Page 1

Credo Espoir Issue VII

January 2021


Contributors Fabrice Poussin Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

John Grey John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, “Leaves On Pages� is available through Amazon.

Cheryl Caesar Cheryl Caesar lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is available from Amazon. She believes that writing heals us, individually and collectively.

Gary Beck Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 28 poetry collections, 11 novels, 3 short story collections, 1 collection of essays and 2 books of plays. 2


Contributors John C. Mannone John C. Mannone has poems appearing/accepted in North Dakota Quarterly, Le Menteur, Blue Fifth Review, Poetry South, Baltimore Review, 2020 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition, and others. His poetry won the Impressions of Appalachia Creative Arts Contest (2020). He was awarded a Jean Ritchie Fellowship (2017) in Appalachian literature and served as celebrity judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (2018). His latest collection, Flux Lines: The Intersection of Science, Love, and Poetry, is forthcoming from Linnet’s Wings Press (2020). He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and other journals. A retired physics professor, he lives near Knoxville, Tennessee. He believes in the Apostle's Creed.

Don Edward Walicek Don Edward Walicek is a linguist and university professor who lives in Puerto Rico. His poetry has appeared in "Califragile, A Literary Journal of Climate and Social Justice" and "The Wild Word." He has published numerous essays and is co-editor (with Jessica Adams) of "Guantánamo and American Empire; The Humanities Respond" (Palgrave Macmillan 2018). He believes that the arts and humanities can be used to raise awareness about pressing problems such as racism, economic inequality, U.S. imperialism, and greenhouse gas emissions. In 2019, he was a Fulbright Scholar as well as a Fellow of the American Council of Learned Societies.

Alan Cohen Alan Cohen was a poet before beginning his career as a Primary Care MD, teacher, and manager, and has been living a full and varied life. He has been writing poems for 60 years and is beginning now to share some of his discoveries. He has had 94 poems published in 42 venues over the past 6 months. He’s been married to Anita for 41 years, and they’ve been in Eugene, OR these past 11. He believes in equality of opportunity and equality for the law.

3


Contributors Aldo Quagliotti My name is Aldo Quagliotti, and I'm an an italian poet based in London. In 2019 I published my first collection of poems, Japanese Tosa, published by London Poetry Books. The anthology debuted in October 2019 at the Tea House Theatre in Vauxhall and has then been promoted throughout the London open mic nights such as Flo vortex, Paper Tiger, Poetical Word. This October I've published my second Poetry collection, Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (AlienBuddha Press). My poems have also been published in italian anthologies, such as Il suono del silenzio 2008 and 2008, and Brazilian magazine (Revista Torquato). Nationally, my work has been included in English anthologies such as Reach 253, Murmurations, Cannon Poet Quarterly, Poetry In The Time Of Coronavirus, The voices Project, The Writers Club, Fleas on the dog, The Materialist , The Essential anthology, Word Doodles, Ponsersavant, The Raconteur Preview, The Orange Blush zine, Lion and Lilac, Unheard Poetry, Poetic Unity, and Literary Magazine. Recently, I have been selected as one the poets representing the Poetry Corner as part of the Kesington+ Chelsea Art Week in London (1-11 October). With a diploma at the London College of Media and Publishing, I also review music and write live reports on Peek-a-boo magazine and Gigsoup. I also offer review and genuine feedback to emerging poets/musicians on https:// quaquaversalweb.wordpress.com/.

Lorraine Caputo Poet-translator Lorraine Caputo’s works appear in over 200 journals on six continents; and 14 chapbooks of poetry – including Caribbean Nights (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014), Notes from the Patagonia (dancing girl press, 2017) and On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She travels through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth, creating bridges of understanding between us. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer and https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com 4


Contributors Carl Palmer Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Carl is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Micro Award nominee. PAPA’s MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!

