Project #93634 - replies

I need replies for the following articles, as a comment should be in a small paragraph. The example is provided just incase of knowing how that have to be done.



I have selected an online contemporary poetry magazine called THE LAKE. The magazine’s initial issue was in August of 2014. The editor John Murphy looks for poems rooted in the everyday, in the observed reality that shows how we feel about people and the things around us, showing imagery that we all can relate to. He tells us what he actually doesn’t like in a poem; surreal and abstract poems that wander on an on. He would also consider classical forms in the magazines i.e. Sonnets, sestinas… even free verse and prose poems. This magazine allows free submissions all year long and has twelve issues per year. One thing I noticed is that this magazine is new but still has a lot of exposure allowing new or even older poets display a piece of their work. You can easily browse through the magazine’s website and see what types of works the editor allows to be displayed that

The poem I chose is written by Grant Tarbard, called How to Be the Air. The imagery in this poem allows for a lot of imagination.

            I am from nothing, a beak’s whistle of 

            cloud, a piece of November intended 

            to be oxygen with time’s vehement 

            salt white rhythm, insubstantial as blown ash. 

            Imagine buoyancy with a flushed cheeked

            smoke of a vanishing terrace of spent 

            cigarettes, variations of ribbons 

            of silk spooning in the ventilation.

            The problems arise when one wants to land,

            mistrusting finger joints, for how can one 

            grab at the aerials on the rooftops 

            when one is air about the slain light’s room,

            snatching at the tobacco tins of my 

            grandfather’s loose nails to fasten me down.

Starting with personifying air in the very first line is a very powerful start to this poem. The narrator then goes into how he believes air flows and moves; describing it as being passionate, ribbon like, cigarette smoke like and buoyant, allows the reader to jump from image to image of what the narrator is trying to show you. He also describes how when one is floating like air there is no worries, no issues, until one wants to land.  It shows that the security of being on land isn’t as secure as one might think.

The second poem I chose is Silent Woods by Petra Vergunst, a freelance community poet and artist that has appeared in a variety of well-known magazines.

            That woodland was sealed by Salomon, semibreves

            quivering cream under a crypt of elongated leaves


            Birds hopped incessantly, inspecting bark

            scraping crevices, the need to feed

            innate as the tunes they utter


            It was in the shade of that lime that she played

            her cello, grown from the tree's hearts

            that drooped in their thousands


            A blackbird repeated her theme, responded

            strings and piccolo conjoined seed heads


            Her last note dug deep

            she bowed

            inhaled silence

The imagery in this poem described the woods but ends with a female playing a cello that could have possibly been grown from the trees in the woods she is sitting in. something as simple as the woods is described in such depth and majestically. The narrator even goes into great detail as to say that the blackbirds are singing along to the tune she is playing on her cello. This poem is perfect for this magazine because nothing is written in the crazy abstract matter that the editor dislikes.

Reply (comment): EXAMPLE


I loved the poems you chose. THE LAKE seems like a magazine I'd be interested in reading. Both the poems you discussed seemed to have a mystical aura about them. The poem, How to Be the Air, conveys both the scenes of imagery in the movement of air as well as a feeling of lightness through its words to enhance that image. The second poem, Silent Woods, makes use of more imagery. A reader can clearly see the forest scene in their minds but again, the poet's use of words enhance the imagery by creating a still atmosphere filled with the sound of rustling leaves and the chirping of birds and the sound of the woman's cello. 

Great interpretations























I chose the Diode Poetry journal, the home of electropositive poem since 2007. I am a lifesci major so my definiton of electropositive would be an atom losing electrons creating a positive charge. But what is electropositive poetry? Diode defines electropositive poetry as poetry that excites and energizes. " It’s poetry that uses language that crackles and sparks." So using my definiton and Diode's definiton, I would say its poetry that just compels you with positivity and electrifies you. Diode is looking for poetry from all points of life but clearly states it is not looking for light verse or erotic poetry. Patty Paine and Jeff Lodge are the founders of this online journal. They both have published numerous novels and other works and are english professors Virgina Commonwealth University in Qatar. There is not much information on this site besides the information I have wrote about but I don't think they need to explain their mission more than this. Their mission is just to simply find poetry that will electrify you.

