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Conversation Poetry Quarterly

Guest Editorial:

The Poem in the Landscape Poetry:

Sofiul Azam Graham Burchell Cindy Childress Michael Estabrook Federico Federici Taylor Graham Anne Kenny Marcus Lane Donal Mahoney Luigi Marchini Maria McCarthy Louise McCudden Bethan Townsend Naomi Woddis

Winter 2008-09

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Edited by: David Nettleingham Christopher Hobday Jos Smith who would like to acknowledge: All those who submitted poems to this and all past volumes, all our readers and supporters, Katie Blythe, Beverley Smith, Elizabeth Webb, friends and family, Canterbury Poets, Save As & Waterstones of Rose Lane in Canterbury. Cover images taken from ‘Sahara’, a painting by Kadour Milnyali.


Editorial: The Poem in the Landscape by Jos Smith

p. 1

Taylor Graham A Good Long Walk Atlantic Translations, 1863

p. 3 p. 4

Graham Burchell Glaze Forbears (Wide Screen)

p. 5 p. 6

Bethan Townsend The City is a Chessboard

p. 7

Cindy

Childress Why it was okay that although you brought champagne and I wore a mini skirt with nothing underneath we were too tired to have sex His eyes aren’t blue, he says, but cyan Meditation on Wallace Stevens’s line, “Death is the mother of beauty”

p. 8 p. 9 p. 10

Anne Kenny Killourney

p. 11

Marcus Lane Sanctuary Wood Hunter’s Moon

p. 12 p. 13

Louise McCudden Red Snowflakes

p. 14

Naomi Woddis War Dog In the Distance the Sound of Thunder

p. 15 p. 16

Sofiul Azam Elegy for the Glad Harvester To the Muse, My Wife

p. 17 p. 19

Maria McCarthy Story

p. 21


Federico Federici XLIII. breakfast tea

p. 22

Luigi Marchini Haiku

p. 23

Donal Mahoney Bells from the Cathedral

p. 24

Michael Estabrook Grass

p. 25

The Contributors Submissions

p. 26 p. 30


Editorial: The Poem in the Landscape A landscape is not just a thing out there in the world. The word comes with a certain - very human - baggage. It implies a witness measuring the shape (’-scape’) of the land; it implies the human experience of land; it gathers the land around a living and breathing human being and touches him or her with immediate feeling, temporal, consuming and subjective. John Ruskin suggested that it was a ‘pathetic fallacy’ to project our human feelings onto the world before us, that reason should command our emotions and see what is truly there. He was certainly right, in that we ought not smother the land with our own swelling preoccupations, occluding its particularity and detail. However, at the same time, are we so separate from the landscape we are bearing witness to? Where does the land end and the human body begin? At the penetrated retina? In the living, porous skin? Deep in the breathing lungs? And if our body is open to the landscape then aren’t our emotions too, and our consciousness? Aren’t we too much a part of that final objectivity we are seeking? ‘He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end.’ - Ecclesiates, 3.11 The fact that we are made of the same stuff as the land precludes us from ever having the final say, precludes us from a totalising objectivity. If this is true then something of the world will always remain transcendent to us, rather than we to it. Our experience of landscape becomes a searching after, an appeal to, and a longing for what is beyond our ken as much as what is within it. Landscape, as much as it is about presence, is also about absence, about the human being staring over the precipitous edge of its experience, submerged in the infinite depth of the world. Many of the poems in this issue explore landscapes in such a manner. Intimations, rather than full presences, are sought.

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History, ghosts, memory, sensuality: these are deeply personal and subjective mappings of landscape. And the sensual nature of the language itself, its reaching rhythms and knotted rhyming, become a part of the landscape too, become part of what Merleau-Ponty would call the ‘connective tissue’ that makes up our engagement of the world. In such a picture nature and culture are not opposed. Instead, as Richard Mabey suggests, culture becomes our interface with the natural world, and landscape becomes, not about objectifying, but about forming a relationship with the world around us. Jos Smith Guest Editor