Linda Imbler Linda Imbler’s poetry collections include five published paperbacks: “Big Questions, Little Sleep,” “Big Questions, Little Sleep” second edition (expanded with 66 additional poems), Lost and Found,” “Red Is The Sunrise,” and “Bus Lights, Travel Sights.” Soma Publishing has published her three e-book collections, “The Sea’s Secret Song,” “Pairings,” a hybrid of short fiction and poetry, and “That Fifth Element.” Examples of Linda’s poetry and a listing of publications can be found at lindaspoetryblog.blogspot.com. In addition to writing, she helps her husband, a Luthier, build acoustic guitars in Wichita, Kansas, U.S.A.

Charles Haddox Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His work has recently appeared in Amethyst Review, Porridge Magazine, Birdcoat Quarterly, and Toyon Literary Magazine.

5


Table of Contents Yellow Cab ………………………………………………………………………………....8 Remember Him?...........................................................................................................10 Genealogy of a Poet......................................................................................................11 Love on the Stairs…………………………………………………………………………..12 Single…………………………………………………………………………...…………...14 Shadows……………………………………………………………………………………..15 Newspaper in the Driveway………………………………………………………………..16 What is Democracy?........………………………………………………………………….18 LGBTQ + Me……………………………………………………………………………….20 Deep Within………………………………………………………………………………...22 Lost………………………………………………………………………………………….24

Climate Change……………………………………………………………………………..24 Chemo Quilt………………………………………………………………………………...25 Awaiting a Winner………………………………………………………………………….26 Purity……………………………………………………………………………………….28 Breathe Again………………………………………………………………………………30 To be a Crone…………………………………………………………………………….....31 Catachresis………………………………………………………………………………….34 Helpless……………………………………………………………………………………..35 Secret………………………………………………………………………………………..38 The Nemophilist…………………………………………………………………………....40 After the PCR Meeting……………………………………………………………………..42 Amoeba……………………………………………………………………………………...44 Circle Drive………………………………………………………………………………….46 Celebration………………………………………………………………………………….48 6


He was a thin-membraned, shapeless amoeba, deprived of clarity, drawn along by stimuli: light, water, music, a female amoeba. A very young amoeba, with the instincts and longings of youth. -Charles Haddox

7


YELLOW CAB John Grey

Take me to a kingdom by the sea, driver. And then the heavens above. Or the September of my most memorable year.

Or just any place famed for its gentleness.

Why are you looking at me like that? I'm not drunk. I'm merely in a strange place mentally. And I need to get to a strange place physically. A land of jacinth and ivory will do.

Look, I get it. You're used to dealing with street names or famous buildings or even some guy telling you go right then left and then bear right and take a sharp u-turn.

What I am telling you is that

lovers are coming into their equilibrium, a blissful secular saeculum obscurum, and I want to be there with heart and substance flowing.

8


No, I will not leave your vehicle this instant. I have good money. And an even better nature. You never know, my destination might be just the thing

that you've been driving toward but never reaching.

Well now you can. Let me take you there. You're just some guy who drives a cab around but you long for the shining clusters, the serene involvement. I know you hailed me for a reason.

9


REMEMBER HIM? Cheryl Caesar

He was the kid who dropped out, not from high school but from junior high, frozen in that most Hobbesian of worlds. Who kept the sideways, back-of-the-class grin of tossing notes and spitballs, surreptitiously showing off Op-Yops and Clic-Clacs. Who slouched down on his spine, because the teacher said God had given him a bottom to sit on. Defiantly he stayed curled like a fetus born at seven months. A premature adult. Forever Bugs Bunny, the wisecracking preteen, laughing at googooing babies and lumbering adults, carrot cigarette for a prop. Alfred E. Neuman with his snappy answers and satires of movies he’s too young to see. Someone mentioned him at the 25th high school reunion, but he didn’t come. There was no reunion for junior high. But I imagine him on the playground at night, sitting on a swing, a jungle gym, a car hood. Waiting for someone to come and share the joke or rumor of the 8 to 3 day, the thrill of a forbidden cigarette. 10


GENEALOGY OF A POET John C. Mannone

My mother sang sweet lullabies to me as she cradled me on her lap in a mahogany rocker. Later, I’d watch her orchestrate a meal. And she wrote poetry with the pictures she drew in her cookbook.

