Adelaide Literary Magazine No.7, Volume Two, June 2017

Revista Adelaide

A POEM IN WHICH
THE MOON

REJECTS YOU
By Danielle Hanson

InstrucƟons on Stripping The Three-Dollar Cafe

Take the roƩen unused light of the moon, Flies live on heat and light.
Add what the mirror sees when it is dark— It’s 2:00 and their persistence wears me out.
Forgeƫng is lovely at night. The waitress is being hailed by the table next to mine.
Throw away all that you were It’s not that she’s slow,
Into the opposite of wind. She doesn’t like the color of the man’s shirt.
Pretend to be a ghost. Some reds can soak up all the colors around them.
Now pretend to be a rock. She never stands next to anyone wearing red.
What have you learned about permanence? The other waitress is on break.
Someone once wrote that if a man
A Poem in Which the Moon Rejects You Were ever fully awake, his face would glow.
There isn’t enough coffee in this world
In the photograph of what is gone, To keep me that awake tonight.
The one that is not an omen, The moon and swarming stars
The one that leaned too far into the light Are brightest while we are asleep,
And shaƩered it, Soaking us up like crimson.
The photo in which the world is reduced I want to make a screen against this vacuum.
To a shard; in the shard
Which reflects only the moon;
In the light cast off by that moon,
The lost light, the falling light.

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Adelaide Magazine

Fickle

The miracle of you has grown fickle. The Crazy King
The water is just the water now, it heals aŌer a painƟng by Philip CurƟs
Nothing. Saints die as easily as man, in one
Try, or by accident. A hole in the hand There’s an old man siƫng in a throne on the beach,
Is just the absence of flesh. A body dressed like some old king or something.
Never carries its head home in its arms He even has a crown. He may be crazy
As a lover. The hungry but who’s going to tell a king he’s crazy?
Starve, the dark stays That’s a sure way to get yourself beheaded.
Dark, the animals stay silent, the dead Then you’ll be running around, chicken
Decompose, the blind are blind with his head cut off, a crazy chicken, catching
SƟll. And you, simple man. his death of cold with a wound like that.
It’s enough to make you crazy with worry,
Next to the Window crazy as some old man thinking he’s king of the ocean.

The sky isn’t itself today. About the Author:
I’m on fire. Danielle Hanson received her MFA from Arizona State
Rain seeps down the wall, University and her undergraduate degree from the
fills the room like a knock. University of Tennessee at ChaƩanooga. She is the
I’m graciously declining any offers. author of Ambushing Water (Brick Road Poetry Press,
It makes love, the view from my window, 2017). Her work has appeared in over 50 journals and
the dust on my bedside table, all feel today anthologies, including Hubbub, Iodine, Rosebud, Poet
their souls are the wrong size. Lore, Asheville Poetry Review, and Blackbird. She is
They want to make bread out of restlessness. Poetry Editor for Doubleback Books. She has edit-
ed Loose Change Magazine and Hayden’s Ferry Review,
worked for The Meacham Writers’ Conference, and
been a resident at The Hambidge Center. Her work has
been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and Best of
the Net. hƩp://daniellejhanson.com.

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Revista Adelaide

THE LADY’S EYES

By Jules Supervielle

translated by

John J. Ronan

This woman, whom I know,
seems to herself unknown,
absently off in the heavens
wearing her weary expression,

A rose made of cloth
sƟff on its iron stalk,
and pearls that return
one-by-one to the ocean.

On the far side of Altair, About the Author:
when the lady smooths her hair,
she never quite knows Jules Supervielle, (1884 - 1960), poet, dramaƟst,
if her eyes are going to open or close. and short-story writer of Basque descent who
wrote in the French language but in the Spanish
tradiƟon.

About the translator:

John J. Ronan is a NaƟonal Endowment for the
Arts Fellow in Poetry, a former Ucross Fellow,
Bread Loaf Scholar, and Poet Laureate of Glouces-
ter, MA. His book Marrowbone Lane appeared in
2010 and was a Highly Recommended selecƟon of
the Boston Authors Club; Linda Pastan has called
his work "Very good indeed: original, assured, just
a touch sardonic." A new volume, Taking the
Train of Singularity South from Midtown, ap-
peared in January. Poems have appeared in Con-
frontaƟon, Folio, Threepenny Review, The Re-
corder, Hollins CriƟc, New England Review, South-
ern Poetry Review, Louisville Review, Greensboro
Review, Notre Dame Review, NYQ, et. al.

251

Adelaide Magazine

WHAT IS WHITENESS?