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A Good Long Walk One of my motives for making this tour was to look at the country towns and villages on the way in the face and eyes. - Elihu Burritt, A Walk from London to John O’Groats Such a long way, Elihu, for a Yankee journeying by staff. But so you chose to learn the country, from river Thames as far north as a man’s feet could take him. Others preferred to board the train – one-eyed iron dragon plunging into dark passageways dug under the streets of London, then emerging to ravage the sweet countryside. I put down your journal, Elihu, to walk our country road: for years, a one-lane track of dirt and gravel scattered by six households’ tires, dog- and horse-trot, deer-hooves. But now our road is paved with hot-mix asphalt pressed into place – bitumen dredged from underground. No more potholes or washboard rumble. We travel faster, straight ahead. But what do we see now, of towhees slipping into berry bramble, or rabbits with their quickstudy ears? Do we really know our neighbors anymore, as well as you got to know the cart-donkey you met along your path, or the skylark rising from a meadow, its song cheering you for miles? At foot-pace I see our oaks drifting brittle October leaves across pavement, and wonder what their roots make of man’s geology, that lays down a blacktop era on our road. Taylor Graham

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Atlantic Translations, 1863 Crossing once again by steamer, do you imagine you can bind two continents in peace just by the effort of travelling in-between? Do you wait at the railing, hoping for surfacings – dolphins in schools like a brotherhood of man; soundings of whales and their song? Would you wonder at such language? Might it stem from the same root as Indo-European, but branched off eons before? Do you listen so you might catch patterns, speculate on grammar and phonetics, begin to translate their sagas and history, their mythologies, their faith? Taylor Graham

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Glaze Oval pebble - island in a dimple pond, beach-naval, still water; its tiny sound drowned by the tin purl of our brook that urinates into low tide sea. I am part of this and it is part of me. I am water, blood, bile, saliva, semen, mucus, tears stripped out of eyes by autumn breeze – just tears, no sadness as I watch the dance in fallen sky, hear surf hiss salt and stones, as I slop with my wetness on glazed beach sand, and contemplate this pebble pond mandala edged with random script, etched by herring gull feet before rain clouds drift, bloated, dark, to open sea, and unfurl grey lace, tattered ribbons; off-key cycle wet on wet. Graham Burchell

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Forbears (Wide Screen) Long after the side door is locked (the one that opens inwards from the gravestones of dead Coakers and Norrishes), darkness allows its hauntings within the granite vacuum of Widecombe church. Who burned a hole in Mary Magdalene? Who scratched out Cecilia’s saintly eye? Worms chewed Saint Andrew yet he lasts, ghosting the altar screen with other saints, martyrs, kings. Authority, dogma, piety cloy. They are dust like the words of dead relatives; electrons that whirl about the soft nucleus of my mind. Note the martyrdom of Saint Apollonia, and hear a grandfather uttering, you couldn’t do that, could you hurl yourself into the flames of a fire? Smell Saint Lawrence barbequing on a griddle, taste heat sooting lips, imagine cremated dead ones wince at my casual choice of words. Hear Saint Mark turn a page of his gospel, stiff lipped in his darkness, and cringe at his righteousness. Just as once I sneered when I knew better, oh so much better than my father and all the fathers before him. Graham Burchell

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The City is a Chessboard so I’ll pawn your rook, he said for the want of a less clichéd innuendo. he laughed like a horse, however that sounds and I tripped down a city-styled lane. and as the city is a chessboard, I’ll time your every move, watching slowly, crossing backwards, blackwards. maybe it was his horse-like looks, and horn-rimmed spectacles, that led us to this crooked street, the other side of town, where the city is a chessboard where we cross paths and squares and blocks, your vaguely repugnant beauty, makes me want to mate. Bethan Townsend

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Why it was okay that although you brought champagne and I wore a mini skirt with nothing underneath we were too tired to have sex When molecules move they expand, Which explains why when we are working overtime empty space grows between us. It’s not personal, just scientifically impossible to travel a path in any way other than alone, wondering which hypothesis of the Big Bang will prove true; that one day we will snap back into the first nucleus, or infinitely move further and further apart. But no. Tonight stars long extinct wink to each other, light traveling through rotation of forces whose variables defy calculation, Much like the two of us, our actions not occurring in isolation then, but equation whose factors even when apart, are mutually dependent for coordinates. Cindy Childress

