Monday, October 11, 2010

Hello,
I am writing again in order to submit my pieces of poetry to your magazine.

1. Riot Of Word

Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
Yes, some of your statements have meaning, indeed,
But words with no reasons won't get you on top,
You're giving your fellows a casual feed
Of rhyming curse words that you cast out loud,
So over-inflated and false-emphasized,
You try to be brusque, and you merge with the crowd,
Your ego is stained by the fact you are biased.

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.

Guys, all you are good at is scolding a cop,
As they are subdued by the careless chief
For dubious joys of a desperate job.
They've sold their true and most cherished beliefs.
But what you are doing is always the same,
You're telling them what they are waiting to hear.
You know they quote you, you choke on your fame,
You don't even care if it sounds sincere.

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.

The crowds keep rocking, applauding, exclaiming,
Quoting your words, lacking ones of their own,
If being a poet is what you are claiming,
Declare what really needs to be known!

You crave for a rebel, so get it all planned,
Clean out the dump in your mind for a start!
Use word as a weapon when perfectly penned,
Withdrawn from the ultimate depth of your heart.



2. In The Gutter

You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
Your pride, ever swollen, has poisoned the air.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
You've merged with the shades of the earthly despair.

Your crave for respect, much more cash, a career,
But luck's velvet fingers won't grant you a touch,
Your purpose is being in front of the rear,
You cannot believe that it costs one too much.

The same elevator, the buttons in rows
From Monday till Friday. The same boring week.
You press button ten: you are taken below -
Regarding your dwelling, emotion-sick.

You crave for respect and life-long recognition,
But rich-colored life is behind your bent back,
You don't realize it's a bitter position,
You've never considered the change of this track.

You say you are braver, superior, smarter,
But you are deprived of the pleasure of thought.
In fact, you are already deep in the gutter,
The look of a shadow is all that you've got.



3. From The Heart

I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold,
My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh,
It holds an enigma for you to unfold
Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.

My soul is rushing beyond the extremes,
Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease,
But once you discover the door to my dreams,
My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.

Whenever my lips start exploring your skin,
They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse -
My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within,
But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.



4. Invisible Scars

The poison of spring has dissolved in my veins;
A second is worth both my future and past.
The more I denied my becoming insane,
The sooner insanity touched me at last.
The silence we hear is the laugh of my fate,
The soundless laugh at the one I forgot -
The yesterday's me - and the force to create
The life I portrayed. But it's less than I've got.
I love the invisible scars of my skin -
The blades of your hands are so tempting, indeed.
These words I give birth to just come from within,
Revealing the truth till the scars start to bleed.
These words cost two hours less than a night -
Mixed feelings are harder to rhyme than small talk.
Two hours more, and the things will go right
As long as I fail my deceiving the clock.



5. Replay

You're shallow as a pool of dirt,
In which your semi-force has drowned.
Your words are pointless and absurd;
You spread your helplessness around.
You hide behind your ego brand,
You contradict your each demand.

You're freedom-proof, yet still aware
Of all the grieves of your position.
Wipe out the rust of your despair -
Your brand is someone else's mission!
Your programmed life has gone astray,
Your days are like a failed replay.


My biography is the following:
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.

You can find out more about me here: http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm

My contact e-mail address is beautiful-disaster-90@hotmail.com

Best regards,
April Avalon
Dear Editor

Please note the attached poems, “Man in the Moon" The Great Journey" "Broken Man" and "It Always Fades Away"

Here is my 3P bio: Sam Campbell's work has appeared in Full of Cro Quarterly and Blinking Cursor Literary Magazine. He is a creative writing student at Concordia University St. Paul and continues to grow and learn as a writer and a musician.

Thank you for your consideration,

Sam Campbell



Man in the Moon

I walked along the big lake as it whispered hush.

Sparkling reflected eyes spat tears

And as they hit my shoulder my mind crawled to his face.


How lonely is the man in the moon?
He looks down on us.
He sees our mistakes,
and can’t do a damn thing about it.

No one has hugged him.
No one has kissed him.
No one has even tried to learn his name.

How far apart are the points on his crescent moon?
Too far apart for me.
I wouldn’t be able to sing to its furthest point



The Great Journey


The traveler in me says follow the pull.