(AN IMPERFECT BRAINSTORM)

By Bill Shultz

Reading Burton Watson’s TranslaƟon Dead Sparrows
of Grasses Bury the River Bank
SomeƟmes
Lately I’ve developed a taste for the quiet life. the window you thought open
I think how we could lie and talk together is shut.
through the night. – Su Tung-p’o
And flying
Dusk—my lamp is lit. doesn’t work the same way
Incense smoke flows over Buddha it does in dreams
across image of Wolf into web
of dream catcher before seƩling— The memory of something good
Be Here Now and EssenƟal Dōgen has nothing to do with the rain
yoga mat meditaƟon cushion—
we knit our religions from scraps Though the rain may have
of three thousand years. something to do with remembering—

In this space I’ve developed a taste Red Herring.
for the quiet life. Another fallacy—
I think how we could grow a garden,
forest even, spend mornings there The window
tending to thoughts, listening to Earth. once wide open
Then come together, wash away dirt, remains open.
glistening with touch.
No. Windows
almost always
close.

Memories are so many dead sparrows.

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Revista Adelaide

What is Whiteness?
(An Imperfect Brainstorm)

When it comes to race the past is always present.
-Michael Eric Dyson

A Ɵnt. Absence White people say
of pigment. Bleached It’s alright.
fiber. Flower petals. Kendrick spit
We gon’ be alright.
Having parents
who don’t understand Whiteness is straining
why people of color to hear the difference.
are Ɵred and angry,
don’t get #BlackLivesMaƩer. Not acknowledging difference
as a strategy toward equality.
(Do I, white boy I am, This hits liberal whiteness
fully understand, the way as regression, this looking
I would like to think?) at whiteness. Shameful
in society scared of shame.
Having an Uncle
who nigger-rigs shit Feel that.
cracks nigger toes
at Christmas. Skipping this step won’t work.

Traveling the country History
knowing it’ll be alright.
is why it is not #AllLivesMaƩer.

It’s alright. We gon’ be alright.
Looking at white. Looking at black.

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Adelaide Magazine

November 9 2016 Picking at Threads

Woke to the sound of a woman’s cry, In my mother’s home
buried my head under the blanket trying to find my mother.
and cried a liƩle, too—historical tears.
She is somewhere inside
Silence soaked up sadness—sopping sponge. the crashing of pots and pans
and whatever other goddamn
Alone, I pulled my knees to my chest fucking things torment her.
desperate for someone to hold.
Somewhere woven into the fabric
Crash of thrown stones of the talk of town is the thread
doing their hateful work of my mother’s story, her dreams
on our fragile homes. and demons, desires and release.

Walls pull themselves apart. I sit and watch her pacing,
the twisƟng of her jaw,
Nakedly exposed—solitary lover twitching hand, trying like hell
with no more shelter here— to find my mother.
neither flight nor fight an opƟon.

Hold with courageous vulnerability About the Author:
the warrior’s stance and spiral chant:

Peace. Harmony. Love.

Peace. Harmony Love.

Peace. Harmony. Love.

The call rises above the discord,
returns with the pervasive grace of rain.

Bill Shultz is a poet, painter, farmer and
frequent traveler currently based at Green
Gulch Farm Zen Center. He received his BA
CreaƟve WriƟng from Missouri State University
and MA Studio Art and Theory from Summer
InsƟtute of Visual Art at Drury University.

254

Revista Adelaide

AFTERWORD:
OR, THE AMATEUR POET

By Michael T. Smith

I Write Poems by Ear Uncle MarƟn’s ThriŌ and Discount

I write poems by ear Winter winds can only tell lies.
On a music staff with squiggly lines unclear Those charlatans of haughƟly
In the shadow of a shadow Refined words. Tell them to kiss
Arisen from Narcissus’ birth year The sunrise and I and you and
Pounded into the dirt fallow Anyone who surmises a natural
I write poems by ear Riddle translated from HelveƟca
Wrapped up in masking tape’s a kier Will eat the Ɵnniest words you’ve
With all the colors of Dali’s crawling fear Never Seen. But alas, allow
In the shadow of a shadow That along alighted fields
The sun blowing up like a balloon will jeer Of the most natural study
It needs a new hip to borrow That was ever rehashed:
I write poems by ear The modern always comes again.
For the sun rose twice one day near
Like a Lazarus of some nostalgia queer
In the shadow of a shadow
This is how a myth dies my dear
In a turpid sea o’ rehearsed smiles sallow
I write poems by ear
In the shadow of a shadow

