Featured poets this month
include:
Ryfkah Horwitz, Lisa Zaran, Nick Zegarac, Michael Estabrook and --last but not least-- Elisha Porat.
Please scroll down the page.
Ryfkah Horwitz, Lisa Zaran, Nick Zegarac, Michael Estabrook and --last but not least-- Elisha Porat.
Please scroll down the page.
Remember,
every poem in
this section participates in PLT Readers'
Poll, where you may
choose your favourite one by vote. The only rule is for Featured Poets
not
to vote for their own poems.
Results for our First Readers'
Poll,
on poems written by Bryon
D.
Howell, Mitchel
Montagna;
Evelyn
Roxburgh; Andres
Fisher; Carol
Shaw; Jeffrey
Woodward; Melissa
Halidy and Gary
Beck, showed a good rate of participation. Top rated poems were Bottom
Drawer Poetry by Bryon D. Howell and The Wondering Scholar by Jeffrey
Woodward, who have been awarded this prize.
All poems will be found in PL&Times
April 2007~Featured Poets.
Born in Chicago, Ryfkah now resides in La Mirada, CA, with two of her three daughters. She is a sixth grade teacher and an avid student of Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism, and of the teachings of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. Ryfkah has been published in anthologies and a chapbook, If Venus Had Arms. She has been featured at poetry venues throughout the LA/Orange County area. She is a member of the poetry performance troupe WomanSong that is anti-abuse and pro the celebration of life. Other poems by same author:  |
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| Lisa Zaran is an American poet and
essayist living in Arizona. She is the author of six collections
including The Blondes Lay Content and the sometimes girl, the latter of
which is currently the focus of a translation course in Germany. Many of her poems have been published in local, national and international journals, magazines, ezines and anthologies including: 2River, Feathertale, The Fairfield Review, Mannequin Envy, Rivertrout, Laura Hird, Snakeskin, Kritya, Soul to Soul and others. She is the founder and editor of the online poetry journal, Contemporary American Voices.  |
Lisa Zaran5 Poems: The HourWhen he began, Rilke's mind was crowded Scattered frenzies throughout Perhaps it took Russia to purge him Hands shaking, soul irrigated by the voice Of God, the hour striking so close Above.
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Nick Zegarac is the poet, writer, historian and columnist who’s life thus far has been a series of undistinguished and disjointed circumstances that he hopes to one day bore with a best seller. If he thrives on adversity it is only because he has been shown little to accentuate or reaffirm his position - except a polite snub and ‘no thank you’ for his efforts. In essence, there has only been one love in Nick’s life – to write; one passion – to be good at it; and one dream – to be acknowledged for the first two endeavors. He’s fairly realistic about his prospects. He’ll forgo fame for money – round figures suit him best! In his professional quest, Nick marvels at the irksome pomposity of professionals who say that as a recent graduate with a Masters he has too many expectations entering the work force. They, of course, eschew the fact that Nick has worked previously as everything from a toilet-scrubbing CSR, and, general laborer in the automotive industry, to a marketing writer for a boss who possessed more cheek than eye for talent; more guts than class, and who would not know great writing if Shakespeare suddenly appeared before her to ask for his quill. (Miraculous creature – really. Clueless and in a position of authority. I hope her sacrifices were worth it.) Yet, Nick’s only expectation has been that he should be employable in a profession suited to his capabilities. Theirs’ is that he should be happy with settling for less. He is even more frustrated when in the very recent past, potential American employers have suggested that his primary flaw is that he is Canadian, and therefore – unlike the crashing waves of illegal Mexican migration spilling daily across the shores of old glory – quite ineligible to become a legitimate contributing member of the greatest society in modern generations. How adroit, misguided and thoughtless of them! Some of the best ‘Americans’ began as immigrants from Canada – Jack Warner, Michael J. Fox, Jim Carrey, Shania Twain and Governor Jennifer Granholm…I take it back – not even I want to acknowledge the last one as Canadian! If Nick is asked to produce anything these days, it comes in the form of a résumé; two eight by ten sheets of fine white paper that are supposed to provide an accurate snapshot of his capabilities and interests thus far - which after all, is as pointless and messy an exercise as getting to the bottom of who fathered Anna Nicole Smith’s baby. Tomorrow, Nick may very well decide to start suffering and write the great Canadian novel. But today, he will just be glad that he is able to write his own name and call it a day.  |
