tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73304748428982691622024-03-27T16:53:34.852-07:00Graffiti-kolkataThis is our blogzine.We have been publishing stuff for a long long time in Bangla, now it is time for something in English.React and Shout like you always have.The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-48442645609278984132014-10-23T21:05:00.002-07:002014-10-23T21:11:22.832-07:0066 Lines On Your Soul<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
Now you can start pre-ordering our new chap book of poems '66 Lines On Your Soul' jointly By Catfish McDaris, Kevin Ridgeway and Subhankar Das. Mail us or contact the writers.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sz_JvLdGmhI/VEnPzQ8s3aI/AAAAAAAABFE/WvqOmCVYvhY/s1600/66%2Blines%2BOn%2BYour%2BSoul%2B1st%2Bpage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sz_JvLdGmhI/VEnPzQ8s3aI/AAAAAAAABFE/WvqOmCVYvhY/s400/66%2Blines%2BOn%2BYour%2BSoul%2B1st%2Bpage.jpg" /></a></div>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-33568169979032655932014-10-18T22:30:00.002-07:002014-10-18T22:35:54.280-07:00Coffee Break<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<br />
Am I having the flu I thought?<br />
As my muscles screamed in pain<br />
and stiffness.<br />
Who the fuck knew I am having<br />
a coffee withdrawal.<br />
No coffee at home for a week now.<br />
Not trying to give up just did not have it for a while<br />
as it has become too stiff.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I also suffer from soul mate withdrawal <br />
Though I very well know that it happens <br />
only in best sellers and you hardly can sail<br />
a real life situation.<br />
<br />
One day I will get inside her world of fantasies<br />
with a whip real hungry for her skin<br />
and she will start loving her nightmares.<br />
<br />
For now I feel great after a mug of black coffee dark as night<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6s6pSOZ5s9U/VENMNuVB0fI/AAAAAAAABEw/m89-1QW1Qkg/s1600/joe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6s6pSOZ5s9U/VENMNuVB0fI/AAAAAAAABEw/m89-1QW1Qkg/s320/joe2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Painting By Jocelyne Desforges<br />
Poem By Subhankar DasThe Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-64436529346021359072014-06-02T07:36:00.000-07:002014-06-02T07:36:09.811-07:00Thieves Of The Wind By Subhankar Das and Catfish McDaris<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>Remembering Tennyson`s words,<br />
“Vex not thou the poet`s mind<br />
With thy shallow wit<br />
Vex not thou the poet`s mind<br />
For thou canst not fathom it”<br />
<br />
Perhaps in an earthly life full of chaos, like the lungs that need fresh air,<br />
the mind longs for true happiness. The poems of Subhankar Das<br />
in ‘Thieves of the Wind’ is a bold attempt to claim one`s sky where<br />
mind burdened with loveless materialistic modern life harkens to<br />
recollections, the golden reminiscences of the past days. The<br />
metaphysical void by their absence stifles, suffocates, provokes to steal<br />
moments to live all over again, to breathe to celebrate life.<br />
Hopelessness of unrequited love pervades in most of the poems and<br />
yet we find a mature mind deeply reflective by a dimension of human<br />
experience. In his poems Subhankar Das gives us a slice of his inner<br />
self while presenting the human dilemmas, pain and most strikingly a<br />
glimpse of a ‘feeling’ heart of the poet that beats furiously for love and<br />
the delicate sentiments. The lines : “I am just a coward/trying to hang<br />
on” articulate the pangs of lost love like death. The poet celebrates the<br />
guts ‘to love’ in the poem ‘Backbone’ in the lines : “At least let them<br />
enjoy life/which is making me impotent” and “I even gave them free<br />
condoms”. When the integral part of soul`s bliss is disturbed by<br />
materialism and loveless modern times, what results is the disruption<br />
of harmony and the eternal restlessness, the desperate attempts to live<br />
knowing well the butt ends of romantic evenings, as in the<br />
poem ‘Smoking’ : “you always smell of tobacco/but I am used to it”.<br />