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All the world’s love leƩers to you Adelaide Magazine
Hang a Lake Out to Dry

If bubbling forth, a fountain burst Go hang a lake out to dry
Of ink black with liquidy girth, The solsƟce downpour to decry
Geyser of my heart’s form versed, A summer night like any other
Marching through this fold and firth, In copied perfecƟon has no mother
Stained watr’y clear this fount of mirth,
With silver clouds, of ink droplets, The sun, the moon, the stars and more
Who reign o’r my Maid of Birth, Form a guest list at the host’s door
By soaking these parched outlets, And all around the square planet
Then paged lines, this stream overflows Young father Ɵme’s script reads ‘manet’
To populate worlds from e’ry source
While in papered towers goes Teenage love inviƟng cynics teems
My drenched flood along this course. Holds the stage of a midsummer’s dreams -
Quaff a draŌ of this bright sunshine For in the moment false and preƩy
- Your glance non-disƟlled freely give – Calls nature to the alter of pious pity
To eye these mirrored words of mine
And spin your dear mind pensive Sensing the round table of poets past
On vows writ of many faces, Hang on the breeze of Aestas’ mast
But each and every, one and true: The semen of memories archetypal
Stone meaning in my spaces, Roused with a stomach –based Ɵckle
Endless streams of: “I love you!”

About the Author:

Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of the
Polytechnic InsƟtute at Purdue, where he re-
ceived his PhD in English in May, 2014. He teach-
es cross-disciplinary courses that blend humani-
Ɵes with other areas. His poetry has been most
recently published in Tau Poetry Journal, Eunoia
Review, Taj Mahal Poetry Journal, Zombie Logic
Review, and the Asahi Poetry Journal. He also has
criƟcal work forthcoming in Symbolism and Cine-
maƟc. He has most recently aƩended the 2016
CCCC conference as well as 2016 NeMLA confer-
ence.

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Revista Adelaide
AŌerword: Or, the Amateur Poet

You thought you gripped the future
When you only brushed the dust from your hands

and pinched earth's prurient cheek
Like that of a chubby, just-born babe’s.
And like said infant, you only drooled out words

in secondhand emoƟons.
You ran your long fingers through Ophelia’s hair
and even your clothes have a jeer.
And though no one comes and walks in here,
it is somewhere you can go.
You stepped out of the room
While your book was wriƩen inside.

With a speech that doesn't age gracefully It is but
on the stone steps of an altar the image of inspiraƟon
to the pagan gods of memory. that struck you like a minor earthquake,
shaking the wall-decoraƟons to only --
Your page grows like mignoneƩes to only declare "I am here."
steeped deeply in the shadows, (But bespoken through a dummy's hole,
stretching past the table…not for greatness While the ventriloquist got distracted).
but for something close to survival.
So what you have leŌ in these
And Gómara maps a history, bare-pole winds
Which is but a slave to the thin-lipped phrase: can only stand alone.
"I don't understand." It marks not a presence
But all the fools trod along down the beaten path. but an absence wider than big-mouthed chasm.

Everyone is so apparent to me,
so cry, cry just like a song out of the moon

257

Adelaide Magazine

IN LIMINE

By Eugenio Montale

translated

by Mary Jane White

Delight, then—if the wind re-enter our conservatory Eugenio Montale (12 October 1896 – 12
bringing back to it, and to you, the surge of our life: September 1981) was an Italian poet,
here—where a dead prose writer, editor and translator, and
tangle of memories subsides, recipient of the 1975 Nobel Prize in
—no garden plot—our reliquary. Literature. He is widely considered the
greatest Italian lyric poet since Giacomo
And that fluƩer you feel is not ephemeral, no, Leopardi.
it is a sƟrring within—our eternal womb;
see—how the narrow bed of our abandoned clay
transforms itself into a crucible.

Boiling here, over its precipitous lip.
Walk on out, but slowly—you could bump
into a specter who might save you:
this is where we did compound our stories, our acts
splaƩered to droplets by the great play—of the future.

Wriggle then—through the single broken mesh
of the net that sƟll entangles us—leap out, slip away!
Go. I’ve prayed—for this, for you—and that my hour
of thirst ease, and that less biƩer seem the rust

and the bad blood between us.

II.EPIGRAM

Sbarbaro, capricious child, folder of papers
wriƩen over with verses, boats entrusted to mud
moving upon a rivulet; watching them go.
Be clairvoyant for him, you, my passing gentleman:
with your sƟck deflect his delicate floƟlla,
so it not disappear; guide it to its liƩle port of stones.