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His eyes aren’t blue, he says, but cyan and I reply that he is proof of the collective hallucination that separates and redivides variations of pigment coordinated into rules that govern patterns, decorations schemes, and the names of nail polish. A package without a label can’t be sold, so I want to hide transparent in shadows not recognized by fathers of culture devising our taste for the unique from a distance. We are not where we think, and I think, therefore I am mediated through self defense denial that my shadow is not my dark side. It is an absence of what is the color that eludes my hand each time I reach to adjust the mirror image’s hair; I rub elbows with nothing and call her god. Cindy Childress

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Meditation on Wallace Stevens’s line, “Death is the mother of beauty” If imitation is an art intimate to me intimations on immortality imitation is the most sincere form they say what doesn’t kill makes us stronger. Dying is an art Lady Lazarus said she did it well but then the first three deaths didn’t really kill her. She’s made an example of; See how women kill themselves into art? Art, an imitation death, an art imitation, a death we intimate in replications in replete circumnavigations. “Eat.” She said. “I am” I replied spooning air. “Are you on a diet?” she asked. “Perpetually,” I replied “it makes me stronger.” Cindy Childress

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Killourney (Offaly) As empty as the beehive huts, even the husk of it has shrunk, amidst the fields her father ploughed, now fallow. Thirteen again, and the table inside heavy with baked bread. Late summer flies gather at a window, the scent of turf spreads to the settle-bed, where she watches, the song of their words tumbling around her, the still warm milk slipping across her tongue. Over the half-door there are footsteps on gravel, the barking of dogs, the scattering of hens. Anne Kenny

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Sanctuary Wood Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green, Where twinkling sunlight, filt’ring to the floor Dilutes the dusky darkness in between. A concert hall, acoustically tuned To amplify each tremorous touch of stick On wood, where silent magic is cocooned, Responding to the scuffled tap and tick From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death And dried decay seep back to nature’s store, To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath The spirit of the brown-leaved forest floor. Marcus Lane

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Hunter’s Moon Earth’s still-born sister Cast-away Aborted Your ghostly image Pock-marked and pale Follows A haloed haunting Forever drawn By primitive Family ties Shy sibling Nightly your clouded iris Averts our gaze But this evening In wonderful dilation You stoop low To peer In magnificent bloodshot beauty At what might have been Marcus Lane

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Red Snowflakes Animal cries hang upon each kiss of winter breeze, helpless and unwritten, like boys on death row, who still plead innocence; it was only a trick of circumstance. Red snowflakes cake the tracks around the gates where dead foxes lie and flies gather to witness the judgement. Louise McCudden

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War Dog I am man’s best friend, they the enemy of each other. I scout out dead children from under rubble. My dusty paws scabbed from all this digging. They feed me, give me the shelter that only humans give. Love me more than they love their brothers. And every day another death. 12th October, 5 died including 3 boys. 8th of the same month, two brothers, 7th October - the wife of a dead man met the same fate as her husband. The list does not stop. I dig and dig, cling to the side of my master, step to heel and obey. I hear their sorry tales of killing, know the animal when I smell it. Naomi Woddis

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In the Distance the Sound of Thunder At my mother’s 80th, absence stained the afternoon. My aunt pale and taut as blank paper, a pinched smile sewn across her face. On his way home one night her son, Matthew, was killed by an oncoming car. It was cancer that got my dad. That day the kids’ screams rose high in to the September sky. My brother and Dave sought refuge in cans of beer. Jeffery, legs hanging over the brick wall, watched the passing trains, finding comfort in numbers. Today I tug at my fingers counting the days we have left. Pat shakes the rug over the balcony. In the distance the sound of thunder, the crumbs fall away like dust. Naomi Woddis

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Elegy for the Glad Harvester Il faut cultiver notre jardin. – Voltaire from Candide My Grandpa has long since stopped praying for rain! With how sad words should I tell of his demise? The glad harvester speaks to me in my dream – ‘Fool, look in my heart and write.’ Rivers these people’s veins run short of blood as midsummer comes: a gallery of drought scenes appears on the horizon. The tyrant sun adds fuel to miseries. Nothing’s intact but the whole range of sighs. Heat – the only sanction for cornfields. Alive from a village by the Brahmaputra he once came, quite a bit hardened overcast with memories of drought. On his face, drought printed ruin-marks. In shadows cast by the uncertainty of shower, he quivered in grief that the Legate of Dread would be there. Yet he remembered the last time he had seen rain wetting this heartland, trees and cornfields in much greener outfits, rivers alive with the abundance of fish. Later as miles of cornfields lay bare like skeletons and farmers sowing grief, my Grandpa said: When crops fail, life’s a Shewra-tree ghost, so when no rain showers to stop cracks widening faster. When rain stops, it’s us the poor who shed tears; tears ain’t enough to moisten 17


lands of life. Instruments for tilling fields lie sort of useless. Those who don’t ever pray for rain are savages. Sofiul Azam

