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 Leland Jamieson lives and writes in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. Recent and forthcoming work appears in numerous magazines. His first book, 21st Century Bread: Poems, can be previewed and is available at http://www.lulu.com/lelandjamieson. Major influences on his work, after Shakespeare, are Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, William Stafford, and Timothy Steele. |
LELAND JAMIESONBENEATH A NIBIRUBIAN KNIFE A meditation based on Zecharia Sitchin’s series Earth Chronicles, and The Lost Book of Enki. For G.K.J. 300 Centuries Ago: 1. On icy Nibiru, the King sought champs to probe our solar system, and to find gold ore to make enough gold-halide lamps. Failed grow-lamps put its farmers in a bind, growing in dark warm caverns wilted crops — it brought a death sentence to all their kind. Spectroscopy of Earth’s bold rock outcrops and great blue seas showed lots and lots of gold ore — promising to restock grocery shops. King Anu’s firstborn Enki, who was bold, sought to confirm the gold and engineered an Earth probe. He traversed the hazards, cold and darkness of the Asteroids they feared. (Enlil, his second-born, was by decree named Prince, and thus to rule was trained and reared.) When Enki first splashed down in a salty sea — a gulf below what’s now the Tigris and Euphrates — he surveyed all he could see. He radioed the mother ship: “The land is prime! Without delay send men of brawn and skill, with building tools, to lend a hand, to build a base camp we may count upon where we can safely land space shuttles filled with mining tools, and miners we’ve signed on . . . .” The king was thrilled, and sent his Prince to build and run Earth Project, in partnership with Enki — ’til all Earth’s gold had been drilled. 2. The miners bore down hard . . . but lost their grip. They quit. The ore ran out. Gold shipments ceased . . . . All sought out Enlil’s princely leadership. They talked. How could work be resumed — increased — to save Earth Mission (and save Nibiru)? Enki, the scientist, proposed a beast: “These apes cavorting woodlands might well do! We’d splice in genes — and smartened, they would bond to us like slaves. They’d be our mining crew.” Enlil exploded. “You transgress beyond the Rules of Interplanetary Travel! Have coldly scientific studies conned you so you think our Space Rules merely cavil? A planet’s evolution is the work of The Creator of Us All! I’ll gavel you out of order there. Don’t go berserk . . . !” But some supported Enki’s line of thought: “Then what of Nibiru, left in the murk of her despair? Our kinfolk die. We’re caught! You can’t just gavel down debate on this.” And Enki’s plan survived — their only shot . . . . 3. Thus Human Beings came to be: a bliss to Anunnaki miners they relieved of drudge — and to the Mission gone amiss . . . . Stripped of their estrus, female slaves conceived continuously with their male counterparts . . . . Steadily Enlil grew much more aggrieved as his and Enki’s sons bred prickly hearts, provoked new jealousies, made slaves choose sides, and tutored them in warfare’s deadly ‘arts’. “Neither our slaves, nor any god, abides by my commands — not even our own sons, corrupted by their lust for slaves as brides,” Enlil complained to Enki, “and, each shuns the confrontations we arrange.” “Can’t blame the slaves,” said Enki. “We eat honeybuns ’til fat. It’s we who bear, and can’t disclaim, responsibility. It’s — I agree — completely out of hand. And it’s a shame.” “It shames,” said Enlil, “us — and Destiny. We chose this fate . . . . We are the most at fault. Could our Creator destine this to be? Can’t be. Was our choice — fate. In somersault we’ve lost our balance — I feel so remiss enslaving apes by stealth, by genes’ assault! Coda for the 21st Century: Confession’s cheap. Won’t still the high-pitched hiss of spirits writhing out of flesh-bound life a planet can’t support in this abyss of unintended consequence and strife — nor bring much bliss to those still coiled for birth beneath a hubristic Nibirubian knife. OUR CENTURION A contemporary reading of Luke 7:1-10. “He’s our Centurion — leads a hundred men. He sees what is required, commands it done with confidence he need not speak again. Action follows, as day the rising sun! You need not come down to his house to cure his servant — your speech knows no shibboleth. Command her healed from here, and he is sure you’ll make her well, though she’s now close to death.” “In all my travels I’ve not found a tongue,” the Teacher said, “that’s as assured of what the Inner Eye can see — and thus has sung. Rejoice. She’s healed as he, in seeing, sought. What Inner Eye of man observes can move like quarks in mysteries outer eyes reprove.” STARING DOWN A MOULIN With thanks to Paul Brown. Summer, 2007. Moulins, some big as our Niagra Falls — hundreds and hundreds of them — shocked us each. They pierced my consciousness like boring awls which drilled and milled and pithed me of my speech and left my tongue to waver in my head, a dried-out chip, no words within its reach . . . . Our chopper settled on a crack-free spread on Greenland’s Ice Cap. Tethered up, we dared to step up close to where the glacier bled. Green-blue in hue, a river milled and blared its way down through a ‘bottomless’ crevasse to slippery rock. I peeped — down — and despaired. I felt beneath my feet a lurch — our mass of ice slipped further off its watery rock . . . ! Moulins like this expose the truth, alas, that ‘global warming’ is no idle talk. If — when — all Greenland’s ice melts, tides will rise twenty two feet, engulfing us in shock. (This doesn’t gauge the whispered melt’s good-byes from glaciers on Earth’s greatest mountain slopes nor weigh in polar ice caps’ slow demise.) We’re greedy lemmings, chasing growth’s false hopes. Our coastal cities will become like New Orleans, knocked senseless on Katrina’s ropes. We coastal folk, turned refugees, will queue our shrinking highlands by the billions — and we’ll wish we’d died when that last storm swept through. Note: “Moulin” (rhymes with “Yukon” but with the accent on the second syllable), from the French word for “mill,” is a “giant hole in a glacier through which millions of gallons of melt water cascade through to the rock below... lubricating the glaciers so they move... triggering earthquakes as pieces of ice several cubic kilometres in size break up.” From Paul Brown’s “Ice Caps Melting Fast: Say Goodbye to the Big Apple?” which appeared in Alternet, Oct. 10, 2007. See also the author’s book, Global Warming: the Last Chance for Change. c.