258

Revista Adelaide

THE LEMONS

Listen, the poets laureate
move only among those plants
with rarefied names: Italian boxwood or acanthus.
But, as for me, I love the ways that are become
overgrown ditches, from whose puddles
even some mildly troubled urchin might catch hold of
some thin eel:
whose alleys follow the hills’ edges,
running down between the tuŌs of reeds
and turn onto a kitchen garden, among the lemon trees.

BeƩer the racket of the birds be spent,
be swallowed up in azure:
that more clearly might rise a whisper
of wandering lovers, whose own tune barely moves,
but carries to the senses this odor
that may not be uprooted from the earth
and rains an uneasy mildness into the heart.
Here, by a miracle, the war of all
amusing passions is fallen silent,
here, as well, to us, the poor, falls our share of richness
and it is an odor of lemons.

Look, in this sƟllness where all things
collapse and seem close to
betraying their latest confidence,
at Ɵmes we do expect each other
to expose some mistake of Nature,
some standsƟll of the world, some ring that fails to anneal,
some thread to unravel at last and set us
in the middle of some truth.
The eyes turn to search,
the mind imagines breaking faith
with all this rampant perfume
even as the day’s light fades at length.
In these sounds and sƟllness we may see
what in every humane shade will wander away
from troubled Divinity.

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Adelaide Magazine

SƟll, the old device of turning leŌ brings us round
to a noisome town where azure shows itself—
if at all—in pieces, and on high, between the cornices.
Rain worries the ground below, and even our future, gathers
as some winter tedium over the houses,
the light grows mean—and the soul, biƩer.
When some day at one unlocked entrance
from between the courtyard’s trees
appear the very yellows of the lemons;
and ice melts from the heart,
and within the chest come thundering down
all the songs
of those gold trumpets of the sun’s hilarity.

ENGLISH HORN

Tonight a wind plays aƩenƟvely
--mindful of that loud clashing of blades—
its instruments, the impenetrable trees, sweeping
a horizon of copper
where bars of light aƩenuate
like kites in a rolling sky
(Clouds in transit, bright
realms above! Of the high Eldorado’s
cracked doors!)
and the sea casƟng and casƟng itself,
a bruise, turning color,
a beached launch, a waterspout
of tortured froth;
a wind that is born and dies
over an hour that slowly blackens—
if only it might play you, too, tonight,
O, instrument gone out of tune—
my heart.

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Revista Adelaide

NEARLY IMAGINARY

These rays mark their own aƩendance
as on a school roll—of whips—
of silver thrown against the walls:
a list of faint lights, the windows shuƩered.
An event is returned:
the sun and these diffuse
voices, the usual clamor, find their way barred.

Why? I think upon our spellbound days,
upon the whirl of hours, all too much alike,
which do repay me. Some force begins to overflow,
that has swelled, even in me, O reckless magi,
out of the largeness of Ɵme. A single hour is come to raise me up,
showering these high houses, these stripped avenues.

I gather myself up against our country of intact snows—
this soŌ: light as a woven vista within a tapestry.
One slow ray slips through our divided heaven.
Crammed with invisible light, our woods, our hills
echo back to me—praise—at every hilarious return.

Gladly will I read the black
print of branches upon the white
as it were—a basic alphabet.

The whole of the past appears before me
as a single punctuaƟng mark.
No sound will ever trouble
its solitary gaiety.
Threading through the air
or dropping to his perch—
a gallant cockerel of March.

261

Adelaide Magazine

ALFRED AND MOSES

By Timothy Robbins

Alfred and Moses A Flare
(for A.E. Housman)
She invited ex-bride’s maids
I picture a Merchant Ivory flick. to her Wedding Dress
Young classicist with patrician cheeks, Burning. The silk/rayon
face of an Arabian prancer, features blend smoldered like grassfire,
precise as a LaƟn declension. shone like a witch at the stake,
His friend, the rowing Blue, with a blanched like the moon at
Clydesdale jaw and nostrils that boast a woman’s wedding with
they can sniff out spoony beastliness her Self. I wondered if their
behind any doll-sized lapel. faces reddened, if their eyes
The athlete’s swagger is drawn to the shot red sparks. I remembered
scholar’s snub as though they were a guy I picked up. How
opposite sexes. he flickered behind a tube
Something in his Great War poems with a pebble called the
tells me: mother, father, sibling, bride, Devil’s Eye stuck in one end.
the gay poet, lingering at sick bedside -- His complexion enraged
all have a flower only they can lay. others who don but don’t burn
Something tells me the gray flesh, white veils and gowns, though
peeping from under the sheet, they do burn other
reminds him of Moses at the end of darker symbols.
a race, in a teammate’s lap, abs heaving,
tears flowing, handsome face clenched 262
and unknowing. He’s thinking of shells
undressing soldiers and occasional
poems re-dressing them for wakes.
He’s remembering when he exploded
his love in their lodgings and in Moses’
eyes his famous paeans to bravery
were twisted into shrapnel pornography.
Already Moses strides BriƟsh Columbia
haughty as rowers bearing sweeps to
the Thames, silently shouldering
Union-Jacked crates.

