Art & literatures emerging from everywhere in this planet

The indispensable face, by Djelloul Marbrook

in Fiction by
doodling

Of how many faces can you say, I’m glad I won’t be leaving this place without having seen that face? I don’t mean the faces, necessarily, of loved ones. I mean instead those relatively few faces one is glad, truly glad, not to have missed.

They will differ, of course, for different people. Given the plethora of media in our times, we see many more faces than most people would have seen in earlier times, and we’re influenced by editorial and curatorial ideas about beauty.

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The Man With Six Hands and Other Poems, by Michael Meyerhofer

in Poetry by
michaelmeyerhoffer

THE MAN WITH SIX HANDS

May not have seen
the face of God
but he made a wicked
swimmer, so many
chlorinated molecules passing
between his fingers
that he blurred
towards the finish line
where a blue-
eyed sweetheart
with brothers in the war
smiled and knelt as
she held the towel open.

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Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick and Other Poems, by George Drew

in Poetry by
georgedrew

Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick

He really wanted to go today,
but didn’t. Now the man reclines
in his recliner, watching on his wall
to wall flatscreen images of the most

recent apocalyptic carnage flash
one after another, specters there
then not there, entanglements
of grief and sorrow, anger, and relief

that he is here and not there. Here,
the man rubs his hot crotch, rubs up
and down, each rub aligned to wave
lengths of photons streaming in

and out of his flatscreen. He rubs
and rubs, and nothing happens,
nothing here and nothing there,
rubs, comforted that at least he still

has them. That he hasn’t lost them.
Even if only shaken and not stirred.

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Stuart Bartow pierces the veil of received ideas and notions

in Book Reviews by

stuartlawnbookStuart Bartow’s poems are a proper antidote to two polarities in American poetry, vapidity and pretension. Squashed between those polarities, the spirit of inquiry goes begging, but not in Bartow’s work. He connects the dots. He does not come across as contemptuous of the butterfly effect, as does the American press in its adamant refusal to connect the dots—a refusal shared by many poets, perhaps in the misguided conviction that it contradicts modernist ideas about poetry.

When the American press called George W. Bush incurious it might well have been talking about itself and a large body of our poetry, which prefers to play it safe, keep it light, and by all means spurn the rhapsodic.

The sonnet is in some ways a form of self-discipline, a way of accustoming oneself to thinking concisely. There is something in its fourteen-line structure that requires you to organize your thoughts into a kind of algorithm that then helps you address enigmas, whether in your daily rounds or in your poetry. Stuart Bartow’s nonce sonnets , published here in Arabesques for the first time, reveal his rigor as a poet and as a seeker after elixirs for the elements of his experiences. Succinctness is not merely about saying something well and sharply, it’s about going to the quick: it’s about quickness.

The poems in Einstein’s Lawn are varied. Some of them are prose poems. There are couplets, metered stanzas, rhymed stanzas, and concrete poems. Because he is writing about Albert Einstein and physics, he has taken care to provide notes lest we’re unfamiliar with the God particle, Glaucus or Absolute Zero.

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