The pull is this force, this powerful force that feels like God on the horizon holding a magnet that’s attracting my belt buckle.

I see ladies, beautiful ladies.

The kind of ladies that you don’t just turn your head for, you clutch your chest because your soul was sucked out of your body and followed the angel that just walked past you on the street corner.

Before you can even picture her face again in your mind your head has already whipped around and your feet have started to scream at you to stop and introduce yourself to your future wife.


But reevaluate the situation, feet, soul, head.

She isn’t following your pull.

Do I risk it?

Do I want to ignore the horizon?

No, my mind is focused on my travel—my travel in life, my travel in mind, my travel in experience.

It’s not that I’m narrow minded, but rather cynical.

There’s a great opportunity to be had and people walk the other way.

Those are not the folks that I am going to have distract me.

How about the ones that say my adventure yesterday was so moving that I will doing again the next day, regardless of how putrid it is.

These folks follow this force, this pull.

They see something they want and take it.



Take it now.

It won’t always be there.

Well, it will, but will you always see it?

If I lost its sight I’d simply light my cigar and wait to die.



Broken Man

Have you had the feeling of a being’s soul scratching your legs?

Begging you to come back in?

Their fingernails clawing your into your calves so you can’t move?

It’s a feeling that stays with you no matter how badly you try to shake it.

It makes hair stand up on the back of your neck,

As you feel the moment their heart literally breaks.

Call me a pioneer, but I have traveled this cold path thrice before.

Every time, the harder it gets.

My nightmare gets worse when I realize I am not in a dream.

In between their gasps for air I can feel the tears hit the floor.

The floor is where I look so I don’t see the eyes of the being that I am forever branding.

I am branding them with the feeling that they will remember for the rest of their lives.

I think about them feeling what I have laid upon them.

I look for forgiveness, but I am shunned by each and every one of them.

I make Judas look sincere enough to trust.

I didn’t learn.

I didn’t learn not to do it again and again and again and again.

I want to stop, but I can’t.

I find myself in this position all too much.

Are you having fun God?

Do you like to play with my head?

I say I don’t believe in you, but I want to.

I want to know that it is you who is making me do this.

Although, the more I think about that I laugh.

I laugh because I know it’s only me.

It’s my fault.

I’m to blame.

I want to love, but I feel that there is an inevitability of me killing another connection.

I can’t force myself to be different.

I tell people I have changed, but you know, they know, and I know that maybe I am just better off living by myself.

At least I can’t my break my own heart.

Actually, I take that back, coming to this sad realization.



I just did.



It Always Fades Away



Why do dreams dare to die,

leaving me with a foul taste?

I arise to the harsh sun

and the start of another trek.



I am not alone, but I might as well be.

My dreams bring me to a safer place.

And bring me to her without the awkwardness

of sweaty palms, and a trembling voice.



I need not to impress her.

I am to cool for that and she clings to me for it.

I am a confident man

and she is my trusted companion.



This all fades as morning comes.

It shows up in a tragic fashion.

As the deep kisses were just getting good,

and the weight of my stress was rolling off my shoulders.



So I tend to my day

looking forward to my slumber.

It is hard meeting her for the first time

again and again only when I am out of consciousness.
Dear Editor:
Please note the below poems "Ode to the Homeless Man" and "Spring Cleaning".
My name is Thomas Schoenberg, I am a creative writing student at Concordia University-St. Paul.
Thank you for your consideration,

Thomas Schoenberg



Ode to the Homeless Man



As I slip you this five dollar bill

I know you can’t use it as an umbrella

Keeping you dry from the storm that is coming

To wreak havoc on your shanty

Like a banana thrown into a blender set on “high.”



It won’t be a blanket for you

When winter’s harsh breathing exhales

Down your tattered coat and over

Your ribs, which are plainly visible through

Your pale, ashy skin.



I’d like to think that it won’t

Fund another drinking binge

And I am confident that I am right

As I notice the silver “O” around

Your starving mouth.


Spring Cleaning


Places I had forgotten I’d been to,

People I forgot I knew.