Revista Adelaide

Dérouté

The route to her home of 15 years is suddenly
as faint as the Appian Way. She doesn’t noƟce
the change. Past Fire StaƟon One (there is
no Two), past the Church of God (no Church
of the Devil) where Pastor Robert Browning
preaches without an Elizabeth, past the dress
factory (a long brick barrack that hasn’t sewn a
sƟtch in twenty years), past grape arbors kids
raid aŌer nighƞall (the Concords slip from
their skins at the gentlest pinch), up our front
steps through the unlocked front door.
My grandmother finds her mentally
cataloging the furnishings like a drunk slowly
waking in a strange room. Why is the floor so soŌ?
Why are the ceilings too low and geƫng lower?
Half an hour later Grandma sees her on her
hands and knees, crawling up the steps, a penitent
atoning for a sin she can’t remember.

Dolores Park, DaƟng Between Boyfriends

A bronze priest squints. His furrowed brow casts
a protecƟve shadow over his eyes.

Lito. His nurse-y voice, Hallmark promises in
Tagalog and belly swelling with compassion.

A bronze bell hangs between two white arms
in line with palms and the busy street. I was afraid

to touch it, lest the kindness spill out and be wasted.
Lime-colored parrots loop tree to tree, swoop

past the Mission where Jimmy Steward stalked in
VerƟgo. Oh, what’s the point of lying aŌer all

these years? I didn’t want his belly pressed to mine.
Everywhere you look, look again. Our beauƟful park,

wasn’t named for the Mission two blocks north, tourist
monument to Spanish dominaƟon.

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Adelaide Magazine

NAMELESS MOMENTS

By Harold Barnes

Nameless Moments Paranoid Threshold

This poem I fear these words I feel
Is s proxy Have already been Sufficiently
A placeholder Read Desperate
For every lapse By an unseen eye To write this poem
In my memory That the secret The ink will
It represents To my Not flow
The fullness of Soul If the pain
My life Is detailed in plain Is inadequate
A sum of all To some nefarious The pressure
The nameless moments Observer On my heart
That shaped me My future is frozen in Must be oceanic
The underside The pages of an ancient To breech
Of the coin Tome The dam
The greater of Roƫng in the bookcase And unleash my passion
Two evils Of a higher power The entropy
A greater being is In my mind
Bored of my ideas Must surpass
Before they inspire me A stratospheric
He summarizes my work Threshold
Whilst I formulate it It is no easy task
New beginnings are But i feel
Simultaneously Ɵred Desperate
Endings Confused
And hysterical
Enough
To warrant these
Words and
Epitomize my
Misery

286

Devil Sold His Soul Revista Adelaide

The Devil sold his soul The Idiot
To me
For no more than my One thing remains
Sympathy Constant
A place to rest In my fluid
His heavy head Existence
And send his worries That I never
Off to bed Miss an opportunity
To be foolish
He merely wants HumiliaƟon is aƩached
To chew my ear To me
Tell me the things A heavy shadow
That he most fears An unwelcome appendage
To open up his Yet i embrace my
Weary heart Status
And watch his woes Whole heartedly
Quickly depart I fill my niche
Molding perfectly to its
I took his offer Contours
Without sƟnt Absorbing the knowledge
Tucked his spirit It avails me
In pocket lint Forever learning
Kissed him on his New and invenƟve ways
Wrinkled brow To remain an
And for receipt Idiot
Gave him my vow

About the Author:
Harold Barnes was born in Jersey City and is currently a subsƟtute Paraprofessional for the New York
City Department Of EducaƟon. He briefly aƩended the University of Notre Dame, majoring in Physics,
then English, but he never graduated. Nowadays he writes and reads avidly, works, and takes care of his
ailing mother with his sister.