Father’s poetry were equations, a lonely beauty of the universe reaching deep into the recesses of mind touching the physicist-to-be in me. He taught me stern compassion, and the poetic license of a hug, a kiss on the cheek.

My younger sister is a fine cook, and a poem herself. The lines of her life breaking with as much joy as pain. I’d tease her unmercifully when she was eight, but always loved her. Now she’s layered like an exquisite poem with deep meaning & enigma.

My older sister was shear music, the story of her life still singing in my heart even though she’s been gone for years. Her voice over the phone, full of complex harmonies, and that Latina sparkle.

But my twin brothers, a Christmas wish when I was ten—whose sustained lyrics I can only imagine—strum the heavenlies with the God of all the children of miscarriage. I want to hear their song.

11


LOVE ON THE STAIRS Don Edward Walicek

The morning delivered its glow as beams through the open window before he prepared our coffee,

landing them on granite then wood. He paused in his steps.

Taken by the tropical light, he allowed it to wrap his skin. Soft waves of sweet breeze came in too, forming a bridge between San Juan and his youth in Santiago.

I watched from the top of the stairs and then returned to my bed when he was lifted away. It was his first taste of Puerto Rico,

his first visit home in a few years, my lesson in lagging behind.

12


All before reaching the kitchen. All in a visit one weekend.

Six years later, the bookcase near my always open window shines quiet tones of amber-orange. They bring in hints of salitre, and we visit each other often.

13


Single by Fabrice Poussin

14


SHADOWS Lorraine Caputo

Shadows of trees, of flowering bushes planted amongst the graves & shadows of clouds gathering

in a starry sky flooded with full moonlight, shadows of yellow light flickering upon white-washed tombs

The flame of a novena candle gleams off the façade of its remembered soul, its hurricane shade fractured & distorted from eight days, these eight nights of vigil, ivory wax silently pooling, seeping from beneath & onto pallid marble & sheening in waxing moonlight

A bouquet of yellow silk flowers wilt in the chill of this night washed only by music from the village

far-off & the nearer sea‌.

15


NEWSPAPER IN THE DRIVEWAY John Grey A newspaper in a driveway – how retro is that? And tied with an elastic band, the news of the day constricted like a throat in the hands of the Boston strangler. Disaster can barely breathe. Even the sports are pressed so tightly together they’ve no idea who beat who. Then there’s the weather. Gray clouds overhead, famine fears possible rain.

And there’s the wind. A politician’s front could be blown clean away. Not counting the stray dogs. They could rip murders and muggings to shreds. Luckily, a man 16


in dressing gown emerges from the house’s front door, grabs the newspaper

with a painful bend of his back, retreats inside. The obituaries are saved. War victims live to die another day.

17


WHAT IS DEMOCRACY? Gary Beck

Hundreds of thousands of homeless trying to subsist on the streets? Millions of children undernourished,

while the 1% feast? Millions and millions of children denied opportunity, the system too poor to sustain them, while it gives tax breaks to the rich? A selfish ignoramus wants to build a wall between two friendly countries, instead of rebuilding the decaying infrastructure? This is not what they taught in grade schools around the land. They tried to fill our heads

with ideal sentiments based on noble documents that promised‌ So so much. And I was too young to know the difference between the word and the deed, as teachers brainwashed us 18


to blindly accept a nation that had nothing to do with harsh reality.

And all the unanswered questions why America the beautiful, the land of plenty didn’t have enough for so many. A beleaguered President once said: ‘A house divided can not stand’. Our divisions are as extreme as that of the Bourbons and Romanoffs from their oppressed people. Is the hope of equality an illusion? Is revolution the only way to bring fairness to the people?

19


LGBQT+ME Aldo Quagliotti

what a waste of space said the hope not kissing up a rainbow flag just knocked about

somewhere beyond the sunny hills of Teheran

litres of hate are lashing down streaming clockwise towards the dna of involution proclaiming their right to be young folks larking it up ordering censorhip at the bar

what a waste of sweat said Jesus not coming down from the cross, pungently holding

a sarcastic comment we're not made in the image of his father if we get bothered by a colour a flavour some lovers just kissing each other

20


kilos of rage are weighing down the motion of the planet spirituality is mooching around

along the endless queues of a fast food in a sunny afternoon in Manhattan

Poetry remains the cutie, light-hearted resistance the gayety of a pink sword the brightest of futures: the queerer, the better!