The bitterness continues in the loveless love-making in ‘And it doesn`t<br />
always taste like chocolate’ : “May be there were a few house lizards/<br />
which ran paused and ran again/up in the ceiling and a limp cock/which<br />
I forgot to notice”. The exhausted mind rebels in ‘Up for sale’, a satirical<br />
banter not at all on decadence but a loveless mechanical life, “God why<br />
I am not a woman/then there won`t be this headache/to make it extra<br />
long, extra strong/and I am even having trouble/in getting it up these<br />
days”. The longing is omnipresent in ‘The Wait’ and ‘The Missing<br />
Moon’ : “Only the naked lamps glared all around”. The reminiscences<br />
of the past days are all transient : “But someone is erasing everything<br />
with a rubber”. Even memories are scathed by time and the sulking<br />
desiccated materialism.<br />
The ‘Honey’ is a fine escapade into the trifle of the mind, relishing in<br />
the dilemma whether to indulge into the captivation or to celebrate the<br />
emancipated soul, the freedom of the spirit like the butterfly : “ Should<br />
I just eat it up or kill it and stick it up on my fridge..”. It peeks into the<br />
extended vision of the poet that comprehends the freedom of the soul<br />
against the terrestrial desires.<br />
The poems in the hand of a mature artist embodies the spirit of modern<br />
times, marked by the bold and passionate expressions.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OIpB5hrng5E/U4yK5QnsFqI/AAAAAAAAA_U/V0sIBd8mCnc/s1600/10255656_314728908685049_6005977685558853657_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OIpB5hrng5E/U4yK5QnsFqI/AAAAAAAAA_U/V0sIBd8mCnc/s320/10255656_314728908685049_6005977685558853657_o.jpg" /></a></div>The poems of Catfish McDaris are replete with bootlegged pleasure<br />
and with the punches of fantasy one wouldn`t mind to revel in reveries.<br />
The language crisp with not any overdose of humor tickles your funny<br />
bone. Again with eloquence of a story teller he relentlessly derides<br />
the peccadilloes, the derelict culture that distorts the normal social<br />
milieu. We find his stories subtle with didactic undertone like the<br />
bewildered father Mongo in ‘Comanche Java’. Junita, his daughter,<br />
emerges from dating losers to procuring a degree and a decent job.<br />
His stories forsake pedantry and with deftness of prudent artist, he<br />
peeks into the psyche of the characters. With their precarious traits and<br />
eccentricities, they break forth the stereotypes as, “Rick hated black<br />
people”. He would “fart up the living room and laugh and then stink<br />
up the bathroom and not flush the toilet”. Joe had “a terrible gambling<br />
problem” – a deleterious habit that ruins his prospects. Bill claimed to<br />
be a vegetarian and crammed down mouthfuls of pork chops, chicken<br />
or steak and “chewed with his mouth open”.<br />
‘Lipstick on a Pig’ is another brilliant write up that addresses the alcohol<br />
and drug problems: “There is no cure for alcoholism, my drug of choice,<br />
along with plenty of other seriously bad habits but with training and<br />
perseverance, you can relearn how to be human a day at a time”. The<br />
aftermath of drug abuse is expressed in lines “I don`t know if the acid,<br />
weed, cocaine, heroin, glue, cough syrup, peyote, and mushrooms<br />
robbed me of my brain cells…How I walk a razor blade and ask God`s,<br />
family and your forgiveness”. We find his perspicacious derision against<br />
the social evils in the poem ‘Phalanxes of Tombstones’ : “There`s no<br />
such/Thing as revolution, it`s just another word/meaning leap frog of<br />
the rich, so they can/buy a bit of power with the blood of the poor.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>By Paromita Bhattacharjee</b>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-90375717210812742682012-11-29T06:08:00.000-08:002012-11-29T06:08:11.517-08:00WOLVESOUL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
we<br />
are<br />
<br />
taken in secret<br />
wolves of the soul<br />
<br />
our<br />
prey<br />
<br />
taken in secret<br />
<br />
wolves<br />
soul<br />
<br />
prey<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Jim Wittenberg</b><br />