287

Adelaide Magazine

LOVE IS IN THE PROOF

By Dr. Peter Scheponik

Stardust Pond Song

I know you are there— Today the pond has visitors, Canadian geese,
behind the stars. an even dozen gliding across its rippling surface,
I can hear You the geese dip gracefully among the reeds
beaƟng in night’s dark heart, rigid with December’s breath.
feel You in the stars’ blue tears. They are a prayer in moƟon,
I am so small and the universe so large. feathered serenity at its best,
Yet You chase my smallness away pure devoƟon,
with Your sƟllness, creaƟon passing the ulƟmate test
hold me in Your palms of light of God’s love.
where I kneel, one in wonder,
one in love—
knowing there is something of You in me—
something You have not forgoƩen,
teaching me to trust the fragile clay,
that dust of stars that lights my way
down the long, dark halls of Your love.

288

Revista Adelaide

Love Is in the Proof

The fallen leaves scaƩer,
liŌ and swirl,
crisp revelaƟons of
transiƟoning maƩer
captured and hurled
life aŌer life.
I could chase them
like dreams I never dared,
murmur them
like essenƟal essenƟal prayers,
rustling “Mea Culpas”
whispered in God’s ears.
The trees reveal themselves
willingly lay bare
their bark souls.
I can hear their resignaƟon,
The stoicism of their self-control
That lets them happily acquiesce,
selflessly let go of all they were
to be who they are:
mirrors of divine majesty
demonstraƟng just how far
they’ll go to prove their love.

About the Author:
P.C. Scheponik has published four collecƟons of poems: Psalms to Padre Pio (NaƟonal Centre for Padre
Pio, INC), A Storm by Any Other Name and Songs the Sea has Sung in Me (PS Books, a division of
Philadelphia Stories), and And the Sun SƟll Dared to Shine (Mazo Publishers). His work has also
appeared in a number of literary journals.

289

Adelaide Magazine

SUMMER NEVER DIES

By Michael Jerry Tupa

July Comes Only Once

He lies transfixed in his bed,
"Close to you,"
sun's shadow paints a paƩern on the opposite wall,
summerƟme, no school, no homework,
voice like an angel -- amplified by technological wizardry,
and crescendo-ing melody, flows from the radio,
a wave of senƟment and beauty
washing over his mind.
A bird wings past the old-fashioned four-paned window,
a young bird -- everything is young, the world is fresh. A new song,
another memory. Oh, so long ago -- that skinny boy,
that old bed, those old tunes -- so new then. Pied Piper of the mellow
generaƟon. From Paul to Karen, from Elvis to Bobby, the ashes nourish new
gardens of sound, both the end and the beginning. The sunlight of
adulaƟon, the inevitable dusk of changing tastes.
SomeƟmes, July comes only once, the heart of youth, the simple truths,
that sleepy Ɵme, pleasant moments caress the brain like massaging fingers.
This day will pass, autumn will arrive
soon enough.
Winter's chill - and the one aŌer that,
and the one aŌer that, and the one ... too soon, adulthood, deadlines, alarm clocks,
stress, changing world.
But, this day ...
"why do birds?"
"Julie, Julie, Julie,"
"In the summerƟme" ... live forever , an oasis for a Ɵred heart, a Ɵme that will die
to last
a lifeƟme.

290

The Torch Revista Adelaide

Unknown to Julie

Oh, that I could be a morning cloud, Anxiously, I brush aside
a puff of frost in a calm dawn sky the window shuƩers that hide
(shivering in the gray-blue air) and proud, eternity
waiƟng anxiously, with muffled sigh, its you I see,
your face, your eyes
for the sun to liŌ its slumbering head, brighter than sunrise,
brighten up my jagged topside, skin as pure as milk,
and paint a gleaming glow of gold and red, hair as smooth as silk.
while on a celesƟal breeze I glide.
DesƟny is a kiss away
on that wonderful day.
I step out the door,
my hopes of love soar.
No more need to dream,
as, in heaven's gleam,
two hands join as one --
forever begun.

About the Author:
Mike Tupa began at age 16 his literary wriƟng
pursuits -- if one doesn't count his classic tale
penned in elementary school about a lion that
was struck with Cupid's Arrow. Even though that
classic is lost to the world, Tupa has aƩempted
doggedly to sharpen his story-telling skills. During
the past eight years, several literary publicaƟons
have featured his works.

