in the weather, the freezing noon and
disappeared into a shroud, the pointed shoe too sun that melts nothing. I ask in the stones, the ice
narrow for its foot. She indolently picks over figs trees, unƟl his eyes gliƩer like Easter snowstorms
in a bowl. Her strange tropical eyes go deep, the and he lies quiet. Boy mine, I can’t cry. I work
exalted neck and chin, the intelligent fore- mucking out pig sty’s for a week to make his fu-
head. He will be a fat son. He’ll suck from the neral expenses.
breast and boƩle. A slow smile curls her lips. Yet I
fear he’ll scream for me in the night and morn-
ing. He knows his mother’s smell. The sun beats
down. The air, too fat to inhale, is drenched in

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Adelaide Magazine

money, ok. 1906. singing. About the Author:

Big-Headed Anna Sings AŌer Being Spit Upon
By Children

&

I bear no grudge. The street is crossed with lines Stephanie Dickinson, an Iowa naƟve, lives in New
of spiders, folks out of work. Small biƟng mouths York City. Her novel Half Girl and novella Lust Se-
live in the silken tunnels, and if it had not been for ries are published by Spuyten Duyvil, as is her
the sƟckiness of the webs I would have fallen into feminist noir Love Highway. Her other books in-
the street. While I sleep lizards climb the skin of clude Port Authority Orchids, Heat: An Interview
my legs. The blank white sea presses against me. with Jean Seberg, The Emily Fables and Flashlight
The moon rises the color of dead leaves. I am a Girls Run. Her work has been reprinted in Best
click beetle. I lay my black eggs on leaves then the American Nonrequired Reading, New Stories from
young ones cluster and spin a tent from my silk. I the South, and 2016 New Stories from the Mid-
am the wild trees, a craving in their eyes. I am the west. Her Girl Behind the Door: A Memoir of De-
day the deaf-mute learned to speak, the heat in lirium and DemenƟa has recently been released.
the forenoon of a day, the hair unbraiding and
curling to the neck, the leaves dripping from
trees. I am the lacquer of animal musk playing in
the noisy dirt, the silence. I am the weeds, the
thorny stalks cuƫng your hand, my song is some-
thing to fill and taste. When you want belly food I
am the bedclothes smoldering in a 104 degree
fever—I am love bubbling like hog bone in pinto-
white beans.

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Revista Adelaide

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