21


22


Deep Within by Fabrice Poussin

23


CLIMATE CHANGE Gary Beck The sparrows sit in woeful rows on trees beginning to bud singing together sorrowfully,

‘Where is Spring? Where is Spring?’ Most of us are shedding feathers. Many are doing the mating dance. Some are stealing twigs for our nests.

LOST

We’re doing everything

Gary Beck

that sparrows have always done

When a man lives on the street

to continue bird existence,

he is a true citizen

but it hasn’t gotten warmer

of the disadvantaged world.

and if we don’t huddle together

Nairobi, Calcutta, New York…

we won’t survive the long, cold night.

Did I say New York? How can the richest city ignore the abandoned begging on street corners, cardboard signs held low the flags of disenfranchisement. As the limousines drive by the occupants do not notice outcasts of despair.

24


CHEMO QUILT Cheryl Caesar

Yes, they had already given me one at the infusion center, sewn by volunteers and distributed by the Red Cross or the Susan Konen Foundation. That’s the one I pulled up under my armpits when my pic line was hooked up to the hanging bottle. When my six-months’ treatment was finished, I laundered it carefully and returned it, for the next patient to use.

But the quilt from my Book Club friends went right up on the wall, and there it stays, comforting me every day, five years cancer-free. Kindness in every stitch.

Greys and greens, like my house. Black and white for contrast. Yellow and red for joy. Scraps of fabric patterned and plain. Patterns of birch leaves, like the tree in my backyard. Crows for wisdom, doves for peace of mind. Cats for playfulness. A crow wears half a daisy on her wing, reminding me that I will one day preen again. At the top, a cat’s legs cross a tightrope, like me keeping my balance over a pit of nausea and pain. Another cat tumbles over a sofa back, in supreme comfort. Onto the front edge of the sofa arm is worked a discreet heart. Whole critters, or just heads and feet: you can never see the whole story at once.

Two artists in the group drew the patterns. Everyone brought scraps of fabric. Everyone stitched. They wanted me to use the quilt to keep warm, but I could not bear to spoil it with a drop of Red Devil (doxorubicin) or a blot of blood. I wonder now what it says about me that I had to keep this token of love at a distance, for fear of spoiling it.

25


AWAITING A WINNER Aldo Quagliotti

Quaking faces passing by pollinating insects winging their way

between the traffic quintessentially bored awaiting a winner an unrivalled pole position for some voluptuous vacuity a loop to relish your pattern of harmonious discomfort

pom-pom shaped glances fast-growing shrubs for hatred speeches drapping panicles velvet tassels

melted hearts just to sit enthroned on other fellows’ cadavers

all this running for a statuesque pose of immobility, once you’re gone 26


a frothy touch of lies to dignify your martial arts to get on the train, in time

to be the winner you’ve always dreamt of to meet your shadow once you’ve arrived being the-on-the-season silhouette moved by the slightest of breezes

27


28


PURITY BY FABRICE POUSSIN

29


BREATHE AGAIN Don Edward Walicek

Amidst the still unimaginable cries of summer, in the fractured light of morning, against the wind stirring the distant palms, with the sweet scent of the ylang ylang, learn to breathe. To draw breath is to balance, to trust in the beauty of the basic, a better and more bountiful future, to beckon benevolence. To hold breath is to create stillness, a space for contemplation, the threshold of divulgence, a new opening into language. To release breath is to recall the memories of those that we will mourn, to read again ourselves, the constituents of popular favor, to embody the music of reeds, to dwell in the compassion of strangers. Learn to breathe after the opening of our veins, across the crests of a lover’s fading pulse, behind the cold metal bars of solitary, in the death spiral of the red-tailed hawk. Embrace breathing anew in full view of devastating hubris. Sit in playful communion with that golden point on the horizon.