291

Adelaide Magazine

A BALLAD I WISH I WISH I RUN

By Sam Landry

A Ballad I Wish I Wish I Run To Be In A Hole

stuck in the road Please, take one In my belly
coiled under breath That is not an insult Sits the true
deep under rolling But I do not breathe Origin story
Ɵdes green from the Anymore as a shrub Of every other
gall one can have Forever meant to shed Moment alone
early in the morning Dog hairs and ripples Nostrilly Inclined
wiping the building Formed from the flow
dew from the leaves Of puke that seƩles Desert
of the age-honored Into molten rock
christmas cactus I slit a line
that mom gave me Into the edges and crisp Over ice cream
as a seedling and A breeze that serves For strawberry
in return I grew As an alarm
I do not understand
from the dirt my eyes As an alarm Anatomy, clearly
rolled deep behind I cannot wake This is sold
the lids of every The birds resƟng Everywhere
kid taking a swing On chicken eggs
at the man beaƟng
the ever-loving shit
out of his ribs

About the Author:

Sam Landry is a Puschart Prize nominee, having his works published in Outlook Springs, The Scarlet Leaf
Review, Nixes Mate Review, among others. He works in the non-profit sector, and in his free Ɵme he
thinks about meals and deals and how useless it all is. His favorite food is pizza, and that comes up in
most conversaƟons, along with crippling depression and his website about magic cards,
turnonemagic.com. He resides in Gloucester, MA with whatever wharf rats take refuge in the fridge.

292

Revista Adelaide

THE BURNING SEASON

By Lazola Pambo

Winter is sentenced
into a silent cataclysm
when the yellow-eyed chariots
rage upon humanity
a baƩalion of immortal squadron
none of us have ever seen

The last anniversary of the universe
illuminated by a catharsis
the burning season has awoken
oh what a gothic sight
hearing bones raƩle from the grave

See the monstrous flame
reeling twenty seven heated rods
which exterminate order
the ocean waves are frozen
into volcanic Viking swords
that possess meltdown

We felt the burning season
take ambush of our lives
churches, houses, schools and all,
only trace they leŌ behind
the indoctrinaƟon of words
and not the Ten Commandments
but Jove Chappell…
The Prince of Hell!

About the Author:
Lazola Pambo is a South African poet, novelist and essayist. The majority of his work has been published
in “New Contrast,” “LitNet,” “The Kalahari Review,” “2014-2016 Sol Plaatje European Union Anthology,”
“SenƟnel Literary Quarterly,” and “New Coin,” among others. His young adult novel: “The Path Which
Shapes Us,” was published by Lingua Franca EducaƟonal Publishers in 2016.You can follow him on
TwiƩer @LPambo and Facebook.

293

Adelaide Magazine

A ROBIN IN WINTER

By Mark J. Mitchell

A ROBIN IN WINTER

For John

Lost as a bird in a snowbank
propped on driŌs of sheets, pillows,
vanishing but present—
Her beauƟful eyes.
There are no words.

Her cool love now disƟlled
to almost hollow bones,
to her thin, brave laugh.
There are no

names for the song of this now

where you hold absence and her because

AFTERNOON DREAM (LOW FEVER) There are

her loves—her songs—her laugh—her eyes

there.

You must return this book to the empty room.

A white door opens. You have no book.

You return to the empty room.

A young man you once knew stands

beside an extruded pool. He returns

the door to its jamb. His pointed face

stays behind. You return, book in hand. The room

is not empty. The book leaves. You return

to another door, hoping this room will be empty. The young man

smiles with pointed teeth. You return to the pool’s

edge and drop a book that blossoms into a ship.

You return to the other side of the white door.

The young man bites the book with his pointed smile.

You slide under water in a full pool. Your legs return.

You kick. You drown. You return. You’re awake.

294

Revista Adelaide

ERRATA

Note: In Roman religion, if a single error was
made in the performance of a ritual the enƟre
ceremony had to be performed again from the
beginning.

The vicƟm resists its procession. HER RELIC COLLECTION
It snorts and brays,
digs hooves into dust. She keeps her milk teeth in a mason jar—
The sight of wood, stacked they float more slowly in winter and bob
neat on a marble altar, to the surface when the weather grows warm.
makes it rear onto its hind legs. It rests on her workbench with stray door knobs
and loose nails. They raƩle when viking cars
Birds resist the sky blow past. She doesn’t noƟce them. She keeps
refusing to fly west or east. them sealed like a will or incomplete form
she means to mail. Should she ever get robbed
The bronze knife is made she’ll sƟll have one thing that’s hers—that’s safe
of silver. It blinds as milk, as dusk, as youth. They’re not holy,
an old priest with resistant light. just sacred in spite of being misplaced
on her bench. They guard her. Only she sees
Consecrated paint doesn’t leave how they mark her castle, protect her keep—
the bucket unƟl an acolyte trips her stone walls, firm. They will not be erased.
while resisƟng rocks. Pigment spins—
Once. Twice. Three Ɵmes—then douses
a sacred virgin on her walk of shame.