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To the Muse, My Wife No matter how long you must have passed night after night harrowing the skin of our acquired calm, remembering all of our offspring one after another dropping dead – a tale of the worthies forsaken for worms. Long over is their game of hide and seek with death – a hyena we couldn’t stop from hauling them all into the dark. Now we welcome the memories of their screams and joys, not in tune with the dragging of our everyday clichés. I ain’t ever impotent or you a frigid woman either. Yes, I admit we are once again making love with abandon but comes none of the hints of your pregnancy ever – your womb to flower with the seed in my plough. I wonder how many pages of lust we have to scrawl before the sudden cry of a child storms into our life – that old orchestra of our smiles to be warming up to see the flying of cottonballs burst out of tiny pillows. It’s long since anything lifted us off our treadmill; indifference goes as far as to watching the drift of things. How can we face such optimists telling us every time: nothing of the way you lead your life is so crow-black – that ominous metaphysics of hatred, or simply put: that white as a blank page every artist muses on? Yet, it’s this human mind that we have – always aspiring to have glitters of a promise made confounded of the ordinary. Oh, 19


it’s memories that no longer fuel the engines that we have inside of us throbbing. Yet, these retarded hearts of ours must live on with a grief of childlessness whetting Destiny’s appetites all that inhuman and turning all our life’s enchanted embers to ashes. Sofiul Azam

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Story I know this story. It’s one of nuns and Christian brothers; of drawing water from the well; of delivering a sister when the midwife couldn’t come; of finding a man in the barn, hanging; of sailing to England with one suitcase, bearing two of everything, of sending money home; of working like a navvy; of cinemas and dancehalls and clinging to your own; of meeting my father at a dance above the Gas Showrooms; of the wedding in the blue suit, three months gone, on a day you had the flu, of letting you go home while he stayed and drank; of his mother who said he didn’t have to marry you; of sharing her house till she complained about a mark made by the baby’s arm on the bedroom wallpaper; of going homeless, in a hostel, where the men could only visit; of how he did nothing to find you somewhere to live; of travelling to Ireland with my brother; of the man who would have taken you on, baby and all, married or not, and of the other man in England, who you knew before my father, who took you to a show, Chu Chin Chow on ice, but was too nice, too old, too caring, who came walking his dog past your house every day until he died, the house that the council gave you once you had five, where my father led you a hell of a life with the drink and the babies and the miscarriage when the hospital doctor accused you of doing it yourself; of hiding from the rent man; of holding your head up in the street with us all turned out nicely, so the neighbours wouldn’t know; of how you did it for us, stayed with a man who was home when the pubs were shut, or when the horses had run the wrong way. I know this story. It’s yours, not mine. I’ve stopped listening. Maria McCarthy

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XLIII: breakfast tea to begin the day with some tea in a cup and a wee bit of milk as a cake slice sinks in tiny puffs of heat, halved, unhindered to the lower side of it the ground state hot sugar dissolves atoms gravitate a bit more about outlines of raisins, the crumbs collide, balance the chaos the sheer butter effect weep with me then droop over your breakfast tea and make the sign of the cross on the under-milk face of god or voracious cups will swallow biscuits and cakes up, the sweetnatured world to begin with Federico Federici

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Haiku marmite for breakfast washed down with a Bollingerwho the hell am I?