<br />
11/24/2012The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-77948019927298180462012-10-20T22:19:00.000-07:002012-10-20T22:19:22.436-07:00action, not behavior<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
action<br />
not<br />
behavior<br />
behavior<br />
not<br />
action<br />
<br />
it's better when words<br />
mean<br />
nothing<br />
too many clues<br />
people think/believe<br />
they understand<br />
you<br />
<br />
as a shaman<br />
as an artist<br />
as a poet<br />
<br />
the truth is they mean<br />
nothing<br />
<br />
you have no reason for embellishments<br />
<br />
do something<br />
no one remembers<br />
<br />
---<br />
<b>Jim Wittenberg<br />
10/20/2012</b>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-22419228396541067192012-10-16T10:11:00.001-07:002012-10-16T10:11:40.700-07:002 new poems By Catfish McDaris<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
Jupiter’s Great Red Spot<br />
<br />
I got a job as a delivery man,<br />
in my first week the last address<br />
of the day was to a tavern on<br />
a seldom used street<br />
<br />
The door was open, but the<br />
place was filled with shadows,<br />
except for a bright spot light<br />
radiating a pulsing red aura<br />
<br />
A naked lady in sparkling stiletto<br />
heels, built like a brick shithouse,<br />
wearing a Scarlet O Hara hat, & a<br />
smile jabbed me in the eyes with<br />
her dynamite volcano nipples<br />
<br />
“Do you have a package for me?”<br />
she stared at my stone boner,<br />
I could’ve jacked up a Thunderbird<br />
with four flat tires, all I managed<br />
was to shake my head, affirmatively<br />
<br />
She led me to the back pool room<br />
& I sunk the eight over & over again,<br />
she poured me a single malt whiskey<br />
& we played until my stick got tired.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mountain Splashes Gone<br />
<br />
Rainy mornings in your arms<br />
the sky a purple bruise<br />
cedar fire under blacken coffee pot<br />
ponderosa pine & blue spruce shadows<br />
velvet slopes & valleys<br />
<br />
Anasazi ghosts dance above<br />
crumbled adobe & stone kivas<br />
shards of fading pottery<br />
basalt flint arrowheads<br />
<br />
Elk antlers locked<br />
in battles never finished<br />
skeletons bleached sun white<br />
<br />
Streams sing to rocks naked<br />
red dogwoods blush while cutthroat<br />
trout wait for dragonflies.<br />
The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-76943792511661879232012-05-09T21:55:00.001-07:002012-05-09T21:55:28.308-07:00Home Front<br />
<br />
I can’t make any money working from home<br />
Not with you around<br />
Brushing out your hair<br />
Softly singing Beatles songs<br />
And wearing my Ramones shirt<br />
And those French school girl underpants<br />
I can’t make any money working from home<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>By-Doug Mathewson</b><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-86176114500063500322012-03-18T08:20:00.000-07:002012-03-18T08:20:19.097-07:00New Poem<br />
<br />
<b>Advice</b><br />
<br />
the young man stood reproving me:<br />
you see this is the age of the asshole<br />
you have to be an asshole to get ahead<br />
everyone is an asshole<br />
I had to learn how to be an asshole<br />
then I had to learn how to be a bigger asshole<br />
I have a master’s degree in asshole<br />
the only thing you can trust<br />
is that everyone is an asshole<br />
you didn’t teach me to be an asshole<br />
your friends aren’t assholes<br />
those old beat soldiers saw the asshole as an old comrade<br />
the academic old men gloried in the products of the asshole<br />
reams of old man shit fill the libraries<br />
Dr. Williams would say today that<br />
there are a lot of assholes out there<br />
the wrinkled hole, the nether eye, the backdoor, the crab like joker,<br />
no talent texting driver<br />
parking space grubber<br />
the one your lover always leaves you for<br />
bully neighbor<br />
if you are not an asshole – you are an asshole<br />
it takes one to know one<br />
I am learning to be a real hole in the ass<br />
your ears are little hairy holes like your asshole<br />
every word I say is going into your asshole<br />