30


TO BE A CRONE Cheryl Caesar

Have your own house if you can, with nameless rooms where children can discover cookie tins full of assorted buttons, to run

their fingers through and feel plenty, and boxes full of sparkling Christmas cards where they can see glamour.

Have a yard where you grow rhubarb for children to bite and fill their mouths with water on dry summer days, and catnip grown high on shelves in cans for your invisible cat.

Have an invisible cat, or one that appears only slowly, after much waiting. That teaches children to be quiet and still.

If asked for its name, say nothing, or “Kitty.”

Have lots of books, of course, brown and curling or dusted and new. “Adult” books like Ulysses where a ten-year-old can feel sick at Bloom’s urine-tinged kidney breakfast, but love him for his tenderness to his cat. Aesop’s fables 31


with watercolors where the wolf ’s long tongue drips over his long jaw. Children can call the image up in bed at night, to train

themselves in courage.

Have lots of photos, every one a portal to a story. Have the stories, especially stories of children who drink Shirley Temples and call them “cat tails,� or walk with an ice-cream cone in each hand, vanilla and chocolate, taking alternate licks.

Have an illness, past or present, that knots your fingers and spins your head, confining you to your room and bed, or that once confined you to an Institution.

Have at least one marriage and one divorce. You need to have slipped through the weave, and seen both sides of the social fabric.

32


Cut your hair short, and let Your head rise loose and free, like a snake’s, or a swan’s, or a periscope’s. Let

your skin grow thin enough to feel the world’s breath. Let wisdom collect in your wrinkles. Let the clench and ache fade from your pelvis, and love diffusely, with your whole body. Not like a young man clenching his fists and gritting his teeth to priestly celibacy. But easily, naturally, as flower goes to pod.

---------------------------------------

When you have done all this, you can let go. Release the house and the body, the soul’s house. Then you can love

through a screen, through a window, on a wind, on a wave, you can ride out the season of plague and darkness.

33


CATACHRESIS Carl Palmer

I’m pregnant, almost two months she whispers beaming joyfully, tears streaming down her cheeks.

This hopeful dreaded moment as those these past three years each loss worse than the last.

Hugging her sobbing, laughing body I want to say something. I love you. She waits for me to say more.

Well-timed silence hath more eloquence than speech. ~ Martin Tupper (Proverbial Philosophy, 1838)

34


HELPLESS Alan Cohen

The sun broke over the morning Like a freshet Chilling my skin

My legs beating down the sidewalk like two red hearts Rushing blood to my skull Seeking among leaf and lilac

Those days when We met And I made you, gave you Not knew you Nor minded what you said or why Not cared-for nor sought But moved and met and abandoned, forgot

Until sudden

Like cloud Over this great green meadow (Where the butterfly And the dandelion In the tall grass High above the waves And all savor of all beauty 35


Rested) An intimation of greater dimension Scaled every hair and blade down

Against one warning but toward one larger hunger I slowly gave way Until I saw your sky grow huge, outrageous Over this single meadow cell

And longing (I've given you all my happiness Just to touch your forbidden hair Touch me, o touch me, too, I'm so beautiful Here in this fierce, irredeemable air) Toward your fleeting (But touch me now, touch me

I've given you all I can give; please requite) Form (You're so beautiful, sound, and resourceful) Fleeting unwon into unguessed night I see my rhythm floundering, faltering Round you My mind drawn toward 36


Unloosed from all questioning, learning, belief Toward irrevocably Toward inadvisedly

Toward, o so gracefully Never so certainly You Till I rest in your hand

37


38


SECRET BY FABRICE POUSSIN

39


THE NEMOPHILIST Linda Imbler

I, the lover of trees and woods. I, who practices arborolatry. I, the once-upon-a-time outsider, circuitously

walking the entire criss-cross of this land. My senses are rushed with the folklore growing around this dirt way: sightings of a feathering of brushy habitat, creepers and boughs, twisted vegetation laid out like cooked spaghetti, even a docked tortoise on a big log. Active things, kept hidden and rustling around, the piercing call and recall of robins and catbirds.

