Social-i III

p 2

Editors Letter

As issue 3 began to take form I was delighted to see the exceptional quality and diversity of the poetry and work coming through. This particular issue involved some labour pains and some ongoing negotiation with many of the poets and artists.

Our feature poet for this issue is Hannah Greenburg, Hannah’s poetry stood out to me be-cause it felt very delicate on the tongue but at the same time deals with some very strong and powerful issues and I enjoyed the impact that particular crafting had on me personally. I am also delighted to welcome Sarah Snowneil Ali as emerging poet. Sarah’s work is both well crafted and has a good meter and rhythm, again Sarah has a strong and individual voice which I felt stood in strong contrast to our featured poet but both Hannah & Sarah’s work took some work and many readings as I tried to approach these poems from different angles and moods. The feature poem was chosen for one reason and one reason only, which was that it had been submitted very early on in the year for issue 1 and it was still with me as a poem which brought a new perspective to me by means of its strong imagery and dour humour.

Finally, amongst all the exceptional works in this issue I would to draw attention to the work of Leigh Herrick with Preying Mantra which again was submitted earlier in the year. I did not include Leigh’s work initially due to the strong political nature of issue 2 as I felt I needed to make sure it was not obscured by the other more political works. I implore you to take the time to read this piece aloud as it has a strong aural impact.

As always, Rob Annison-Clark has worked very hard to make this issue have the visual impact that makes Social-i magazine unique and fresh! The images are wonderful, well chosen and well placed.

A huge thanks to all the contributors to this magazine, we have enjoyed reading your work and are delighted to have your work in this edition. We would also like to say a huge thanks to all of you who have followed Social-i magazine from the start and for all your comments of encouragement to us at the Social-i editorial team and the wonderful poets this magazine has brought us into contact with.

p 3

c o n t e n t s

Words -Featured Poet- KJ Hannah Greenberg p.6 -Featured Poem-Porkies by Ponchosteele p.16 -Emerging Poet-Sarah Snowneil Ali p.20 -Other Outstanding Works-Sergio A. Ortiz p.34Peycho Kanev p.35Leila A. Fortier p.36David McLean p.38Leigh Herrick p.42Paul Handley p.51aMan Bloom p.53KJ Hannah Greenberg p.56P.A.Levy p.57

ArtHenry Clayton p.4Alice Woods p.15

Joshua Goymer p.18 & p.58Rosetta Baker p.30 & p.52

Yasmin LaCam p.33Branko Gulin p.40 & p.48

Ernest Williamson III p.54 &p.55

All work contained in Social-i remains property of the indervidual author or artist and is repreduced here with kind permision.

If you wish to submit work please email to editor@social-i.co.ukFor infomation on Social-i please visit www.social-i.co.uk or email info@social-i.co.uk

Edited by Lorraine Kashdan-Lo ugherDesigned by Rob Annison-ClarkFront Cover Detail of ‘Week 14’ by Rosetta Baker

www.social-i.co.uk

p 4 Untitled by Henry Clayton

p 5Untitled by Henry Clayton

p 6

Featured Poet KJ Hannah Greenberg

p 7

Pushcart Prize nominee, KJ Hannah Greenberg, although, infrequently abetted by her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs, spends her time matchmaking words. One of her cutest couples is “balderdash” and “xylophone.” To wit, Hannah has placed her work with hundreds of publications, including:Australia’s Language and Culture Magazine and Antipodean SF, Israel’s Fallopian Falafel, and The Jerusalem Post, the UK’s Morpheus Tales and The Mother Magazine and the USA’s Poetica and The Externalist.

p 8

Ill-Planned Legacies

Young life’s anguish, at some energetic level, unavoidably gets mired with superstitions,

The subsequent analysis of which shows social guardians’ imperfect gneiss. Eponymous to a fault, sanctioned sanity suggests protecting against attack or injury.Nonetheless, upper strata repeatedly insist the onus rests on mundane workings. Cultural norms, it seems, at the cost of greater decay, select worldviews powered by gas,Also uphold the stoichiometry of bilious postulations married to pomp. Whereas selling out, based upon sculpted assumptions, provides odd relief, even laughter,Unplanned pit stops, plus tantrums from lonely children, prove otherwise..Annular ideas, however incipient, explore, evoke and champion the cheat; huffy,Gross displays of caring, of elluvium still wash up which stigmatize dogs and gin.

p 9

My heart’s cry bed,

My heart’s cry bed, its cornerstone craftedFrom motes malevolent, from games ill-drafted,But played, repeatedly, among displaced victimsTheir dogs, their cantaloupes,Or other new-found vice. Prison or party, rum shakes insides Like business negotiated away, while astrideDeferences lingering on the edge; Our mental refrigerators fillWith vast amounts of leafy greens. False accusations, long seasons’ worth,Killed a clerk whose untimely berthPositioned her against unnatural amountsOf stuff employed to defeatCantankerous cardiovascular sickness. Next September, let’s frolic,Makes waves of enzymes anabolic,Chest to chest’s best given Common medications’ effect On attentions misplaced by emotions defrauded. ---------------------------------

p 10

Then the Wind.

Ambergel wisps of newborn hair, amuse bouche of life, materialized,Quickly filled palaces assigned to lasses less vested than our principality?s. Hence her silvered flakes, faceward falling, complex, corded life, involved noBinding. Our designee?s kirtle failed, despite all, couldn?t wholly ward offchilblains.

Swiftly, drugs, heralds, clerics were summoned, adamant to buoy her revisedamnion. Such embryonic buds stay sombulant, like geezers in old, overstuffed chairs,For whom sun, humidity, heat, as well as oxygen hooked to chests, bring life,Beckon support from doctors regarding ?inguinal hernias,? other ?normaldeviations.? Accordingly, select bottom-clothed nurslings, akin to elders, weigh in likecoloredStones. Chert, topaz, lapis. Their short life?s an uncertain journey, twelvemonths at breast,Sans professional redoubt, minus medical portcullises, exclusive of traditionalprotections. Still, the pernicious will to live, to sift obvolute fluids, to strive, toconquer,

Evoking royal dreams of vanquishing quintessence privations, of thwartingTrebuchets, of the worst kind, no matter how often those foes etch vulnerablepia mater. Recall that agrariangroups would compensate their women, were wont to gifteffort.Moderns, unfortunately, ululate nothing for preemies? parents, tribute even lessToward motherhearts whose promontories lay exposed, vestigial structuresshattered.

p 11

When children stop breathing, we would benefit from segregating space, fromtemporalizing,Wee aliquoted selves, their tiny sered limbs, trunks, faces, evermore. ThosechampionsEmerged opposed to fate, ran contrary to strictures for amputated food, drink,love. Consider, that suppression by kin, plus newborn dependence, makes monsters ofinsouciant Institutions of learning, Governance, deviant arts, sinistershadenfreud, each and everyEcho vitriolically among missed, ?righteous? phalangy. Then, schooled men hidetheir ignominy. Thereafter, life?s salt rooms shed more than sweat. Forgetting takes days,years.Sometimes, inhaled ions? powers fall short, counsel misspeaks, solace overlooks.When wrapped in ushanka memories, it?s tough to acknowledge fault. So, medicos continue to task and tally daily, leaving would-be parents embracingbedtimeRetinues filled with lachrymose sighs, dyspeptic trances; childless milk,mislaid smiles.

Lambkins? portentous grasping, sleepless dreams, sweet burps, taste tart underthe yaupons.

p 12

Not the Lavender Hills

It wasn?t the hills behind the school, calling children to pull up lavenderclods.Couldn?t have been the rav praying forward the rain, dew, all other necessarymoisture.Wasn?t the mom benching lecht, profiting The People by reaching heavenward.The mayor was not culpable, nor were the city?s pigeons, those pink-greymessengers. Don?t think on the cabbies, otherwise busied with regret, mercantile dreams,taxes.Traffic didn?t stop because of the factory hands, some sauced with paycheckgalivanting.The hospital marms barely counted as responsible after long days of tending plushousework.I believe, as well, no pensioners chose which buds got harvested beforeflowering. Rather, somewhere, in NGO offices, amanuenses whispered to bosses being humped,Also, at regional press bureaus, hirelings, with scant high school educations,supposed, aloud,As did assistants to the most vainglorious of public officials allegedlyreckoning howClerks, taking salary from would-be captains, might be right that kow-towingcould mollify. Hence, our enemies didn?t need to package themselves among armaments.Those fiends hadn?t had to dirty suits, sully knuckles, bleed from noses, inbattle.As adversaries they?d have been silly to mess with global intrigue given marketcost.Contemporary villains worried not about chipping manicures; they were favoredfor their oil.

p 13

Small Payment for a Protracted Span

Maidenhood?s a small payment for a protracted span of sartorial retribution.Until next season, anyway, prints featuring fields or woods willBe so completely eclipsed by snowflake patterns that fabric stressing forbs,Whether needle, bract, or foliole, might be, perhaps, better served in stagnatepools. Such vigor as communal suppers deal, less their ergotic mistakes,Seem scant remuneration for feeding crowds mind-numbing wastes of time.Stewarts of such events contend, incessantly, that fixations with compellingthoughtsLeave kitchens covered in grease or overwrought by mummified hamsters. It?s nice to acquiesece to those with whom we share the future, yetThat energy remains the province of goodwives needing sugar cubes, not bitters.For all intents and purposes, cultivating bonds means moving past regrets,Indicating who is and who?s not dancing alongside of imperfectly sprungwitnesses.

p 14

Cutting Between Sheets: Fantastic Solutions to Mundane Problems

Cutting between sheets, applying new colors to traditional problems, bringsNuance where encaustic leave-takings, all damar resin, plus beeswax, pigments,Otherwise might soak up the secret burrows indigenous to media watchers. Likewise, collecting premium products; expension du nom,Encourages graduate students to regroup, to unsheathe cell phones,Tame web pages, hold fast to territories of words, images, extra applications. If such youngsters were happenchance trapped without benefit of freshly squeezed

Lemon water, they?d pull nails, expunge traces of bezoars, halitosis, body odor,Boogie some bacchanalias until the sun could glamour half the world?s sequins.

p 15Self II by Alice Woods

p 16

Featured PoemPonchosteele

p 17

Porkies

My pig and me we sit and drink through the night,He’s so silent in his cork-tailed way but we get on just fine,With a crisp white or a full-blooded redWe sit and sow, just on our own,And when they asked,“so who’s the pig?”“well”, I answer, “he’s my friend because without my pigI would be dry”, and they say……..

“Pack up the pork and dry the rind,You’re coming with us, to farm the mind”

“but will there be room for my pig and me?”

“Just you my friend”, they say, “just you.”So the first night there I cried for my pig and his sidewinder tailBut night turned to day to night to dreams of porked claretAnd they had enough and dumped me on the side,

And there I spied, with so dry eyes, on the back of the wagon,My corking pig, and oh how we re-acquainted,We had so much fun that the sun bled dry the rays of your sober waysAnd then we slept, arm in arm, to drink another dayTo the sound of themAnd oh how we laughedUntil they said,“No my friend, it’s terminal, we will soon be saying goodbye.”But we didn’t cry, we carried straight on, drowning their wordsAnd swearing new ones in allegiance to friends, peace, love and everything.

I loved my pig and I loved you.

But now that I lay, in the dark, empty eyes,With just one sidewinder twist, away I am from your lies.

p 18 alt’R’uism by Joshua Goymer

p 19alt’R’uism by Joshua Goymer

p 20

Emerging PoetSarah Snowneil Ali

p 21

Sarah Snowneil Ali is a self proclaimed ‘poetess’ and dreamer from Beirut, Lebanon who founded Atelier Poetica in the Spring of 2009. Atelier Poetica is a project aimed at publishing Arab authors who write in a foreign language. Combining art, poetry, words & literature, through chapbooks, creativity and poems made into art. The Flower Girl, a book of poems, by her is the first completed chapbook by Atelier Poetica and is being sold in Beirut & Dubai.

p 22

Untitled

I would like it to stop.This unrelentingsummer remembranceof unfiltered heatscathing sweatfloating skirtstangled legsour worn out bodiescome the first angry light.Thoughts they tap in at duskalways,my inconsistent determinationto forget youfalters as the sun weepsin the distance of nightfall.Cringing blank solaceof an empty bedmattress of stoneI sink,like drops of humidityon my viewless window.Damned star signsvague compatibilitythe start of us-as clear as our déjà vuour paths crossing on narrow asphaltpolitics, the pressmaybe Beirut is too small for fate.Now,nothing is leftbut my heaving sighsa ragged lament I sing in the night,charred and ruthless is the blame I singe onto my fleshand lie next to your shadow finding there its guiltless mirror.Autumn is now with youin the jacket you wear from coldand hold your hands so rigidin your uncomfortable picture pose.That necklace you wearthe one I’ve tracedas delicately

p 23

as your attachment to it,my hushed fingersgliding on brown beadsstill wrapped around your neckthose same notionsyour Marxist moralsmanifesto so proudyet no regardfor common decency.And I,who’s voice you saidwas too closeon the phone that last timeeluding youin my unattainable proximitythe wince you must have feltknowing my lipswill never be that closeto whisperin your obedient ear,not my shadowed facenow fading,not my burning eyesat your lack of carelike the sudden wind in spring,before your uncautioned charmbefore the sliver of emotion youspat out then ranchildlike and callouson streets too narrow to forget youwhere tight wallshave grazed your skinchipped off and bleeding,left open on your damaged shellin your fragmented self,and the tired earthrarely makes a soundat our pounding feetto whisper of what has passedbetween the dawn and our lipsstill I knowthe sea will someday tell.

p 24

Gaza in ash

He is carrying hercovered in asheyes still openlying on a hospital tablein bright neonlooking upbut never seeing anything,he kisses her faceholds her headdisarray of hairblack, thickaged by a missilea coward tankthe houses of rubble surrounddemolition from abovebut when we pray the sky is oursto hold palms facing upwardsbegging for mercydemanding revengethe expanse of a libertyto reach for but never touch. Lifelessnessso abundant hereGazathey are killing youlittle children’s feetare sticking out of white sheetsravaged open for a camerato disturb peaceto show everyonehow small this little girl ishow her woollen sweaterchosen for warmth now holdsno heartbeatnot even bloodfrom above it camethe crushing.

p 25

A father squats in the cornerwall behind him peelinghis daughtersthree, five, seven, deadshe says“May God give you others”to die? To be greyedand ashenand limp?Her eyes are still openbut they see nothingthey never knewfreedomonly filthy rags and plastic bagsa glory army meters awayhuman cageschildren’s fingers always greyfaces smudged with ashand wintersmall bodies aged by the shadesof unrestrained war. GazaI have wept.Useless.I have forgotten. The shameof everyday complaintscompared toGazaI am doing nothingand most of me doesn’t want to knowdoesn’t want to seescreams of the suppressedinnocence drainedGaza I died todaybut you are living in helland I wonder when all of it will end.

p 26

Beirut Intersection

He said it made him sadthe old fashioned flutesharp elegy at the breathexhaled to mourningand the vendor on the streetselling sadness for a dollar.All around people are walkingon inconstant pavements their soles of feet now charcoalbattle ridden and exhaust smudgedthankfully though always to be in the latest à la mode florescent Italian sandalswhich are really made in some plastic producing dingy factory in Lebanon. All along,the afternoon summer swampof tourists, beggars, suntanned posers foreign languages at every tongueI miss Arabic.A man further awayprimeval groansfrom a thirsty dry throatimplores cars entwined in trafficto make wayclear the roadfrantic and almost insanehe gesturesblack leather bag caught between his arm and damp waisthis striped shirttame and office likehe lunges again defaming the people with no conscienceto move out of the wayconfusion filters through on the intersectionwhere he standscausing apathetic tourists and ray bans

p 27

to stop and turn their heads in raw obedienceat the expression of realityat the uncontrolled tone of voicewhich rises and breaks like the salt water on Raouchelike nerves being played with a taught violin bow.Intrusion of undiluted emotions in the upper lip sweat of day between the car exhausts and yawnsfinallytraffic eases from afternoon orangeto blue of night. His child is sick immobile in a car caught between indifference and concreteat the beginning of the standstill streettauntingly 50 meters away from the city’s best hospital the wailing man’sgrey face, cigarette lips, arms motioning when the car carrying his own pained body passes next to himhurry he says, now silent and only motioning. The battered red car speeds down the roadand he with his black leather bag collected higher into his chest with a gripping churnhe runs down the street a man of 48shameless in his painand his unhindered love he runson the uneven asphaltawkward and pantinghis body now seeming frail as it juggles the weight of worry and agehe runs while many of us in the citystand around and watch.

p 28

Dust

Planted with acomplacent smileall business and brisk.Outside, dust floatsslithering on the surfaceI wouldn’t mind draggingmy feet beyondyour plane of visionpeeling offthe black and cottonlike unending pain. I think I may beless sane that I seem.With the sandI would mergethen rise,and for my waterthis suffering I would drink.

p 29

I wait.

The sun a darker shadeagainst imagined bluenow the afternoonwill give way to nightand I will give way to you.Hands to skinnearnesstwinkling laughsbreathing constantsparkle of a cigarette.The heat outside is waitingbut in hereclose to beige wallspapers at my deskthe hum of the a/call the work I havelet my fingers traceat the keyboardwith a hidden smileas though it was your neckin hereI wait for you.

p 30 Week 6 Take II by Rosetta Baker

p 31Week 6 Take II by Rosetta Baker

p 32

Other Outstanding Works

p 33Untittled by Yasmin LaCam

p 34

Harassed

what I want to be is thread marklive coal

a distinct aptitudethe hawfinch song with a hawk owl tail

in shortit is a different offering hounding my heart

he is a well built panic room

the minimal significance of a phonetic expression on the tongue

Ink

Inking your body with nothing On my very knotted skin Erases the corner of our ghetto Returns these slashed out eyes to the executioner’s Wall of a sad and lonely youth.

Sergio A. Ortiz

p 35

I count to 11

the impossibility of life is inhis beauty:the beauty is a flower in the cemetery- new lifeand old death:dung-beetle pushing his ownlittle treasure,and sunshine, always sunshinewhy? I hit the windowand my phone starts to ring,I count to 11and it stops.somebody wants to speak to me, to listen to my voice, somebody needs mewhy? I want to set on fire all the pigeons onthe square,I want to drive my index finger onthe edge of the knife I will send my love in a packageto Africa the phone is silent I water the flowers.

Peycho Kanev

p 36

p 37

p 38

the mother of madness

the mother of madness is fingersthat never touch much, a blind eye

staring intently at where feelingmight be, it is words empty as “empathy,”

drowning in a semantic cesspoolwith devils and heaven, with all the devils

that ever were in any heaven,every category of thing

that ever went missing. and mothermadness is the slow dance of passionin flesh expecting shortly to get down

and dirty and dead.

it is here where worlds might have beenbut words got left instead

David McLean

p 39

we do not touch

we do not touch but carry lovelike blood to the bladeas impatient hormones

dance in us their forgetfulintolerance.

bodies are less slenderthan expected; they are not fragile,

but relax themselves like devilsa while, to let light in and nightmares,

to pack history into their skin

enough to pretend they have lived.we do not touch enough, but carry

impatient love like blood and nothingwithin. we bear careful absences there,

they fill the skin

David McLean

p 40 Liberaton of Iraq by Branko Gulin

p 41 Liberaton of Iraq by Branko Gulin

p 42

Preying Mantra (A Poem for Voices by Leigh Herrick)

You can hear the prayer as they drop the bombs the bombs the bombs over Baghdad

You can see they are entirely sincere as they drop the bombs

the bombs in the night that fall over prayer the bombs the bombs over Baghdad

You can hear the prayer as they drop the bombs the human buzz the bees of voice

the human sound beyond the bombs the voice in prayer the voice in song You can hear

the sound beneath the bombs You can hear them singing in Baghdad

You can plant your corn You can stand your ground You can sow your seed You can

raise your flag You can celebrate hegemony the Generals state is swift and sure

You can hear the prayers where they’re singing there Where clusters spread as they

spread the bombs the no face no name falling bombs the bombs of no throat for the song

at night you can hear the sound above bombs You can hear You can hear the prayer

over Baghdad

p 43

I found a foot I found a measure

I found a pause // the fatigued caesura

I found a sentence of explanation

I found an eye for the worn sonata

I found support for troops and terror

I found a heart to fail each tear

I found the repeated repentant beat

I found a body delivered to screams

I found a woman whose eyes spread wide

I found a child with womanhood’s eyes

I found the women wailing at the sites

I found the women between bombs in the night

Each cry each cry each heart each head

Each eye each eye each leg each stand

Each lip each ear each heart each mind

I found a soldier who refused to lie:

I don’ wanna be the symbol,

he said between drags,

for who deserves more, who less, to die.

p 44

I am listening to the news

I am watching the news

I believe in the news

I believe in the bombs

I believe in the Ba’aths

I believe in the Shiias

I believe in the Shiites

I believe in freedom

And the word messiah

I believe in the bombs

I believe in MOAB

I believe

I believe

in a democratic Islam

You can hear the prayer as they drop the bombs and the moms and dads in Baghdad run

to find their children’s missing limbs in the rubble of lessons not yet learned

You can hear the prayer as they drop the bombs The voices vibrate in the unlit sky You

can plant your corn You can stand your ground You can sow your seed as they drop the

bombs where they are sincere tonight over Baghdad You can raise your flag You can

stand your ground You can as they pass You can as they fly You can as they pass

over Baghdad

p 45

Our forces went in.

It’s been a tough day.

12 went missing.

10 are dead.

One lobbed a grenade.

It hit our tent.

Tensions run high.

Missiles are aimed.

One of our own.

Just lobbed it in.

I heard about the Oscars.

I missed Michael Moore.

I went to the bathroom.

I listened for bombs.

I watch for war in this strange land.

Enduring Freedom.

Freedom Endured!

We have a mission here near Baghdad!

p 46

Today I bought a house.

Today I bought a car.

Today I bought a laptop (Dell).

Today I went to the Mega Mall.

Today I sipped Starbuck espresso.

Today I read some Blake and Twain.

Today I thought of Christ on the Mount.

Today like today is always the same.

Today I thought of America.

Today of England.

Today of Spain.

Today I thought of Germany.

Today of Italy.

Today of Japan.

Today I thought of Bush the Younger.

Today of Putin.

Today of Sharon.

Today I thought I’ve nothing to do.

Today I thought I do what I can.

p 47

Closer to Baghdad stocks will rally Closer to Baghdad stocks will rise You can hear the prayers as they drop the bombs

You can hear the bell / ring between rounds You can sow

your seed You can stand your ground You can eat your corn as they drop the bombs

You can hear the prayers in the night in the sounds You can hear the prayers as they

drop the bombs

the human buzz the bees of song

You can hear the voices as the voices throng

You can hear the prayers

above the bombs

you can hear them pass again and again

You can as they fly

You can as they pass

You can

as they pass

over Baghdad

p 48 Remembering World War 1 by Branko Gulin

p 49Remembering World War 1 by Branko Gulin

p 50

It’s the Nature of the Beast, Boyz (by Leigh Herrick)

So they left somewhere

an arm a leg

and now the poppies grow

tall and red and all

over the place and

wild in the fields Glory

has returned -- is the name

for what may never be

retrieved

Leigh Herrick

p 51

Virtualization Sprawl

I stare with inspired loathingat my computer screen.Willing it to move. Road rage. I can’t stamp on my brakes.Coffee flows like lava in my gut.20 years hence we mock the time we wasted. A failing in red that is not mine. Error message.A road to nowhere. Did I land between sites? A few steps short or overcast? Not available.The computers of Hal and Isaac’s robotsmust be deceived by a Workaround. Term of art in the lexicon of the technically proficient. Reboot.A survey response requested by the help desk. An addendum that I crave: E) Once again, polite yet ineffective.

Paul Handley

p 52 Week 10 by Rosetta Baker

p 53

WHAT’S A META FOR?

“Like giving an after-dinner mint to a dead man’s heartache,” a line came drifting in and settled in my mind,after falling asleep to Camus.

Then the rain came and some noises in the night in my room,and the still darkness kept me awake,so the line, “like giving an after-dinner mint to a dead man’s heartache,”came floating in on the silence and I woke up enough to write it down.

Later I wondered what it meant or might mean and thought of how best to use it,since I knew it was a poetic gift and could be made to mean something,

then I realized that it was like giving an after-dinner mint to a dead man’s heartache,

and nothing more.

aMan Bloom,

p 54 A Season of Mardi Gras by Ernest Williamson III

p 55Jamaca Love Jamaca Dance by Ernest Williamson III

p 56

Arab Men

Arab men, whose Hebrew betters mine by generations, sit roadside smoking cheap cigarettes. They alternate waving hands and rocks. I accelerate just a little. The road I travel to teach EFL is frequented by all sorts; those with yellow license plates and those with white. Sometimes, sloppy trucks, whose chickens or crates of watermelon threaten to create hazards, pass without anyone’s official placard. Months ago, I took a holiday on a beautiful mountain. Although my guestroom’s walls were a montage of water marks, of mold, and of chipping plaster, the diningroom was resplendid with beautiful food and with beautiful service. In the midst of the emerald cucumbers, the white goat cheese, the slim, pink slices of salmon and the bright red tomatoes, I paused to consider that the waiters, ever quick to refill glasses or to top off shared platters, had an indigenous accent. Their smiles and hair were doppelgangers to those of my kin, but their articulated vowels and consonants differed. I watched a bit and noticed, as well, that their gestures were not those of my nation. My framesmith, too, comes from that other tribe. With skills more and more frequently relegated to nostalgia, he captures the color and texture of my paintings and prints in wood and plaster. His bosses pay him a small wage; there exists a tiered system. When I buy vegetables, the shopkeeper and his helpers assist me in discerning among their many heaps; they understand that I purchase only fruits and greens approved by specific assemblies. If I reach for the “wrong” cherries or for an “incorrect” head of lettuce, these men gently redirect me to the comestibles that my family eats. And yet, during my village’s times of quiet prayer and of other reverence, those same cousins shoot fireworks or blare their public address system late at night. They find no fault in chopping down our mutual forests or in constructing houses where my brothers paid steep mortgages. In our land of sun and heat, there is more that bewilders me than the bray of donkeys or the goings on in open air market. Specifically, I have yet to fully comprehend my relationship to Arab men.

KJ Hannah Greenberg

p 57

They Don’t Build Cathedrals Anymore

Out of townwe are but strangers in a strange landwith homeless dust drying in our mouthsand disappointment etched like claw scars down our cheeks.Almost horror struck we staredfrom behind barbed wire fencesas oxide red skeletons stretched up into the cod-scaled greyness. . Two cranes take to the dance floor performing a slow motion tango. The beat of blueprints synchronizes their movements; arms swing angular, all brute force and sweat.

As wonderment pushed grit from our eyes we stood like corner shop nativeswaiting for that momentwhen the glass dome was to be setlike a diamond. We gasped at the thoughtthat automatic doors would welcome us inside to walk upon the marbled floors, and to listen to the chorus of cash tills singing: “Hallelujah” as they exchange all our prayed for dreams with credit card receipts; consumer redemption available 10 a.m. to 10 p.m., even on Sundays.

For now we have seen the light, nine out of ten of us agree, you have to buy iconsto obtain retail spirituality.

P.A.Levy

p 58 Anger in the child by Joshua Goymer

p 59Anger in the child by Joshua Goymer

p 60

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