and every word you say from now on<br />
is your asshole talking through you<br />
that new: job, book contract, lover<br />
awaits you<br />
you lucky assholes<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Bob Rosenthal</b><br />
December 26, 2011The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-90452640156908940602012-03-09T09:49:00.001-08:002012-03-09T09:49:42.900-08:00Sketches By Sharmy Pandey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t-NXTIWtXOY/T1pCbpa5lQI/AAAAAAAAAig/E-WjykQrzqQ/s1600/subhankar-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t-NXTIWtXOY/T1pCbpa5lQI/AAAAAAAAAig/E-WjykQrzqQ/s320/subhankar-1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9gSotSNpAUY/T1pCcDeaaSI/AAAAAAAAAis/RPwxnHMKMIg/s1600/subhankar-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="219" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9gSotSNpAUY/T1pCcDeaaSI/AAAAAAAAAis/RPwxnHMKMIg/s320/subhankar-2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5m6r583l2A/T1pCcheNtFI/AAAAAAAAAi4/qttJDPJpqJE/s1600/subhankar-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="215" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V5m6r583l2A/T1pCcheNtFI/AAAAAAAAAi4/qttJDPJpqJE/s320/subhankar-3.jpg" /></a></div>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-68199394251503604332012-01-19T19:00:00.000-08:002012-01-19T19:00:04.227-08:00Graffiti Kolkata # Volume - 1 # Jan 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LFKyyvXePFY/TxjYbA2QLSI/AAAAAAAAAg8/dXEGuIvorAA/s1600/final-cover_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="243" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LFKyyvXePFY/TxjYbA2QLSI/AAAAAAAAAg8/dXEGuIvorAA/s320/final-cover_web.jpg" /></a></div>
My guest editing stint with Prathamoto ends. So all the writings selected for this magazine along with the cover painting now will be included in our new print zine Graffiti Kolkata which comes to you from the pavements of Kolkata and it will be out of press within a weeks time. The volume - 1 features poetry by heart-hugging, experimental writers of the world....
Adam Henry Carriere,Craig Scott, Catfish Mc Daris, Gary Cummiskey, Doug Mathewson, Henry Denander, Kyle Allan, Barbara Sue Mink Spalding, Yannis Livadas, Sayak Ghosh, Kevin M Hibsman, Jim Wittenberg, Rajarshi Chattopadhyay, Misti Rainwater Lites, Arunabh Banerjee, Subhankar Das, Falguni Roy, Michael Mc Aloran,John Swain, Lynn Alexander, Sharmy Pandey...
<b>Spread the word....</b>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-78121242369732865212011-12-27T05:30:00.000-08:002011-12-27T05:30:19.674-08:00A new poetry chap book<object width="440" height="330"><param name="movie" value="http://www.lulu.com/viewer/embed/EmbeddablePreviewer.swf?version=20111206124946"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars" value="contentId=12273095&endpoint=http://www.lulu.com/author/previews/preview_endpoint.php"></param><embed src="http://www.lulu.com/viewer/embed/EmbeddablePreviewer.swf?version=20111206124946" flashvars="contentId=12273095&endpoint=http://www.lulu.com/author/previews/preview_endpoint.php" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" allowScriptAccess="always" width="440" height="330"></embed></object>
<a href="http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/by-the-banks-of-the-ajoy-jaideb-vanishes-into-the-blue/18769743?showPreview">http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/by-the-banks-of-the-ajoy-jaideb-vanishes-into-the-blue/18769743?showPreview</a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-28161388127814620782011-10-30T22:16:00.000-07:002011-10-30T22:17:43.793-07:00After School SpecialEven at nineteen, Bavie knew “broken hearts” were just for kids. <br />Softly humming as she burns her cloths from last night,<br />flicking her light blade hand-to-hand.<br />Then, with a harsh sudden snicker, she whispers too loud,<br />“Who cares where it all splatters!”