The animal—resisƟng—kicks
at the altar, scaƩering camphor-doused wood.
It charges at the celebrants
dancing its way to freedom while
all the hymns are forgoƩen.

Resist the desire
to start this all again.

295

Adelaide Magazine

DELTA OF VENUS

Twilight again, but different twilight. It is morning, just before dawn. Venus is in the ascendant,
peeking like a wink to the right of the building it is my charge to watch.

A taxicab pulls up. Nothing emerges. It seems as if there are two lovers who are reluctant to say
good-bye to each other. Or perhaps they are just too Ɵred or too drunk to move.

The yellow door finally opens. A tall woman emerges, wearing a golden tuxedo and a gliƩered
top hat. I recognize her, although it takes me a moment. She is the same woman who wore all the
bracelets and leŌ that young man in despair.

She is laughing. A man emerges from the taxi. It is the chess player with the monocle.
He takes the woman’s hand. He leads her to the entrance of the building.
A light comes on in the upper right corner of the building. The red brick is slightly yellowed by it,
but sƟll infused with the purple of a sky just before sunrise.
A curtain twitches, but I can see no one. I’m sure I know who is there.
The man with the monocle brushes his unruly hair back with his leŌ hand. He laughs a laugh that
could break glass.
He kneels before the tall woman.
She is her own statue. She knows that she is a monument of womanhood in that early morning.
She is sure of her command over every male of the species.
The man reaches out to her and she offers her hand.
He bows his head and kisses the hand.
From the east, the sun peeks out.
Her golden tuxedo comes to life, reflecƟng the narrow beam of light that has just emerged.
She Ɵps her head forward and the top hat drops with a graceful somersault into her hand.
She laughs a laugh that would break the heart of Mozart.
She takes her hand back from the kneeling man.
She enters the building.
Above, the light goes out.
The man with the monocle takes a chair off one of the outdoor tables of the café.
He reaches beneath it.
He starts arranging pieces for a game of chess.

296

Revista Adelaide
About the Author:
Mark J. Mitchell studied wriƟng at UC Santa Cruz
under Raymond Carver, George Hitchcock and
Barbara Hull. His work has appeared in various
periodicals over the last thirty five years, as well
as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places,
Hunger Enough, Retail Woes and Line Drives. It
has also been nominated for both Pushcart Prizes
and The Best of the Net. He is the author of two
full-length collecƟons, Lent 1999 (Leaf Garden
Press) and Soren Kierkegaard Witnesses an Execu-
Ɵon (Local Gems) as well as two chapbooks, Three
Visitors (NegaƟve Capability Press) and ArƟfacts
and Relics, (Folded Word). His novel, Knight Pris-
oner, is available from Vagabondage Press and a
new novel is forthcoming: The Magic War (Loose
Leaves Publishing). He lives in San Francisco with
his wife, the documentarian and acƟvist Joan
Juster where he makes a living showing people
preƩy things in his city.

297

Adelaide Magazine

DIALOGUES OF THE POOL

By Christopher Perricone

I remember Firefighter
The dialogues of the pool,
Interlocutors bobbing, I am a firefighter,
The chlorine waves Veteran of the High Sierras,
Smacking their nipples, Decorated in the South Bronx.
Currents of their children's urine, I've made fire
The pool's boƩom painted blue. To stop fire.
What men they were, I've prayed for snow.
Their dilemmas, I've been lost
Their cigars and sunglasses, Among rats
Taking a dunk, making a point, Inside crumbling labyrinths.
Then slicking back I've seen many
Their strands like LaƟn lovers. Things beyond recogniƟon
What women: I'd rather not recall.
Always nearby, floaƟng, I am a firefighter.
Their biceps like water wings, On Sundays I study the sun.
That would support I monitor the wind.
A weak link in an old man's heart. I wait for a break
Theirs was a man-made world, In the clouds.
Completely filtered, With my magnifying glass,
Like the homes in the suburbs I seize all that Sunday's light,
In which they lived. Reduced to a pinpoint
And though they chose In the palm of my hand.
To be bound by I cry: I am a firefighter!
Canned memberships, safe, How it burns.
Where milk runs smoother How I love to fight.
Than blood, and not so deep,
They chose, too,
That communion of words in water,
And so they knew of the sea,
How it harbors
The crimes of our origins,
They must have known it:
The wheezing chest
Of so many unlucky ends.

298