This brush and bark, resilient through all seasons: shaded in summer,

the warmth of its depths in winter. As spring blows her breath along the trees, in the full moon of May, look between the treetops. On the ground in Summer, see leaves as pinned emerald adornments hung by secret woodland decorators.

40


Whatever time of year I stroll around this sublime terrain, it is a place for dancing, singing, and dreams, with a monopoly on most of the green and brown in the world.

There’s a healing nature to standing on worn paths, nature that heals sore souls. This place is the way to my heart’s cheer, and I can trust that its keeper will never yawn, nor fall asleep on the job.

The magic works outside this trackway, you can smell it in the fragrant odor exuded from each living thing that surrounds it. And while I am away, the museum of my mind keeps the memory of all my journeys within alive.

41


AFTER THE PSR MEETING Alan Cohen

After the PSR Meeting, January 29, 1984: Room 709, Dunfey Shoreham Hotel

The capital spreads before me

Unfolding gently, an illustration of perspective Its vanishing point precisely halfway up the sky And though there are cars and busses on the street below and pedestrians Though a striking likeness of Marilyn Monroe is painted on the brick wall just opposite our window Birds wheel languorously through the January air The vehicles move with unparalleled restraint And create the illusion of an earlier century in Europe But for the intersection directly before, I can see no other street in the entire city Only houses and apartment buildings, places of worship and monuments Ascending to the sky through a nest of trees I look away for a moment And experience the further illusion of greenness

The entire city seems green in my mind But I look out again and there is none but the awning across the street And now vagrant snow flurries share the vast sky with the birds

42


My mind is drawn to another vanishing point I am blinded by its fireball Unbalanced by its blast wave

Seared by its thermal pulse The snow is falling more steadily now We have a long drive ahead of us A long way home

43


AMOEBA Charles Haddox

The cyan sea’s brilliance almost blinded Ferd each time he witnessed it anew. Riding the waves on his rounded square-tail shortboard, he was filled with joy and quiet satisfaction, feelings that had eluded him for eighteen vacant years. Entering the ocean was a return to the amniotic waters. He was more at home in the frigid depths than he had ever been on land. The murmur of the winds and his own youthful blood ran over his neoprene skin. The taste of living broth filled his mouth and his thoughts, as it mingled with scatter and spume. But night would arrive to dispel the enthusiasm and silence the spirit of joy. As he lay in the back of Craig’s decrepit blue Suburban, surrounded by impenetrable darkness, his sleeping bag as clammy as a wet dime, Ferd felt his old enemies, sadness and vacancy, return to him looking for shelter. He would call those nights “the fog of the Nineties.” Music helped him through it, and the quietly growing expectation that something special, something entirely new, waited at the end of the journey. With the morning’s placid arrival and a fresh opportunity to search for the perfect wave, all his doubts and fears bled away like the darkness. The hourglass shoreline, shadowlike under a fine curtain of spray, and the bitter smell of iodine, exhaled by the moving swell, made him forget the well-kept ranch-style homes and tree-lined streets where he had been born and had grown up; that other world, a place without jeopardy or terror. It was better to go away to lands’ end, to roam like a stray dog that had wandered far from its familiar neighborhood, though roaming itself might carry the risk of being shot as a suspected bearer of contagion, or indeed—just as likely—for sport.

Each day was filled with expectation and chance, with a hope for the perfect break. Every ride a return to the original community of water, animal, and recognition. The renewal of holy abandonment, abandonment of everything named by category, or species, or symbol, emptiness in place of time’s fictitious numerology. The simple truth, that the ocean is a single being, dazzling beyond compare, most beautiful and desirable in her endless, bewildering moodiness, her childlike inconstancy, her brazen choreography. She was the only woman that Ferd had ever danced with willingly, beguiled by her intriguing vitality, her exquisite, eternal profligacy. Following her graceful lead, he challenged her restless spirit with his own. Soaring upward on the moving wave, riding its in44