<br /><br />by-<span style="font-weight:bold;">Doug Mathewson</span>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-73503513867169262902011-10-06T23:04:00.000-07:002011-10-06T23:08:12.914-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 19 # October 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtFyubj2TcY/To6XQ7mLgpI/AAAAAAAAAeI/WkR7O0vmm3g/s1600/210856_10150329619018347_665363346_8289955_1995473402_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtFyubj2TcY/To6XQ7mLgpI/AAAAAAAAAeI/WkR7O0vmm3g/s320/210856_10150329619018347_665363346_8289955_1995473402_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660628098782823058" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-78740730735427132942011-09-06T23:56:00.001-07:002011-09-06T23:58:36.931-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 18 # September 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gI0l4VTDTIY/TmcWElnssNI/AAAAAAAAAdw/w6GeOmaZQLQ/s1600/gkblynnalexandersept2011.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gI0l4VTDTIY/TmcWElnssNI/AAAAAAAAAdw/w6GeOmaZQLQ/s320/gkblynnalexandersept2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649508525633482962" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-77589291586276174192011-08-27T02:48:00.000-07:002011-08-27T02:52:59.676-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 17 # August 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7_5HH_yZ7Js/Tli-Eq8Yf1I/AAAAAAAAAdQ/n7pmU8iN32o/s1600/brd_aug_11_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7_5HH_yZ7Js/Tli-Eq8Yf1I/AAAAAAAAAdQ/n7pmU8iN32o/s320/brd_aug_11_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645471120365223762" /></a>
<br />The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-45436764158395623392011-07-04T01:51:00.001-07:002011-07-04T01:56:34.273-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 16 # July 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6VZQlvx4EPY/ThF_cJiaWQI/AAAAAAAAAbY/GoEIn-Nly6M/s1600/brd_jul_11-2_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6VZQlvx4EPY/ThF_cJiaWQI/AAAAAAAAAbY/GoEIn-Nly6M/s320/brd_jul_11-2_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625417531135777026" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-73653865388489665912011-06-13T09:13:00.000-07:002011-06-13T09:16:04.938-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 15 # June2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRR0ZhFnRFiNOXEm6gcU3DCyoGlliIejVGedDRxgCd_bIwuA59JEBs3sHev-YgXuCqPkxJRhc1Q71pRjSSy97rjs3vtCrZozCvI3X0fqcbelLNZydKa1TtgQHGJGP56x8nBXg2gn19tCtJ/s1600/gkb15-june-2011_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRR0ZhFnRFiNOXEm6gcU3DCyoGlliIejVGedDRxgCd_bIwuA59JEBs3sHev-YgXuCqPkxJRhc1Q71pRjSSy97rjs3vtCrZozCvI3X0fqcbelLNZydKa1TtgQHGJGP56x8nBXg2gn19tCtJ/s320/gkb15-june-2011_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617738866152990034" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-68057199733249820452011-04-30T21:06:00.000-07:002011-04-30T21:08:20.155-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 14 # April'11<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ueDrg6NEIJY/Tbzcq2Hf-2I/AAAAAAAAAaU/lnl5A4aDWHI/s1600/brd_0411_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ueDrg6NEIJY/Tbzcq2Hf-2I/AAAAAAAAAaU/lnl5A4aDWHI/s320/brd_0411_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601594665181641570" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-75610826974955785722011-03-22T06:54:00.000-07:002011-03-22T06:57:33.854-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 13 # March'11<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i34RMXzch1s/TYiqxPzX_FI/AAAAAAAAAZY/9NVDsGV7Yi8/s1600/brd_0311_final_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i34RMXzch1s/TYiqxPzX_FI/AAAAAAAAAZY/9NVDsGV7Yi8/s320/brd_0311_final_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586903100785425490" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com170tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-67097357887108681042011-03-02T09:44:00.000-08:002011-03-03T23:50:16.553-08:00Review--"Sky Dreaming" by Gary Cummiskey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AcEAY85pD5M/TXCZqehEdNI/AAAAAAAAAY8/I9gRIiKyJXA/s1600/sky%2Bdreaming.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AcEAY85pD5M/TXCZqehEdNI/AAAAAAAAAY8/I9gRIiKyJXA/s320/sky%2Bdreaming.