Experience the Wealth of Fabulous Writing
Reward Publishing
In honor of National Poetry Day October, 8, 2015 we are featuring a famous poet from the past, published by Schocken Books, Inc.
THE STORY OF YOU
You are one of the many chapters in a book.
You are hidden words that some can’t understand;
vague as a gray wall.
You are a mathematical equation that only fools try to solve.
You are the worth
of the message.
You are deeper word by word, like the depth of the blue, salty sea.
You have ups and downs,
beginnings and endings.
You contain dilemmas and doubts, problems and consequences.
You possess tragedy and catastrophe,
courage and bliss.
You are amazing to those who look closely to find you.
By: Caleb Ward
ELEGY FOR HER BROTHER SAKHR
Cry out for Sakhr when a dove with necklaces
mourns gray in the valley.
When warriors put on light woven armor,
swords are the color of smooth salt
and bows groan and wail,
and bending spears are wet.
Giving, not weak,
brave like the predatory wood lion
of Bisha, he battles for friends
and kinsmen, who are like the lion,
whom he defends whether of the village
or wanderers on the desert.
When the wind howled his people were happy
as a wind of dust blew under a freezing cloud.
By: Al-Khansa (575-646 A.D.)
(Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone (eds.) Women Poets from Antiquity to Now Schocken Books, Inc. New York, 1992. p.92)
PAYING FOR KISSES
We ignored the price tag on love
because we knew it was out of our means.
We barely had enough budgets for
the slamming doors, the silent nights.
Who can afford this commitment
or fundraise energy for this mission?
Gentleness alone costs all we have.
Selflessness is not a bid item on EBay.
There are no credit cards to borrow kindness;
banks fear the overdraft.
Our parents can’t lend us respect;
infatuation cost them everything too.
We gain, lose, gain, lose—
we have stock market syndrome.
The brawl for tact paid for the smile,
the dance, the calm breakfast.
The fee for faithfulness still is our largest concern.
We always argue who pays more for that bill.
We can’t file taxes on romance;
There’d be no large return anyway.
We can’t get an advance on forgiveness.
Every tear dripped loose is the change in the cushions.
We pay for these kisses
with every I’m sorry,
with every let’s do what you want.
So pricey, so worth it—us.
By: J. Chéri
Al-Khansa was born in Arabia. She is also known by her full name: Tumadir bint Amr ibn al Harith ibn al Sharid. Al-Khansa wrote this poem about her brother who died in a 'tribal battle before the coming of Islam'
(Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone (eds.) Women Poets from Antiquity to Now Schocken Books, Inc. New York, 1992. p.92)
Caleb Ward is currently a student at the University of Cincinnati in Ohio. There he is studying Business Management. Caleb enjoys the beauty of language and delights in writing during his spare time.
F.X.LaChapelle lives in Anchorage, Alaska. He holds degrees from Willamette University and Stanford University. His poems have appeared in the DMQ Review, Blue Skirt Productions, Silver Birch Press, Electric Cereal and he has been anthologized in Beyond the Pall. He can be found online at fxlachapelle.tumblr.com.
EXTRACTION
But the magical bones
of the children so hopefully
soft and unacquainted
with the sting, well of course
they did snap and pop
and break, first
as they were raped and tossed
between the mercenaries
already high on honey-
oil, a sort of spoil of raid
as this was no war, and then again
as the dogs divided
what was left, which the women
in their finest spring day waiting
ironed and tied
watched through vomit;
in turn each was taken
used and burned
to silence. In chorus they droned
prayers begging
for an end that would surely
come but only after
the well was dry, wild-
fire consumed, and the faint
scent of forest
delivered a final
merciful memory.
Their men too beat
with their limbs
and screams
at the buzz of flight
so numerous in number
as they fell like pollen
from the planes, and their lives
sex frothed in the sea
but it was not the birth
of any beauty or goddess, save
a secure pipeline
a cheaper crude, a saccharin
regional security resolution.
By F.X.LaChapelle
Zuri Zephyrus has pursued her love of art and words since she was a little girl.Through her work, she expresses an appreciation for nature and fantasy. Both her art and poetry have been featured in literary magazines such as Driftwood and the Promethean.
Zuri currently resides in New York, USA where she continues to study in the field of Fine Arts.
FULL MOON
I am at the most elevated level.
This constant metamorphosis is doing away with me.
It’s quite a dilemma,
I must admit.
Soulful insubordination;
I stand so high.