Memories of them crawl into my head

From deep recesses, like dormant spiders

Covered in the dust thrown on to them by the

Distractions of the last ten years.

I wish to converse with the people in the frame

But they are frozen there.

It’s like looking at something behind a glass window

In a museum.

I can see them, but I can’t touch these

Wax statues in their exhibits that are

Confined to the glossy paper.

Their smiles tell a lie… these people are not happy.

A prevailing undertone of sadness radiates

From the photos, like everyone was

Happy when the picture was taken

But now they wonder why I haven’t kept in touch.

Nostalgia washes over me like warm water,

But when the feeling passes,

The wind picks up and I am left cold and shivering.
Dear A Brilliant Editor Editor,

I'm sending you some poems that I hope you’ll please consider for publication.

My poetry and essays have appeared in more than 160 journals worldwide, among them Canadian Literature, Fulcrum,Twentieth Century Literature, Grain, and the Journal of Modern Literature. I have published two books of poetry: The Miracle Shirker, which won an Honorable Mention in the 2007 Writer’s Digest awards, and Swimming the Mirror, which won a First Prize in the 2009 Writer's Digest awards. I also run a new operation called Roan Press, Sacramento’s Small Literary Publisher (website www.roanpress.com), and my most recent book, Oedipus Against Freud, has just appeared from the University of Toronto Press.


Thanks for your time and consideration.

Yours sincerely, Brad Buchanan




Brad Buchanan




Swimming Lessons


Surviving water means ducking under

the surface tension to teach your breath

to accept the need for interruption,

acquainting yourself with the transparent

repulsion of depth. You see, death is patient;

as long as you can arch your back,

spread your arms, relax, and kick

for the least resistant pool of light,

you will never quite swallow it whole,

no matter how much you may drink,

shiver, complain, or howl with fright.

All you need to leave behind

is your sense that the heaviest thing

in the world is a single human soul;

drowning here means refusing to fall.



The View from the Grass

The view from the grass
makes the baby immense
as the neighbor's house
but not as nice.

It lends the trees
a fractal eye
around which to weave
a green hurricane
of stiffened juices.

It leaves the cat
no room to become
anything but terrifying.

When hunger threatens
the blades taste
sweetly sinister.

Heard from here
the street is an ocean
that gains in power
distantly and deafeningly,
invades with the curt slam
of a car door.


Cottage Country

The less you have, the more you want to keep
away from the government's flying eyes
under dog and tree, in the clutter and waste
of your shady rural sovereignty.

You honor appliances you have replaced
with undesired permanence.

Your marijuana patch has an air
of the accidental, inevitably.

Your vehicles cry out for uncontrolled
enjoyment, threaten a cynical world
with grease, ungainly godliness
and dangerous dirt.
The buxom girl
profiled in silvery chrome on your pickup's
wheel flaps traces the absolute limit
of the average male imagination.

The house your parents kept for vacations
has become a place you will die
defending to impatient girlfriends
almost patriotically.


A Dream of Two Daughters

At first she clung to my back like a leech,
of which there were many in that lake,
then she held me in a headlock,
choking me at every lunge
I made through the water. My spluttering lungs
and throttled limbs were a double life-
preserver till she leapt and slipped
under the surface. Though I slept,
I turned and dove—I felt the slime
of the distant bottom, which she had slightly
disturbed on her way to the shore. She slapped
at the edge of my hearing, reborn as an insular,
sloppy baby. Her fate so sealed,
she beckoned me closer, signaling still
distressed awareness of sinking slowly
out of sight under a soulless
natural spell, like a terrible solace.


Mating Season, in Grade Seven


That spring, the girls knew who was whose

before we did, and their choice was wisely

left implicit—the illusion

of freedom and competition remained,

but it was over with; we bragged

and fought and bartered, but none of it mattered.



The winners looked in vain for rewards,

the losers licked their wounds, which tasted

like strawberry lip gloss: the girls had seen

that coming too, had worn the war’s

sweet ravages before it was declared.



By summer, all uncertainty

was gone, and only the stubbornest fool

still hoped to meet an exceptional girl

who would break the rules spontaneously

and give him confidence for the next fall.



Nobody suspected that sex would change

so much when mixed with alcohol.