Luigi Marchini

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Bells from the Cathedral How do you tell a wife you love there are Spring days in raw Chicago bright with sun and the boom of bells from the Cathedral how do you tell a wife like that there are Spring days you wish you had a girl Donal Mahoney

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Grass The grass reminds me of death and sneakers and picnic baskets. The band is setting up. The sun, cooler now, will soon be setting down beyond the distant trees. The music will begin soon, in earnest, and the people will settle down. I take my pill to deaden the pain in my back. I spray some OFF! SKINTASTIC on my arms and the back of my neck and over my hair. I hate it, but it’s the lesser of two evils. Across the blankets and folding chairs I see my wife. She’s talking to some friends, pushing her hair back with her hand. I think how pretty she is still, listening to her voice reaching me in brief, flat, unorganized stretches. And I think, too, how grass is the same everywhere, really, and so are people. Michael Estabrook

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The Contributors Taylor Graham: I’m a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada, and also help my husband (a retired wildlife biologist) with his field projects. My poems have appeared in International Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, The New York Quarterly, Poetry International, Southern Humanities Review, and elsewhere. My current project is a collection of poems about the American peace activist Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith (1810-1879). Graham Burchell was born in 1950 in Canterbury. He is the winner of the 2005 Chapter One Promotions Open Poetry Competition, Winner of the 2006 Hazel Street Productions Poetry Contest, the runner up in the 2005 ‘Into Africa’ International Poetry Competition and a runner up in the 2006 Ware Open Poetry Competition. He was also nominated for a 2006 Pushcart Prize. His poetry has appeared in many print and online literary magazines. His first poetry collection Ladies of Divided Twins (Erbacce Press) and his second Vermeer’s Corner (Foothills Publishing) were both published in 2008 along with his children’s novel Chester and the Green Pig (Calderwood Books). He is also the editor of the online poetry journal, Words-Myth (http://www.words-myth.com) voted online poetry magazine of 2007 by Poetry Kit. He is a member of the Moor Poets in Devon. More details on his website – http://www.gburchell. com. Bethan Townsend is 21 and plans to stay that way for the rest of her life. She lives in North West England but changes location too frequently to pinpoint a particular ‘home’. She generally writes poetry but is attempting longer work, which can all be found at: http://dirtysmalltowngirl.deviantart.com. She is still (unfortunately) a student but doesn’t like to admit this and in an ideal world she’d be living in Ireland writing for a living. Cindy Childress: I am an American expat in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia where I teach English literacy to Manmar refugee children. I have a Ph. D. in English with creative writing emphasis from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and my poetry was recently published in the The Louisiana Review, The Dead Mule, and the Spinster’s Press anthology, Women. Period., amongst others. I also contributed a short 26


play to theatrical production, The Patriot Acts II, and I co-wrote and produced a multimedia adaptation of Sartre’s No Exit in 2005. Anne Kenny began writing poetry while living in Melbourne for a year. Her poems have been published in a range of journals including BlueDog: Australian Poetry, South and Equinox. Marcus Lane: Having taught English in schools across East Kent for thirty years, it is only within the past six months that circumstances have granted me the freedom to explore my own creativity. My first teaching post was at a school on Shakespeare Cliff, Dover. I recently returned there to discover that the A20 had ploughed its way through and sliced in two the close-knit community which the school had served. The cliff-top beyond, however, remains a wild and dangerous place to stand, and it was there that I drafted my very first poem, On Shakepeare Cliff. Louise McCudden lives in London. She is a regular contributor to this magazine and has performed her work throughout the South East. Naomi Woddis writes and performs poetry, her innovative online invention Poetry Mosaic is gaining in international popularity. Her curating and project management work includes ‘SoundBlast’ a partnership project with Apples & Snakes and the Poetry Book Society. She has performed In London and nationally including Hackney’s Write to Ignite Literature Festival, Theatre Royal Stratford, Utter, Bristol’s Poetry Can and has been published in Trespass, Rising, Poet’s Letter and Inside Out magazine. She has appeared on both Resonance radio and Colourful FM. Her pamphlet Life is Music was received to much acclaim. She is also a regular contributor to Metaroar.com. Sofiul Azam was born in Sherpur District, Bangladesh in 1981, and has earned Honours and Masters in English Literature from Rajshahi University. He has a book of poems titled Impasse, which was published from Pathak Shamabesh, Dhaka way back in 2003. His poems have appeared in literary journals across the world like Poetry Magazine, Lowe Prose & Poetics, Both Sides Now, The Journal (once of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry), Orbis, The Cannon’s Mouth, Monkey Kettle, Forward Press, Boyne Berries, Deep South, Westerly, Poetry Salzburg Review, Grey Borders, Postcolonial Text, Protocol, Trillium Literary Journal, Red River Review, Debris Magazine, The 27