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Elisha Porat, the 1996 winner of Israel's Prime Minister's Prize for Literature, an Hebrew poet and writer, has published 21 volumes of fiction and poetry, in Hebrew, since 1973. Elisha Porat was born in Kibbutz Ein Hahoresh in 1938. His works have appeared in translation in Israel, the United States, Canada and England. The English translation of his short stories collection "The Messiah of LaGuardia", Mosaic Press, was released in 1997. The English translation of his second stories collection "PAYBACK", was published 2002 at Wind River Press. His new novel "EPISODE", a biographical novel, just released by "Y&H" Publishers, Israel, 2006. His works, poetry and fiction, were translated from the Hebrew into the English, and were published, as print and as online, in a selected literary stages. Elisha Porat's works were published at Midstream, Tikkun, Ariel, War Literature and Arts, Rattle, Porcupine, Oyster Boy Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Boston Review, Snake Nation Review, The Paumanok Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine, Jewish Quarterly and others. Previously published by PLandTimes Elisha Porat, Ein Hahoresh 38980 Israel Read interesting interview with E. Porat at PoetryMagazine: Earlier interview published at PoetryLifeandTimes: December 2006~ |
ELISHA PORATThree ColoursOn Memorial Day I make my way up to the small military cemetery. In the northwestern corner we’ve placed a grey basalt rock and facing the southern corner— a blanching chunk of chalk. And in between under the loose sand our red loam spreads itself all round. And when the loudspeaker booms out the memorial prayer I close my eyes and see those three colours descend before me and disappear into the encroaching shadow of the stones. Translated into the English by Seymour Mayne. HomecomingThey waited for him to come home: the trimmed lawn, the tree in its saucer, the faded plastic chairs, the rusty gate, creaking on its hinges. Mother, brother, father, sister, frozen in time: wilting, transparent, bowed down with weight of days. And then, when suddenly he comes in, everything begins to move, the lawn thickens, the tree bears fruit, the plastic chairs are scrubbed, the gate turns and creaks, moving endlessly. If only he would come in, come home. The bubble of time bursts. The scarred heart beats again. Slowly they go down on their knees, lift their eyes to him in grief, in gratitude. translated by Eddie Levenston, April 2007 
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Michael Estabrook Brief bio: Seems I’ve been writing poetry for so long that Methuselah should be taking notice, but in reality, time is simply doing its thing streaking ahead blithely pulling all of us along for the wild ride whether we like it or not; reminds me, I’ve published 15 chapbooks over the years, the last one just came out about my Dad, and before that was “when Patti would fall asleep,” about my wife, guess you could say I’m a family man. The fall has arrived here in New England , beautiful leaves turning the landscape into a Monet palate, the roads into a Jackson Pollack mural, and the air is so crisp, the scent of the fallen leaves taking me back to much younger days when the future stretched out before me like the shoreline of Lake Michigan at dawn. Michael Estabrook 4 Valley Road Acton , MA 01720 mestabrook@comcast.net  (At Emily Dickinson's grave)
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MICHAEL ESTABROOKThree PoemsMARTY The pretty nurse, in her crisp white uniform and cap, enters the room as the old man with wispy, pure white hair, no teeth, and needles sticking from the black and purple patches in his arms, is having an imaginary telephone conversation with his dead brother. “Hold on a minute Earl, the nurse is here with my pills,” he says.
PATTI After her bath she strode directly to the snacks and baked goods drawer, yanked out her precious lemon cookies with the powdery, white sugar like snow on top, flung them like spiking a football into the trash can, cinching her bathrobe belt tighter, her jaw set firm. AUNT MARY JEAN Our last phone call before the inevitable end, from an unexpected malignant cancer, she said to me, quietly, calmly, “My name’s already on the headstone with Uncle Lenny. Have my dates chiseled there beneath my name, or not.” c. All poems by M. Estabrook, 2007 |