The first poem I read was "A hole opens up in the middle of the day" by Michelle Biting. This poem has a lot of imagery. Biting does not state where she is in the beginning but there are details to give the reader an idea where this is taken place. Biting does this by providing imagery in these details. Lines 4-5, "a spiral bleed of roses/ tossed at the feet", it can be assumed that there is an act going on and the audience has thrown roses at the performer. The audience is pleased with what they see. The next two lines, 6-7, "of the sweating matador, dusty/ in his black-sequined coat.", describes the performer. The performer is a matador- a bull fighter. Using the very little knowledge I have of bullfighting, I believe this is taken place somewhere in Spain. The poem mentions that the sun beats down implying that the day is almost over meaning the act will soon be over as well. The poem then speaks about a child who is watching the bull fight with his mother. The child is completely mesmerized by the act, bewitched by the muscular dance/ these near-death misses". At the end is mentions the red cape that bull fighters use and how it is being swirled and lifted. At this point I can really see a bullfighter with the red cape and feel the audience appreciation for this act. If this poem had mentioned the bull itself, describing how it looked, its size compared to the bull fighter or even how angry it seemed when it chased after the red cape, I would have been able to have the image of the actual act itself. The last line reveals that this is in Las Ventas, Madrid. After some quick research, I found that this building is the home for bullfighting in Spain. The title suits this poem because this building is has seats around the arena so it creates a hole in the middle.

It makes sense for this poem to be in this journal because Diode is looking for poetry from all aspects of life and I think a poem about a bullfight really represents this mission. The imagery in this poem makes the reader an audience member to witness this thrilling act.

The second poem I read was "Jam" by Sam Sax. This poem got my attention in its first line, "the  accident that almost happens". I was instantly brought back to all the times I was going to get into a car accident and also the time I had gotten into a small a car accident. I was able to relate to the next two lines, "leaves  its imprint/the  sink hole you pretend is a god’s footprint". The fact that I was able to put the image in my head of a memory of a possible car accident just reading the first line itself makes these two lines very true for me and how thankful I am. It then talks about what could have happened. "My  spine is severed & I fall like  a roman building", this line is one of the possibilities that could have happened and Sax compares it to the fall of a roman building. Another possibility was " in another i fly/ clean  through my front window/ the  glass parting around me/ like  a people through a dead body/ of  water". Here you can see a person flying through the front window of a car and the broken glass of the window. You can feel the impact as Sax compares it as a person hitting a body of water. The poem continues to talk about how you can still feel the tremor and hands shaking hours later. It mentions the screeching sound after hitting the brakes and the engine continues to go to an unknown place. This creates the imagery of when you hit the car brakes but the car can't stop right away and drags you wherever losing control.

I found this poem to be electropositive. I felt the rush in my veins because I was able to have a clear image when I was reading this poem and this is a poem I would expect to find in Diode.

A Hole Opens Up in the Middle of the Day

And I pull myself out by the ears of a dangling rabbit, by my many-colored silks, a spiral bleed of roses tossed at the feet of the sweating matador, dusty in his black-sequined coat. Where the sun beats down, the crowd cheers and a thin white handkerchief flutters in the stands, making a little breeze for the child who watches the ring from the shade of her mother's side, bewitched by the muscular dance, these near-death misses, red cape swirl lifting and falling in the heat of Las Ventas, Madrid.