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580128893337367762" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span><br /><br /><br />It isn’t often that I am taken by surprise with a chap in the small press…especially one that I didn’t seek out myself. Subhankar Das, editor of Graffiti Kolkata, recently sent me Gary Cummiskey’s “Sky Dreaming”. I had never heard of Gary prior to this and I set to reading it short bursts rather than put it on the pile to read which is ever growing.<br /> <br />“Sky Dreaming” is a healthy mix of touching observations scattered between prose poem pieces that leaving you wonder exactly where you have been, or maybe better, where the author has been. They aren’t so bizarre you cannot relate, yet they make you feel like an uncomfortable watcher. The poems that grab the most are sparse of word, but heaving on feeling and meaning.<br /> <br />The opening poem “Immortal” sets you up for the entire collection, as an opening poem should, by gripping you with a sense of infinity and finality at the same time:<br /> <br />“Last night, feeling suicidal,<br />I leapt over the balcony<br />and landed flat on my back<br />in the garden below.<br />Lying there, I looked up<br />at the sky and saw how empty<br />it was, apart from a few<br />insignificant stars.<br />Now I know I am immortal.”<br /> <br />Gary touches on other subjects like the juxtaposition of science and religion in poems “Animals” and “I telephoned God”. He explores a visceral strangeness in “Alien” and the ragged endings to an old nurse in “Moon woman”:<br /> <br />“She has thin, pointed breasts and a rose in her hair, as the crescent<br />moon slides into her mouth like a hard cock.”<br /> <br />Cummiskey dabbles in his own brand of love and sexuality in poems like “Afterwards”, “Intimate Lives”, and “You Lead Me”. This last poem feels like an enticement to a lover….a calling to bring them back by telling them all that they have given or shown him:<br /> <br />“You lead me<br /> Through letters smeared with caresses and sperm<br /> Through the music of lonely politicians’ pipes<br /> Through a landscape where you and I are alone<br /> <br />I want you to touch me<br />I want you to feel me.”<br /> <br />If bizarre and surreal are your cups of tea, then be sure to check out the poems “Alien”, “Summoned”, “A day at the races”, “Meat” and “In chains”. Gary Cummiskey also makes comment on the life of African-American Beat Poet Bob Kaufman in the poems “Between floors” and “Sinclair and the Great Dane”.<br /> <br />The poem that touched me the most and really drew me in was a prose poem entitled “Takeover” and it was one of those works that makes you sad and frightened and angry at the same time…the emotions swirled together in a subversive way that leaves you unsure of how we survive the disparity of our humanity. “Takeover”:<br /> <br />“Five years old. The parents take him to the hospital. He doesn’t<br />know what hospital is. The parents leave. He watches a child in<br />another ward get an injection in the head. Both scream simultaneously.<br />A nurse calms the new arrival and gives him ice cream<br />and comics. The next morning they take him to the operating<br />theatre. He wakes up sick, without tonsils. There’s blue vomit in<br />the basin. The parents are not around. Something else has taken over.”<br /> <br /> <br />This collection of poems, “Sky Dreaming” by Gary Cummiskey”, has a little bit of everything for whatever your tastes. You can purchase this from Graffiti Kolkata which is based out of India. Check out this title and others at: www.graffiti-kolkata-chaps.blogspot.com<br /> <br />Take a leap on this one. You won’t be sorry.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Review by Aleathia Drehmer</span>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-56926014608700674752010-10-31T01:22:00.000-07:002010-10-31T01:26:36.385-07:00A Graffiti Publication, 17 years back.....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TM0nfu0FpII/AAAAAAAAAXw/eqiHLx29hB8/s1600/New+Image2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TM0nfu0FpII/AAAAAAAAAXw/eqiHLx29hB8/s320/New+Image2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534122943204140162" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TM0nfckmhRI/AAAAAAAAAXo/T8H4E96zDFM/s1600/New+Image1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TM0nfckmhRI/AAAAAAAAAXo/T8H4E96zDFM/s320/New+Image1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534122938307347730" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-18637856229148395482010-10-28T19:57:00.000-07:002010-10-28T20:00:46.712-07:00recogedor d corazones By Titi Buendia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TMo4Wm-yFJI/AAAAAAAAAXc/ft55TU_ZNxg/s1600/titi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TMo4Wm-yFJI/AAAAAAAAAXc/ft55TU_ZNxg/s320/titi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533297053250229394" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-83523672586510773732010-10-23T19:39:00.000-07:002010-10-23T19:43:17.440-07:00Graffiti Kolkata Broadside # Issue 12 # October'10<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TMOdPr7Ui0I/AAAAAAAAAXA/v3qsIaEHhwk/s1600/brd_oct_2010_web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TMOdPr7Ui0I/AAAAAAAAAXA/v3qsIaEHhwk/s320/brd_oct_2010_web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531437660156234562" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-28651904884613590032010-10-10T21:43:00.000-07:002010-10-10T21:53:13.388-07:00Rough Travel by Jeffrey S. CallicoBeyond the mundane lies the secret prompts of an eternity. They allures us as little agent provocateurs in soft, almost silent voices to tear us away from what is every day, routine and filled with murky humdrums.<br /><br />Call of an eternity or the gloom of the daily life, to say which of this is more obscure, is undoubtedly the enigma that mankind desired to solve forever in human history. Poetry is one of those forms that run foremost in attempting to solve this puzzle.<br /><br />But there is a catch here. Infinity is often found in a battling position with the daily. Moments fight against non-moments, what is eternal goes up in arms against the immediate. Love is palpably an obscure emotion we normally associate with eternity. In love we long to associate. Hatred is recognizably momentous. In hatred we strive to dissociate.<br /><br />What better place can there be to experience this inherent violence of this two way journey that fumes, blasts, disintegrates in a fury but then again echoes with the sweetest sounds of longings, than what we call ‘home’.<br /><br />Jeffrey S. Calico, in his recent collection of poems, Rough Travel, touched upon this theme of domestic alienation and pathos in all its subtle nuances but with a certain disenchantment that only a bio-lab’s scalpel has for a corpse on the table.<br /><br />In one of the most beautiful short piece in this collection, he says,<br /><br />Inferred<br /><br />The talk we had<br /><br />The other day was<br /><br />Not worth our breath<br /><br />You keep to yourself<br /><br />I keep myself to you<br /><br />Jeffrey, I believe, has that rare talent of speaking a sea even when he is only talking about a dew drop.<br /><br />And to slightly add on to that I would say the poet in Jeff can truly work miracles with the most ordinary objects and behavior found in any household as such. In his poems they break away from their known relations and fondles into other unknown ones.<br /><br />Gravity<br /><br />The sound I make<br />Rising wakes the<br /><br />Kid then the house<br />Is in its fullness<br /><br />There is no escape<br />From the television<br /><br />The cathode nipple<br />Still needs sucking.<br /><br />Use of cathode next to nipple opens up a port that spills drudgery, boredom and something violently erotic at the same time.<br /><br />Thanks to Graffiti-Kolkata for bringing in such a beautiful collection to us.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Review article : Sarbajit Sarkar</span>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7330474842898269162.post-29095684835464603452010-09-23T12:46:00.000-07:002010-09-23T12:51:05.515-07:00RIP Sweetheart..... We Love You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TJuvoUiDVfI/AAAAAAAAAVw/5MeYg8yw144/s1600/040110+080.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CTy___PKvkQ/TJuvoUiDVfI/AAAAAAAAAVw/5MeYg8yw144/s320/040110+080.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520198875513837042" /></a>The Moving Ihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12895992851883740627noreply@blogger.com0