All poems by Leland Jamieson, 2007.
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 Jenny has had her poetry published in several poetry journals and has read at poetry and live art events. She has published a collection, Window, with Dave Pickering at Lulu.com (http://stores.lulu.com/windowopen). You can read more of her poetry at http://windowjennyadamthwaite.blogspot.com/ ***
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Jenny AdamthwaiteShoes A small boy, sprawled at foot level, green crayon greasy between his stubby fingers, stares up at nylon tights and faded blue jeans, listening to the kitchen sounds skid across the tiles like skimmed pebbles: a pan that swells with steam as bubbles sigh; the hiss of a hot pan sinking into grim, grey water; the thick click of a knife on wood then the thud of a carrot top on the floor as his father misses the bin. He hears the pinched gasp of air, tight lipped and sour, as his mother’s eyes follow the carrot, the silence that whistles around his father, innocent and empty, when he doesn’t notice. The boy twists a leg round to inspect the size of his feet and wonders if when he’s grown up, high heels won’t just be for mummies and he will get to stand as tall and proud as she, feet pointed like pistols at someone else’s shoes. Linen Trousers There’s a smirk implied when you ask me how I’m finding the life I’ve chosen. I swallow it whole without choking. - Oh how interesting! you say. It’s all interesting if you don’t have to do it. You take me to a restaurant I could never afford. On the way we step in a puddle. You curse the gutter then the rain then the traffic. Over salad garnishes, I parody myself for you while you display your feathers. My ankles are cool. Your linen trousers are ruined. (previously published in 'Whimperbang') The Cadence of Distance Don’t think I don’t remember. I remember. I remember the way the moon skimmed the Foss like a potato peeler, the bridge where we drowned our reflections. I remember our beer bubble conversations, two friends who needed someone finding someone and breathing in. I remember January bus stop waits, you beneath the brim of Russian fur, my lips muffled by a velvet scarf. I remember afternoon emails, the cadence of names and the colour of butterfly wings. Don’t think I don’t remember. I remember. But I thought it better you forgot. Letters I write you letters in my head. I tell you that when your arm touches mine, a tingle like static electricity somersaults through my veins and lands bewildered behind my eyes, sitting cross-legged and waiting expectantly for something to happen. Invisible Ink A pen that surfs the lines with albatross grace, occasionally dips into white space to test the water and whispers what’s in your head. Messages in lemon juice wake excited children: Happy Birthday! on a plate, crumbs on the floor. You can’t toast paper. Do I read blank pages between the lines or did you write on tip-toe, half hoping I wouldn’t hear, knowing that I would try. c. All poems by Jenny Adamthwaite, 2007. |
David Turner is married with 2 grown up children, a retired software engineer, an ex-teacher, a lifelong poet, a student of English literature, an avid croquet player and interested in `all the uses of this world!' His work has been previously published in 'Poetry Life and Times'; 'ASTRAVANTGARDE' and 'Voices from the Web'. |
DAVID TURNER
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 Laura Lamarca is a 33 year old widowed mother of 3 children, residing in the South of England. Lamarca has been writing poetry for 6 years as a means of expression and to give voice to people suffering around the world. Poetry has been a lifeline for Lamarca, helping her through the darkest moments of her life and this collection is her way of giving something back to a world that she takes much from. Lamarca wishes to raise awareness in a world already bathed in ignorance, in the hope that the suffering of others may be recognised and acted upon. Picture above: Drawing by Laura Lamarca. |
LAURA LAMARCA
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