The air is thinning out
as it wraps me in maybes.
I know it’s nothing but a self-defense mechanism:
heart running wild at the sight of the moon.
By Zuri Zephyrus
Hal O’Leary, having retired from a life in the theatre at age 84, has turned to writing. Now, at age 90, he has been published in 18 countries. Hal believes that it is only through the arts that one is afforded an occasional glimpse into the otherwise incomprehensible. For his contributions to the arts, he is a recent recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from West Liberty. University.
A SILKEN SCARF
My love for her will be a silken scarf,
As I would want for me a silken scarf.
I’ll pledge to her a solemn fervent vow.
True love is gracefully a silken scarf.
A brilliant metaphor for love is this,
To close your eyes and see a silken scarf.
The cloth of love is loosely to be worn
And as accessory, a silken scarf.
To keep my love as what I first admired,
My love for her will be a silken scarf.
By Hal O'Leary
Maranda Russell is an award-winning artist, author, poet and blogger/vlogger who also has four published books available in ebook and paperback form. She has also had the honor of having her art and writing published in a wide variety of magazines, literary journals and anthologies. You can visit Maranda's website/blog, www.marandarussell.com
PATCHWORK QUILT
My personality
is a patchwork quilt.
I study others
when they aren't watching -
the gifted,
the artistic,
the emotional,
the exposed,
the stubborn
and the unstable types.
I pick bits and pieces
from each -
a playful smirk,
a rebellious glare,
a dash of blue
and the sharp edge
of a razor blade.
I throw them all together
and sift through the details
until it looks like me.
By Maranda Russell
Julian J. Cobian is a Mexican/American poet who resides in London. He is currently completing his MFA at Kingston University.
IN THE EAVES
I focus on a forehead.
Pause.
Eyes glance forward.
A smile follows like the first
gleam of a sunset on a veranda.
She stands like a
flower vase
beneath the shelves.
She’s indirect light,
making her beauty
my alcove—
a stance in obscurity,
a nimble light that suffuses a rare tranquility,
a dark place that draws mysterious convictions.
In such a room,
I write where my ink is thinnest.
Discern
my window built for her,
my window shield,
my windowsill for reading.
A view; where
the pale white paper is powerless
to dispel the heavy darkness.
She is my invisible ink between the lines.
By Julian J. Cobian
Neringa Pangonyte was awarded an MA in Creative Writing and Publishing at Kingston University in London in 2012.
Neringa writes poetry and prose in both Lithuanian and English and currently working on a humour novel in English and philosophical literary novel in Lithuanian. She is a crafts, chess and ginger addict, but her greatest passion from all is reading. She currently lives in Lithuania.
CLAUSTROPHOBIA
Plane soup in the sky at five in the morning.
Noise and signals of someone lacking oxygen.
I’m awake to catch up with peace on earth
before builders start work and neighbours complain.
“Life sucks, this life drives me mad” you would say.
I want to delete you. Silence, my fellow.
I’m not sure what scares me about the underground.
Worms smashing into disappointed bodies from time to time.
Wieldy crowds hurrying to be spread
and solitude in the car on the last train.
“It’s accomplished, functional and well-conditioned” you would say.
I agree, but it screws up my neatly done hair.
Lift smells like it has just been cleaned.
I can even see my to-be-questioned soul in the mirror.
Framed notice to pay rent into new account, printed in red.
Overtaking visions of a squeezed brain.
Thoughts to survive until it hits the ground.
“But that’s impossible” you would say.
And I say “Shut up” and smack you dead.
It’s hard to live with you.
By Neringa Pangonyte
2015 Featured Poets!
Julia Rose Lewis is currently working towards her MFA at Kingston University in London, England.
She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry. Her poetry is often driven and inspired by her scientific training.
She lives on Nantucket island and is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket. Her poems have been published in Lemmon Hummus and Other Stories, Tips for Throwing a House Warming Party in a Small Space, Rasputin: A Poetry Thread, and Poetic Medicine.
WINNING
AFTER MARK LEVINE
Her first horse
was small pony tall.
On the dust road, they would go
serpentining through the potholes.
They circled the cul de sacs
in ten meter circles
like a dressage test,
practicing for a three-day event.
She thought she must stand up
over the speed bumps,
two-point position,
or race home,
chrome flashing eye-white
like stadium jumping,
before returning to
live in a small shed called Mouse House.
The backyard was too small for a paddock, but
she was too small to know.
Real horses don't rust.
By Julia Rose Lewis