the accident that almost happens leaves its imprint the sink hole you pretend is a god’s footprint the bruise of unknown origin the civic behind my neck aches in one life my spine is severed & i fall like a roman building. in another i fly clean through my front window the glass parting around me like a people through a dead body

of water. in the last, i drive to the library to write out the tremor that runs still through my skin. even in these hours after, my hands shake their gasoline sick engines. inside the brake’s screech you could hear a space ship splitting in half the cabin eats its astronauts while the engines continue up into the unknown - even marcus aurelius admits time may in fact be what happens behind the wheel of a car. why in the moment between
impact & absence, there’s a split & i travel in every direction


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Imagery is quite interesting to me. Whenever I see visuals, I always try to look for a story. I’m sure many people do the same thing as me. I pretend of certain situations that an image may have had. It’s just quite interesting and entertaining. It could be anything I want it to be. My thought process can tell me what it is, and I’m not going to be subjected to a yes or no. Imagery is also very prominent in literature.  Many times when a movie is released off a book, many people have great disappointment. This is because each reader has their own mind and it allows them to picture it their way. That book shown on the screens was not the book the reader had read.


My last name starts with B. Using that website provided to us, I picked the journal “Bear Review”. This journal is based online, which gives quite ease of access for me. The journal operated out of Kansas City, MO. They publish new issues every fall and spring and they read poems all year long.


The first poem I decided to read why “Foreclosure City” by J.P. Dancing Bear. I know, interesting name. The reason I chose this poem stems from the title. The economic market today is struggling a little still after the whole house market crash. It’s quite relevant to me as my parents bought a house for way above today’s market value. During this time, many people could not afford their mortgages and the bank would take back their home. The poet for me sets this type of imagery of sadness. Of course, losing a home is nothing to be happy about, but it’s a different type of sadness. The poet says “Late at night: after all: the people: had vacated their dwelling…” What I see from this line is just not people leaving their homes. I see the memories of families being ripped apart from them. Feeling helpless. I see a city like Detroit in this poem, rippled by terrible economic conditions. Another couple of words from this poem hits such a deeper issue than what it presents on the surface. “demonic debt-collectors” this just has so much meaning to me because I’m sure we’ve all faced some sort of financial hardships, whether it was us directly, or our immediate families. I know how ruthless they can be. Debt-collectors sometimes forget that we are actual people and that our heads not just dollar signs. This poet also uses colons after every phrase. I feel like the poet did this to signify each phase, to read and understand that each phrase has its own importance.


Foreclosure City

Late at night : after all : the people : had vacated their dwellings : the doors left open : the lights off : the slowly creeping fog : up the walk : over the threshold : how it would fill : each room : gradually : almost imperceptibly : it would lift : a home up : from its lot : carry it away : land it : in a perfect row : of other emptied houses : block after block : vacant : street after street : like neatly ordered : plastic houses : like the ones in Monopoly : they would sit : as still as animal traps : with quiet teeth : waiting : we would never mark such a place : on a map : we would never go there : never have a nice thing to say : about such a place : we would : threaten our children : with the boogeyman bankers : demonic debt-collectors : phones always ringing : like bells of the damned : we would : tell our tales : of the missing homes : from next door : the nice folks : who lived there : all gone now : replaced : with someone unknown : someone unwilling : to neighbor : we’d think : of that other place : we’d think : of that city : so close to hell : so blanketed : in our shame


The second poem I read was “This Is Classy Because I Say So” by Meg Johnson. This poem is very short. The poem is only five lines. But quantity does not make a poem good, the substance does. This poem is basically about a person who does not have a house, partner, or child. The person is staying at a house that has a screened in back porch. The poet goes on to say “It is not my house. I do not have a house” as if the house represents a deeper issue of the person portrayed in the poem. The image that is portrayed to me from the house is the person’s life. The person’s life is in shambles and currently has no direction. At the end of the poem, the poet writes “(Time for questions)”. The curiosity of the short poem to the reader is the same the curiosity a person may have about the person’s life in real life. We would like to know more.


This Is Classy Because I Say So

I am staying at a house with a screened-in back porch. It is not my house. I do not have a house. Let’s all take a moment to reflect on me being a single, childless, houseless grownup. I know you want to.


I ask if I can put an air mattress on the porch, make it a sleeping porch. This will not solve my problems, but will make my self-pity feel more romantic. I’m going for vintage sadness.

(Time for questions.)


Journal article:


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The journal I choose is Cargo Literary, which started in January, 2015 in Canada. This online journal is mainly focus on human travel experience, and people just share their travel experience with a variety of forms, such as poetry, photography, and creative nonfiction, etc. Since this journal’s main theme is travel, the poems published in the journal really do a good job in depiction of imagery, as they are trying to present audiences what they see and how they feel. The two poems I specifically choose is Los Mochis by Andrea Dezubiria and Wawona Meadow by Trina Gaynon.


Los Mochis is talking about narrator’s trip to Mexico with his husband before they get married. This couple likes to experience and adore everything, and it seems like they really enjoy what life gives to them. The experience is not perfect since it starts raining. However, narrator still write down on the notebook to help her to remember this experience in the future, and her another half brings food for her, which is really romantic in my opinion.Personally I think the best imagery here is her depiction of “you” holding out the food. We could instantly have an image of someone who has a warm smile and looks caring and sweet. A this person is giving food to the narrator, he might look a little bit tired and hold the food as if they are so precious, since his person goes out in a raining night for the food. Other than that, we could also have the image of them running into the motel, and image of narrator writing on notebook. Because of those image, we could instantly feel the love between this couple, which is probably what this poem is trying to present to us.


The second poem is Wawona Meadow by Trina Gaynon. This poem is basically talking about narrator’s “hiking adventure” in Yosemite. They see all kinds of wildlife, even though the whole experience is kind of dangerous, they truly have a good time. The imagery in this poem is really significant and vivid. I especially like this part “we sight our first wildlife, a mule deer certain we are harmless. A coyote appears twice, moves too fast for our cameras.The second time he bears a bloodied rabbit in his jaws and races across the road. We hold our breath until he safely arrives on the other side.” After reading this, I immediately have the image of a couple spot all kinds of animals, and they are super nervous so that they hold their breath and act carefully.


In conclusion, the use of imagery is really important, especially for the poems in this journal. Since this journal is mainly about journey, they really need to present the image to lead us into their good or bad experience.

1.Los Mochis,1993

The year before we marry, we’ve come a thousand miles by motorcycle

to this town in Mexico. We leave the’79 Goldwing parked

and wander up and down the dusty streets, waiting for our laundry.

Hand in hand, we might as well be in Paris, the way we adore

everything: the rowdy joy of boys scrambling for a plastic basketball,

rusty air conditioner as hoop, the sugar from churros we lick off our fingers

and wipe on our jeans, the lopsided sounds of a band paid in beer.

When the beginning of rain chases us back to the motel, you are restless

in the yellow stucco room and go out into the night. Your bike engine roars

then recedes into the sounds of distant traffic and the leaky faucet.

I lean into my notebook recording whispers to my future self that say:

Don’t forget. And wake to you in the doorway, backlit, smiling, holding out

a paper plate of grilled onions and meat as if offering me the moon.


2.Wawona Meadow by Trina Gaynon

Winter lingers into May.

But the golf course at Yosemite

glows green and wet in sunlight.

My husband chooses a hike

that promises abundant wild flowers.

(Like Bambi, he calls every plant

that blooms, “Flower.”)

South of the course, we walk

an unused dirt road. Slipping

on cones and needles fallen

in the shade of  Incense Cedars

and Ponderosa Pines,

we sight our first wildlife–

a mule deer certain we are harmless.

A coyote appears twice,

moves too fast for our cameras.

The second time he bears

a bloodied rabbit in his jaws

and races across the road.

We hold our breath until

he safely arrives on the other side.

But we spy no lady’s slippers.

Halfway along the trail, we reach

the first of  two rivulets

(which guide books described

as running under the road

through culverts) freed

from its banks, too wide to jump.

Our attempt to leap over it

results in icy, wet feet.

I tell him its okay that its too early

for white star tulips or corn lilies.

(I’d prefer a second pair of socks.)

We discuss turning back.

But decide to see the adventure through.

Maybe up ahead some azaleas

brave the cold, the way the dogwoods

in the valley have – recklessly

flinging their petals open.

So we reach the second rivulet,

made a creek  by snow melt.

We roll up our pants legs, tread carefully.

There, as the path becomes eroded asphalt,

grows scarlet snow plants,

obscene as splashes of fresh blood,

saprophytes–  without leaves,

relying on the decay around them.

We do not know that these four stems

are so rare that their presence is a blessing.


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AGNI is a distinguished American literary magazine that publishes fiction, reviews, poetry, essays, interviews and artworks. The magazine is published in print twice a year while an online version of it is made available every two weeks from its home at Boston University. It was founded in the year 1972. The magazine gets its name from the Sanskrit word “AGNI” which is the name of one of the most powerful Hindu Gods, the God of Fire. Fire symbolizes energy and vitality. The very mention of the word fire inspires spirit and sparkle which is exactly what the magazine is about. It is known for publishing the works of writers and artists who are in the bloom of their career and have a long way to go. Their verve and exuberance to succeed and make a mark is reflected in the singularity of their work. It also consists of works that have been translated into English for the first time thereby acting as the beacon of international literary culture that bypasses all boundaries and limitations. The mission of AGNI to provide an opportune platform to new artists and writers and make their work known is an immense inspiration for people out there to nurture their talents and abilities.

         Blacksnake, a poem by Patricia Hooper was published in volume 79 of AGNI. The poem goes on to trigger the imagination of the reader in a wonderful way making him think about the transient nature of life and how it is about the survival of the fittest by vividly describing an account of how a black snake ate the “new rabbits” before they even got the chance to see the world. The poem has made a detailed and lucid use of imagery to create graphic images of a place that abounds in natural beauty with tall and beautiful trees, animals and birds as it progresses. The poem begins with the speaker narrating an account of how on noticing the blacksnake she realized that she knew what had happened to the “new rabbits”. She had first seen them in their “nest near the flower pot” and was wondering if they had found a home “under the pine trees or under the pink magnolia”. This narration creates an arresting image of a garden where all the trees are planted, where animals give birth to their babies and the blacksnakes are a frequent sight. She wonders who must’ve dug up the hole that later became the home of the “new rabbits”, the pelican, armadillo, a sandhill crane “with his pert, red cap on his forehead” or an alligator. The bounty of creatures mentioned inspire imagery that leads the reader to think of a park or a zoo, the only other place where so many animals could be found. The poem revolves around the love and appreciation for wildlife. Through vivid descriptions such as “skins, sheer as skins of onion” to refer to the snake skin and how all that the new rabbits in their short life could see was “grass, a few flowers, maybe the blue sky and a dark mouth” the poet has brought the animal world, their basic nature and survival skills to life.

            The New Life is a poem by Beth Woodcome Platow that was published in the exclusive AGNI edition of 2008. The poem is an anecdote being spoken by new parents who have just given birth to a baby. The poem depicts the struggles of a poor family. It delineates in brevity the depth of hardships they have to face in order to keep the baby alive and well. The poem strikes the emotional chord inspiring empathy for the pain of these parents which is evident in the lines, “In private we cried for all the pain it took to get it, hold it, worry for it”.  The poem as it progresses paints the picture of this family struggling to live in the face of war which has deprived them of their freedom and food. Despite all the misery the parents have a glimmer of hope and wish that a day will come when they will have heat, food and freedom and will tell the baby of how it was born during several wars. The poem flows in an expository manner illustrating the picture of parents brimming with deprivation yet hopeful for a brighter future with a new born in their hands. 


When I noticed the blacksnake I knew 
what had happened to the new rabbits. I didn’t 
wonder any more about whether they’d find a home

under the pine trees or under the pink magnolia 
 where I first saw them, one
still in its nest near the flower pot, one at the door

in Florida, where I came late to a landscape 
 of palms and flowers, where I don’t know many things—
the pelican, for example, or the armadillo

who dug up my pretty garden, or the sandhill crane 
 with his pert, red cap on his forehead, his willow legs, 
who saw himself in my window and danced and danced, 

or the alligator who wandered over the highway 

from the pond to the swimming pool and had to be hoisted 
out and carried away. But the newborn rabbits—

no, they were not so lucky. They didn’t live
for forty years like the crane does. They saw only
grass and a few flowers, maybe the sky 

and a black vine moving quickly, a dark mouth. 
And now, there he was, the blacksnake, sunning himself, 
looking contented, I thought, and a little drowsy

after his morning meal. Well, after all, 
he was here long before I was, so I didn’t lift 
the shovel and plunge it down on his shimmering body

which has left me its skins, sheer as the skins of onions, 
and kept the mice from my cupboards. I told myself 
how he didn’t know any different, and off he went 

back to the saw palmetto where he disappeared 
to sleep as long as he wanted, hardly disturbing 
the path as he swept across it, letting the lawn 

close gently behind him, leaving the finches singing,

the flowers shining, leaving the morning mended 
as if nothing had altered, nothing was gone.   



We wiped it down, measured it,

and bought stocks for it.

In private we cried for all the pain

it took to get it, hold it, worry for it.

We took it home, introduced it to milk,

air, and television.

Someday we'll tell the story

of how it was born during several wars

that we were able to ignore.

We'll take it to Sachsenhausen

and show it all the shoes and the things

humans are capable of doing.

One night, while we had heat

and food and freedom,

I looked behind me, bent down,

and whispered to it:

I need to die before you do.ʉ۬


Works Cited

Hooper, Patricia. “Blacksnake”. AGNI Volume 79. 2014.

Platow, Beth Woodcome. “The New Life”. AGNI Exclusive Edition. 2008.


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Kaleidoscope magazine originally began as a hardcopy publication in 1979 and is currently published as an online journal twice a year. The focus of the publication is for the reader to experience disability through the use of literature and fine arts. The idea behind the creation of the magazine was to aid in the awareness and education of disabilities to readers, at the time the publication was created, disabilities were only written about and viewed professionally by individuals with qualified backgrounds. The average person would not understand the language being using to describe various conditions and clinical studies in medical journals, the majority of people did not have a full understanding of disability’s or chronic illness in general. It was the first magazine founded on the idea of trying to make this subject clearer and it allows for writers and visual artists who contribute to the publication to help the readers understand the topic based on first hand experiences represented through their own works.

After looking through the magazine myself, I found it to be exactly what the publisher’s description stated. And I think it is truly a great method in trying to make this topic more sensible to people whom may not be educated on it or cannot understand the professional language and would like to see it from a more creative point of view. The entire publication is based on contributions from individuals who wrote essays, poems, reviews, or even made art to somehow reflect upon a disability they want the reader to experience. And I believe this mixture of literary styles and fine art visuals ties in directly to the name of this publication. The way the literature is expressed in the magazine can be directly connected to the definition of what a “kaleidoscope” actually is. The individual issues which are part of the publication are a combination of works with a constant changing mood or idea that is being expressed, the entirety of one issue does not focus on a single disability but in effect is multiple disabilities with the same broader idea, which allows for each magazine to provide a plethora of information in a unique way, sort of how a kaleidoscope takes an image and uses mirrors to distort it and present it in a creative way to the viewer. I think this publication is a good one reference in terms of understanding how imagery can be used to understand a situation, in this case some sort of disability. I chose two poems from two separate issues with two separate frontispieces and tried to analyze the poems and tie them back to the image at the front of each respective cover. (I attached jpegs of the images for reference)

The first poem I chose is from issue number 67: Difficult Journeys, it is called “Belly Crawl” by Ellyn Laub. The narration of the poem starts with a question, which allows the reader’s attention to be grabbed quickly, one is now forced to wonder what will be answered. Reading through the poem it starts to become clearer what is being described, she uses a person’s life experiences to describe someone she has made the poem about. It is clearly another jogger, running with her around this track, however they must be much older. They were in the war, storming the beaches, they buried loved ones, and I started to imagine an older man, possibly someone older than my grandfather even, struggling around this track. The way she described his life created deep images in my head, I’ve seen so many films about the war, these situations this man was in must have taken on toll on him, especially emotionally. And that’s when it clicked for me, I was painting pictures in my head from the verses, the imagery allowed me to understand that this man she was describing could quite have possibly experienced post traumatic stress disorder, from the war. His life was hard, with numerous losses and hardships, but he kept moving and the narrator was questioning how he was able to do it, he just did, he kept going on. And that was his disability, I think the poet was describing his mental condition which he had to live with, the post-traumatic stress disorder. And that ties back in directly to the title and the image of the issue this pome comes from. His journey was difficult indeed and his mental state had taken a negative hit, maybe that is what one sees when relating the poem to the image on the cover of this issue.

The second poem I chose is from issue number 69: Kaleidoscope’s many colors, it is called “Art” by Nicole Jankowski. The poem seems to be about her son, and the imagery is strong. She describes the situation they are in, some sort of museum in Detroit from my understanding. She is with someone, possibly a guide, and the others had left them, it must have been a group field trip. She then describes the space and one can start to picture its scale. And then she moves on to her boy, how the walls in the space echo his shrieks, this is the first sign of a disability. Then what they are viewing becomes irrelevant, because according to her, her boy has now become the exhibit. He has brought so much attention to himself, something about his condition has evidentially made him blind, but it seems he can sense the space he is in, as a result his brain reacts and he sees something, and this according to her is an inescapable warmth to him. He clearly is suffering from potential disability that has left him blind and unable to communicate regular with other, but the scene she creates captures how powerful this disability can be for her, he draws so much attention to himself with his condition that the tour around them has stopped, he is the center of attention, the art is within him in his head. A truly deep picture has been engaged in the reader’s head, of how serious this disability can be. From my interpretation the young boy is dealing with a mental retardation that has possibly left him wheel chair bound and blind at the same time, however his mind still reads the art and world around him, possibly through noise, in this case the echo of large space, and the art and colors are in his head, in his frontal lobe, hidden from the perspective of all those around him is potentially a beautiful image that makes him react and as a result his condition has made him the center of attention. This image described in his head is a direct connection to the title and image of this issue, his brain is a Kaleidoscope itself, and the wonderful colors he may be seeing is potentially as beautiful as the artwork on this cover.


Belly Crawl

Ellyn Laub


How does he feel I wonder?

When I pass him by at what

feels like great neck speed

as he totters along the three

mile circle alone falling

farther and farther behind.


The one who stormed the 

beaches at Normandy and crawled on

his belly to save our world.


The one who missed his fiancée

and couldn’t find his brother 

for three years and a day.


The one who watched his mother

bury that brother and hold

the folded flag in her lap.


The one who went to work 

EVERY day even on Shabbat

sometimes to feed the babies.


The one who called the 

police when the daughter 

grew up high and stole from him.


The one who saved

enough by giving up lunch to

send that daughter’s child to college.


The one who buried the

woman who gave him the

children and the care and the suppers.


How does he feel I wonder?

Maybe he just gets up every day 

puts one foot in front of 

the other and takes his walk.


Just like I do




Nicole Jankowski


They’ve all gone to look at the mummies

So it is just my boy and me

And Diego Rivera


and the limestone floors

that bounce his contented shrieks all around

Detroit Industry.


Sooner than usual,

the exhibition becomes him

and a school group is noticing

the odd shape he makes, his color and lines

wondering, “what is he trying to say?”


But my boy’s

eyes are pressed together tight,

His face tilted to the skylight

Where a cacophony of color and inescapable warmth

collide in his frontal lobe

in some great collage of 



And abruptly

Rivera and the birth of manufacturing

go pale

the luminous breath of yellow sunlight

is paler still


to the view of my boy gazing up

with the art behind his eyes


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The two poems I decided to write about are For Joe Dimaggio and What doesn’t Fit Here by Anne Menebroker. The two poems are in the book The Measures of Small Gratitude’s. Since my last name begins with a K I decided to pick the publisher of Kamini press. Kamini press has many great short stories and journals but decided to pick this book since it looked the most interesting.

The first short poem For Joe Dimaggio was about this boy who had a great passion for baseball. The voice of the poem shows inspirational because it starts off with baseball being a boys dream and wants to be the best at it. Throughout the short poem it mentions and talks about how this child or boy gets ready for the field and show the love for this baseball game. He believes that this child will be amazing. Usually whenever there is a baseball analogy or dream it’s usually with bases loaded bottom of the ninth and the main boy is up. The dream usually ends with the boy hitting a homerun or grand slam winning the whole game for his team and getting paraded out as a hearo. That’s what I feel like the author was trying to show in this short story. The boy has all the power in the world to hit this ball from the pitcher and send it flying hundreds of yards away and becoming a hero for this little team. In this dream or little story being told it’s the seventh inning and he wants to hit the amazing hit out of this park and let the crowd watching him know it. What I loved about this poem is that the author decided to put in the part where the little bat boy trips due to the excitement of winning or just for the love of the game. To play a sport like baseball, you have to have love for the game. With that love you can hit anything, believe anything, and do anything you desire. This little story was truly inspiring and really brought me back to my childhood and how I would have these little dreams of me playing my favorite sport. The best feeling is winning the game and being carried by your team getting a called a hero.

The next poem that I decided to interpret and write about is called What Doesn’t Fit here by Ann Menebroker. I really like this poem and the voice how the author writes in. It brings back the past and shows you how time has changed. What i thought was really cool was how the poem was trying to keep it in the past and while doing so they tried to go even further back. For instance while they were listening to music, it was from the thirties. I felt like it showed the love of the old fashion music that the author loved. Another thing I picked up from the poem was the use of lunch boxes. Today you don’t see people regularly with lunch boxes, they would either brown bag it or put it in tinfoil. But in the past everybody has had lunch boxes and it was the thing. Another important part of the poem I felt was really insightful was when the mother came to visit. She tried to spend time with her kids even though she has never in the past. She’s trying to change the future. This whole poem is mostly about nostalgia and how it would have related to the author through the past. Both poems show a little bit of the author and how she views life in different perspectives.


For Joe DiMaggio

©Ann Menebroker


for a long time baseball has been a boy’s

dream and spring, his time to be kissed awake

because the grass smells good, is tall enough

to cut down, his mitt oiled and fits him

like a pattern of his leanest need

something he starves for, but the regulators

for a busy life tell him the game’s too slow

the heroes are no longer on the mound, at bases

or in the field. you could build a small village

by the top of the ninth inning, and extra

innings are torture. but he still believes

in the game. he still believes in the pitcher’s

magic, the hitter’s power, the catcher’s technique.

the umpire’s call. in his dream it’s the seventh

inning and the crowd knows all the words to the song.

the bat boy is so full of joy he trips over home plate. 


What Doesn’t Fit Here

©Ann Menebroker


i’m old style, honey

wax paper wrapped sandwiches

and odd smelling lunch boxes

with handles, a thermos

with o.j. and gin, a banged-up

old portable radio once belonging

to an aunt of mine, playing songs

from the thirties and me, lighting

a cigarette from the matchbox

my mom got from “windows on the world”

when she flew to new york, alone

telling her children we didn’t spend

much time with her, had dinner

at the world trade center and got

a little drunk at age seventy-nine.


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