Flash Review, Apollo’s Lyre, etc and some of them are anthologized as well. Moreover, he is now working on In Love with a Gorgon, his next collection of poems. He also writes short fiction. Of late, he is working on a long story, “Ashes of the Cremated Dead,” for his first book of short stories. He loves to write creative non-fiction as well; his first non-fictional prose is “A Double-born Kid’s Tale,” a work in progress. His research interests include postcolonial theories with reference to cultural politics and emancipatory aesthetics in the domain of postcolonial literatures across the globe, and he is writing “Not Afraid of Double Rejections: Notes on a Cultural Translation in Postcolonial Literatures”. He lives in Dhaka and teaches English at Southeast University and Victoria University of Bangladesh. Maria McCarthy writes poetry as a distraction from writing fiction, and fiction as a distraction from writing poetry. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Kent. Her website is www. medwaymaria.co.uk Federico Federici was born in Savona (Italy) in 1974. He studied physics at the University of Genoa and worked there as researcher for some years. He published Ardesia (1996), Versi Clandestini (2004), Quattro Quarti (2005), N documenti in cifra (2006) poem collections, Chiuderanno gli occhi (2007) book of prose with Ilaria Seclì and two books of translations: One Window and eight bars (2008) by the Hindi poet Rati Saxena (2008), Sono pesi queste mie poesie (2008) by the Russian poet Nika Turbina; other texts in reviews such as «Atelier», «Cantarena», «Kritya», «Lo Specchio», «PaginaZero», «Private», in the anthology Leggere variazioni di rotta (2008) and on internet journals. With his writings, short films and footages he took part in festivals and readings in Italy, Germany, Poland, India and Venezuela. His forthcoming book is L’opera racchiusa. On the net: http://leserpent. wordpress.com/

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Luigi Marchini is chairman of the Save As Writer’s Group held at the University of Kent at Canterbury. In a collaboration with Christopher Hobday and Gary Studley, he published Stubborn Mule Orchestra in 2008.


Donal Mahoney: I have worked as an editor for The Chicago SunTimes, Loyola University Press, McDonnell Douglas Corporation (now Boeing), and Washington University in St. Louis, all in the U.S. I have had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, Revival (Ireland), The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Commonweal, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Christian Science Monitor, The Davidson Miscellany, The Goddard Journal, The Pembroke Magazine, The Chicago Sunday Tribune Magazine, The Road Apple Review and other publications. I’ve returned to writing in retirement and have sent out some new stuff and have been lucky enough to have about 60 poems accepted since June in a variety of print and online publications. Between roughly 1969 and 1972, I was fortunate enough to have about 100 poems accepted by 80 print magazines. Then I got the first of several tough editorial jobs to feed and educate five children. So I put the other 150 unpublished and unfinished poems into cardboard boxes and forgot where I put them in the basement. But my wife always knew where they were, and after she got tired of me sitting around in retirement reading esoteric journals and listening to Gregorian Chant, she bought me a Mac and showed me where the poems were. As a result, I’ve been typing and sending out stuff since June. She’s happy there’s no more Gregorian Chant. Michael Estabrook: As a poet, you are only as good as your next poem and like a surfer searching for that perfect wave, I am searching for that next perfect poem. What keeps me going, what keeps me moving forward as a poet is my wife. After 37 years of marriage she is still not only the most beautiful woman I have ever known, but the most beautiful person I have ever known. If I find that perfect poem anywhere I’ll find it in her.

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Submissions • • • •

Up to 6 poems of any length, style or subject. Include a short biography explaining a little about yourself. Copyright for submitted work must lie with the author. We will not be held responsible for any breach of copyright that may occur. Online submissions can be in .doc or .wps format and should be sent to: conversationquarterly@googlemail.com

The submission deadline for Volume 7 is 31st March 2009. Any submissions received late may be considered for a future issue.

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ISSN 1759-9393

© 2009


Conversation Poetry Quarterly: Issue 6 Winter 2008-09  

Part of The Conversation International Poetry Project

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