tensifying face, Ferd seized the lead from her, with rocking shortboard and bellicose rail to rail footwork. The farther north he and Craig traveled, the colder the fair sea grew. And with the cold, new possibilities arose for both torment and transcendence. The penetrating chill of the water, colder than wind or ice, its high conductivity quickly robbing the body of the warmth of life, allowed a sensation beyond pain or delirium to take hold, an extreme lucidity and stamina, the result of preferential blood flow to the heart and brain—the mammalian diving reflex—for a moment creating superhuman vitality out of the organism’s will to survive. And Ferd, a mere mammal, truly experienced the superhuman in that final moment, the ability to dwell below the waves, to wait out the most unrelenting, terrifying hold-down, to conquer it; and to take on the rip currents, endure the sudden, savage, bonecrushing collisions, as he faced the ordeal with herculean abilities, no longer a captive of the invisible atmosphere, no longer restrained by water, until the arrival of implacable sleep and death, or the slow return to the common, the ordinary, the terrestrial, transfigured. He was a thin-membraned, shapeless amoeba, deprived of clarity, drawn along by stimuli: light, water, music, a female amoeba. A very young amoeba, with the instincts and longings of youth.

45


CIRCLE DRIVE (A HAIBUN) Cheryl Caesar

To grow up on a circle drive, riding a bike, is to realize early that there are no beginnings or ends. If you keep going you will end up where you were. The houses seem to follow the seasons: the red and green is Christmas, the pastel one is Easter.

Your house is special because it faces a street island, with a crabapple tree whose fruit you always try to eat and always give up on. One time your little brother escaped a babysitter, fleeing to the island, and you think of this each time you pass.

The house next door is special because it has a crack in the sidewalk that gives the bike a satisfying liftoff, so you swerve from street to sidewalk, every time you pass.

Crocus turn to tulips turn to daylilies turn to marigolds turn to asters; blank sheet of snow; begin again.

Circle, little moon. Wind your orbit round your world, holding it in place.

46


A bouquet of yellow silk flowers wilt in the chill of this night washed only by music from the village far-off & the nearer sea‌. -Lorraine Caputo

47


48


CELEBRATION

BY FABRICE POUSSIN

49


Staff Aliquis | Website Manager & Prose Editor A pencil breaker, book hoarder, and midnight thinker, she mindlessly plays with equations in corners and recreates her life on paper. Her unbreakable habits include nibbling dark chocolate, testing the limits of her telescope, and torturing her punching bag. She has won district and state awards for her writing and cannot imagine life without words or numbers. She believes in equality and education for all.

Demira | Poetry Editor Currently a writer, artist, dreamer, and introvert. She constantly scribbles words onto tattered pages woven from big dreams. She spends her time on her laptop, loves snow, and enjoys learning about philosophy and news ways of looking at the world. She has won various national level writing awards. She believes in Krishna and a life lived in serving others.

Maddie | Art Editor Along with exploring nature, Maddie loves exploring new, often absurd, ideas. Her free time consists mainly of creating art and music, being active, gaming, and volunteering, but her true passion lies in learning about and interacting with different animals. She has won numerous awards for art and music, both of which have greatly strengthened her creativity. She believes in working together to reverse mankind’s destruction on the environment.

Shehzad | Blog Manager A revolutionary stuck in the body of an engineer. When he’s not writing code or learning about the newest discoveries in astronomy, he’s busy pondering current events, trying to find solutions to the hardest political problems and wondering why there’s so much hatred in the world. He is a devout Muslim who strongly opposes any type of inequality or prejudice.

50


Copyright 2021 Credo Espoir Thank you to all the authors and artists presented in this magazine. To future contributors: Submit your work at www..credoespoir.wordpress.com

51


52

Profile for credoespoir

Credo Espoir Issue 7  

The seventh issue of Credo Espoir features poetry, prose, and visual art from Fabrice Poussin, John Grey, Cheryl Caesar, Gary Beck, John C....

Credo Espoir Issue 7  

The seventh issue of Credo Espoir features poetry, prose, and visual art from Fabrice Poussin, John Grey, Cheryl Caesar, Gary Beck, John C....

Advertisement

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded