Cantos 2014

Cantos

A Literary and Arts Journal Missouri Baptist University 2014

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal EDITOR John J. Han ASSISTANT EDITORS Rebecca Klussman Glory Wilkinson EDITORIAL ASSISTANT Ashley Anthony EDITORIAL CONSULTANT C. Clark Triplett

COVER ART Carol Sue Horstman

COVER DESIGN Jenny Gravatt

Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal is published every spring by the Department of English at Missouri Baptist University. Its goal is to provide creative writers with a venue for their artistic expressions and to promote literary awareness among scholars and students. The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent those of Missouri Baptist University. Compensation for contributions is one copy of Cantos, and copyrights revert to authors and artists upon publication.

SUBMISSIONS: Cantos welcomes submissions from the students, faculty, staff, alumni, and friends of Missouri Baptist University. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn@mobap.edu by March 1.

Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an e-mail attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn7@gmail.com by the same date. For more details, read the submission guidelines on the last page of this issue.

SUBSCRIPTIONS & BOOKS FOR REVIEW: Cantos subscriptions, renewals, address changes, and books for review should be mailed to John J. Han, Editor of Cantos, Missouri Baptist University, One College Park Drive, St. Louis, MO 63141. Phone: (314) 392-2311/Fax: (314) 434-7596. Subscription rate for both individuals and institutions: $5 per issue purchased at MBU and $7 per mail-ordered issue.

ISSN 2327-3526 (print) ISSN 2327-3534 (online) Volume 20—2014 www.mobap.edu/cantos

CONTENTS Poetry 4 6 7 10 12 15 17 19 20 25 28 29 33

Haiku and Tanka Two Haibun “Material” and other poems “After Holidays” and other poems “Granddaughter of a Soldier” and other poems “Inspired Fly” and other poems “My Uncle Louis and Me” and other poems Six Haiku Ten Haiga “Aura, Auralee, Auralay” and other poems “Marissa at 28” and “The Illusion of Speed” Eight Haiga “sailing metal” and see in black and white”

John Samuel Tieman Gretchen Graft Batz James Fowler Alice M. Azure Jane Beal Stanley E. Banks Janet M. Banks Ben Moeller-Gaa Donald W. Horstman James Maxfield Bob McHeffey Carol Sue Horstman j.l.wills

36-45 FEATURED POET: John Zheng 46 47 49 51 53 56 57 61 64 65 68 69 71 73 74

Five Tanka “Above the Clag” and other poems “Magic Time” and other poems “The Big Catch” and “Dime Store Turtles” “Along the Way to Austin” and other poems Dogs Bark “Samuel” and other poems “Fellowship on the Sabbath” and other poems Whatever Happened to Our St. Louis Poets?

“Thoughts about Cats” and other poems The Last of Us “In Spring” and other poems “The Bench at Midnight” and other poems “Oh, Hark!” and other poems “Key Words” and other poems

Lee Ann Russell Billy J. Adams Elaine L. Becherer Lori Becherer Dale Ernst Terrie Jacks Faye Adams Gregory Ramirez Mary Kennan Herbert M.J. Becco Elisabeth Keller Jeanice L. Davis Marcel Toussaint Terrie Jacks Rocky Lochhaas

Short Stories 77 79 81

Revelation The Duck, the Chicken, and the Turkey The Sovereigns Awakened

Joshua Smith Marcel Toussaint Robert Lofton

Nonfiction 84 87

Journey to Oxford Four’s Company

Victoria L. Scheibe Jessica Wohlschlaeger

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90 95 97 98 102 104

Sensei Inspires Student Responsibility in Natsume Soseki’s Kokoro Reefer’s Rerun Fishing Trip A Somewhat Bumpy Landing Book Review Book Review

Angela Tynes Faye Adams Billy J. Adams Bill Byrne Ben Moeller-Gaa Abigail Rose Crain

On Writing Creatively 107 111 114 123

Working Out a Writing Process Haiku Talk through Kenneth C. Leibman’s Haiku On Cultivating a Creative Life Teaching Something Different: New Poetic Forms for the English Classroom

Photo Art 16 18 45 50 64 68 78 80 96 101 110

Roadside Chapel Umbrellas at the Pool Lily Pad and Flower Knot in the Tree Mushrooms and Pinecones Sleeping Seals Flutterby Reflections Smooth as Glass Picnic Tables Eyes

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Notes on Contributors

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Submission Guidelines

Ben Moeller-Gaa John Zheng Jane Beal John J. Han Terrie Jacks

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Poetry

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.

—Leonardo da Vinci Always be a poet, even in prose.

—Charles Baudelaire Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

—Jack Kerouac

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Haiku and Tanka John Samuel Tieman

wind whips his pages till Basho slips from my desk haiku in the wind

a gutted chapel I stop for an Our Father and a Glory Be

three cold spring haiku a field without name a junco flies by a leaf that’s without a tree * above the arched stone bridge the full moon yellows halfway up the sky * outside it’s snowing inside I feed our fireplace and heed your whisper

in a winter squall a homeless veteran stands at attention—

a deserted church a pigeon darts from behind the sign of the cross

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during the state test a kid stares out at the rain each drop falling free the white mist in the Ozarks an unchanging gray mountain

After Issa A world of hurt is a world of hurt … and yet, and yet … in Vietnam, a sunset.

Even jungle birds paused.

for a war buddy Phoebe the artillery the dull wail in the valley you will not forget the way the evenings felt after you lived again

sorry I forgot your card on Valentine’s Day I just don’t do cards I’ll make a boat of a poem I’ll sail on your great still lake

Departures for J. and G. on Chincoteague i something alive—lunch from a trap slung from your pier life shell knife death fork when we left it was summer the sun—the white sun ii the rain on your deck the folded wings of gulls an ocean next door when we recall salt water we will touch the earth for you

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Two Haibun Gretchen Graft Batz One Bright Star It’s been nearly two weeks since her husband passed. At midnight she wakens. The house seems so big now. So quiet this Maine winter night. But not a go-to-sleep quiet. She refuses to get up.

Gradually, sleep returns…until 3 a.m. Time to rise and put a log on the fire. He’d left her with a couple of years’ supply of wood. And many of his paintings. At least they continue revealing his insights. But his creations are not enough. Memories of him are not enough. How long will it take for the grief to pass?

From the kitchen window, she gazes out across the snowy Saco River Valley. one bright star between passing clouds Christmas morn

Evolution of Thought and Action The lawn mower tears through our rural mixture of wild greens. As I go around the three-row deep firewood pile, my peripheral vision spies a sinuous flowing movement. In an instant I know that I’ve frightened a snake—its brown and black diamond patterns and enormous girth blend in subtly with its surroundings.

I continue mowing past the stacked wood and then reverse directions for another view—this time further away. I’m just in time to see the rattles on the tail disappear in between two rows. How long had this creature been watching me—and how close had I passed by it before? For a moment I shudder with fear.

I take a deep breath and finish mowing the rest of our lawn, hoping the engine noise will eventually drive him out of the yard. From a safe distance, I watch him slither along the earth alley between two linear rows…all three feet of him.

Instead of exiting at the end, he climbs with amazing ease up the precarious third pile. I stop the mower and come closer. His head slowly reemerges above the recently stacked split oak. In a short time his entire body creeps along the top of the stack, gradually forming a cinnamon-roll shape—not a tight coil. His tail does not rattle. Then, he just lays there, tongue flickering in and out a few times as we watch one another.

A distant rumbling signals coming rain. I rush into the house to find and load film into my camera. I’d grown up on a farm near an abandoned rock quarry. Many a rattler had mistakenly ventured into our yard over the years, sending my father running into the house to load up as well…. to shoot the rattler I load my camera Dad used a gun

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“Material” and Other Poems James Fowler Material Inside the cover of this old-enough book an empty sleeve X’d in ink.

The reason, a bar code pasted opposite, also outdates the date-due slip, its only stamp a day from 1982.

There was a time when readers signed themselves, joined informal clubs that never met except on the page, whose membership all could browse.

Now checked books name no names in this most unprivate age.

How trace their checkered histories: the first flush of demand, the years of shelved neglect, the sporadic flurry of interest?

Tomorrow, they say, we’ll breeze through a gate as chips replace strips and scanners pick books and pockets of ID. If books live to tell the tale.

Already the local library sells them by the pound, cheaper than bananas, to make room for the virtual.

Back to tablets, this clay never dry, this stone never bitten once for all.

Efficient, yes, but words, concrete in abstraction, insist on their thingness, thrive on cream-colored linen stock.

Eye, ear, finger, tongue, concur (even nose whiffing peppery dust): materialism at its best savors gutturals and goats, finds good company in creatures bright and spined.

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Song of the Better Loved I found you fine, you found me deep, A man more shade than light; I wondered at your open ways, You sensed a tender side.

In that you weren’t entirely wrong, My heart repaid your touch, A measured largesse, to be sure, I could give you that much.

What short of constant kindnesses Could draw me out this far?

But is it fair that for your all You get my would-be-more?

It never will come easy, dear, To lay defenses down; Some ride the waves with airy grace, Some struggle not to drown.

Forgive my reasons and delays You seem unconscious of— Within your arms I plainly feel The pain of lesser love.

Legends of Good Children Hail now to Aelric, who ate all his roots, Then Bo-ku, a menace to Huns; There’s Celia, renowned for her licorice tea, And Dag with his rainmaking drum.

Forget not Enrique, the llama's fast friend, Nor Flavius, sharer of toys, Like Gareth, Hillaire Jr., Ivan, and Jalal, They improve the poor image of boys.

Kwame once lived in a baobab trunk, Lorelei posed for the moon, Both justly famous, as Morris & Norris, Or Ono, the pride of Rangoon.

Popol proposed a new calendar With two giving days every week; Quilla restored white sands to the shore Using spoons both plain and unique.

Who does not know the carpet of Ranjit, That saved slaving youths by the score?

Next comes Sequoia, her mouth full of smiles, And Terese who thought nothing a bore.

Ursula founded a bad-name exchange, Victor took pet peeves for walks, Brooks ran cleaner for green Wilhelmina, Xavier sealed friendships with caulk.

Praise to Yehudi, apprentice consoler, And Zelda of flapjacking lore; This just one alphabet of distinction, There’s numbers of letters the more.

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The Buffer You know it by its dropping The moments when you mutter A shutter blankly admits And for once you believe it But with a thrill of flesh In its routine attachments To the dream of endurance Those hands into everything Those eyes alight to think That smile a curving pitch Or all of us whose being The buffer may not be willed But seems to make possible Whereby the action glides Lest, however, the show The jesting skull must yet So that god and animal And each incessant actor Imagine your own release The new depth of setting A newfound modest charm

in between sleep and waking, “I’m really going to die.� truth hard and immediate not in a general way that feels itself a carcass. that flesh is an accomplice in which you normally move: gesture or grip can manage, of novelties and prospects, for yourself at home in life comes naturally as breathing. at least not apparently that universal pretense without distracted asides. prove one mumming diversion, unearth, be smelt and hefted, might bury their differences be freed from self-enchantment. beyond the surge of stage fright: in which your moment matters, gracing your delivery.

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“After Holidays” and Other Poems Alice M. Azure After Holidays I pack away donkey, camels, lambs and shepherds, Mary, Joseph, Infant Holy.

I pack away sweet symphony, everlasting story— unknowing made knowing, longing assuaged.

Winter unfolds, its winds whiffling No, no and no.

My story’s good news sings darkness away.

Over the Arch Jet contrails lattice dusk-red sky a cosmic ladder to the West— for now I decline to try.

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Post-Modern Reverie If Fritz Scholder’s buffalo dancer sits under a desert sun licking away at a strawberry ice-cream cone, then Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Chair shouldn’t seem strange in my den, cozy with old baskets in every nook.

If Norval Morrisseau traveled astral highways looking for colors to paint stories hidden by his Ojibwa elders, then I know this chair of steel and leather will not allow my spine to slouch when I pen daytime reveries or dreams given in the night.

Hand-welted leather cushions, right-angles tilting into seamless, crisscrossed frames of polished metal point to craftsmanship honed sharper than the jagged shards of our past.

“Isn’t it time you got back to work?” inquires Grandmother Spider hovering over the corner of my computer, cursor impatiently blinking.

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“Granddaughter of a Soldier” and Other Poems Jane Beal Granddaughter of a Soldier She thought German was a language only soldiers used when they were barking commands at cowering Jews in black and white documentaries about World War II. Imagine her surprise in the Rhineland.

First she heard a mother whispering to her blond son on the bus.

Then a university student from Mainz bought her an ice cream on a hot day.

She saw Gutenberg’s press. She heard Hildegard von Bingen’s songs.

She suddenly remembered her Swiss great-grandfather saying, “Ich liebe dich.”

When she returned to America, she read Elie Wiesel’s Night and Corrie ten Boom’s “Love Your Enemies.” She wondered what to believe on Passover when she covered her head, lit the candle, and sang Shir ha-maa-los over a bowl full of salt water.

The haroset was as red as blood, but the boiled egg was white as snow.

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Life in Winter There is a green tree on the street around the corner— all the other trees stretch out bare branches but this one, miraculously, has hardy, green leaves and snowfall after snowfall, it is still shining so that I marvel!

Are the roots, somehow, keeping warm underground?

Do they drink from a secret stream that flows only to them?

How is it that when all the other trees have died and are waiting to be born again in a far-off springtime that can hardly be imagined this tree is still alive?

Sweet Jesus, give me the secret hidden in those branches enclosed in that bark— an invisible but still vital sap because I want blood like that to ooze slowly through my veins as I cross over from the old year to the new to witness Epiphany and bow down knowing I was born to live and never die.

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Gran Cavallo When I was a little girl, I learned to draw horses like ones in the barn down the hill. I loved to add wings and horns, so my horses could fly and do magic.

Only once did I go down to the fields, hop the wooden fences, and dare to ride the horses that weren’t mine—bare-back, no reins— wishing together we could gallop away.

When I clambered off the horse back onto the fence, did I give up on a dream?

In 1492, da Vinci cast a clay model of the Gran Cavallo, laid hold of seventy tons of blended copper-and-tin and got ready to make the largest bronze sculpture the bright-blue world had ever seen.

But when war came, his patron took the metal back and made it into canons to fire on the French. When the invaders conquered, they found da Vinci’s clay horse and used it for target practice until it shattered.

When they shot da Vinci’s horse, did its soul return to God, spitting bullets though unbronzed?

Now I lay the Italian’s horse-sketchings beside my memory of horses—not clay, not bronze, but enfleshed by the living God—and the drawings I made in pencil, before I had ever heard of da Vinci or dreamed a man could spend seventeen years trying to find a way to balance the weight of bronze so his sculpture would stand, not collapse.

Did the bell-makers of Milan hear it, the sound of heaven in da Vinci’s horse?

The idea of a horse came down to him from the far-away realm, transfigured by light.

When it came to me, I added bright wings.

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“Inspired Fly” and Other Poems Stanley E. Banks

Inspired Fly It attacked my ears protesting.

My fanning could not keep it from harassing me.

I battle with it smacking it into the wall.

It escaped and hid.

In the middle of a creative flow, it buzzed me mangling my metaphor.

I tried to pound it behind my vertical blinds, but it spun around on the floor, flew away and attacked again causing me to lose my lyrics.

I grabbed a batch of papers filled with my rambling thoughts, swiped at it and connected.

I didn’t see its body drop, but I believed I killed it.

About a minute later, it was back taunting me into madness.

I threw pens and pencils at it as it flew out of my office.

When it was gone, I wondered where my next muse would come from.

A Hot Shot Junie was born a baby shot turned into a teen shot thought he was a big shot was just an immature shot labeled a long shot became an adult shot succeeded on a bank shot put on mileage as a middle-age shot slowed down into an elderly shot crippled by a gunshot checked out and was a done shot.

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Factoring 55 Over five decades I’ve tried to escape the muses in my mired life with raw selfstudy and failure as a son, brother friend, husband, teacher.

Messes mark many of my decades in the face of haunting losses and cold truth.

Terrie Jacks, “Roadside Chapel”

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“My Uncle Louis and Me” and Other Poems Janet M. Banks

My Uncle Louis And Me Bopping with my Uncle Louis as he pulls out thirty-three’s dropping them carefully on the turntable one-by-one as we listened to Miles, giving me an appreciation for jazz.

I was an eight year old girl coming of age.

My ears perked up hearing the sultry moaning voice of a woman who sounded like she’d been worn-down; my soul connected to Nina Simone’s as if we were the same person.

I closed my eyes and shook to the sound.

While holding the album cover, I examined the picture on front as if it was my reflection.

My uncle seemed to know that one day I would be a woman who would experience the same drama as Nina Simone and it would scar me.

As a Black gay man, he had to hide his real self from his friends and family.

It crushed me to see the far-off stare on his face when he thought I wasn’t looking. I didn’t understand his struggles. He knew I didn’t judge him.

If he were alive today, I would let him know I had his back.

Truth The truth is a black eye, a broken nose, and a 900 pound hot pink gorilla in the room in a society that tries to indoctrinate factions of people by blindfolding them with hot lights burning, trapped in a torture chamber trying to ask questions. Why? What for?

How can this or that be?

Education is a good thing, right?

An unused mind turns into a mushy sponge-like thing.

It’s the key to a world of knowing, creativity and imagination to get to and find the truth.

It hurts, stings and opens closed eyes.

The truth liberates while ignorance lulls a mind into a coma.

Truth sleeps but eventually it wakes up, stretches and blows lies into oblivion pushing all the fallacies, myths and urban legends to a small corner in Hell.

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Slipping on Fifty At midnight I slipped on fifty.

It was comfortable, soft and felt like a bodysuit that was tailored just for me. I walked around in it, stayed up late in it and received the gift of being a half of a century old. I wondered what my reaction would be to fifty because forty threw me for a loop.

I had to get ready for my next chapter of life.

Fifty was like going through my closet draping on that black dress ready for the runway leaving the last few decades of my life backstage like the old clothes I gave away making room for a new wardrobe.

Terrie Jacks, “Umbrellas at the Pool�

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Six Haiku Ben Moeller-Gaa saturday morning looking past the weeds in the garden

back and forth the rabbit and the sprinkler

rising to fill the room jazz combo

morning mosquito drinking from me drinking tea

an old rabbit beneath our blackberry bush waiting out the rain

just like that— the hot summer sun

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Ten Haiga Donald W. Horstman

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“Aura, Auralee, Auralay” and Other Poems James Maxfield

Aura, Auralee, Auralay The snow falls gently 'round the arbored hills, and evening chills lie buried in the pines.

But the brightest star looks long from within your eyes— the warmth from your soft smile encloses me, and comes to ever, evergreen.

Aura, auralee, auralay.

In moonlit shadows, I do hillward climb with muffled steps footfalling on the moor.

Now, do I hear you nearing from the calm woodside?— That stilled cry harkens to incline my ear, and lays on ever, evergreen, Aura, auralee, auralay.

But, too soon straight upon the hill I sigh, up, up, oh, my tired soul would reach the sky.

There, there, where you must have passed on by—gone, gone, gone— your fragrance lingers sweetly in the clouds, returns to ever, evergreen, Aura, auralee, auralay.

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Sentinels The marsh creeps along, going as I pass south and to the west. You see them steadfast as sentinels, some even weathered white in the half-light, others bared and blackened whenever the marsh turns to burn—arsoned and covered with char, or stripped rare of bark, bleached stark like some standing stone forgotten as broken, unfallen dreams lost within the mired, earthen metropolis hidden in the singing heath of sawgrass.

Naked still, the sentinels stand among the new green spreading round their treed foothold— they seem to just rise up with the cattails in the springing of each budding young tree when they come, or in every razored blade of summer’s glade incorruptible, like some grim and ghostly spirit of stone, towering, looking out all directions beyond and ’cross the breadth and awe of grass, staying their watch, preserving memory.

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La Sourire de la Cloche

The Smile of the Bell

Non, ce n’est pas possible que je ne t’aime— ne fait-il rien si l’amour n’est pas recherché?

Je ne peux jamais dé-sonner cette cloche.

No, it is not possible that I do not love you— Does it matter at all if love was not sought?

I can never un-ring that bell.

Et ne personne peut dire où il amene, ne fait-il rien si on n’a jamais l’en parlé?

Si, ce n’est pas possible que je ne t’aime.

And no one knows where it will lead— Does it matter at all if one never spoke of it?

Yes, it is not possible that I do not love you.

Mon coeur palpite toujours; je te m’attache— c’était cette sourire gentille qui m’a gagné.

Je ne peux jamais dé-sonner cette cloche.

My heart flutters always; to you I devote myself— It was that kind smile which won me over.

I can never un-ring that bell.

Et quand tu pourras me regarder toi-même comme je te regarde avec voix déclamée: que ce n’est pas possible que je ne t’aime,

And when you can see me yourself as I see you, saying in a ranting voice that it is not possible that I do not love you,

puis tu saurais bien que l’amour t’approche comme une clameur forte qui te fait dérangé— tu ne peus jamais dé-sonner cette cloche.

then you will know that love approaches you like a loud outcry that makes you crazed— You can never un-ring that bell.

Viens! Je t’implore de devenir ma biche, mais comment puis-je jamais vous désavouer?

Si, ce n’est pas possible que je ne t’aime— je ne peux jamais dé-sonner cette cloche.

Come! I implore you do become my darling; but how can I ever disavow you?

Yes, it is not possible that I do not love you— I can never un-ring that bell.

Note: The original villanelle was written by the author in its French form and then translated into English by the author without rhyme scheme.

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Two Poems Bob McHeffey Marissa at 28 She is lost in the blue breath of October On one of those eerie nights When the stars Are brighter than wishes.

The white loneliness of winter Is beyond her memory And the golden scars Of hesitantly long summer days Have faded to a brown The earth does not recognize.

She does not care About the life and death of leaves Nor the songs The wind is just learning to play.

She is mesmerized only By the clarity of the air And her breathing And how everything is so crisp She is sure it will break off Inside her In the next moment.

The Illusion of Speed In an airplane heading east, Ground passing beneath Calm in its repose, I realize The universe is expanding faster Than our limited steel and flesh.

I am farther from the edge At every second.

I am being left behind And suddenly I feel unimportant.

I’m inside a speck of light A star can’t see.

No matter how fast I go I will never reach the edge To see what the universe Is expanding into.

And inside this speck of light Inside this speeding body Inside my limited flesh I feel a nothingness bloom And expand.

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Eight Haiga Carol Sue Horstman

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Two Poems j.l.wills

(Image by the author)

sailing metal footsteps lift and graze over inches of industrial floor circling the metal structure the breadth of an arm stretch a revelation that it is not a solid structure at all it is art to capture the air and exploit it light, folding, delicate metals beg to reflect the sun she leans in with this discovery like a chant, a newly found mantra and ever so softly‌ blows the entire structure begins a magical spin what first appeared heavy and strong, is now light and engaged beauty for the first quarter of a second until the art nazi alerted “no! no touching the art!â€?

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he scuttles across the room a finger drawn into the air “ma’am! no touching!” she pulls herself straight whimsical smile concealed this is a mobile, you idiot placed by the door for light and wind can’t you see? do you really guard this art of which you know nothing? this, is too much to say and takes precious time words should not be spent that would be so easily lost whimsical smile hidden glittering eye cannot fail she stands mute and watches the untouchable sculpted art sail

35 see in black and white color take this away what have you structure shadow and light can you paint with this is there beauty for you there or do your undeviceful eyes weaken leaves die and paint the grass did you notice do you stop noticing when the tannins have sunk into the earth colorless crisp and dead leaf litters the ground vividity the name of the day who has the most smiles turned their way constant barrage of vivid’s names what if we all lost color had only our structure and shadow to show would some shine more brightly would others lose all their glow

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Featured Poet _____________________________________________________________________________________

John Zheng

John Zheng (Ph.D., University of Southern Mississippi) is currently Professor of English and Chair of the Department of English and Foreign Languages at Mississippi Valley State University, where he edits Valley Voices and Poetry South. Zheng is editor of the scholarly collection The Other World of Richard Wright: Perspectives on His Haiku (University Press of Mississippi, 2011). He is also author of The Landscape of the Mind, which won the 2001 Slapering Hol Press Poetry Competition, and author of four haiku chapbooks, Deltascape, Found Haiku, The Porch, and minis.

He is a past recipient of the Mississippi Humanities Teacher Award (2003), the Artist Fellowship and the Writer-in-Residence grant from the Mississippi Arts Commission (2004), the East-West Center fellowship for summer institute (2007), the Fulbright Scholar award (2009), the US Embassy in Beijing grant on Symposium on African American Literature (2009), and two institutional grants from National Endowment for the Humanities (2007, 2013).

He has published over one thousand poems, stories, nonfiction and translations in magazines including Callaloo, Cimarron Review, Mississippi Review, The Literary Review, Poet Lore, Poetry East, Rattle, Renditions, Southern Poetry Review, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Mainichi, and Asahi. He has also published over seventy scholarly articles and review essays in books and journals including African American Review, ANQ, Cross-Cultural Visions in African American Literature, East-West Connections, Paideuma, The Explicator, and The Southern Quarterly.

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______________________________________________________________________________ FOURTEEN WAYS OF BIRD-HEARING 1 sunup— a woodpecker’s knock shines through the blinds

8 before dawn waking to the caw of a crow

2 a sparrow’s chirp— a brown oak leaf drifts on autumn breeze

9 sunshine on water— from across the creek a warbler’s song

3 sunlit pond a marsh wren’s song keeps sparkling

10 blooming season an oriole’s whistle here and there

4 restless night— robins from a yard tree keep twittering

11 in a raven’s croak the sunset behind pines bloody red

5 after storm a blue jay’s squeak noisy blue

12 summer dawn— above the clanking train a mocking bird

6 blooming dogwoods a cardinal’s notes sound white

13 autumn moon honking of wild geese over reeds

7 autumn sky a wedge of sandhill cranes honking south

14 cold wind the hubbub of blackbirds fades away

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_____________________________________________________________________________ SPRING 1 blooming for spring over the privacy fence a wintersweet twig 2 first sign of spring grass sprouting out of patches of snow 3 by the side of a burned house purple wisteria 4 spring sunshine— a shimmering web stranded with dew 5 how water-colorful! a spring stream purls over iridescent pebbles 6 night breeze in the hill murmuring of moonlight over a zigzagging creek 7 tap-dancing— spring sunshine through trees of birds

SUMMER LIGHTS Graying dusk— along the stream fireflies gleam on and off into a skyful of sparkling stars, a man rows a dinghy watching fireflies blinking here and there over the water, and recalls his firefly-catching when he was a boy.

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______________________________________________________________________________ IMPRESSIONS, RAIN 1 rain at dusk… a man foot-tapping on the porch 2 autumn night rain pit-a-pat pit-a-pat on banana leaves 3 wind chimes tinkle in relief— rain at last 4 thunderstorm— wild horses galloping across the grassland 5 after summer storm heat evaporates on the blacktop 6 sudden rain— colorful umbrellas adorn the street 7 April tour spattering rain along the Champs-Elysees 8 dang-dang— the striking bell absorbs the autumn torrent 9 sparkling rain a curious cat looks by the window

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10 night road red tail lights fade into heavy rain 11 pattering rain . . . popcorn in the microwave 12 juke joint night the dense rain bouncing on the tin roof 13 drab evening the pa-ta pa-ta of rain on fallen oak leaves 14 mountain storm the dogwood petals fall in a creek 15 spring drizzle listless worms in straight lines 16 timely rain from the dried up lawn sprouts of green 17 relaxing night the summer rain drums on the roof 18 stormy night a freight train throttles through downtown 19 spring rain a boy’s reciting Tu Fu’s poem

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______________________________________________________________________________ AUTUMN MOON 1 alone on the tower the autumn moon alone too

5 night sea— lapping of the autumn moon

2 autumn moon footsteps on the frost crunch away

6 autumn moon— the swish of the sea shines white

3 autumn night a mast looms in goring the rising moon

7 autumn night— the stream past my tent flows with moonlight

4 splashing water— autumn moonlight against a rock

8 autumn moonlight sound of a flute skimming the reeds 9 moondown— a white feather off the autumn sky

42 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

______________________________________________________________________________ IMPRESSIONS, WIND 1 autumn wind a street violinist strings in the lamplight 2 light breeze a red koi’s sudden jump ripples the pond 3 humming pines waves lap the shore with moonlight 4 cold morning the coat of a scarecrow filled with wind 5 autumn breeze whispering of maples brushed red 6 sudden wind bamboos shake off the morning dew

7 summer wind a saxophone’s bronzy sound sways out of Ground Zero 8 drowsy breeze a hobo lies listless on the park bench 9 swishing wind a dog’s tongue lapping water 10 a gust of wind the beggar’s rags start to flutter 11 wavering breeze dewdrops roll off the fig tree’s broad leaves 12 autumn breeze silent fall of osmanthus in the yard

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______________________________________________________________________________ POND 1 sunlit pond backs of koi fish sparkling 2 fitful wind— fish flit here and there in the pond 3 a kerplunk in the lily pond rippling moonlight 4 all night long the moonshine on the pond 5 first-time kiss— green willows brushing the still pond 6 autumn sunset just one dip the pond blinks 7 January sunshine— patches of ice thaw on the pond 8 winter moon a dead fish in the iced pond

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______________________________________________________________________________ MY OLD NEIGHBOR’S CATS 1 on the porch dusted with green pollen a cat’s footprints 2 the door creaks op—en a black cat crossing the street stops to listen 3 the gardener’s sneeze— the tail-playing cat looks around 4 this quiet garden trail a black-and-white cat basks in autumn sunlight 5 cracking thunder the bird-catching cat stops prowling 6 suppertime— the same white cat purrs by the door 7 nocturnal yowling an elusive cat reveals its presence 8 spring night

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the cats’ love-making whine louder and louder in the backyard 9 summer daybreak— a black cat peeps by the tool shed 10 overnight snow… a cat’s ***************

leading from my driveway to my neighbor’s

Terrie Jacks, “Lily Pad and Flower”

46 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Five Tanka Lee Ann Russell Competition Hovering nearby, two ruby hummingbirds fight for sweet elixir, then loop a quick dance of love for iridescent females.

Impression Tiny grains of sand, irritating barefoot toes, caress ocean’s edge while burning delicate skin and imprinting memories.

Persuasion Haunting whippoorwill sings beneath blue shadowed moon, calling to a mate perched in another valley deciding if she’ll respond.

Purpose Following behind, searching for a hill of dirt, a zillion ants march, scurrying with heavy loads, zigzagging toward home and lunch.

Reproduction Mimosa feathers, whirling softly in the breeze, host butterfly friends vying for mates in the sun— ensuring future cocoons.

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Three Poems Billy J. Adams Above the Clag I sat at the end of the runway, looking at low clouds and rain, thinking about climbing into the storm and wondering how high clouds rise above the earth.

Shoving the throttle to the stops, I felt the kick in the seat of my pants.

Rotating and climbing into the clag, tossed about like a cork in a mountain stream.

Without warning, I burst through the clouds into brilliant sunlight.

Suspended in quiet space, I gazed at the cotton candy cloud layer passing beneath.

I sat, surrounded by peaceful stillness, all sensation of movement gone.

Had you been with me you would have remarked that the experience was the perfect illustration of the difference between life in the world and life in the Spirit.

Morning Surprise Delicate blooms shaped like small china tea-cups display lavender skirts with saw-toothed edges.

Dew drops cling to their ruffled tips and sparkle in the morning sunlight.

Wildflowers wave gently in the soft breeze and compete with pampered blossoms nearby.

They nestle by the base of a black walnut tree, in the field behind our house.

They possess a unique beauty, created by the Maker of all things.

48 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Grand Design In fields and along roadsides, slender grass stalks laden with seeds wave in the morning breeze.

In lawns, they spring up overnight to sow next year’s harvest.

Flowers long dormant, start their frantic race to bloom before being snuffed out by frost.

Mud wasps hum with their multi-note song, as they build cocoons for their offspring.

Hummingbirds put on spectacular acrobatic displays.

In a short time they will fly south.

Soon God will descend with his paintbrush and convert the green forest to a multicolor wonder where individual leaves vary in hue.

In a short time colors will fade.

Next year the cycle repeats.

If God interacts in detail with temporal things I know He watches me.

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Three Poems Elaine L. Becherer

Magic Time In an instant it creeps into my life each evening washing everything in a brilliant display of light.

Birds stop singing so boldly murmuring now.

The resident bullfrog revs up his engine—all ready for his nightly callings.

Sun is shining on the far shore— such a beautiful hue various shades of green with blues and pinks mixed in-like a Monet painting.

The wind has died down, leaving the lake in a golden shimmer with an occasional fish ring coming into view.

Trees stand like sentinels guarding all in sight.

Night will soon be here. For a few seconds of magic, look quickly.

The War on My Deck Each evening a pair of doves comes to my deck in search of seeds that have fallen from the bird feeder.

Invariably one small chipmunk is there—stuffing his cheeks as fast as he can.

The male dove goes into attack mode, spreading his beautiful wings, looking very fierce. The chipmunk never stops what he is doing, just continues on. This must be quite confusing to the dove.

He continues on with his war game until both combatants are tired, and go on to other activities, until the next day.

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First Light A small ripple near the shore makes me aware that perhaps a beaver is cruising along looking for its breakfast.

With the first morning light activity begins anew—as creatures large and small begin the daily search for food.

Survival is the theme for all this activity.

Barely light, I watch as the lake becomes placid once again, as fish and many other lake residents move on in their relentless search. I view all this in the first light of morning.

All is peaceful in the first light of day.

Terrie Jacks, “Knot in the Tree�

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Two Poems Lori Becherer The Big Catch My father was a fisherman who taught me at a young age how to feed a worm onto a hook and slip a catfish off the early years spent sitting on a bucket at the pond’s edge cane pole draped over mossy waters mesmerized by the bob of a red cork my skills honed, we advanced to the larger body with the cold dark bite of the strip-mined lake floating below an aluminum rowboat I learned to throw a perfect cast he told me, “just under the shady tree line that’s where we find the big ones” the lure’s skitter pulled against me both of us yearning when ability grew comparable to desire I ventured onto the lake… alone pushing the skiff off the shoreline gliding onto the water’s sweet hush with a subtle slice and turn of the oars mastering control of shifting wind maneuvering the silver sliver we banked against the sway bluegill and bass repeatedly reeled in I aged with the boat passing time exposed by a slow leak inching inward year by year swallowed by the rocking lull drinking the depth and rhythm I discovered serenity in silent water the big catch I carry with me still

52 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Dime Store Turtles They crawled around in a shallow pan perched between the five cent goldfish and the drinking fountain scratching at the edge of their personal nowhere red spots traveled on green and I ached for this exotic pet; It will die Mom preached telling me these creatures hadn’t a chance to survive on an Illinois farm.

Instead I spent my 77 cents on a pair of pink cubic zirconia earrings.

Mom encouraged me to look for school clothes in the limited palette of Kmart and Kreseges brand fashion.

I was too shy to walk near the ladies intimates for fear that someone I knew would see me near the training bras; You’re too old for undershirts Mom chirped reminding me that my uncooperative chest was in need of training for something.

I wandered around the store alone admiring patrons of the lunch café as they sat on the spinning red stools below bubbling vats of pink and yellow lemonade while an old man in a dingy white cap shoveled burgers off a greasy grill onto toasted poppy seed buns the whole package deal smelled so good it made me want to cry fine dining never allowed for us; That’s too expensive Mom whispered teaching me that such places were for businessmen and store clerks to eat downtown on their lunch hour all the while the dime store turtles crawled along a slippery edge never knowing a world existed outside of their plastic oasis.

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“Along the Way to Austin” and Other Poems Dale Ernst Along the Way to Austin Traveling through Texas— open spaces on the way to Austin.

Slowing down, passing through a small town—just a dot on the map.

Something about it, so familiar— have I been here before?

Oh, I know—another small Texas town, a long time ago, and the memory of you.

New Mexico The luminosity and grandeur reaches inside, touches my soul.

I start to get my camera out, “wanting to capture that special scene,” but I would soon run out of film.

Just like my words trying to describe—they would all fall short.

Sunlight shining on verandas of old adobes— cities and towns with Spanish names.

Mountains towering into clear blue skies … desert country, arroyos, canyons—stars filling the heavens at night—high mesas with the aroma of sage and earth intermingling, filling the air.

Native cultures still abide, Apache, Navajo … ancient land of the “Pueblo Peoples.”

54 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Highway 59—East Texas Blue skies, tall pines and black-eyed Susans along the roadside Pondering poetry’s meaning— taking it all in.

We have to give something back for this life gift.

Tortoise Paths We all see them crossing the highway—turtles.

The other night, though, it seemed like there were more than usual crossing the road.

Driving home—moonlit night— before long I came upon one smashed.

You’d think they would have learned by now.

When I was a little boy my dad would stop, I would get out of the car, pick up the turtle, and set it on the shoulder of the highway in the grass—I still do sometimes, and feel guilty when I don’t.

Why after all this time, don’t they learn?

All this time, huh.

It occurs to me—It takes a while for things to come clear to us humans—turtles have been around a long, long time.

Way before we paved over these hills with asphalt, they were here traversing their ancient paths.

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Old House Driving through the Ozark hill country, I come upon one of those abandoned houses that I often see.

I see it standing there, deserted, falling in, the chimney still standing straight though—made of native stone.

Pulling into the driveway, I notice a rosebush by the corner of the front porch just starting to bloom.

Walking up to the yard fence— can’t help but wander back in time.

Is that a young man carrying his bride over that rough-hewn threshold, and perhaps the sound of a charivari?

Then comes the sound of children at play and a mother yelling from the kitchen, come in it’s suppertime.

A young man in a uniform hugging his parents goodbye, and a teenage girl with a tall boy, looking back as she closes the yard gate.

Summer evening—two elderly folks sitting on the front porch swing, a light breeze ruffling their silver hair.

The light is starting to fade, I better be on my way.

Looking back—just the old house standing there— not quite so forlorn as I drive away.

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58 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

But there is one thing I can't stand and it is dogs BARKING!

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“Samuel” and Other Poems Faye Adams Samuel Hophni and Phinehas are buried with thirty-four thousand more and the mighty Ark of the Lord taken hostage during the war.

Sickened by their blasphemy almost from the day I was born.

Eli's priestly house is crumbled.

He's broken, unable to mourn.

In sacrifice I was dumped here where I slept alone in the dark, imprisoned inside this temple within sight of Covenant’s Ark. Oh, Hannah, my mother, I longed for arms that once wrapped me tight, choice morsels to roll on my tongue and sweet songs of love in the night.

All the way from Dan to Beersheba, every man and woman, the same.

In their troubled hearts they seek me, continuously calling my name.

I judge all of Israel at their gates, bound to voice the word of God; whether of sweetness in their bellies or the weight of his vengeful rod.

What do they know of loneliness?

From me they seek Yahweh’s voice.

Not one word will fall to the ground, a prophet is left with no choice.

I Samuel, Chapters 1 through 7

Don’t Walk On Me

Hey! Hey, you; yeah, I’m talking to you there.

Don’t Walk On Me Don’t be rude, and walk upon my person, sprawled here, in the grass; give me space to be myself; please walk around me as you pass.

If, someday, you should find that I am lying prone and feeling ill, be kind enough to bring a rose and sit quietly, with me, till I’m up on my feet, then help me clear the way to find an easy path thru frenzied fray.

Don’t step on me as you pass by, but take me by the hand. We’ll walk side by side in sun and as a team—together we both can stand.

Comprende?

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Egg Money They sat on the back porch, in crates, destined for market. Grandmother carefully hand-washed & dried each egg. When she had counted several dozen, they were taken to the store in town, which also served as gas station & post office.

For her, it was a bit more than a trip to sell eggs; it was a time to visit, gossip, & perhaps choose a new broom.

Grandmother’s Legacy (a prose poem) A visit to Grandmother’s house meant a tour of her flower garden even before the food was served.

Her garden sported many varieties from friends, neighbors or relatives. Her tours were always highlighted by her explanations of the history of each plant and its performance. My awareness of, and growing love for, the miracle of earth’s harvest stems from those lazy walks around the perimeter of her yard while our stomachs growled, the roast shriveled in the oven, and her words washed over me in the heat of the midday sun. A favorite photo of Grandmother, she’s offering a blossom to my sister from one of her many rose bushes and her voice lulls me again as my memory board repeats the feel of clean air and sun and wafts fragrance of honeysuckle and roses.

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“Fellowship on the Sabbath” and Other Poems Gregory Ramirez

Fellowship on the Sabbath for Stephanie Corrine Ramirez, John Ash, and Cindy Ash He holds their infant son With the same hands he used To assemble the swing set Where our children play With their daughter While we parents drink iced tea And eat pizza, partaking In a blue-collar communion.

We smile as our offspring giggle And interrupt your conversation With his wife, her countenance Incomprehensible from one afternoon.

Still, the cross on her necklace Convinces me how our common faith Allows us newfound acquaintances To share more than a building each week.

Regret I wear regret—a black turtleneck In June—as I approach a drive-thru In my air-conditioned Altima & see the brick wall nearby where, Last time, a bony boy & his mom Stood in tattered clothes, right by A shopping cart filled with garbage bags.

I wear regret, not for ordering The largest cheeseburger on the menu— As I do now—but for acting then As though they were not there, Avoiding eye contact, not knowing then That I would see them there now, A mirage intended to question the need For this greased-soaked paper bag & the five-dollar bill I hold as change.

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Lift I. The petite brunette cannot Step over the flooded gutter During the downpour, So with one foot on the street, The other on the curb, I lift her, Placing her on a slick patch Of grass, unaware of The rain’s forewarning That her words will in time Weaken my youthful heart. .

II. Through the doorway, I lift my bride In her ivory gown As she holds the tiara To her red hair.

Each step I take follows Countless grooms Who have set this tradition, One I never dreamt of doing With a woman like her.

III. In the hospital, I lift her From the crib & sit down In the rocking chair, the wires For her vital signs dangling, Making my daughter Look like a marionette.

This does not stop me From singing softly to her, Celebrating this newborn’s Early yet welcome arrival.

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A Walk in Monterey for Stephanie Corrine Ramirez This path will take us away From the wharf where The brilliant blue feathers Of the macaw captivated Our daughter along with The choral barking Of the sea lions That awakened our son.

We move closer To the lilacs and daisies One might think Were eggs made over easy As a family rides by On a surrey, the sound Of laughter mixed With the ringing of a bell.

Now on Cannery Row, While the bust of Steinbeck Watches those leaving The aquarium swing bags, We eat ice cream on a patio.

On rocks below, a boy jumps From one to the other, The sand he crunches Forgotten as foam From waves cleanses Each rock’s base.

Seagulls ascend to brave The chilly oceanic air, Heading towards What our children must think is A golden scoop melting.

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Whatever Happened to Our St. Louis Poets?

Mary Kennan Herbert Gateway to the West.

Bastion of culture on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. City of art, with a decent symphony, plus Stan Musial frenzy.

Marianne Moore, T. S. Eliot, Eugene Field, Sara Teasdale, and me. Missouri talent.

Oh St. Louis, you sparked many to write and sing, in exile if need be.

The river does flood, erasing poetry. St. Louis citizenry gathers on those banks to watch in awe as the river flows on toward Arkansas in its mastery of the Midwest.

We would ride the bus downtown to gaze at the big ole man heading to New Orleans.

He takes Missouri mud along for the ride. Some of us would long to go along, go along.

Terrie Jacks, “Mushrooms and Pinecones�

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“Thoughts about Cats” and Other Poems M.J. Becco

Thoughts About Cats An elegant silver-plate gray, long-tailed, It lives with us, sharing our space, Animated embodiment of pure life, flowing, the cat.

He eats when fed but offers no fawning memory Of yesterday’s meal or concern for tomorrow’s, Savoring fully, then napping in the sun, the cat.

Any object, a plaything, paper bag or golden chain, Without care for its origins, past or future, Play potential, his sole value judgment, the cat.

To each person offering attention, he observes, With indifferent impartiality, accepting or refusing, Savoring each just caress, punishing each transgression, the cat.

Regal lions, life-taking cats, we delight in seeing caged, Humbled, trained, controlled by men of muscle, Fearless, when facing the force of that fierce power, the cat.

Boys and young men, in throes of weak egos, Delight in torture and destruction of the threat, That supreme symbol of uncontrollable life, the cat.

If you would know the Tao, observe the cat; If you would learn the Tao, serve a cat, That master being, that supple, intangible soul, the Dalai-Cat.

66 Lunes a random picture Dad’s big laugh— forgotten music white water cascades silver smoke turning to rainbows soft spring rain weighs the white wild plum hanging down birds trumpet the glorious spring they have found gurgle, sigh and splash waves sing in and away again ghostly breezes rise leaves rustle spirits haunt fall’s birth autumn hues gladden the eye but weighs the soul

Dreaming I dreamed upon a butterfly wing, rising on its wind to drift like milkweed down through the golden light spilling between billowing silver clouds.

charging storms sweep by on wind’s wrath leaving life

Steps The bridges and paths we build When children are small, to help Them walk away from us toward life, Are still there when we are old, For our children to return to us To aid our slow, stumbling steps

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Invitation to Death Death is not a friend, yet, More, an acquaintance.

When Mama first encountered Him, I was shy, unsure, even scared.

What to say? What to do? How to help?

When Poppa invited Him home, I was better prepared.

Holding hands, reassuring, comforting, Still a moment of sheer panic Intruded, but at four o’clock, alone With Him, so tired, I begged His pardon.

Mike, a friend, younger than I, Brought Us together once again.

This time, I behaved with no social slips.

Cool washcloths, minty sponges to Ease drying lips, gently introducing Him to those unsure. They called Me a saint. I couldn’t say, “Practice makes Perfect,” but the thought was there.

Familiarity does enhance good manners.

I think it was easier in times long past, Without busy doctors, interfering nurses, Those unending “Beep, Beeps” keeping time.

I know He can be a rude, untimely guest, but More often He brings welcome peace and rest.

Yes, we’ll meet again, I hope this time As Friends, maybe, to share a pot of tea.

Façade The outside of me is large and gets larger and larger as The inside of me is small and gets smaller and smaller.

The smaller the inside, the larger the outside to keep anyone from smashing That little core or blowing it away like dandelion fluff in windy words.

My large outside keeps my little inside muffled and silent To hide my cries or rage and pain.

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The Last of Us (a song lyric)

Elisabeth Keller The last of us are gone, are gone when the sunshine dies, the day is done you’ll find me under no stars tonight I am underneath crying skies The last of us are gone, are gone the moonlight yields on the quiet ones who sing small words to the birds in sight they’re sleeping under the crying skies The last of us are gone, are gone and there is no way I can end this song with a smile on my face or a glisten in my eyes until there’s rest in those crying skies until there’s rest in those crying skies

Terrie Jacks, “Sleeping Seals”

69

“In Spring” and Other Poems Jeanice L. Davis

In Spring Between silences a bird silhouetted in morning fog rests upon the metal gate

Summer Rain Today is filled with ghosts airy forms, shifting across the waves of summer rain giving way to fall as September steps timid feet forward & November pushes against the coldness of December I wrap myself in sweaters shielding against an imaginary cold front— imagining their warmth is yours; within me is winter; sharp cold

Autumn Haiku Patchwork hills, skittering leaves in sandalwood smoke, your apple sweet kiss

70 Winter Starlings bring in the New Year a gathering of promises, fleeting wings beating the air hope— floating falling diving down then rising

Iceberg Lake, Glacier National Park, 2009 A half day’s hike to the ice— the pale blue scattering of ancient gasses, light through a blue sky— up a rock strewn dusty trail, the taste of sweat and dirt on my lips, into the sharp scent of pine and cool dark shadows, hear the slow scrape of snake belly on rock as it slides past feet into the cool forest.

Forest opens to deep valleys, wide expanses, littered with blue, orange, yellow, red, green the scent of all those colors sweet, pungent, alive with butterfly and bee, dancing over fields flower strewn.

Water flows from terra cotta cliffs cools my head, washes away the heat and grime and still we climb accompanied by the rhythmic crunch of boots over pebbles.

Plants, small trees, and me grip the rocky sides, afraid of the fall into nothingness, then the mountain valley opens in the distance the pale turquoise water sparkles the voices of old light glide across the expanse and whisper come near, come closer, remember what you have forgotten we sit at the edge of the lake the air smells of winters long past we slip our shoes off plunge our feet into water so old it takes our breath away.

A half day’s hike to black asphalt and our bike, we slide weary-bodied onto its metal frame and forget the loss of sacred places, of primeval ice.

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“The Bench at Midnight” and Other Poems Marcel Toussaint

The Bench at Midnight Let me sit on that bench alone at midnight. let me hear the waves breaking at my feet, a full moon bright approving my presence.

That moment is lost to the ones sleeping in the night.

Once in the morning sunshine, they will be deprived of the charm of sounds, of lights flickering in the dark.

Statues in the Garden Statues are meant to be in the garden shining in the sun, weeping in the rain, there for each emotion that the lifting day chooses to bring your way.

Statues in silence have a message, in the whispers of the wind.

Open your window…listen, listen, listen… as you stand there immobile and quiet.

The verse grows in your mind where the echo is of what has been meant for you to hear.

You are unique, the chosen one.

Lavender Scent Oh, lavender, give me a scent let the day commence well with inspiration, for you rejoice my early morn, revive it when it is gone.

72 Visual Keyboard Typing with one finger on a Lilliputian visual keyboard is becoming more comfortable.

My average finger hits two keys so often that I could scream.

Forgive me, I just did.

So this is a Lilliputian poem.

My patience has reached its max.

Will get a cup of coffee to return to being myself.

Should have my computer by morning. Hear from me then.

The Sun of Spain A tunnel veranda shaded by gripping flowers away from the hot Sun of Spain forms a long corridor over cobblestones.

Spaced entrees lead to the Valencian garden with crystal clear fountains that echo crisp splashing sounds hidden by this enveloping marvel.

Under this shade with the current of air that a tunnel draws, it is comfortable to sit on one of the benches.

The flowers’ fragrance lifts our spirits away from the hot Sun of Spain.

This enchantment will last until sundown.

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“Oh, Hark!” and Other Poems Terrie Jacks

Oh, Hark!

The aardvark, Clark, lives on an ark in a park someplace in Denmark.

For a lark, Clark, the aardvark left the park after the dark.

He disembarked his ark, didn’t bark, and where he went is a question mark— ???

glittering webs spider webs so iridescent decorate my yard their white gossamer threads hold raindrop beads

fly by three geese pass overhead give a honk, honk, honk full blast the fowl in the lead determines the speed the other two holler, “Too fast, too fast, too fast.”

Not Worth a Darn Sometimes I write and it’s not worth a darn a waste of paper and pen My mind leaves home hides out in a hole recuperates and then…

Like a bear in spring comes out again.

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“Key Words” and Other Poems Rocky Lochhaas

Key Words The black ink— But beyond, a glint of riches Each like a door, with my breath in its hinges Resting and open, neither obvious nor hidden I hear not and see not Demanding sound, A blinding light, or an “I am found!”

So closer, I stare, then reaching, I dare— and feel there is written sub-texture inscription: “Forever unlocked; no need to pound.”

Birds The birds were significant in the setting sky For 10 minutes, my eyes set on high, whole families Flew in sync from tree to tree, mimicking The exchanging hues of the evening Their loud, urgent ritual with no resolution, A divine machinery They finally agreed on one covert greenery To complete their cryptic communication And my eyes, toward heaven, beneath their Peppered rays of missional flight, against The rich, dawning night Saw the telling of the birds cry the trees dry Then I remember These were the dead fowl on the streets that morning, And every morning before and after.

75 Psalm 136:23 “Who remembered us in our low estate: for His mercy endureth forever.”

You look at this lump of disintegrating coal, Gritty and crumbling until it’s Fine, limp ashes But you remember this is your child’s pile And see with the warmth Of 39 lashes You look at this ground of dry, black soot, Dirty and parched, but you nurture the thirsty Lifting high my fallen pile, consuming With enduring flames of love and power Until we all dance like flickers Above your fire of mercy

The Treasure and the Plow But my treasure’s in the field, I know!

I’ve cherished, loved, with hidden glow I’ve ached with joy, been high in low . . . So odd the clock keeps forward, though My end tears through the steady sow.

Yes, it’s a wonder the lungs work how— Must mean an unseen road is somewhere now So, with laden hand and burdened brow And shining laugh, I touch the plow.

Homesickness Wall décor displayed for strangers— They view and share in lively response I stood among and looked today With sickly, fidgety nonchalance.

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______________________________________

Short Stories

It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

—Mark Twain There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.

—W. Somerset Maugham It’s in literature that true life can be found. It’s under the mask of fiction that you can tell the truth.

—Gao Xingjian

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Revelation Joshua Smith The man’s damp clothes were cold in the September rain as he waited for the bus. He glanced at his watch habitually, wiping off the liquid splotches the rain drops caused as they fell from the clouds above. He stared at the hands of the analog wrist watch, the short one pointing to the XI and the long one to the XII. Squinting against the mist caused by the splattering water droplets, he strained his eyes, noticing the thin second hand was already on the VI when he saw the bus’s headlights finally illuminate the road before him. Thirty seconds late. As the bus rounded the dark curve he could see the vertical slashes of the rain drops cast against the stream of powerful light from the headlights of the bus. The public transportation vehicle slowed down to a halt, and the familiar hiss of the hydraulic system jerkily opened the door. The man wasted no time retreating into the dry warmth of the heated bus. He walked to the back, his feet thumping against the floor in the silence of the near empty bus. He took a seat in his usual spot, the first row of seats in the back half perpendicular to the sides of the vehicle. He didn’t like to sit in the seats parallel to the sides; it might be awkward should someone sit across from him, face to face.

The engine of the bus revved and pulled it away from the bus stop. The running lights on the ceiling turned off and the man relaxed, closing his eyes. He simply concentrated on the dim light flashing against his closed eyelids as streetlights flew by on the sides of the street. It had been a long day at work.

The man allowed his surroundings to sooth him: the humming of the engine, the rhythmic tempo of the windshield wipers, the steady swaying and bumping, and the rain tapping against the roof. The bus slowed down and came to a halt. The man opened his eyes, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. He glanced out the window only to see a familiar sight. It was only the next stop. The lights above him kicked on as the doors hissed open. The man was about to close his eyes again when he noticed the stranger climbing into the vehicle. He had never seen this strange man before on this route, and there was something about him that was just curious enough to keep awake and alert for.

As he examined this stranger, he did not pinpoint at first that which placed this man as peculiar in his sight. He wore normal clothes: overcoat, slacks, black business shoes and a briefcase. His hair was dark, cut cleanly and wet from the rain. The stranger stood looking around the bus as the doors closed.

Spotting the man near the back, the stranger quickly strode forward as the running lights turned off and the bus lurched forward. To the man’s surprise, the stranger decided to sit in the seat right next to him.

“Good evening,” the stranger greeted cheerily.

“Hi,” the man replied. “How are you?”

“Well, I suppose I’m generated by the imagination of some great and superior being in some transcendent realm.”

The man was caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

The stranger glanced sideways. “You asked me how I was, right? That is how I believe I am: spawned in some superior being’s imagination. That is how I am, how I exist.”

The man was bewildered. “That’s not true!”

“Well, it is for me. Maybe not for you, but that’s my truth. Are you judging me for my truth?”

The stranger narrowed his eyes in challenge.

“Well, no, but how could that be true?”

“Silly friend, don’t you know that truth is whatever you want it to be? I have my truth, and you have yours. It’s all subjective you know. Reality is simply what you believe it to be! It’s up to you really.”

The man pondered this for a moment, his brow wrinkled as he wrapped his mind around the idea.

“I’ve never heard that before. Is it really true?”

The stranger smiled. “Indeed it is! Would you like me to tell you more about my truth? Well…”

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The stranger continued telling the man about what he believed, but the man was too lost in thought to hear what he was saying. This new truth he had just learned was revolutionary. As he soaked in the implications of this new truth, he suddenly noticed what it was about this stranger that was so strange. The man did not seem distinguished at all. He had the plainest form and face and complexion than any other person the man had ever seen: there was nothing definite about him. The man began looking around the bus. Suddenly he noticed there was nothing definite in anything around him. Startled, he caught sight of the sign above the exit that usually read “WATCH YOUR STEP,” but now it didn’t make sense. “WOGDM NDIW PALW” was all that was written. The stranger’s words drifted back into hearing, only now the man could not understand them.

“Bos ag na rem yodfca pvner uthg…”

Perplexed, it took the man a moment to feel it. At first he didn’t know what it was, but as the cold liquid ran down the back of his neck, he looked up. The ceiling of the bus was missing and the rain was pouring in. In fact, the entire bus was falling apart as it careened down the road. Windows shattered and metal clattered to the ground. Suddenly, in despair, the man realized what was happening. Now that reality was up to him, he had no way of maintaining it. The darkness of the night faded into bright and chaotic flashing lights and roaring noises as the amalgamation of six billion different realities tore apart time and space and nothing never didn’t happen to not man ever.

Terrie Jacks, “Flutterby”

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The Duck, the Chicken, and the Turkey Marcel Toussaint

Vacations were spent at the farm. Growing up became more fun as Mary was given the freedom to go about the fields and follow her three friends on long walks. She imagined herself as the fourth companion of the duck, chicken, and turkey. She did not mind that she followed rather than led.

The chicken stopped to scratch the soil, and dug her beak to catch what she found interesting to eat. She scanned the surface with her small, round eyes. Was this a good spot to find more food—a grain, a worm, something tempting to her taste? Her companions waited, entertaining themselves, looking around, and stepping in place, until she had had enough of her scratching game. They were civil to each other.

The duck let out a quack that made Mary jump, for she did not like to be surprised by loud sounds. He waddled, rocking his body side to side in a continuous motion until he stopped. He stood at the edge of a large puddle, a gift from the night rain. This would be a good puddle to walk into, drink some of the water, and splash around in the mud. He shook his muddied white wings hard, talking to himself in fussy, low quack-quacks as if annoyed at being soiled. As the leader of the pack, he wanted to maintain an immaculate coat that would glisten in the sun.

They resumed their walk from one end of the field to the other, before settling down in a corner to stake their claim, declaring their territory for as long as they cared. Mary sat on a boulder with a flattened top. It was not comfortable, although her young body did fare well. The perch gave her a general view of the horizon. In the distance the daily morning train passed. She played a solitaire game, reciting the villages that lay in the directions of the four cardinal points. Mary carried a small compass in her pocket, and knew the names of all the major highways.

The turkey, the largest of the trio, was pernickety and wanted to be noticed. Displaying outbursts of pride, he would puff his feathers and shake his large wings, head held high atop a long neck of flame red, all the while gurgling gobble-gobble-goo. Satisfied that he had put on a good show, he would bring back close to his body his fluffed-up feathers and continue his saunter as if nothing had happened. If he sometimes lost a feather or two during his forceful showing off, it was nothing to worry about. They would not be missed.

Lonely chickens would come over wanting to join the happy trio. They were from a neighboring farm. Friend or foe, they were ignored. Neither the duck, nor the chicken, nor the turkey wanted a new member around. Remaining there too long could start a skirmish. The duck would quickly let out small, unhappy quack-quacks that sounded threatening. The intruders, frustrated at being rejected, would keep their distance.

Dogs would also approach the trio. This time it would be the turkey’s turn to scare them off with one of his gobble-gobble-goos repeated loudly as he prepared for battle, his feather coat in attack mode.

He was impressive, overpowering and savage looking, holding his ground with footwork precise in short steps. Dogs never returned once they experienced such a belligerent reception. They fared better with their human friends who caressed them, gave them treats and provided doghouses filled with soft beds for rest and sleep. During gray winter days, they were even allowed into the barn to snuggle in warm straw.

Muddy shoes never were allowed in the house. Mary looked at the clumps of mud weighing down her feet. Knowing she had to clean them up before returning, she made a point to walk into some standing water nearby. She sank her feet until water poured over her socks. She rubbed her shoes against each other to rid them of the worst of the mud. The squishy feeling inside her soles was not to her liking.

Soon her feet would be cold. She waited patiently for the trio to turn back to the farmhouse.

Before long, the duck, the chicken and the turkey quickly lined up one behind the other, Indian file, and hastened their steps to hurry back to the farm on that calm day. They proceeded non-stop, as they continued across the road. The farmers on their tractors were forced to stop their work in progress

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momentarily in order to let these three feathered friends pass by.

Delicious aromas of fried bacon, toast grilled on charcoal, and brewed coffee reached all corners of the house. The smells blended in with the sweet scent of chocolate that Mary liked and teased family members into awakening and getting to the kitchen on time. Anyone still in bed would be jarred by the second wave of sounds and smells—eggs cooked over easy, the thud of jam and butter being set on the table, and sausages being grilled. No one ever missed breakfast!

Except for Mary. Breakfast could wait. She and her companions were almost home from their excursion. The roof of the farmhouse was just ahead. On the way back, Mary had finally settled on names for her three friends. The duck would be called Quackie; the chicken would be Scratchy; and the fierce turkey, Tom-Tom… Just then, she slowly opened her eyes. To her surprise, she was deep under her covers. It was daybreak. Her excursion in the fields with her three friends had been a dream. Her imaginary happenings had been interrupted by the sound of the rain on the metal roofs of the annex buildings and the aroma of food being cooked. For now, Mary’s only thought was a breakfast of chocolate, toast, butter, and jam.

She jumped out of bed, not wanting to be the last to the kitchen.

Terrie Jacks, “Reflections”

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The Sovereigns Awakened Robert Lofton Through the haze in my eyes, I could see the dark red stains splattered on my golden armor, and pooling on the black earth. Around me the chaos of the battle carried on insensibly, like muffled figures dancing in smoke. I tried to pull myself up, but fell back to the ground, onto my back. The sky looked painted for a moment, but gradually began to come back in focus—a large, familiar man stood over me. I tried to raise my jeweled sword despite my wounds, but the man kicked it from my hands. As I followed its path hopelessly out of my reach, I saw something else that caught my eye. A blade of the most common make, lying within arm’s reach. There was no adornment on the hilt, the guard, or the blade.

There was only cold metal as it was hammered into shape on a blacksmith’s anvil, to grace the hand of some poor soldier who had probably already died when the first ranks clashed. Simple brown leather wrapped around its grip, and only the lower half of the blade still remained. The upper half had been broken off. I smiled up at my attacker, who seemed to laugh and cry at the same time.

“So this is how it ends, old friend?”

“I understand now,” I said.

“Don’t think you can seek mercy now! Not after what you’ve done, what you could do.”

But I was no longer listening to him. It seemed as if my sight blurred again, as my thoughts went back to when I was a child and a prince, and the man about to kill me was my best friend. The palace was so very different from a battlefield. It was ordered and deliberate, built with brightly colored gardens and waterfalls that sang all night long. The interior, however, was all plain stone hung with tapestries that took their beauty from their quality and simplicity. It was made to be both a jewel in the king’s crown, and an expression of his character. I remembered my father and mother. Mother was happy and bright, the perfect person for the gardens she loved. My father did not lack appreciation for such things himself, but his realm was the stone and the ceremony. He was a kind, humble man, despite his rank and many victories in battle. I never thought about it at the time, but the world seemed wholly at balance, and the people content. I heard my father’s voice thunder forth from the throne, delivering righteous judgments and proclaiming aid for the needy out of his own wealth. Many times he said to me, “Never forget, my son, that the power a king wields does not come from his armies or his treasures or his wit, but from the people he rules, no matter how lowly they be.”

From the throne room I walked down the halls to where my mother tutored me in every skill that a ruler could need. She taught me how to speak, how to carry myself, how to address people of every station, how to play instruments and sing the old songs of our people. A knight taught me martial skills in the very next room: when to attack and when to defend, and how to raise and command an army.

All this was important, but the most important teaching came from my mother when she was in the gardens. She would sit me down next to her and tell me of how kings and nobles ought to treat their subjects.

“Always be honest with your people,” she would say. “And never treat them poorly, because even though we are more privileged, we are no different from them on the inside. To be cruel and selfish are the basest of things a ruler can be.”

And it was these lessons that I increasingly despised as I grew older. Again and again, I saw my father make judgments that helped others, but brought loss to him in some way. Anger and pride began to take root in my heart. I decided that I would not squander the throne the way my father did. I made up my mind that I would rule with a stronger hand, and do what was best for the crown at all costs. By the time I was a man, nothing really mattered to me but my own desires. One night in the dead of winter, my time finally came. Father died naturally in his sleep, and I, rotten on the inside but outwardly a shining example of my father’s virtue, took the throne. I wasted no time in gaining as much power and wealth as I could. I commissioned great projects for myself and my court to enjoy. I relished lording over the

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lesser beings that surrounded me. The needy people who had come to my father for aid and had never left without something, even if it was only a kind word and encouragement given personally by their king, found themselves turned away at my gates. The merchants that had once been able to prosper were now burdened with heavy taxes. The kingdom began to fade, its former glory gradually giving way to a bleak and uncertain future. And I was blind and uncaring about all of it.

Then I remembered the family, sick from the elements and dressed in beggar’s rags. I could see them as clearly as I had seen them standing before me that night, four years after my father’s death. They were a few of many who came to the palace seeking aid in time of need. I could have simply had them turned away at the gate, but I did not. I brought them into the hall where I was holding a feast, and made a mockery of them for the entertainment of my guests, before ordering them thrown off of the grounds with no more than they had come with. I watched with a mocking smile on my face as they picked themselves up and walked slowly away. The mother stopped though, and turning her head back towards me, said, “An hour will come when you will realize how much you need the discarded things of this world, or you will be discarded, and nothing that you have built for yourself will matter then.” And down the road and out of sight she limped. I thought nothing of the threats of a beggar woman, so I returned to the palace and continued to rule as I had.

Not everyone merely accepted my tyranny, of course. My best childhood friend, the son of one of my father’s most loyal knights, tried to reason with me. My friend, that I myself had knighted, was deeply pained to see what I had become.

“The people won’t stand for what you are doing. A hundred wealthy magistrates can’t hold a single gate against thousands of angry peasants!”

‘Fool!” I cried. “Let the rabble do whatever they will. They are nothing but tools, to be used for an end I decide. I do not fear them, and I will not fear them.”

As my friend warned, the dissension in the populace grew rapidly, and the hatred flared into a civil war. And that was what brought me to this gore-covered field. The clash of weapons pulled my mind to the present, to the face of my old friend, now the leader of the rebels, and I spoke the saddest and wisest words that I ever had: “I’m sorry, my friend, but you are right. There is no going back today for one of us.” I reached out and grabbed the broken sword unfit for a king, and placed it in his hands. “I have been so terribly wrong all this time. All around us now, this death and suffering is what I wrought. It is only fitting that I am ended by a plain blade that was carried by the poorest of soldiers.”

He looked at the blade and threw it down. I was ready to take the punishment for my sins, but instead I found myself in the embrace of a restored friend. I was a prisoner, and the rebels won the day easily when my troops realized it. But now I understood what my parents had tried to teach me, and I felt the victory was mine, too, in a way. The crown has never been restored to me, but I am alive and treated well. I have enjoyed watching my friend rule as wisely as I always should have. My father and his would both be proud. Nothing will ever erase my sins, and I don’t know if the people will ever come to love and respect me as they did my father. Yet, I will endeavor towards that goal and will never forget that it is the discarded masses of this world wherein power truly rests.

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_______________________________________________

Nonfiction

Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.

—E.B. White Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.”

—Thomas M. Cirignano Your life isn’t about doing one perfect “thing” and then falling down dead. It’s more like going to church or writing a book. You do it over and over, always trying to be a little bit better. Then you die.

—Chuck Palahniuk

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Journey to Oxford Victoria Scheibe Life is not easy, life is not always full of happy moments, but life is fun. It would be awhile for my twelve-year-old self to realize this fact of the Christian life. It would take time to find joy in areas of life that seemed monotonous and tiring. God was determined to show me what life was all about, and in his own way he brought me to the realization that I am not perfect, and the products of my mind and heart are not perfect, and that is okay. It would be a life-long race to learn and explore with a pit-stop in Oxford, England.

Most children at the age of twelve find areas of interest in outdoor activities, sport, dolls, or art and reading. I was not much different than the average child, but I had my heart set on visiting England.

I wanted to go to the University of Oxford. Despite my dreams, my always realistic head told me this was impossible. Not only would I not be able to afford the University’s charge for education, but I was far too shy and unable to leave my home. It might seem strange that someone as young as twelve would have a negative view on life and dreams for life, but with the history of myself it becomes clear.

I have social anxiety. With that anxiety comes depression, and I began to struggle with these issues around the age of seven or eight. I was terrified to talk to people, even to the point of ignoring them if they spoke to me. I hid behind my parents at church, and because of my lack of social ability I had very few friends growing up. I remember when I was fourteen, my mother came into my bedroom while I was reading and she began to cry. It was an awkward moment and I did not know quite what to say, but I asked her why she was crying. She told me that I was depressed, holed up in my room by myself for days on end and she knew that I needed help. I refused to see a counsellor and with time, I grew out of my “funk.” When I was sixteen I received my driver’s license, but I only used my ability to drive to go places that were mandatory. I never entered a grocery story by myself. I never went shopping. I never did activities that normal teenagers did. I incurred a large amount of self-hate. Several

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friends left me for someone “better.” Teachers always told me that I was never good enough. My talents were always downgraded or compared to someone else’s work that was just a smidge better. I remember my parents and I getting into fights over the need for me to throw myself into life and make friends. I remember crying and being angry with them for trying to change who I was. I went to my church’s youth group that night in tears. Little did I know that social anxiety had nothing to do with me.

After a series of self-hate and arguments about actually making friends and doing normal things, at seventeen I grabbed a bottle of off-brand Tylenol and disappeared into the bathroom. With the lid of the bottle open, I peered into the bottle, looking at the little red pills. I had a flashback to everything I’ve ever done. Everything I’ve ever regretted doing, every stupid thing I’d said, and every thin girl I could never be ran through my brain, and I almost ended my life. The one thought amongst the painful pictures was of my little siblings. I could just imagine the horror of my parents trying to explain what happened to me and their grown-up years devoid of my influence and love. I sealed the cap on the bottle and sat on the toilet seat and cried. I did not tell my parents what happened for another year. Days after that experience, I told my parents that I needed to see someone. I found a counsellor that helped me battle my fears, and I found a psychiatrist that put me on medication to help ease the pain of anxiety and depression.

Within a few years I was different and healthy. I was ready to explore the life God was about to give me.

When I applied to attend Missouri Baptist University, I knew that I immediately wanted to take advantage of the study abroad program the school offers. When I met with Bob Kilzer, the Director of Study Abroad, I asked him about programs in England. He showed me a few programs, and when he told me about the Oxford program run by BestSemester, I knew that my twelve-year-old wishes could come true. I knew that I needed to make this program and did everything I could to make sure that I was accepted into the program. I made sure my GPA was pristine, my cover letter was well written, my sample essay was near perfect, and my recommendations were written by faculty that knew me well. It was a few short months later that I learned I was accepted and would be heading to Oxford in six short months.

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Because of my history, I made sure that I was well prepared for my first trip on a plane by myself, my first visit to a foreign country, and my first out-of-home living experience, by speaking with a variety of people that could offer advice and encouragement. I spoke with faculty, people from church, a few students from other universities that had done this program before, and my counsellor. Soon, I was on a plane taking off to Oxford. When I arrived at the house that I would be living in, just outside of the city centre, the home of the university, I realized that these fifty odd people I would be housing with were in the same situation as I was and that I needed to connect to people to emotionally survive this experience.

I made an effort to make myself vulnerable and social, and as a result I made friends for life. I still remained naturally introverted, as that is something so innate that it cannot be changed, but I made two best friends that were able to lend support and provide comfort when needed.

In addition to learning how to make friends quickly, I also learned how to accept myself academically. Being an official student at Oxford for a semester, I had the pleasure of experiencing an educational system unique to the university. I took two courses in English and those courses involved one-on-one time with a tutor. I spent eight weeks writing twelve research essays, all about ten pages long, and answering questions that my tutors would give me during our session. I learned more about myself and about English than I ever had before. I really thrived at Oxford. As an academic, I enjoyed

the opportunity to soak in information that could not be found elsewhere. My housemates and I were all in the same situation and were very like-minded. We all were at Oxford to learn and we would spend our nights discussing topics that were explored in lectures and tutorials. We would complain about the length of our essays, or about the horrific question we had to answer that we could not find the answer to. One of the most brilliant aspects of Oxford is the idea that perfection is unnecessary and unattainable. When given only a week to write a long research essay, nothing about that essay will be perfect. My tutors

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understood this, and soon I did too. As a perfectionist and someone who gets upset at an A-, I had to learn that it was okay to make mistakes and to write horribly every now and then. My housemates and I learned this, among other things, together. We loved experiencing the culture together, going out to eat together, and discussing unique topics together. I found myself at home in Oxford. I fell in love with the city, the English people, the people I lived with, and the ability to be less than perfect.

The shy girl found herself never wanting to leave the beautiful city of Oxford. I had a hard time leaving the city after the semester was over, even though I was anxious to see my family again. Oxford offered me something I needed, something God knew I needed. I found myself in that little city across the ocean. I found that I am not perfect. I found that I am not always going to know the answer. I found that I can make friends. I found that it is okay to be weird and silly. And most importantly, I found it is okay to be myself.

The author stands on the far right I came back to the United States with one thought. I was going back to Oxford. Now, I am making that my future goal, but for now I am trying to excel and learn as much as I can in the area I am currently at. I have had a few ups and downs since I have returned to St. Louis. I have had days where I was feeling down and depressed, but those are just days where I have to remind myself that I am where I am for a reason. The culture shock was almost worse coming back to the United States, probably because I connected with Oxford more than I did with my hometown. I still miss the city, and I remember my time there with love and yearning. To think that I would never leave my house five years ago seems strange. It feels like I have conquered the world sometimes, and it is good to feel that way. I will return to Oxford, but until then I will succeed where I am as a new and beautiful creature of God.

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Four’s Company Jessica Wohlschlaeger Matthew 10:29-31 (NIV) says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care… you are worth more than many sparrows.” In these passages, people may view the sparrows as worthless because two birds equal such a small monetary value. However, God says that He is aware of and cares for these sparrows as he provides for their daily needs, and He knows when one is injured. Because God cares greatly for these small creatures, we know that He cares for His people on a much grander scale. These verses are some of my favorite because they illustrate that our God performs gigantic miracles, yet He also cares for His people and their seemingly insignificant desires. This past summer I was able to see this idea in action as God fulfilled a trivial childhood desire for both my husband and me, and while this story is silly, it reaffirms God’s personal love for me.

Currently, my husband, Norman, and I have three cats and a dog. If you would have asked me at the end of Spring 13 semester if I would have another cat by the start of Fall 13, I would have politely laughed and replied with a resounding, “No.” Three adopted pets were enough as we had already exceeded our pet to human ratio!

Ever since we lived in an apartment that allowed pets, Norman wanted an orange cat mainly because one of our friends had a large male tabby who was the epitome of affection. Adopting an orange cat would, in our minds, allow us to replicate this unique bond. Two different times we went to adopt an orange cat or kitten, but something always stopped us from achieving our goal.

The first time we found an orange cat named “Bubbles” on one of the animal pound websites.

The pound had already closed for the evening, so we excitedly planned how we would adopt this cat, who was already ours in our hearts. The next day, we drove to pick him up from a place over forty-five minutes away; however, we were sure that Bubbles was destined to be ours so the distance did not matter.

Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at the pound, someone else had already scooped him up. We looked around at some of the other creatures in the cages, but unexpectedly they were low on cats. We did find another orange cat, but he was isolated to ensure that he did not have rabies or any other communicable disease. We decided that he was not the cat for us.

Somewhat broken hearted, we began our trek home, but on the way, we saw that a Petco was having an adoption event sponsored by one of the many St. Louis animal rescues. Many miles from home, we decided to stop and see what animals they had. While browsing through the many aisles of cages, we discovered a beautiful brown, black, and white cat. He caught our attention because he was the only cat not sitting inside his litterbox. I knew that if Norman could touch this cat, we would have a higher chance of bringing him home. (I was already in love.) After a little convincing, I spoke to one of the ladies and asked if we could hold the cat. With a big smile on her face, she happily obliged. As soon as the door opened, this cat immediately came over to warmly greet us; he wanted to be held and loved on. We were sold, and Samson, the beautiful Abyssinian mix, became the first animal member of our family.

After having Samson for almost a year and a half, the orange cat bug hit Norman again. He wanted to adopt another cat. However, this time, he wanted a kitten. Again, we searched online and found a rescue that had a litter of orange kittens. This time, the rescue was much closer. When we arrived, three orange kittens and one grey and white kitten sat inside the cage. Norman was ecstatic and so was I. Because this cat was a present for Norman’s birthday, I let him choose which kitten to adopt.

He picked up the orange kittens one by one. With each kitten, his face resembled a storm cloud that continued to darken. He held one kitten after another, and each one struggled, scratched, meowed, and cried at being held; you would think that he tried to bludgeon them the way they acted. After Norman had held all three orange kittens, his arms looked like they had been through the blender. With a little

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encouragement, Norman decided to hold the grey and white kitten. This little guy snuggled up into Norman’s chest and promptly fell asleep at his touch. This creature melted our hearts, and we decided to adopt the Russian Blue mix kitten, Jethro.

While Samson and Jethro did not meet the criteria we looked for in a cat, both of them have blessed us immensely, and I am glad we adopted them instead of waiting for this elusive “orange” cat.

With the addition of our dog, a greyhound named Bruiser, Norman and I decided that we reached our pet limit. I released my childhood dream of rescuing an animal that God would send to me, and Norman relinquished his desire to own an orange cat. Because seriously, in a household of two, who needs four pets?

However, God had other plans. One day in June, a small, straggly orange cat visited our house.

The weather was brutally hot, and it had been for quite some time. This creature trudged towards our door and meowed pathetically. His fur was quite messed, and he looked dehydrated and hungry. Against all of the “rules,” I set out some cat food and water.

He hung around for another day before I made him a vet appointment. He was so affectionate that he had to be someone’s pet even though no identification could be found. The vet’s office could see if this little guy was microchipped. Norman, not too pleased, said that we should not bother, but I could not help but care for this creature. He was very affectionate and tried to come inside the house multiple times, so he must have been lost.

On the day of the appointment, the cat disappeared. I sighed and prayed the cat had found its way home. I figured this absence was God’s subtle way of saying the cat belonged to someone else.

However, later that evening, guess who appeared? (At this point, Norman and I were hoping that the cat was not microchipped, so he could become a part of our home.) We packed the cat in the kennel and took him to the vet where we discovered he was microchipped. Needless to say, we tried to hide our disappointment. After getting the owner’s names from the vet’s office, I called them to share the exciting news about their lost pet!

When we spoke on the phone, the owner was relieved, but she already told her young children that the cat had died since he had been missing for over a month. In fact, they already adopted another kitten and could not take him back. Secretly excited, I calmly told her that my husband and I would provide this orange cat a good home. She thanked me profusely, and we now have four animals.

While there were some ups and downs with adding this new cat, Sheldon, into our home, overall, he has made a fairly seamless transition into our household. Our bed is a little more crowded these days with three cats that move around during the night. At any given moment, you may lose foot, side, or pillow space. (Luckily, the dog is on the floor at the end of the bed, but you do have to watch out for this tripping hazard if you get up in the middle of the night.) Norman now has his orange cat, and I have rescued an animal that God sent to me. Our mighty God cared enough to answer both of these small and insignificant desires of our hearts and to give a good life to a lost kitty. Our God is amazing and powerful, but He is also a personal God. He cares about me and a small orange cat.

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Sensei Inspires Student Responsibility in Natsume Soseki’s Kokoro1 Angela Tynes

The American public education system as it stands today is struggling to compete on the global front. Despite hard work, increased financial investment into technological programs and teacher training, test scores still continue to produce high average scores on a good year. Asian countries such as China, Korea, and Japan are producing better students by the year. Differences abound from the number of days students are required to attend school per year to the salaries teachers earn. From the decisionmaking on educational curricula to the instructional styles labeled as best practices for optimal learning, the American public educational system could not be further from Asia’s educational system. So what is it that will produce better, more competitive students? Perhaps simplest is best. After all, the complex solutions are not yet working. Students from the United States have a far different view of their responsibilities as students versus students in Asian countries. The value systems between each culture could not be more polarized. In the spirit of simplicity, evaluating the role of Sensei in Japanese author Natsume Soseki’s acclaimed novel Kokoro (1914) may inspire greater student responsibility and furthermore, a more competitive academic edge.

To see more clearly where one is headed, it is wise to begin by looking first in the mirror. In a 2004 report sponsored by PISA, the public education system in the United States was ranked twenty-first out of twenty-eight countries included in the study. This is based on four factors: the cost of educating each student compared to the country’s wealth, the number of hours students learn per day, class size, and teacher pay. According to TED speaker Andreas Schleicher, “how a country chooses to spend their money matters much more than how much money they spent” (2012). Countries like Germany, who have carefully examined their data from PISA in early 2000 and have begun to have serious and paradigmshifting conversations about education—they have seen outstanding results. The United States has only begun to become serious about asking why academic performance is not improving. In one decade, Korea doubled the number of students who are achieving at the highest levels of reading comprehension for fifteen year olds (Schleicher 2012). If that is not shocking enough, Schleicher also shared that only “[t]wo generations ago, Korea had the standard of living of Afghanistan today. Today every young Korean finishes high school” (2012).

If throwing money at the problem of education, government policy, heated debate, or the infamous “blame game” has not worked to improve the effectiveness of education for young Americans, perhaps policy makers are not asking the right questions. For example, how is the role of teacher defined in the most academically competitive countries? What about the role of the student? More directly, how does one's cultural value system impact learning? Eastern philosophy and religion celebrate Confucian thought and apply such to their behaviors at home, at work, and at school. One of the Confucian Analects states, “I am not one who was born in the possession of knowledge; I am one who is fond of antiquity, and earnest in seeking it there” (TheQuotationsPage 2013). With humility and openness, one who reflects upon the past and learns from others often improves upon his or her station based on the wisdom of others.

Such an open mind is ready to problem solve, to think, and to learn. With this thinking, there is also an implied sense of personal responsibility on the part of the student. This value system follows Schleicher’s opening statement perfectly: “Learning is not a place but an activity” (2012).

To first address the question of evaluating the role of the American educator, one would be wise to begin with the best examples. TED Talks showcases outstanding speakers in fields of almost every profession. Rita Pierson, a veteran teacher of forty years with a contagious love for students and for learning, was showcased in April 2013. Her speech was also reproduced for NPR and in numerous newspapers across the country in a message called, “Every Kid Needs a Champion.” She quickly identifies the problems that teachers face in dealing with students who struggle academically, following with their corresponding explanations. By the end of the first minute, she says, “One of the things we

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never discuss or that we rarely discuss is the value and importance of human connection: relationships” (Pierson 2013). Quoting George Carver, she says, “All learning is understanding relationships” (Pierson 2013). After observing years of the best and worst teachers, Pierson recalls a sad, but very real viewpoint for too many teachers. The salary paid is for the knowledge, the schooling, the experience, and the lesson—not for whether or not the kids like the teacher.

Going a step further, she asserts that some people think being a relationship-builder is something one is either born with or without, but not a character quality that can be nurtured. Pierson follows with another simple directive from a wise man celebrated today, author and self-help guru, Stephen Covey: seek first to understand before you demand that others understand you. Interestingly enough, Confucian thought and the Japanese values found in Soseki’s Kokoro embrace that same concept of interdependence and human need for relationship.

According to a report made by the U.S. Library of Congress on the values and beliefs in Japan, Japanese children learn from their earliest days that human fulfillment comes from close association with others. Children learn early to recognize that they are part of an interdependent society, beginning in the family and later extending to larger groups such as neighborhood, school, community, and workplace. Dependence on others is a natural part of the human condition. (Dolan and Worden 1994) If relationships are good and necessary to one’s ultimate success, happiness, and legacy, evaluating the role of the teacher-student relationship is a must. In Kokoro, Sensei was actually a name of fond respect that the narrator extends to a man he views as his mentor and wise friend. When the two meet, the narrator is just finishing his studies for a degree at the university in Tokyo. He obviously has other professors in his field of study. Yet he chooses to call a man he meets at beach on holiday, sensei. “I always called him ‘Sensei.’ I shall therefore refer to him simply as ‘Sensei,’ and not by his real name…because I find it more natural, that I do so” (Soseki 1).

To understand the role of the sensei in Japanese culture and specifically for Soseki, one must first define it. According to the British Ki Society, “In Japan, anyone who teaches anything is called sensei”— in fact, the term literally means “one who is born before” (The Meaning of Sensei 2013). Therefore, the term is one with both a spiritual connotation and a physical application of living according to the wisdom one possesses. Confucius taught many ideals that included specific responsibilities for individuals depending on the relationship. Three terms that form the foundation of any relationship are Ren, Li, and Junzi. Ren is “complete virtue or goodness…and is the fundamental virtue of Confucian social and moral philosophy” (Clarken 2010). Li is “courtesy or ideal standard of conduct” (Clarken 2010). Junzi is the act of living with “self-respect, sincerity, and benevolence” (Clarken 2010). If Soseki’s narrator took all of this into account, there must have been something about the man that spoke to him on a deeply personal level.

After understanding that teachers exude a specific set of behaviors, including an ability to form meaningful relationships with others as well as a spiritual wisdom, surely the role of the student must be examined next. In American schools today, students demonstrate a lesser degree of responsibility than ever before. There is a high level of entitlement, or personal feeling of unwarranted deserving without appropriate maturity, experience, or responsibility. Whether due to a shift in the family unit, too few proper role models for parents and children, or the near constant media publicity of unpunished behaviors and persons—students today seem to be enslaved to their excuses. With a shrugging off of personal responsibility and an overwhelming air of entitlement, it is no wonder that American students are also apathetic. Why display concern about studies that may or may not be beneficial to one’s future when one can find greater enjoyment in less demanding ways? This toxic mixture of values, or anti-values, combined with increased pressures from local school districts, and state and federal policy makers to increase instructional effectiveness as evidenced through a yearly rise in test scores has led to an all-time high in teacher turn-over rate and burnout.

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If there is a correlation between cultural values and academic success, then it is essential to understand the values that the most successful countries demonstrate in their educational systems. After the values of empathy, or a kindness extended in trying to understand one’s situation, and human relationship, one arrives at the public sphere of order and status. Criticized by many for being too rigid and hierarchical, Confucianism thrives on the etiquette and ritual of “relative status differences [which] define nearly all social interaction” (Dolan and Worden 1994). Privately, there must also be an established sense of order. Although misunderstood and under-appreciated in the American culture, individuality is celebrated when there is sincerity. Individualism, however, is condemned as it demonstrates too high an opinion of oneself—the opposite of empathy. Illustrating empathy towards the narrator, Sensei asks him a direct question about loneliness after a series of regular visits to his home: “Youth is the loneliest time of all. Otherwise why should you come so often to my house?” (Soseki 12).

In Kokoro, Soseki’s unnamed narrator speaks throughout most of the novel in a first-person account. He is the one who has initiated the relationship with Sensei. He has requested that Sensei be his mentor and guide. For Confucians, it is a great honor to be accepted as one’s student and an even greater responsibility to be the teacher of another. The sense of responsibility is unbalanced. Americans value a greater responsibility towards those of the medical, educational, and religious vocations. Unlike the heavier burden placed on those in greater authority over others, the subordinates are the ones with the greatest responsibilities. Like the narrator, it is expected that Japanese students take their responsibility to learn, to ask questions, and most of all, to excel, very seriously. With an increase in student ownership of learning at all levels of academic talent, it would be incredible to see how high student achievement in the United States would be.

Confucius said, “Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance” (Thum 1). Sensei teaches his protégée three major concepts that American students would benefit by taking to heart. Firstly, a sense of mystery and curiosity are gained when teachers do not share everything they know immediately and when there is a relationship of professionalism between teacher and student. Secondly, extended thought and application is inspired during brief and direct conversations, or in the case of a classroom, lectures. Thirdly, emotional response leads to increased memory and retention when teachers give honest rebukes to their students when deserved.

After the narrator follows Sensei out in the cemetery—uninvited and unwelcomed—Sensei tells the boy, “I cannot tell you why, but for a very good reason I wish to go to that grave alone. Even my wife, you see, has never come with me” (Soseki 11). The narrator does not like this response or what he considers Sensei’s overreaction to his surprise visit. Yet he does understand his role as student well enough to know that there must be a lesson hidden in the mystery of his teacher’s words. He becomes increasingly curious. Instead of taking on the role of psychoanalyst, he instead chooses to visit his teacher even more often, though less obtrusively. The narrator reflects, “Had I been curious in an impersonal and analytical way, the bond between us would surely not have lasted. I hate to think what might have happened had I acted differently” (Soseki 11).

In a conversation the two men have while on a walk one afternoon, they find themselves very near a young couple in love. Sensei questions the boy about what he sees and finds that the young man is trying to be jovial, but underneath, there is a current of jealousy and covetousness. Because he does not want the couple to overhear their conversation, and of course, because he wants his pupil to think, Sensei follows a specific pattern of speech. He asks a question, reads the young man’s nonverbal communication, makes an assertion without engaging him in further speech, then stops the conversation abruptly. He does this a couple of times, surprising the narrator each time. In the end, the narrator admits, “I was more mystified than ever by Sensei’s talk. But I never heard him mention the word ‘love’ again” (Soseki 22). Following other mystifying talks and even deeper revelations into Sensei’s melancholy, his teacher’s words and behaviors start to concern him even more severely. Sensei warns his student that he cannot unburden all of his worries on the boy for fear that he will regard his teacher with shame and disgust one day. To this the narrator ponders to himself privately,

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After that day, I used to wonder each time I saw Sensei’s wife whether Sensei’s attitude towards her reflected his inner thoughts, and if so, whether she could be satisfied with her condition. I wondered also why Sensei felt the way he did towards mankind. Was it, I would ask myself, the result of a coldly impartial scrutiny of his own inner self and the contemporary world around him? (Soseki 24) One of the most powerful scenes in the first third of Kokoro is where Sensei warns the boy about how unexpectedly hurtful family members can be to each other over the issue of inheritance when the pending death of a parent is expected. He had shared with Sensei about his father’s illness and actually gone to visit Sensei and his wife a couple of times just prior to leaving the second time. Fearing that he may not return soon, he wanted to maximize his time with Sensei before returning home to the responsibilities of a child for an ailing father. Sensei, at this point, had become more and more bold with the young man. He told his student outright that he should settle these financial matters while his father was still alive and not to expect that “good” country folk would always be good. “Under normal conditions, everybody is more or less good, or at least, ordinary. But tempt them, and they may suddenly change. One must always be on one’s guard” (Soseki 48).

A little later, once the narrator had a further chance to think along their walk, he asked Sensei to explain the meaning of this wisdom. To the boy, Sensei’s response was shallow, trite, and almost mocking. He was hurt by what seemed to be Sensei’s purposeful dismissal of his feelings—though left unspoken. “Sensei refused to be serious, and my pride was hurt. With a nonchalant air, I began to walk more quickly, leaving Sensei behind” (Soseki 50). His wise and ever-cautious teacher calls him on it. “‘You see? One simple remark, and your whole attitude towards me, you see, has changed.’ I had turned around to wait for Sensei, and as he spoke, he looked straight into my eyes” (Soseki 50). In the next line, the narrator admits to hating Sensei.

The emotional response triggered in the young man can be viewed as a natural reaction based upon an uncomfortable or even a provoked encounter. And yet, if this analysis is still an illustration of the Sensei's lessons for his student, then this emotional trigger is one that will stay with the young man for much longer than other forms of instruction. He will stew over his frustration, he will replay the moment back in his mind, he will be reminded of this when he is alone and there is only quiet. And he will think.

In all of the good that one can learn from Sensei and from the Japanese Confucian rules for the honorable student, there are also some harsh lessons of warning. Sensei is clearly more comfortable agonizing over his secret past than enjoying moments of close levity and relaxation with his wife and with his young friend. His depression is so deep, and some of his words so dark—especially regarding death— that one wonders if Sensei means to do harm to himself or another. In Part 3, Sensei's personal story is revealed in a manuscript he sends to the narrator at his father’s home. There is a long list of deep hurts that the young Sensei has endured to finally give reason for his dark side. Of all his sadness, the suicide of his friend K is certainly the most horrific. Death is already so difficult for young people in particular, much less suicide. Surely, one is not to imply that Sensei’s view on embracing death is one that students should allow as an option for life’s difficulties.

The American public education system has most assuredly seen better days. Policy over educational standards, retention of quality teachers, and expectations of student achievement are so complex. When too many individuals have personal interests and selfish intentions behind their decisionmaking, it makes it nearly impossible to make the best decisions for those the policies are designed to benefit. Sometimes when the same series of events cycles regarding a major concept like educational reform, one must consider that it may not be people who are the problem, but rather, the process. When too many individuals have personal interests and selfish intentions behind their decision-making, it makes it nearly impossible to ensure that the best policies will be implemented for children.

Asking the right questions is required if one is to honestly seek a resolution. In the case of the American public education system, at this point, simple would indeed be the better alternative. Applying winning concepts from other countries that have improved their scores and are currently leading on a global scale only makes sense. To apply the cultural values of Natsume Soseki’s Kokoro and Confucian

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thought to American policy reform may provide the most effective result yet. Yet if educational choices continue to be made without careful thought, it is likely that this warning from Confucius may haunt us for generations upon generations. “He who learns but does not think, is lost. He who thinks but does not learn, is in great danger” (Thum 1).

Note 1

This essay was submitted to EDEN 573 Asian Literature in Translation, a graduate course the author took under the direction of Dr. John Han in Summer 2013.

Works Cited Clarken, Rodney. “Socratic Knowledge, Christian Love, Confucian Virtue and Buddhist Emptiness: Guiding Principles for Education.” Online Submission (2010): ERIC. Web. 19 June 2013.

“Confucius.” TheQuotationsPage (1994-2013). Web. 22 June 2013.

Dolan, Ronald E., and Robert L. Worden, eds. “Values and Beliefs.” U.S. Library of Congress (1994) Web. 20 June 2013.

Pierson, Rita. “Every Kid Needs a Champion.” TED.com (April 2013). Web. 22 June 2013.

Soseki, Natsume. Kokoro. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 2006. Print.

Schelicher, Andreas. “Use Data to Build Better Schools.” TED.com (July 2012) Web. 22 June 2013.

“The Meaning of Sensei.” The British Ki Society (24 April 2013) Web. 21 June 2013.

Thum, Myrko. “Confucius Say: The Top 10 Wise Confucius Quotes” Myrkothum (n.d.) Web. 22 June 2013.

“World Religions: Confucianism.” Faith Reason (2011). YouTube. Web. 20 June 2013.

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Reefer’s Rerun Faye Adams It breaks my heart to see an animal neglected or mistreated. Dogs, especially, are wonderful friends—constant, loving, and loyal to a fault. Recently, our local newspaper reported a fire in which the homeowner died with her dog lying beside her. When the fire began, did her pet attempt to wake her, and failing that, stay beside her, regardless of the outcome? We'll never know, but many cases have been recorded of an animal performing heroically in an effort to save or rescue an owner from danger.

Reefer was a good dog. He never growled at his owners. He did not bark at strangers. But Reefer was miserable. He had spent his entire life chained outside. Sometimes, his owners forgot to feed him. Often plagued by thirst, he sat staring into an empty water bowl, or paced the area of confinement fixed by the length of chain hooked around his neck. He was covered with fleas. Their bites itched constantly. Reefer spent most of his time scratching and biting his own skin.

But his life was about to change. Although totally unaware of the fact that he was on the brink of receiving a second chance, he happily accepted the changes taking place in his life. He’d come to The Groomin’ Room for a bath and a trim. He loved being inside. He loved his bath. He readily submitted to being groomed because he loved attention.

Our daughter worked at The Groomin’ Room as a pet groomer. An opportunity to participate in a dog-grooming contest had been presented to her, and she wanted to enter. But she didn’t own a dog. Our family pet was a feline. As she groomed Reefer, she made the decision to call his owner and ask if she could borrow him for a couple of months.

“He’s such a cute breed,” she said. “I love him. He’s so friendly, so easy to work with. If I could borrow him for a few weeks, I could give him the trim I want to use in the competition, and allow his coat to grow an inch.”

It would then be easy to simply cut one inch off in an “all-over” trim. It would save the time required to create a style for the cut. This, in turn, would help her stay within the time limit during the contest. It was a wise move on Lisa’s part, because she won the grooming contest.

But for Reefer, it meant a second chance for a decent existence. When he first came home with Lisa, his ears were a solid mass of sores. She needed time to work with him, provide enough loving care to allow his wounds to heal, and condition his coat toward a healthier glow.

After the contest, I received a call from Lisa.

“Mom, I don’t want to take him back to that lady. If I call her and ask, can we keep him?”

“Oh, Lisa, I don’t know. What about the cat?”

“He’s such a sweet dog, Mother. He loves everyone. I’m sure he will get along with her.”

With more than a few misgivings, I said yes. Lisa called Reefer’s owner, asked if we could keep the dog, and received an affirmative answer.

“Sure. I don’t care,” his owner said.

Reefer came home with Lisa from work that same day. He barked only once at Tricia, our cat.

She had decided she wanted to test his food. One deep “Woof” changed her mind, and that was the extent of the friction between them.

“The first thing we must do is change his name,” I said. “We don’t want anyone to think we smoke weed.”

In my mind, the name assigned to Reefer by his original owner gave a possible clue to the condition of his skin. I felt convinced that he had been the victim of neglect, whether intentional or not.

We chose the name Rugby, because of the similarity of the beginning sound. He took to the new name immediately.

Lisa was correct in her assessment of his personality. He was sweet-tempered, loved kids, other animals, and responded well to everyone in the family. We did discover that his breed, Bichon Frise, has

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a tendency to suffer from skin allergies. Our biggest expense for Rugby came from the pet allergist, who gave us the bad news that he was allergic to trees and grass, and highly allergic to fleas.

We kept Rugby inside, my husband gave him an allergy shot once a month, and we all grew to love him. He never again had scabs on his ears from scratching.

In winter, it was safe for Rugby to be outside. We took him for long walks in a local park. There were trails which wound up a steep ridge above the Meramec River. Even in snow, he eagerly followed us along the river bluffs, shaking clumps of snow off his back feet without breaking stride. He was a total joy to our entire family.

My husband worked as a CASA volunteer (Court Appointed Special Advocate), and spent time interviewing children who had been removed from the custody of their parents. Some of these children had suffered abuse and were traumatized when in the presence of strangers. Taking Rugby and a camera along for those interviews broke the ice, calmed the child’s fears, produced a souvenir for the child to treasure, and a memory of a happy hour with a lovable pet.

Rugby seemed to have an innate knowledge of how to approach a child. In these sessions, he responded appropriately, based on the child's initial reaction to him. If the child stood still and hesitated, Rugby would approach slowly, wagging his tail. If the child crouched or opened arms to him, Rugby would run in for a hug. For the hesitant one, his initial contact was a soft lick on the hand.

Rugby’s personality proved to be happy-go-lucky, affectionate, curious, and resilient. He took full advantage of his “second chance” in life, and gave us much pleasure in the bargain. To the day of his death, many years later, he would respond to either of the names he had been given.

Terrie Jacks, “Smooth as Glass”

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Fishing Trip Billy J. Adams “You’re going fishing with me for your birthday,” my father said.

I had never been fishing, much less with my father, and I was as excited as any six-year-old boy would be embarking on a brand new adventure. A contractor named Batten sponsored the annual fishing weekend for his employees. My grandfather, who died before I was born, and Mr. Batten were good friends. My father worked for him but was more than an employee. Mr. Batten treated him like a son, often calling me his grandson.

The other drivers arrived at the river in their small trucks, mostly Ford model A’s with gravity dumping gravel beds not much larger than a garden trailer. My father and I arrived in his assigned vehicle, a 1935 1.5-ton Chevrolet with a hydraulically powered gravel bed and dual rear wheels.

They stood around greeting each other, telling stories about their families and their work.

Eventually, the conversation focused on who would maintain the campsite and cook while the others fished.

After a lively discussion, they drafted an older man named John. He had arrived in a wagon loaded with camping gear. John was a “neat freak.” His wagon was filled with camping gear all carefully arranged. He had painted his wagon a bright green, trimmed in bright yellow. His team of matched bays looked like they had just left a grooming shop. I never saw his barn but I imagined it being the cleanest barn in the county, probably painted on the inside. I went over to look at the horses. John walked over and put me on the back of one of the horses saying, “This one likes kids, and he’ll do anything for an apple.”

I sat on the horse and admired the shiny silver trim on the harness.

John agreed to cook by saying, “All right I’ll cook for you bunch of bums, but if anyone complains about my cooking, that person will be the cook.”

I was left to help John with the campfire while the others fished. After we got the campfire going, John reached for the salt.

“I’ll teach them to stick me with the cooking again,” he muttered to himself, digging out an old fire-scorched coffee pot. He filled it with water, added a double handful of coffee and a handful of salt and hung it over the campfire to boil.

By the time the fishermen returned it was dark and cold. They dumped their fish on the tailgate of John’s wagon and reached for the coffee pot. I watched as they tasted the salt-laced coffee. A few of them managed to swallow without losing their poker faces. Others widened their eyes as the hot liquid went down. A few beat a hasty retreat away from the light of the campfire to spit the salty liquid on the ground. No one said anything about the quality of the coffee until one of the late arrivals took a large mouthful, spewed it out it out exclaiming, “Wow, this coffee’s salty.” Realizing his mistake, he added, “But it sure is good.”

That incident occurred many years ago, specifically in 1938. I can’t remember if the offender took over the task of cooking. But I’ll always remember the look on his face when he realized that he

had stepped across the line that John had drawn.

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A Somewhat Bumpy Landing Bill Byrne Through the second half of the ’80s into the early ’90s, I travelled the country on company business for Volkswagen. I booked my own flights by phone with an airline and had the in-house agent do my ticketing. I didn’t realize it then, but flying was relatively hassle-free. You could show up at the gate at the last minute and board without much aggravation, maybe a little winded if you were rushed.

Since I worked in Detroit, I favored at first Republic Airlines (not the present local carrier of the same name) which in 1986 was sold to Northwest; both had a generous frequent flyer program that I especially liked and took advantage of. Republic sported a goose in flight on its rear tail and came to be referred to as “the ruptured goose” airline. Not to be outdone for a moniker, Northwest morphed into “Northworst,” before it blended into Delta. I became so much of a “frequent-flyer-air-miles-junky” and accumulated so many miles that Northwest gave me a Gold Card one year, allowing me to fly first class whenever I presented my card and space was available. Sweet!

Through the first two years of the ’70s, I had a different inside relationship with the airline industry. As a Sales Agent II for Pan American World Airways, I manned the phones on the fifth floor of the then Pan Am building in New York City. Quicker than you can say “ampersand,” I went from teaching high school English to phone-introducing myself and asking a prospective flyer, “How may I help you?”

In the seventies, a cadre of airlines—Braniff, Eastern, Frontier, National, TWA to mention a few, since vanished or merged—were hiring reservation agents. The classified ads in the newspapers were rife with either direct airline or staffing agency ads for candidates, so high was the demand. A number of independent airline customer service training schools offered programs that promised to place you with a carrier on successful completion, usually for your first month’s salary. A few of these, such as the International Air Transportation Agency (IATA) school, still operate but now with a more comprehensive airline curriculum, not just customer service. The internet and the ease of self-booking made a number of these job functions obsolete, and hence that eliminated most of these limited and limiting positions.

I chose not to go the fee-pay agency route and instead contacted Pan Am human relations directly to arrange an interview cum employment test. For a college graduate, the test couldn’t have been easier—a basic multiple-choice vocabulary test, a math test centered on addition and subtraction, and a little geography, as I recall. A week or so later, I was asked to return to the Pan Am office to begin a twoweek training and company indoctrination program with a cohort of about a dozen other recruits. One of those “other recruits” turned out to be my once and future wife.

The training classes were what you might expect, heavy on Pan Am history and folklore at their core. Pan American World Airways (emphasis on World)—first American carrier to open global markets, first to feature widespread jet travel, first with jumbo jet travel, first with an IBM computerized reservation system. The rest of the time was spent on customer role plays, fare calculation using the IATA rate manual, and memorization of three-letter airport codes. Wave the flag, treat customers well, charge the appropriate fare, and learn the industry shorthand—a pretty straightforward program to prepare one for a “res agent” job.

The appeal of the job was not the pay or promise of promotion, as I soon discovered. The Pan Am slogan “It pays to fly” didn’t apply to those of us who were part of the flight experience. Still, there were other goodies that came with the job. Since Pan Am was only an international carrier—domestic routes were spread among the other carriers until the mid-eighties—employees were charged about 15% of fares calculated from various gateway cities such as New York, Miami, Los Angeles, etc. If, like me, you favored the sun and beaches of the Caribbean, the fare from New York to Miami was a given, and the fare calculation was based on the continent jumping off point. Likewise, Los Angeles or San Francisco

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was not figured into a fare for Hawaii and all destinations West. Even though Pan Am didn’t offer domestic flights, the other airlines honored this discounted ticketing for all airline employees, and Pan Am reciprocated on international flights.

An airline sales agent was also an important and valued link for the hotel trade. Hotels understood that customers often inquired about what hotel an agent might recommend to a traveler. As a result, the hotels routinely “comped” or halved the room rate for agents.

Since agents all did the same Pan Am job, we were interchangeable parts of the system. Trading work days for off days was a common practice. I worked the Wednesday through Sunday shift, so my days off were much in demand. The way it worked was that I would work a Monday, Tuesday shift for an agent, and he or she would replace me on my weekend. Getting a four-day block of days off allowed one to maximize the travel benefits.

The break-through computer system at Pan Am was nothing like present day models. The screen was Etch-a-Sketch-like and about the same size. The keyboard was modeled on a mechanical typewriter of the 1940’s. It was programmed with several rudimentary input signals—passenger name, address, phone, routing, price, etc. All of this was manually entered by the agent while on the phone. The customer then had to indicate who would do the ticketing, either Pan Am at one of its counters or at a local travel agency. Transactions were strictly cash based with perhaps the exception of a rare Diner’s Club, American Express, or Bank AmeriCard credit card, since those instruments were reserved to a scant 16% of the public in the ’70s. In an effort to encourage us to sell more Pan Am space on an itinerary involving other carriers, the computer would approve the transaction with a weak attempt at a pun by replying: “Pan Am legs are the name of the gams!”

Since the airlines were all “regulated” by IATA, the fare for most destinations was a published one and accessible to every agent. Also, the computer had some fares programmed into certain common destinations. When one had to construct a more complicated fare and routing, the agent had to use a cumbersome computer punch card setup, juggle the printed IATA rate book to piece together a booking, or turn the transaction over to the group that manned by the appropriately named “Rate Desk” to do the deed. Every so often, you would get a customer who did the leg work for you and insisted on which carrier to book for them, the days and time of departure, the hotels and car rentals, if requested. A savvy customer knew that when one of his or her intermediate flight connections was the last into a certain city, the airline was obliged to put the flyer up free-of-charge overnight. Bookings such as those required a lot of an agent’s time, not something your supervisor cared for since it backed up the queue of waiting callers. Aside from that rare occasion, the rest of the job was routine.

Pan Am sales agents were unionized in 1968 under the Teamsters and Helpers of America umbrella. Naïve as I was then, I thought I could either join the union or not. Wrong! While at my desk one day early on in my employment, two individuals wearing, I could swear, dark suits and matching ties approached me and reminded me that I must have “forgotten to turn in the union enrollment package.” I quickly complied. I don’t think I overreacted to the implications of their reminder.

The Airline Public The public face of Pan Am was the reservation agent, uniformed in the case of the airport and various city business reservation centers or the faceless phone voice greeting the traveler. The res agent was a real estate salesperson, selling temporary rented seats on a limited number of properties. When there was a glut of seats, it was easy to accommodate a request. When space was limited or sold out, passengers could be difficult. They needed to get to say Kingston, Jamaica over Christmas and could not understand why you were unwilling to accommodate them. The best you could do was hold out to them the vague possibility that the company would recognize their predicament and add an extra plane or two to that particular routing.

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Working with airline travel agencies, who did basically the same job as you but whose loyalty was to the public and not Pan Am, required some delicacy. They sometimes booked competing carriers for the same reservation and clouded the seats available on some of the more popular and profitable routings. Still, for the seven percent fee they received, they were a valuable part of the business.

Some agencies even specialized in certain destinations, such as San Juan, Puerto Rico. Pan Am, for one, did a rip roaring and inexpensive trade with our next state. I recall making such a booking with an agent from Cophresi Travel, part of a chain of agencies in the Bronx, New York. When I finished the transaction, she asked me if I ever got to San Juan. I told her I did. Next, she asked me if I ever ventured into a casino there. I replied I did. She then suggested that the next time I travel there that I go to a certain hotel casino and whisper to the Black Jack dealer, “Blue bird sent me.” I would have felt foolish if I had, so I never discovered what doors these magic words would have opened.

Rarely, you would strike up a conversation with a newsworthy traveler. I had an engaging conversation with Laurence Harvey, one of the stars of the movie The Manchurian Candidate. I booked him to London where he hoped to “hone his craft some.” I dealt with Jackie Kennedy Onassis’s secretary a number of times, and she got in the habit of asking for me personally. The night shift, something I sometimes day-traded into, would bring out the lonely in need of someone to talk to and to fantasize about a get-away-from-it-all trip, a trip which upon checking later was as ephemeral as the person making it.

When you call a business today, you are liable to hear that your call is “being monitored for employee training purposes.” I’m uncertain, but this may have been another Pan Am first. Someone was assigned to listen to and record the conversations between the agents and the customers “for training purposes” or something more sinister, we were never quite sure. Whatever the case, I think it saved me from being fired on one occasion.

One of those out-of-the-ordinary bookings was routed to my desk in the person of Doctor Brown.

Idi Amin Dada had just taken over as the third President of Uganda, and Doctor Brown would be returning home by way of Entebbe International Airport in that country. My sense from my short encounter with him was that he was or thought of himself as someone important, hence the title and his peremptory tone over the phone. He barked at me, “Do you even know where Entebbe is?” I assured him I did.

To give you an idea of what is entailed in this itinerary, I went to the internet and entered a provisional New York (JFK) to Entebbe (EBB) economy class flight and cost request at CheapAir.com.

A late afternoon flight on Lufthansa landed in Frankfurt, Germany early the next morning. A midmorning departure next arrived in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia for a late night departure to Entebbe after midnight. Total time spent, including connecting time, is estimated to be twenty-five hours, ten minutes at a cost of fifteen hundred dollars.

What took only a few minutes now was infinitely more complicated when I began to sort out what faced me then. I put Doctor Brown on hold, and when I went back to assure him I was working on his itinerary, he must have been irritated on being so placed and hung up on me.

When ensued was a very public demand from the shift supervisor to gather all my belongings and report to the manager. “You are fired!” she shouted. Oblivious of what I did, I asked why. She told me that in effect I had cursed out the good doctor. The more I insisted I hadn’t, the more she repeated, ”Yes, you did!”

While I was trying to comply with the demand to gather and report, I was approached by Leslie, a shift colleague, who wanted to know what was happening. When I told him why I was being fired, he told me I had levied at Doctor Brown a heavy dose of epithets, beginning with him doing something to one of his parents. When I denied having done so, Leslie turned heel and left me with, “You didn’t, Bill. I did.”

Now I had two problems on my plate. Defend myself and not rat out Leslie. I thought the latter was a zero sum game, since Leslie simply would deny the accusation. I must have put up a stout defense because the manager heard it and told me to go back to my post. I don’t think my shift supervisor was happy with that outcome. I’m convinced she thought I lied to save my job. For whatever reason, I never saw Leslie again.

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At Present From the inside and outside, much has changed in flying today. Gone are those paper tickets required for boarding, and everyone is glad to see them go. When a ticket was written, and I mean literally written by an agent, they became legal tender and were refundable in cash. More than one travel agency back then was robbed of those precious booklets and on the hook for that money. However, truth be told, cyber theft has been reported nowadays by some travel agents, doubtless a harder crime to trace and prosecute. Furthermore, it must have been a daunting task for the airline to store and process so much 7x3 paper.

All ticketing today is done online. Airlines and travel agents still book flights for a few passengers who prefer that method, but their number has dwindled and most of their business now is frequent flyer redemption or packaged tours—airfare, hotel, rental car, etc.

What changed in me was the conviction that ultimately this was a dead-end job, and I could do better doing something else. I left the “friendly skies” and hitched my fortune to a more earthbound transportation mode—“the people’s car.”

Terrie Jacks, “Picnic Tables”

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The Wakefulness of Now This: A Book Review Ben Moeller-Gaa Robert Epstein, ed. Now This: Contemporary Poems of Beginnings, Renewals, and Firsts.

Moscow, ID: Canon Press, 2011. 120 pages, $11.20 Now This: Contemporary Poems of Beginnings, Renewals, and Firsts is a new anthology edited by poet and psychologist Robert Epstein that explores and showcases haiku, haiga, senryu, and tanka that invoke the themes of beginnings, renewals, and firsts. The collection consists of a few hundred poems from the best of today’s contemporary writers working in the English Language. This helps to underscore the theme of “now” and to remind the reader that you don't always need to look to the past to find meaningful insight. Through this collection, Epstein hopes to engage the reader, challenging them to “take a few moments with each poem—lingering over it a while before moving on.”

Should one take him up on his challenge, they will be rewarded. Epstein did a fantastic job with this anthology. I applaud his decision to only use contemporary writers. Often times, anthologies are used as collections of the historical process of work, showing how a form or genre evolves over time.

Other times anthologies are focused on the best of the best of a particular year. Still other anthologies focus on a particular editor’s view of what a genre is all about. And while these types of anthologies are important and notable and highly recommended for any writers working within the medium or wishing to study the medium, they are primarily geared towards writers and those interested in the form. What Epstein is doing here is something different. He is using this writing as a sort of meditative essay with the goal of reaching beyond writers to a broader audience, an audience of those looking for meaning in our frantic world.

This is dangerous territory for an anthology. It isn’t surprising that Epstein went with self publishing Wasteland Press to put this out into the world. Not many publishing houses would take a risk on such a project. Their loss is our gain. Here are just a few of the many wonderful poems in this book that take the reader into the present moment, to enter a state Epstein calls “wakefulness” and enter “into the present moment where all living occurs.” pan-fried trout I learn something new about my father ~ Dave Baldwin fist telescope viewing child's mouth and the moon both O ~ John J. Dunphy gas bubble I write “first smile” in the baby book ~ Terri French

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winter coals breathing some life into them ~ Jim Kacian on the wrong platform a new train of thought ~ Carla Sari As good as this anthology is, it is not without its flaws. The flaws here, however, are more pet peeves, but are still worth noting. The book is laid out in alphabetical order by poet. This does two things. The first is that it makes the book predictable. The second is the consequence of this. Because the book is predictable, it doesn’t allow for the individual poems to talk to each other, nor does the book really establish a flow of its own. It becomes hindered by the alphabet instead of on theme. For a book that is a meditation on a theme, it may have been more interesting to shake things up a bit here.

That said, the book does hold together well and it does succeed in its goal of “wakefulness.” I cannot imagine anyone reading through this book, be it cover to cover or through page flipping, that doesn’t stop and smile and reflect and be moved and transfixed by the work that is collected here, and when I say anyone I do mean anyone. The poems are accessible, inviting, and provocative. This book would find itself at home anywhere, be it a waiting room, a college philosophy syllabus, or a writer’s library shelf. For this, Robert Epstein should be commended. And because of this, you should pick up a copy.

Now This: Contemporary Poems of Beginnings, Renewals, and Firsts is available at Amazon.com or www.books123.org.

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Book Reviews Abigail Rose Crain

Catherine Palmer. The Outlaw’s Bride. New York: Steeple Hill Books, 2010. 274 pages, $5.50 In 1878, self-centered Isobel Matas traveled from her home country of Spain to Lincoln County in New Mexico Territory for three reasons—to gain vengeance for her father’s murder, recover the land deed and jewels that were stolen at the time of his demise, and marry the rich Spanish-American man he chose for her. However, Isobel’s carefully laid plans are thrown off when she visits the location of her father’s death and sees another murder taking place. The murderers see her hiding in the trees, and she barely escapes. This is where Noah Buchanan enters the storyline.

Tunstall, the man who gets killed, happens to be in a cattle-driving party with Noah. Isobel notices that his murder closely matched the description of her father’s death; she storms out of the woods to confront Tunstall’s murderer, “Rattlesnake” Jim Jackson, only to be shot at herself. Noah quickly sweeps Isobel up onto his horse and rides off, inadvertently sparking in himself a flame of attraction towards her. They ride into her companions’ campsite and find his group making camp there as well.

At the campsite, Noah and Isobel relay the story back to their compatriots, and everyone—except Isobel—agrees that she needs to go into hiding until the murderer is brought to justice. They finally decide on a compromise, in which Isobel and Noah agree to be married until they both gain what they want. Isobel desires to regain her dowry of jewels and a land deed, and Noah wants to get to nearby San Patricio so he can buy a parcel of land and settle down to write stories of his experiences as a trail boss.

This way, Isobel will be protected from Jackson.

After Isobel Matas becomes Mrs. Belle Buchanan, she still persists in having her own way and placing herself and others in danger while trying to singlehandedly exact revenge for her father’s and Tunstall’s deaths. She also simultaneously manages to disobey her husband and makes him fall in love with her. For example, he tells her multiple times to stay out of the gunfights in the Lincoln County area—many of them involving Jim Jackson and his gang—yet she blatantly goes against his wishes and ends up making a lot of situations worse than they should have been. Nevertheless, he falls in love with her despite those instances.

Another aspect of Noah’s and Isobel’s story that comes between them at first is that of their faith.

While Noah’s relationship with God is strong and steadfast, Isobel’s is weak and faltering. She repeatedly turns to her own devices to gain what she wants, while Noah prays about each situation and listens to what God desires him to do. Isobel does eventually see how her own faith is weak, however, and expresses her longing for a close relationship with God. This comes about when she is shot in the shoulder by Jackson and she realizes the only thing in her life that truly matters is Noah, not revenge or anything of worldly value. She finally grasps this long after she met and (eventually) rejected the man her father had chosen for her.

After Isobel is shot, she tries to ride away and get to Noah, but Jackson catches up to her on the trail. When he attempts to kill her, instincts kick in and she manages to pull out a knife and stab him.

Afterwards, Isobel has to pause for a while to cry and collect her thoughts; revenge was not as sweet as she had first thought, and she felt extremely guilty for taking a life. She eventually retrieves her land deed packet from Jackson’s bag and rides off to find Noah in Lincoln. There she was imprisoned for killing Jackson (even though she was defending herself, the law system was outrageously corrupted by Jackson’s cohorts and they wanted her dead). However, from her jail cell she is able to hear the major gunfight going on between Noah’s group and Jackson’s posse; it causes her to realize just how much she loves Noah. After the fighting ceases, Noah rescues Isobel and they ride off to safety. After that, the

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outlaw and his bride are finally able to settle down on the land Isobel inherited and live the life God plans for them.

The Outlaw’s Bride is a quick, mostly interesting read. The theme, inspirational historical romance, is enjoyable; however, this book would probably not win any major awards when compared to other novels of equal standing. There are a few reasons for this, including the level of reader connection with the main characters, the amount of historical detail given, and the depth of character interaction portrayed.

It is very hard to connect with Isobel Matas, the main female character. She is bent on revenge for her father’s death for too long, and there is quite a sudden change when she decides to not live for vengeance any longer. Palmer, the author, makes it seem as if Isobel suddenly decides to change, yet Palmer does not lead up to it and almost springs the idea on the reader. Isobel is not very relatable, either, and her self-centeredness is slightly over the top.

The overwhelming amount of historical detail is quite a detriment to the storyline as well. It is very hard to attempt to sum up the plot when there is so much background information and historical factoids to wade through. These details also make it difficult to connect with the reality of the plot, even though most of them are factual.

The final qualm about this book is the fact that the author never explains how Isobel knows the people with whom she is traveling, and how she is so close with the woman in her group, Susan. Palmer seems to completely forget that the reader has no way of knowing who the people are or how they came to know Isobel. Because of that, this review has very little mentioning of characters other than Noah, Isobel, and “Rattlesnake” Jim Jackson; there simply is not enough information supplied to include others correctly.

This book is enjoyable because it seems to be very well-researched in order to comply with historical facts, but there is something missing. That something might be the lack of relatable traits in Isobel, or even the overabundance of historical data throughout the story. It may even be the fact that Palmer overlooked one of the most important aspects of the story, which is the background of the characters and the explanation of how they know each other. All in all, The Outlaw’s Bride is a good book if a person is looking for a quick, superficial read; however, if a person wants to read an inspiration historical romance that has great depth in every facet, this is not the book.

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On Writing Creatively

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Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as idleness.

—Thomas Carlyle Politicians should read science fiction, not westerns and detective stories.

—Arthur C. Clarke Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

—Isaac Asimov

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Working Out a Writing Process Ben Moeller-Gaa Writing is a highly personal thing. Any book or essay that you read that overlooks this is missing a huge point. All pieces written about writing reflect the writing process of the person writing it. As this is my piece on writing, and, more specifically, writing haiku, I want to state up front that this is how I go about it. My process may work for you or it may not, but in making the decision to read this, we already have something in common—writing—which means that there is a good chance that something that follows will be of interest to you.

I would like to begin by saying that I am a writer. I have always been a writer. I dictated my first book to my Mom when I was four and have been writing in one form or another ever since. I say this because I never made the choice to become a writer. It just is something that always was. I don’t believe that people simply choose to be writers. You either are or you aren’t. And if you are, at some point in your life, you will recognize this and, once discovered, letters will never leave you alone. It is a compulsion. It wakes you up in the middle of the night. It comes at you when driving your car. It just never stops.

Having said that, I would say that for the vast majority of my life I was a casual writer. I wrote whenever I was prompted by the writing gods, but not much beyond that. I’d have some productive periods and then some major dry periods and though it bothered me when I wasn’t working, I didn't have any formalized process in place that would keep me working. And having a process, a dedicated process, is what distinguishes the casual writer from the serious writer. At least, this is how I now distinguish it for myself.

One day it dawned on me that I wanted to become a serious writer. So I asked myself, how does one become a serious writer? I had no idea. I just knew I wanted to become one. I wanted to be published in journals. I wanted to have books published. I wanted to do actual poetry readings, not just open mic nights. I wanted to become a participant in the great conversation of letters and, once I posed that question to myself, I was ready to get off my duff and really figure out how to get what I wanted.

I started asking poets that I knew, serious poets, to see what they were doing that I wasn’t doing.

I must say that I am fortunate to live in a city like St. Louis that is teeming with literary talent. I had been attending different literary events around town, doing open mics and the like, and had managed to become a contributing editor to the River Styx literary journal reading poetry manuscripts, so I was lucky to have access to a few good resources to pose this question to. The answers that I got were all fairly consistent.

They were as follows: 1. Read lots of stuff all the time, not just from time to time.

2. Write and rewrite every day, or almost every day.

3. Find journals whose style matches your own and submit to them and submit often.

4. Join writing groups so that you surround yourself with writers.

5. Talk to the organizers of the literary events you go to and see if they’ll let you read.

It is a good list. And everything here is absolutely true. My college writing professors had told me the same things. The problem with this list, it turns out, wasn’t with the list itself, but with me. I had to be ready to hear these things. I had to be ready to see the truth in them and to understand what they meant, which was making a serious commitment to writing. It has to become one of the most important things of your life. Fortunately for me, I was getting there.

Back in 2008, I thought I would give this a try. I didn't buy into everything at once, mind you, so I started with steps 2 and 3. I had lots of poems, I thought, so if I really worked on getting them into shape and then found some journals to submit to, maybe I would finally get my first poems published. I even

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made a bet with friends that within a year’s time, I’d get published. I was never this forward about my goals before, but, lo and behold, putting my goals out into the world and being accountable to them worked. Within a year I did get my first two poems published. This initial success was enough to fuel me to continue down steps 2 and 3 but not yet all 5. That would come in late 2009.

What happened in 2009 was that I began to get more focused. I figured out that I was going to only submit to journals that accepted email submissions and I would not submit to contests or any other journal that wanted me to pay to submit to them. If I were going to submit often, I couldn’t afford all those reading fees and I was finding that I was much better at managing my digital life than a paper trail.

I also decided that online journals were just as fare game as those in print. And if the journal did not have a good footprint online, did not provide example poems for me to read, then I would move on to the next link in my search results list. And as I started to put together more and more criteria of places that I would like to submit to, it became easier to find what I was looking for.

In this process I came across the haiku journal The Heron’s Nest. This journal blew me away.

First, it is an online journal that came out four times a year with an annual print edition that one could buy if they wanted to. No subscription required. Second, the work was fantastic. I had dabbled in haiku in the past, but never came across so much of it written by contemporaries that were so good. This was serious writing, not jokey stuff written by people who thought stuffing anything in 5-7-5 made it a haiku.

This was the real deal. Third, they took email submissions without a reading fee or a submission form.

You simply sent 5-15 of your best haiku to one of four editors and that was that. So I dusted off some old haiku like poems of mine and sent them in to Peggy Willis Lyles, who had a nice sounding name, and I’d see what became of it. What became of it was the missing piece to push me over the edge from being a casual writer into a serious writer. That missing piece was a wake up call from the late, great Peggy Lyles.

Within days of my submission to The Heron’s Nest, I got my reply. It was a rejection letter, but one like no other I’ve received before. In it, Peggy basically said that what I submitted wasn’t haiku.

And if I wanted to write haiku, and submit haiku to a journal such as The Heron’s Nest, then I had better get serious about doing so. She then gave me a list of things to read and said, after I had read that stuff I should write new poems and she’d accept another submission from me. A year earlier, I would have had my feathers ruffled and would have scoffed and been upset with this email. But at that moment in my life, I heard this wake up call. It was just what I needed to hear. And I went and read everything she asked me to and then wrote more poems and submitted again, which lead to a bigger reading list and an offer to try again. We went through two more rounds of this before I got my first haiku published in The Heron’s Nest.

I like to tell this story and do so often. I am telling it here because it was during this period of reading and submitting that I absolutely fell in love with haiku. And once I started reading them, writing them, and submitting them, I couldn’t stop. I couldn't get enough, and still can’t. I started reading everything I could find, and then rereading and rereading and that lead to writing and writing and writing.

And that is when something clicked in my head. The real key to those five steps is finding what you love to read and what you love to write. Once you do that then it is easy to make a commitment to it.

The commitment I made to myself with haiku was to try and become a regular contributor to several journals over a five-year period. What this means is that I wanted to be in as many consecutive issues as I could so that when people picked up the latest issue of the journal, they would almost come to expect my work to be there. This kind of a goal meant that I would need to continue to read, write, and submit on a consistent schedule. I found that haiku journals do not accept simultaneous submissions, so if I wanted to submit to five different journals per quarter, and ten haiku to each journal, I would have to have fifty haiku ready to go for each period. And I’d need to keep track of what I was submitting, when I submitted it and where I submitted it. I would also need to keep track of who said yes and who said no.

All this amounts to the development of a writing process. This process is driven by goals I set myself and powered by a love for what I am writing. That love makes all the work not seem like work at all, which is the sure sign that you are onto something. And I am happy to say that it didn’t take long before things started clicking. For example, after my first publication in 2008, which was for two poems,

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I had 1 in 2009. Then, with goals in place, in 2010 I had eight poems published, in 2011 that grew to twenty, in 2012 that grew to forty-one. And in 2013 it grew to sixty-one. While I know that numbers won’t continue to grow each year (I’ll hit a peak at some point), the point here is that by me narrowing down my focus to just haiku, to having clear guidelines on where I wanted to submit, how I wanted to submit, and then committing to my work, I have been able to find success, find a consistent process to my writing, and finally become a serious writer.

And, what is also interesting, is that now that I had writing that I loved, was proud of, and had success with, it became easier to talk to those people who organize writing events. I’ve done readings all over town now, even hosted a show, met lots more wonderful poets and writers, and am part of three different writing groups. By the time this essay comes out, I will have two haiku chapbooks in print, will have been in eight anthologies, have had my work published in three languages other than English, and have been published on four continents. I have led haiku writing workshops and will have just taken part of in my first haiku panel discussion for the Haiku Society of America at their first national meeting of 2014 in Atlanta. When things come together, they really come together.

For those interested in the nuts and bolts of things, I have a dedicated haiku sketchbook that I have with me as much as possible. I write all of my haiku in it by hand. If I don’t have the sketchbook, I use the Notes app on my iPhone to write on and then transfer what’s there to my sketchbook. There is something about hand writing each poem that I find really helps me feel the weight of the words.

When writing in my sketchbook, I simply write. I write every version of the poem that comes to mind. Most of the time a haiku will go through three to five versions before it’s ready. Sometimes they come out right the first time. Sometimes they take as many as fifty drafts (no joke) to get right. I also find that I will write seven or eight different haiku before I hit on a good one. It’s important to not think each poem you write is great, nor should you keep working on a single poem until it is great. It’s important to keep writing new work. Those that aren’t quite right but are destined for greatness will hang around and you will rework them again and again, but I never let them prevent me from moving on to the next poem.

I have found that writing haiku has unchained me from the desk. I now am mobile. I can sit and write anywhere, but often find myself in my reading chair by a window over looking the back yard, or in the kitchen where I can see out the back deck to the yard, or in the hammock when weather permits.

When I write I often will begin by reading the most recent issue of one of several journals that I like or rereading an anthology. Reading helps quiet my mind and get me focused on the right things. I also find plenty of prompts there. Reading and writing are completely intertwined for me. And whenever I write, I always note the date, time and location in my sketchbook. It helps me keep track of when the poems were written which is useful when figuring out what poems to submit when, and I also like having a record of the time of day and the spot I did the writing in. There is no real reason behind that, I just think it’s fun.

When I do submit, I have an excel spreadsheet that is tabbed by the year. In each tab I have columns for the journal name, reading period, the editors contact name and email address or submission form web address, the number of poems they accept per submission, a place to note what poems I submitted, the date submitted, the date I received my response, a field for the Yes or No, and, if Yes, a space for what poems were accepted. If a submission is successful I will color that row green. If it was rejected I color that row pink. This gives me a quick visual of how good or bad I’m doing for the year.

I also find that I do a lot of editing prior to submitting work. There is something about putting poems on a page that causes me to rethink things and tweak them. I will hand write any revisions into my sketchbook so I have them there. I also have a text file of each submission I make that is dated so that I can refer back to them. Once something is published, I go back to that file and bold the poems that were accepted. I also add them to another document that contains all my published work along with the journal name, issue number and year of publication. I make similar updates to the Poems page on my web site, www.benmoellergaa.com, as well as to my LinkedIn page. Since haiku are so short, I usually tweet my publications on Twitter, which I have linked up to my Facebook page. I also love to tweet other haiku that I like from journals or books I’m reading. And there is a wonderful haiku community that is quite active on Twitter that I follow and am active in.

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As you can see, my process has a lot of busy work to it. But I enjoy all of it and am constantly looking for new outlets for my work and new ways to share it and find more to read. I also can’t break things down much further than this. One may wonder just how I know when a haiku is complete and ready for submission. I don’t have a good answer to that other than to say that I stop when the haiku feels like it can’t be broken down anymore. It is smooth and no longer has jagged edges. And even then, the haiku may get rejected a few times before I see the hole in it. But these things are more intuitive, really, than anything else. And this is why it is ever so important to keep reading work and to be in writing groups and share work. There are so many ways at getting at the same thing. And seeing how others did it is or getting feedback on my own work is extremely helpful in figuring out how I do it. This is that conversation of letters I mentioned earlier. Writers talk to one another through their work. And the work I am reading today will help me write more tomorrow, which, if it makes it into print, will help another writer figure out their own piece down the road. And so the cycle goes.

And that is my process and how I came about it. This is how I became a serious writer. How it happens for you is your own story. But what I can promise is that when you are ready to make that next step, jump in, keep at it, and don’t look back until you’re asked to write an essay like this of your own one day.

Terrie Jacks, “Eyes”

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Haiku Talk through Kenneth C. Leibman’s Haiku John Zheng When Kenneth C. Leibman was the editor of Frogpond, he exchanged emails with me a few times. One thing we talked about was the haiku syllables. I remember saying that a haiku could be a 3-53, not 5-7-5, pattern if kanji, not syllables, in a Japanese haiku are counted. I said so because I heard so in the early 1980s in a faculty workshop given by my department head, a professor of Japanese and translator of Basho. Whether that was right or wrong, I was honestly unsure of. Nevertheless, I mentioned this anecdote as a note of friendly discussion about haiku with Kenneth.

I would like to continue my talk about haiku through a brief discussion of Leibman’s eco-haiku and ekphrastic or found haiku, with my translation in Chinese and in phonetic alphabets. Read this haiku of his: our argument stops. . . the sandhill cranes are returning 我們不爭了. . . . . . 沙丘鶴群 正在飛回

wo men bu zheng le sha qiu he qun zheng zai fei hui

This haiku has a contemporary, ecopoetical theme that expresses environmental concerns. Are the people in argument ecologists or birdwatchers? Do they argue about environmental impact on sandhill cranes or regret missing the chance to watch the birds? Their argument stops, anyhow, as they see the birds returning, which seems to indicate hope to both the natural and the human world. People should remember well the British Petroleum oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010. When it happened, numerous poets wrote poems to express their concerns over the disaster caused by the spill. Among them, Maya Pindyck, a poet from Brooklyn, New York, wrote this haiku: Spewing under earth, man’s mistake kills birds, fish, crabs— not other; our own and says in her statement on the Poetry for Living Water website: My response to the oil spill has been shaped by journalistic photographs: tarred birds, gray waters—death, everywhere. I do not know how to write about what I am seeing through the lens of other people: not others at all: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers: all connected by water. The haiku form called to me in its attention to nature, its sparseness and honoring of the poet’s first impression.

What have we done? What are we doing?

Both Leibman’s and Pindyck’s haiku show that haiku writing can be more than nature or pastoral writing; it can be more significant if a haiku has a focus on the environment that surrounds us and ecological changes that may cause disasters to both nature and human beings.

Read this good senryu by Leibman:

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even after Christmas still wearing the ratty slippers 即便聖誕後 仍穿著 那雙破拖鞋

ji bian sheng dan hou ren chuan zhe na shuang po tuo xie

This poem reminds me of a line of a Chinese poem titled “Self-Deprecation,” `a qilu (an eight-line poem with seven characters to each line and a strict tonal and rhyme pattern) by Lu Xun (1881-1936), the most influential modern Chinese writer: 破帽遮顏過鬧市 po mao zhe yan guo nao shi A word-for-word rendering is “shabby hat cover face walk busy street,” which can be translated into “his face half-covered by a ratty hat, he walks through a busy street.” Both Leibman’s senryu and Lu Xun’s poetic line have a self-deprecating humor. People may wear their clean or new holiday clothes for Christmas, but the persona in the senryu wears the ratty slippers during and after the holiday, thus presenting an image imbued with a self-deprecating humor or an irony of the persona himself and the community that sees, but pays no attention to, the poor. The persona should be self-conscious of his wearing and of how others look at him, but he seems not to care at all about how he looks or is looked at in the public if his life does not help him for a better change. Lu Xun, a master of irony, used his selfdeprecating humor to satirize the Chinese society of his time, a society he did not want to see or face, so he created a persona walking through the busy street with a ratty hat on, an image that separates him from the dark society.

Read another senryu by Kenneth: in front of the burned-out restaurant REAL PIT BARBECUE 燒毀的 餐廳前 真正窑烧烤

shao hui de can ting qian zhen zheng yao shao kao

The humor of this found or ekphrastic senryu is that the restaurant named Real Pit Barbecue is burned out—as if becoming a real barbecue pit—and its name of Real Pit in front of the burned-out restaurant immediately brings out the irony.

Years ago, driving east to Starkville, Mississippi, I came upon a burned-out restaurant on the roadside of Highway 182 (see picture below). Its roof was gone although its stone wall survived the fire.

I stopped to take a snapshot of the burned restaurant covered with kudzu vines and surrounded by withered weeds. I found its name in giant uppercased letters, SMOKEHOUSE, which looked catchy and ironic with a red sunset sinking behind it. Here’s my ekphrastic haiku: fall sunset behind SMOKEHOUSE— shimmering embers

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Now let me conclude by returning to the translation of Leibman’s “our argument stops” haiku. I think the translation can be more concise with fewer words if a more poetic style is used, as in: our argument stops. . . the sandhill cranes are returning 爭吵休. . . . . . 沙丘鶴群 正飛回

zheng chao xiu sha qiu he qun zheng fei hui

In comparison with the translation of this haiku at the beginning of this essay, one can notice that the second translation has only ten characters or kanji. The word “our” is dropped to make the poem terse in its Chinese version, and the use of only ten Chinese words matches the requirement of terseness in traditional Japanese haiku. Haiku is minimal, but it’s good to use this minimal form to present something more significant to human beings, and I feel writing haiku about environment can be a good choice.

Work Cited Pindyck, Maya. “Spewing under earth.” 18 June 2010. Web. 3 Aug. 2012. <http://poetsgulf coast.wordpress.com/2010/06/18/three-haiku-by-maya-pindyck/>

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On Cultivating a Creative Life Jane Beal How do we cultivate a creative life? Artists need to ask themselves this question. Art is the flower of a sacred seed; it is the fruit of effort made in the garden to dig and dung, to water and prune, to weed and wait.

Sometimes art comes forth beautifully and easily, like a miracle of divine inspiration, and other times it comes forth with pain, like a miracle of childbirth. As mothers and fathers, we often hold the artwork in our hands with awe and adoration. We participated in making it, in creating it, and it bears our image. Is there danger here? Yes, because we are not supposed to give our love to images, but to God. Sometimes, though, we hate or reject the things we have made because they fall short of the ideal we had in mind for them. This is immaturity. Everything we make has value because it is an expression of our innate creativity, which is a gift from God, and as we learn to express it, we grow. So, I believe balance is called for in our attitude toward things we create. Fortunately, God chooses us, whom he has made, and does not reject his lovers. We should seek to imitate him.

For just as we are made imago Dei, in the image of our Creator-God, so the things we make are made in the image we had in mind. We are creatures, created by God, and we are creative like he is. The natural world is full of his glory, and the man-made world of art is full of our creative spirit.

The Platonic world of ideal forms has come down from heaven to be born into our life. It grows within us, influenced by spiritual Powers of which we are only sometimes barely aware, and comes to fruition in our gardens: the gardens of our minds (where the Powers dwell) and the gardens of our hands (or whatever parts of our bodies contribute to the creation of the work of art, for singers use their voices, and I know artists crippled in their hands who paint with the brush in their mouths) and the gardens of our world. In our world, our artwork finds a home.

As for the Powers, they are, to my mind, three: the Spirit of God, our own spirit, and spirits of darkness. All of these can inspire artists. As for myself, I seek spiritual foundations in Christ, for it was by his Wisdom and his Word that all things were made in the beginning.

Part I: Spiritual Foundations For me, Jesus (whose name means salvation) is a cornerstone of my creative life. The Scripture says, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone” (Psalm 118:22). Jesus is the cornerstone who holds my spiritual foundation in place, and the whole house of my creativity is built on it.

Cultivating a creative life, for me, has meant more than making Jesus the Cornerstone of my spiritual and creative house. It has meant opening the doors to the home of my heart to allow the redemptive process of God at work in me and through me. The art that has come is the fruit of the Lord’s cultivation. I have made it my aim to cooperate actively with the Gardener. For I am his artwork, and my life is his garden.

Three spiritual disciplines have aided me in opening my life to the Gardener: listening prayer, lectio divina, and spiritual direction. Etymologically, the word “prayer” in English means “asking” and the word suggests that I am speaking to God when I pray. Therefore, it is relevant to speak here of listening prayer, prayer in which I am asking or have asked, but also prayer in which I purposely incorporate a time of waiting and actively listening to the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Jesus, to speak to me: to incarnate his living Word within me in the garden of my psyche, my mind, my spirit.

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His Word comes to me in many ways, but especially through the Bible, which I read with care.

Sometimes I read in a hurry, skimming along, but this is not my favorite way to read. Yes, it reminds me of God’s love and God’s truth, but there is more for me, and lectio divina can help to reveal it.

Lectio divina, or divine reading, is a slow, meditative reading that is meant to do much more than give us information. It can be practiced in six steps: silentio (silence), lectio (reading), mediatio (meditation), oratio (prayer), contemplatio (contemplation), and incarnatio (incarnation). Before beginning to read a short biblical passage, we can take time to still ourselves and be silent, outwardly and inwardly. After a period of silence, we can read the passage silently or aloud, and then begin our meditation on its meaning. At this stage of our reading, we will primarily be concerned with the literal and historical meanings of the passage. After reading, we can “pray the scripture.” If we have read Jesus saying, “when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth” (John 16:13), we could pray, “Come, Spirit of truth,” and “guide us into all truth.” In addition to praying the scripture itself, we could pray a prayer inspired by the scripture passage we have just read. Then we come to contemplation.

In the contemplative stage of the lectio divina, we can do two things: re-read the passage, aloud or silently, with our imaginations and then contemplate the deeper levels of meaning in the passage. To re-read with our imaginations means that we try to enter the story being told. We bring all of our senses to the reading. If God is speaking to Moses on Mount Sinai and giving him the Ten Commandments, we try to imagine what that would have been like. If Jesus is speaking to the disciples at the Last Supper and telling them about the coming of the Counselor, the Spirit of truth, we try to imagine what that would have been like. What do we see, hear, smell, taste, feel? This imaginative reading prepares us to contemplate the meanings or senses of the scripture passage.

There are four commonly recognized senses of scripture in church tradition. The four senses of scripture are the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the anagogical.

1. When we read the text literally, we ask: What does this mean literally and historically?

What do the words themselves mean denotatively and connotatively?

2. When we read allegorically, we ask: What does this mean spiritually? How might I understand this passage in the light of or in connection to other scripture passages (a typological connection)? Am I reminded of any other Bible reading I have done in the past?

3. When we read morally, we ask: What is the moral message or implication of this passage? How might it apply in my own life?

4. When we read anagogically, we ask: What does this passage reveal about things that are to come—about the future of my life, the life of the church, the life of Christ’s kingdom on earth, and eternal life in heaven with God? Not every passage of scripture repays reading at these four levels equally. Some passages are best and primarily understood literally, others allegorically. Yet if our understanding is illuminated by the Holy Spirit, we will always derive something of great spiritual worth and value from the contemplative stage of the lectio divina.

So the contemplative stage of the lectio divina leads naturally to the incarnational stage. In incarnation, we resolve to “put flesh on” our understanding, to make it real, to be someone or do something as a result of what we have read. Incarnation is fairly straightforward when Jesus says, “Love your enemies.” We know that is what we need to do even if it is difficult to do it.

The teachings of Jesus recorded in the Bible encourage all of his faithful followers, including me—including all artists—to pray together and not to forsake the gathering of ourselves together (Hebrews 10:25). This reminds me to seek spiritual direction for my spiritual and artistic difficulties (which are often closely related in my life). Spiritual direction provides the opportunity to meet with a

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fellow Christ-follower and pray with that person, incorporating listening prayer into the process, so that God’s own spirit, the Spirit of truth, can reveal what needs to be known simply because we’re waiting on him and asking him to illuminate our darkness.

In addition to these three spiritual disciplines, I have found three spiritual practices help me to foster emotional well-being and cultivate a creative life. Foremost among these is keeping the Sabbath. I keep this as a sacred time from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, and I reserve it for rest. I try to do no work on this day. By keeping the Sabbath, I value time. I recognize that life is not all about work. I am not a slave. I am a free human being, an artist free because Christ has set me free. God is the Creator, and he does not need me to work all the time! I fulfill his purpose for my life by resting on the Sabbath. “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27). I am often greatly inspired and have tremendous energy to do creative work after a single day of rest.

In addition to keeping the Sabbath, I am careful to self-monitor and to initiate self-care when needed. Like many artists, and most human beings, I have experienced intense suffering and personal loss over the course of my life. The emotional effects of those experiences resonate in my soul even now.

Yes, the Lord has healed me, and he is redeeming me; I recognize his ongoing work in my life. I also know from experience that new sorrow reminds me of old sorrow, and so sorrow can be compounded in daily life. Therefore it is necessary to be self-aware. When something painful happens, it is important to stop, to seek spiritual direction, to listen to God’s voice. This is a way to value myself.

God gave me my life and made me the steward of it. It is my Christian responsibility to God, to myself, to my family, to the church, and to the world to take care of myself. Good stewardship means valuing myself enough to take good care of myself. Over the years, I have recognized that my emotional life is a gift from God and reflects the imago Dei. God Himself is emotional: he feels sorrow and anger and joy and he rejoices over us with singing (Zephaniah 3:17), too. The ability to be emotional is an expression of wholeness.

Finally, I want to savor the sweetness of this life. God has so many blessings for me and for everyone. He gave them to us so that we could enjoy them. Life is not all about suffering. Through the love of Christ, and the power of the Holy Spirit, we overcome the difficulties of this life, but life is not all about pain and loss. It is also about startling beauty and unexpected joy.

By enjoying life, I value life. God meant for life to be enjoyed. Enjoyment is his blessing. As the Psalmist says, there are eternal pleasures at his right hand! (Psalm 16:11)

Part II: Creative Practices It must first be admitted that the cultivation of the creative life often takes place in solitude, just by being alone with God. The creative life is not a list of things to do; it is a way of being. But even when I am in solitude, I am together with God, which is a spiritual but also relational reality.

I am most often alone, but together with God, in the beauty of the natural world. Like the Bible, Nature is God’s Book. In it, I read of his nature and his Edenic pleasure for my nature.

Whether I am alone or with others, I can also enjoy the creations of humanity in the artistic world—and I do. How I do enjoy them!

But I know that it is not good for a man to be alone. I am very thankful that God has provided a community context in friendships, families, and the church for artists to survive and thrive. Community helps us to cultivate the creative life.

There are ten creative practices that have helped me to cultivate a creative life in the worlds of nature, art, and community. In the natural world, three of these are walking, bird-watching, and caring for creation. In the artistic world, three more are contemplating visual art work, listening to music, and reading for inspiration, each of which can be done alone or in the company of others. In community, still three more are gathering together with other artists, enjoying creative performances, and witnessing God’s glory in the world. Finally, the tenth creative practice restores me to myself in obedience to the

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God’s commands: remembering. For many times throughout Scripture the Lord commands his people to remember.

Nature: Walking, Bird-watching, and Caring for Creation When Adam and Eve were in Eden, they heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day. Abraham walked with God. Moses wandered in the wilderness with the Israelites for forty years. Jesus was a peripatetic rabbi. I also walk.

Surely the metaphor of life as a journey, as a pilgrimage, and the powerful insight that we walk by faith, and not by sight, is rooted in our bodily mechanics: God designed us to walk. When I walk in the natural world that the Creator made, when I open all of my senses to perceive with wonder the beauty of creation, then I am cultivating the creative life. I find that the movement allows psychological integration and imaginative synthesis. But it does more, and is more, even than that.

I walk every day, usually in the morning, and often, for the past six years, with my little dog, Joyful. (Like Emily Dickinson, “I started early – took my dog …”) But I have been walking in nature since I was a child. I used to explore the hills of Martinez, California, that overlook the Carquinez Straits, visiting horses, passing through oak tree groves, and going over the splendid hills of yellow grass. This became the landscape of my inner world and of my dreams forever after, my literal dreams, that I dream in the night.

When I moved from that place, I was fortunate to find myself near Hidden Valley Park, and I took pencil and paper with me when I wandered, and I mapped it out. I named the bridge that led from the carefully landscaped playground to the dirt walking paths, the little streams and hillocks and individual stands of trees. I climbed into those trees and contemplated my kingdom. For I had an inner sense that God had made it all for me.

When I left California for the first time, for a prolonged period of time, on my own, it was to spend the summer studying at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. I used to walk around the two lakes on campus. I would pray, and I would listen to God, and I would sing. For the first time, I became aware that God is not only my father, but my bridegroom, the lover of my soul. This realization came to me when I was walking with him.

Even recently, just this past fall, I took a trip to Ashland, Oregon with my parents and my sister to see a Shakespeare play one evening. In the morning, we might have gotten on the road and come straight home, but we decided to take a walk in Lithia Park. It was a crisp, autumn morning, and the trees were dressed in rich reds and yellows and oranges. It was so beautiful.

What came from this walk? I took many photographs, and later I made a photo essay that interweaves the images with poetry. One of the pictures became a profile picture and another a cover photo on Facebook. A friend of mine commented that she downloaded the cover photo in order to turn it into a poster for her wall. Meanwhile, a few weeks later, my sister took photos from the trip and featured them in our family’s Christmas card. We had been inspired by walking in nature, so we shared what we saw through art that we created, and other people’s hearts were touched by the beauty of God’s natural world, too.

It’s simple: we walked. We cultivated the creative life. We decided to stay a little longer in Ashland in the morning instead of driving straight home. We made room in our busy lives for beauty.

For me, walking often includes bird-watching. Jesus said, “Do not worry about your life …

Consider the birds of the air!” (Matthew 6:25, 26). I remember how my friend, a wise woman named Linda Richardson, once preached from the pulpit of our Anglican church in Chicagoland, Illinois (where I lived for seven years) that the Lord commands us to bird-watch! I loved this idea. It made particular sense to me in a season of sorrow and anxiety.

Though I suppose I had done it all my life without thinking about it, I began to avidly watch birds in the spring of 2009 and to record what I saw in poems. These poems became my Birdwatcher Trilogy: The Bird-watcher’s Diary Entries, Wild Birdsong, and Jazz Birding. They led to co-creation with other

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artists, including my mother, who illustrated an e-chapbook of twelve of these poems as well as the second edition of first poetry collection; Tom Schull, whose photographs brighten the third book; and my brother Andrew, a musician, who has worked with me to make a CD of music, “The Jazz Bird,” based on the poems from this trilogy. I was amazed at how my brother composed and matched the music to the words to evoke the emotions I had felt.

So many people have now heard these songs as we have released them that I cannot count their number. (There is even a midwife friend of mine in Uganda who has all the songs on her iPod and listens to them when she is on break from catching babies at a birth center in Acholiland!) This sharing of creative expression was made possible by simply walking, and bird-watching every day. By cultivating the creative life in this way, I was inspired to create, and others co-created with me.

I have seen such beautiful birds in nature, and I cannot forget them: birds at the corner pond near my home in Wheaton—a mourning dove, a male and female sparrow, a brown-headed cowbird, a male and female red-winged blackbird, a red-breasted robin—all in a single, naked tree; eagles diving into a river for fish below the frozen waterfalls downstate in Illinois in winter, a bird dashing through the exposed roots of a tree in Costa Rica as our bus rumbled past on a dirt road, a Pin-Tailed Whydah bird swimming in the air over the cassava plantings in Acholiland, a kingfisher hovering over the Nile, a Great White Egret wading in the water in California … Consider the birds of the air.

Beyond just watching, God calls us to care for his creation. When we do, I believe we are fulfilling our Edenic purpose. Over the years, I have greatly enjoyed tending an ivy plant I named Fidelité (and my co-worker’s wife named Brunhilda!), and the way she flourished became a metaphor for my life in many ways. God showed me the importance of watering and sunlight, of growth and pots we outgrow, the importance of pruning, even when it is painful, and how new life can find its way into the soil beside us. Even a plant can be prophetic, revealing the truth about the past, present or future, and the reward of caring for growing things is very real.

I enjoy living each day in harmony with my beloved miniature “dash-hound,” as my one of my pastors, Bill Richardson, who is from the South, calls her. She, too, teaches me through her delight in small things, her eagerness, her loyalty and love. I am so glad that the Lord has made me her caretaker.

Many times, I have enjoyed watching my mother and her husband working in their backyard garden. My mother delights in hummingbirds. She has made her garden a special place for them. Like her, my Omi has an aviary in her backyard full of singing canaries. Once, one was sick, and her daughter, my tante Monique, took that one home, away from the others, to nurse her back to health. Why do actions like that matter? God made the natural world, and he made us stewards of it, and when we care for creation, we fulfill one of the great purposes of our human lives as God intended them to be before the Fall. There is power and freedom in that fulfillment; there is unexpected but very deep joy. Nature renews itself; nature helps to renew us as well.

Art: Contemplating Visual Artwork, Listening to Music, and Reading for Inspiration Just as I enjoy the world that God has made, nature, I enjoy the little worlds that man has made in imitation of the Creator: art, music, and all the materials for reading. Visual art is particularly enchanting to the eye, but it can lead to deeper spiritual awareness and the cultivation of the creative life. I have found this to be so in my own experience.

In the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance, in the Netherlands, before there was moveable type, there was the early printed block-book, and one of these was the Biblia pauperum (“The Bible of the Poor,” designed for the “poor in spirit,” contemplative Christians who had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience). With forty pages, each designed as a triptych with a central panel from the life of Christ and two side panels with images from the Old Testament foreshadowing that moment in Christ’s life, reader-viewers could look on images of the Lord and contemplate, perhaps on each day of Lent, what his life meant in relation to their own. With its quotations from scripture in Latin, written in scrollwork wrapped around the images, the pages of this book have inspired me in my own devotional life as well.

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I was first drawn to write about this book in an academic way, noting its representations of the Bride of Christ in one conference paper and its depictions of Moses in another conference paper that became a book chapter in a collection I edited, Illuminating Moses: A History of Reception from Exodus to the Renaissance. But the synthesizing imagination went to work, and I found myself wanting to make something like the Biblia pauperum, a book of images with scriptures intended for contemplation that would lead the reader-viewer into a deeper awareness of God. Since I was sixteen or seventeen years old, when I first took an art class offered by Solano Community College in the Vallejo library downtown, I have enjoyed making art collages. I have made dozens and dozens of them. In 2009, I photographed several of these collages in order to make and sell cards for a fundraiser my church was having for the homeless. I also decided to make Sacred Art, a privately printed, full-color book, which contains photographs of these collages with scriptures so that my friends and family could see them—and perhaps see the light of God shining through them like stainedglass windows.

So many times I have been inspired by the artwork that artists have made. At the Chicago Institute of Art, for example, there are many beautiful Impressionist paintings, including Monet’s haystacks: a series of oil paintings of haystacks in different lights. I remember once standing with my Aunt Maggie in front of them and how she said something to the effect that the paintings are always changing for her; they are never the same. Many times, Christians think of how we read the Bible, the same passages, but they seem different to us at different seasons in our lives. The book has not changed, but we have. In the same way, Monet’s haystacks do not change, but we do. We look at them, but we see something new.

Not everyone is inspired in the same way. I went to the Denver Art Museum with a friend, and she absolutely loves the strange sculptures of wolves painted red in one of the permanent exhibits. They are her favorite part of the museum. I do not feel the same way that she does about those wolves, but it goes to show me that a wide variety of artwork has value for many different kinds of art-lovers. The creative life is cultivated in different ways for different people.

Sometimes I have been tempted to dismiss mass-produced art that is extraordinarily popular, kitschy, or aggressively mass-marketed for the purpose of making money (usually not for the artist, but for the gift-shop, the advertiser, or another pop-culture equivalent). What, after all, is the work of art in the age of mechanical (and now digital) reproduction? This is a philosophical question. I am more concerned with whether art that falls into these categories, perhaps through no fault of the artist, can still inspire and help to cultivate the creative life. I think the answer is yes.

Just recently, I have been teaching Humanities 101 Creative Arts for Colorado Christian University (online). Francis Schaeffer’s book, Art and the Bible, provides a framework for our understanding of the way God not only permits us to create art, but commands us to do so. Schaeffer presents a theology of art, a Christian defense of it, which I encourage anyone with doubts about the connection between art and faith to read.

But in any case, in the class, two of my students presented PowerPoint slideshows to our class based on the work of artists that are quite popular: Thomas Kinkade, whose work appears in one out of twenty American homes, and Megan Aroon Duncanson, whose work is reproduced and marketed in a way that allows her, so far as I can tell, to make a living as an artist. I haven’t always liked Kinkade’s work, and I don’t know why—perhaps because it is so idealized. But from my student’s presentation, I learned more about him: his struggles with alcoholism, for example, and his experiments with working in other styles under another name, Girrard. My student’s presentation changed my views of him as an artist. As for MADArt, as Duncanson calls her work, I love her style! Her paintings are infused with dark, rich color that draws me. It came to my student’s attention because it is mass-produced and so widely distributed, and so it came to my attention when I might not otherwise have ever seen it.

Like visual art, music inspires me and millions of people the world over. Listening is a key part of cultivating the creative life. I remember an extraordinary organ concert in a church in Alexandria, Virginia when I had the sense that the angels were flying above musician as she played the music of Bach. I remember sitting in the chapel of Wheaton College at Christmastime listening to the combined

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choirs singing “Silent Night” as they surrounded the audience with their flickering candles. I remember extraordinary percussion concerts, conducted by director Kathleen Kastner, who had taken a sabbatical to study African music in African countries. I loved that music! I can’t say that I’ve ever written a poem about any of those experiences, but they are there, still in my memory, still waiting for the right moment to be expressed creatively in a work of art that responds to music. So much of my work does. So much of everyone’s does. It’s part of the reason people so often sing when they work and why mothers sing to their babies.

Like art and music, reading can help us to cultivate the creative life. Just recently, I have been reading (or re-reading) the poetry of Louise Glück, Pablo Neruda, Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, Pearl (an exquisitely beautiful, Middle English poem), and Edna St. Vincent Millay; the epic fantasy of J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (“All that glitters is not gold … not all who wander are lost!”); and a biography by Jay Parini, Jesus: The Human Face of God. As I read Parini’s book, I was reminded of a sequel to Illuminating Moses that I want to edit: Illuminating Jesus: A History of Reception from the Gospels to the Renaissance. Yes, this would be an academic book, but the disciplines of literary criticism, history, and theology are creative, too. The perceived divide between “critical” and “creative” is a false one, though there is no denying that the genres are different.

Sometimes I feel that the ideas that come from God come knocking more than once. I have lately begun to feel that if I do not open the door, if I ignore an idea that I sense is coming from the Lord, I am not inviting him into my heart to dine with me.

Sometimes it takes years for an idea to come to fruition. Sometimes it takes trial and error, and unexpected things are made, not what I intended, but valuable nonetheless. Yet if the idea is true, it keeps being set down on my list of things I want to write, to create. Even if years pass (and they do!), the idea is still there, and I am still planning to create it in this life. Some ideas take ten years for me to breathe life into them, fully. The Lord speaks, and it comes into being instantly! For me, things take much longer.

But that is right. That helps me to grow as an artist in relation to the Artist.

I have learned to pay attention to certain ideas because not all of them are persistent. Music can be especially fleeting. When I hear a melody in my mind, I am eager to sing it into a recording device so that I can remember it rather than losing it. I have been sad more than once when I have heard a song in a dream, awakened to sing it, and then gone about my day, only to forget it. I have learned to pay attention.

Community: Gathering Together, Enjoying Performances, and Witnessing Glory It is possible to cultivate the creative life alone, with God, but it is also good to cultivate it with others. I have found this to be true in my own experience, especially with RezArtists and later Epiphany Artists, groups I have been a part of in Chicago and Denver. These groups celebrated the relationship between art and faith, and their membership was not limited to artists working in a single genre (like a writers’ group or a painters’ group), but instead brought together artists working in a variety of fields.

We would have “create together” nights, when artists went off into separate corners to make something and then came back together to share the beginnings of the new artwork: a song, a poem, a drawing, a watercolor, a clay sculpture. (Sometimes we would read something from the Bible to inspire us—like the Song of Songs on Valentine’s Day.) We would have “artist on the couch” nights, when one artist, blocked from creating or at a cross-roads in a project, would talk about why he or she felt that way and get support. We would challenge one another to experiment in new genres. This experimentation could make us feel incredibly insecure! It takes courage to create. So in our gatherings, we would focus on appreciating one another’s creativity rather than criticizing it in order to help the artist to improve it.

Can art be a skill that is continually improved? Of course. But thousands of artists have been slain in spirit by one cruel word, mostly when they were children but also when they were full-grown adults, and almost nothing creative has come of that. You cannot create if you are dead.

At Church of the Savior, which I attended for many years while living in Wheaton, we used to say our purpose as a body of believers was “journeying together—loving God, loving others, loving life.”

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I loved this purpose, and it made so much sense to me, on so many levels, not only as a woman of faith but as an artist of faith. I can say truly that I like to journey with other artists. On our journey, we challenge one another to grow by loving one another and valuing one another’s expressions of creativity—and let me say, there is a very wide range of expressions out there indeed. These can be enjoyed.

Enjoying creative performances can help cultivate the creative life, too. By creative performances, I do not just mean concerts and plays, but improvisational comedy and football games, too.

Improv makes me laugh! Football gets me all riled up. It’s more interesting than chess: equally complicated, but where chess has pieces, football has players, and the psychology of it all can determine the outcome of the game. The competition is real! Something is created on the field between all of those people playing and the audience watching: a game. I enjoy it. I admit that I’ve written a poem or two about improvisational comedians (bless you, wheatonIMPROV), and the extraordinary stories told in plays (bless you, Arena Theatre), and yes, my experiences at football games (let the Thunder roll!). But when I was there, enjoying those creative performances in community, I was in the moment; I wasn’t there with the intention of writing poetry later. But nevertheless, I was cultivating the creative life.

I was paying attention. Later, when I remembered my experiences, I would realize why the sensory details mattered. I would find meaning. I would make meaning. I would write.

This is a privilege, but an even greater one, for me, has been serving families in childbirth as a midwife. It may seem strange to some. I must admit I don’t know many professor-poets who are also midwives. But God has so worked in my life that I have had the opportunity to do both and to be both. In this role of midwife, I have been able to witness the glory of God. When I was young, my father used to tell me that if I wanted to be a good writer, I needed to live an interesting life! (Never mind that this is, reputedly, a Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”) But I have found my father’s advice to be good. An interesting life can be very inspiring. The evil parts, of course, Christ must redeem, and I am one who believes that greater works of art come from healing than from pain. It seems to me that the only way to create when pain is present is if the creative process is a redemptive process.

This does have something to do with childbirth and being a midwife. For the laboring woman, there is pain, but there is also glory. At birth, there is the mother’s separation from the child, who was in the womb, in order for that child to be united with his mother at her breast. In childbirth, there is loss, there is gain, and there is miraculous beauty and new life. There is nothing like it! The creative process of artists has been compared to childbirth, but childbirth is far more extraordinary than any other form of human creativity. It is divinity realized in humanity. Even Christ, the God-man, was born. God himself participated in the design he made for humans to create new life and renew the face of the ground with people made in his image.

I write poems for families about their birth experiences after I have attended them. Many of the mothers have told me how much these poems mean to them. I collected some of these in a book, Epiphany: Birth Poems. That was only the beginning.

Recently, I went to Uganda to serve as a missionary midwife. Catching babies in Acholiland, in rural, northern Uganda, I experienced some of the greatest highlights of my life, and I wrote about some of these in a blog: christianmidwife.wordpress.com. I was reminded that serving others positions us to witness the glory of God. Witnessing the glory is the light and the water that cultivates the creative life.

Remembering When I was a young child, I used to be afraid that I would grow up and either experience amnesia or Alzheimer’s, maybe because I might get in a car accident, and then forget who I was. I saw a documentary about a girl who experienced this herself, and I worried. (I didn’t realize at the time how much I had already forgotten from my childhood.) I began to keep a journal when I was only nine or ten

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years old so I could remember myself. I kept that journal even though the girl from the documentary had kept a journal, too. When she read it, she said it was like reading about a stranger.

As I grew older, I realized that even if I forgot who I was, God would never forget me. He would always know who I was. He would always remember me.

Many times over the years, I have felt as if I were being urged by my family or my friends or my church to forget and to move on from any bad or painful experience. But I came to realize something critical: the most painful event in the history of the world, the crucifixion of Christ, was set by God in the center of history, to be a divine mystery for our salvation, and God commanded the church to remember Christ’s death until he comes (1 Corinthians 11:24-26). We do this through the sacrament of communion.

If we can remember Christ’s sufferings, and recognize redemption, we can remember our own.

What would the deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt mean if they forgot entirely the sufferings they endured when they were slaves? Would the power that God displayed in the plagues make any sense if they denied the oppression of Pharaoh, if they pretended that he was kind or good? But they actually did this! They said it was better in Egypt, where there was food to eat, when they found themselves in the wilderness without food and were afraid. They didn’t know that God would provide manna from heaven.

They didn’t know they were on the path to the Promised Land. What can I conclude from this?

Remembering rightly is important.

So I cultivate the creative life by remembering. I reflect through journaling, and I review my journals. I pay attention to the dreams I dream in the night and the day. I ask the Spirit to illuminate the darkness. This the Spirit of Jesus does. Together, we work through the memories of trauma, and I find that healing is where the inspiration is. I breathe in the life of Christ. I breathe out, and something new is made.

Once, a kindly couple was praying for me, prophetically. The man said something to the effect of this: as the secret life of intimacy with God grows, so too does your ability to produce creatively. I have found this to be true.

So the creative practices are good, but the spiritual foundations are better. An attitude of openness and listening is helpful. Listening prayer, lectio divina, and spiritual direction all help us to wait for illumination, when the indwelling Spirit of Jesus shines forth.

Everything, and everyone, goes back to God.

Works Cited: The Bible.

Dickinson, Emily. “I started early—took my dog,” in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Bartlby.com. Electronic archive. Accessed 8 January 2014. Available at: http://www.bartleby.com/113/2019.html.

Tolkien, J.R.R., The Lord of the Rings (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1954).

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Teaching Something Different: New Poetic Forms for the English Classroom1 John J. Han Introduction Most students in elementary and secondary English classes today at least have heard about free verse, acrostic poetry, cinquain, concrete poetry, couplets, diamante, limericks, and haiku. All of these poetic forms are useful for teaching poetic language, structures, and techniques. By learning these verse forms, students enrich their experience with poetic style, which differs from its prosaic counterpart.

While acknowledging the value of continuing to teach the forms listed above, I would like to introduce several relatively unfamiliar genres of short poetry that can be incorporated into the English classroom, especially at the secondary level. Hundreds of short poetic forms exist, many of which come from different cultural backgrounds. Students living in the twenty-first century would be able to expand their cultural horizons by learning some unfamiliar types of poetry.

This essay aims to present seven types of succinct poetry for use in English classes: Fibonacci, senryu, tanka, kyoka, cherita, than-bauk, and sijo. At Missouri Baptist University, the students in my Creative Writing I (Poetry and Fiction) course practice sixteen different poetic forms, including those seven forms, in the poetry unit. I also incorporate short poetry writing into my world literature classes and into the concurrent English classes in Missouri high schools, where I occasionally serve as a guest lecturer. The students seem to enjoy learning short poetry and have produced delightful poems. Selected short poems by students are published in Fireflies’ Light: A Chapbook of Short Poetry, for which I serve as editor at MBU. Below is each of these seven poetic types.

Fibonacci The Fibonacci poem (also called the Fib) is based on the Fibonacci numbers: 1/1/2/3/5/8/13/21/34, etc. Fibonacci poets tend to use six lines of 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, and 8 syllables or words each (or in reverse order), and most Fib poetry published today has double or triple poems arranged in various ways. A Fib can have as many syllables per line as the line’s corresponding place in the Fibonacci sequence. The only restriction is that the syllable (or word) count should follow the Fibonacci numbers. Below are my own Fib poems: Switching Channels My team suffers another blowout loss. Disgusted, I turn the channel to a better show—Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. (Spare Mule 17.2 [April 1, 2014], p. 4) Awakening Hot day today.

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An insect crawls inside my bowl.

I crush it against the bowl's wall.

The crushed insect stops moving.

Such a peaceful death— no struggles, no pleas, no tears.

(The Fib Review, Issue #12, Summer 2012) The first poem uses the pattern of 1/1/2/3/5/8 words in five respective lines. The second poem is a double Fib consisting of 1/1/2/3/5/8/8/5/3/2/1/1 syllables in ten respective lines.

The Fib Review explains the form as follows: “The subject of the Fibonacci poem has no restriction, but the difference between a good fib and a great fib is the poetic element that speaks to the reader. No longer just a fun form to write as a math student, the poets who write Fibonacci poems have replaced the ‘geek’ with the poet” (http://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/). In writing a Fib, it is important to count words or syllables correctly, to create a particular mood, and to be able to resonate strongly with the reader.

Senryu Senryu (pronounced sen-ryoo), satiric or comic haiku, is a three-line poetic form originating in eighteenth-century Japan. Traditional senryu consisted of five lines in a 5/7/5 syllable pattern, but most senryu poets today write in free style, not exceeding 17 syllables altogether. Whereas haiku focuses on the natural world, senryu deals with human nature, treating human foibles in a playful, satiric, or darkly humorous manner. Canadian haiku poet George Swede rightly calls senryu “human haiku.” Like haiku, senryu have no title, unless a senryu is a sequence of poems on a related topic. Below are my own senryu: elevator— waiting for two minutes for a two-second ride * out of boredom he sends himself a text it isn’t delivered * he is proud of the neighbor’s mansion next to his small house (Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu & Kyoka 6 [Summer 2011]) In his book How to Haiku, Bruce Ross explains the difference between haiku and senryu by using two three-liners that both begin with the phrase “Christmas eve.”

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Christmas eve… at the lot, the trees not chosen —Tom Tico

Christmas eve— the clerk cuts the tree’s price —Peggy Heinrich

The first poem is a haiku, whereas the second is a senryu. Ross notes the punctuation mark each poet places at the end of the first line: “The three dots of the ellipsis in the first haiku are setting the mood by stretching out the familiar Christmas scene. We are allowed to imagine all the things we associate with Christmas Eve. The dash in the second haiku is making a clear break. It is simply telling us when this poem took place” (35). In addition, the first poem is “really about the loneliness of the scene and the deep feeling that scene evokes in us,” whereas Heinrich’s poem simply tells a joke (Ross 36). Although the line between haiku and senryu is blurry, a haiku is multilayered enough to invite the reader to reflect on its added meaning. On the other hand, a senryu makes the reader chuckle with amusement and then move on.

Tanka Tanka is a Japanese poetic form that has existed for more than thirteen centuries. Its traditional syllable structure is 5/7/5/7/7. However, contemporary English-language tanka poets use fewer than 31 syllables, loosely following a short/long/short/long/long pattern. There is a subtle turn, often unexpected in the middle of the poem, usually after line two or three. Tanka is an aristocratic verse form that typically deals with nature and love. The form should avoid end rhyme. Punctuation and capitalization may be used in a tanka, but many tanka published today do not use them. Similar to haiku and senryu, tanka verses are not titled, unless they constitute a sequence. Below is my tanka sequence, in which I use punctuation marks and capitalization but not a title: I wander back home— the Yellow Sea to my right, green hills to my left.

Excited to see the sight, I cry, which awakens me.

Awake from a dream I hear the wind howling outside my window— the same wind that rattled the paper doors years ago.

(Shot Glass Journal: An Online Journal of Short Poetry, Issue #7, May 2012) In her essay “Teika’s Ten Tanka Techniques,” Jane Reichhold lists ten tanka techniques Fujiwara no Teika (1162-1241), a Kyoto-based poet and poetry theorist, included in his letter to a student: 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Mystery and depth Appropriate statement Elegant beauty Conviction of feeling Lofty style Visual description

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7.

8.

9.

10.

Clever treatment Novel treatment Exquisite detail Strong diction and terms. (http://www.ahapoetry.com/tanka%20techniques.html)

Indeed, courtly elegance or refinement (miyabi) characterizes traditional tanka, as illustrated by The Ise Stories (Ise monogatari), a collection of medieval romance stories and associated tanka (waka) poems.

Most important poets in the book are members of a royal family or extremely high-ranking men and women from Kyoto, the then capital of Japan. Occasionally poems by rustics are cited, not because of their rural backgrounds but because of their surprisingly urban literary taste.

Interestingly, the submission guidelines of the journal American Tanka: Poetry in the Moment state that English-language tanka should not be an imitation of traditional Japanese tanka: American Tanka seeks concise, well-crafted, five-line tanka that evoke a specific moment in time. We tend to publish unique tanka with clear, concrete images; we avoid abstractions, clichés, and overcrowded poems. No matter the syllable count, we look for poems that echo the spirit of the form while exhibiting contemporary relevance. We are NOT looking for imitations of Japanese poetry or aesthetics; we are looking for vibrant contemporary poetry that uses the tanka form to express a real or imagined moment in the author’s time and culture. We will consider all kinds of approaches toward this achievement. (http://www.americantanka.com/submit/) Teika’s advice and American Tanka’s guidelines may sound somewhat contradictory. However, clichés should be avoided in all poetry (as well as in prose), and a poem should contain something fresh in its sensibility and style. Furthermore, Rule #8 of Teika’s tanka techniques encourages the “novel treatment” of subject matter (hitofushi aru tei)—the use of “an unusual or original poetic conception.”

Understanding traditional tanka aesthetics is important,2 and the use of “clear, concrete images” is always advisable. However, it is also true that poetic forms continue to evolve, and contemporary Englishlanguage poets are free to break new ground in tanka writing.

Kyoka Kyoka (“mad poems,” “crazy poems,” or “playful verses”) were comic, humorous, or satiric tanka extremely popular in the late 1700s in Japan. In Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600-1900 (Columbia UP, 2013), Professor Haruo Shirane defines kyoka as “a parodic and popular form of the thirty-one-syllable waka [tanka], [a] form of amusement and diversion” (256). Shirane provides four examples, including the one by the poet Yomo no Akara (1749-1823). Composed at the beginning of the year, it was translated into English by Burton Watson: namayoi no reisha wo mireba daidō wo yokosujikai ni haru wa kinikeri

The season greeter, tipsy with toasts, weaves unsteadily down the avenue— lo, the New Year has come! (qtd. in Shrone 258)

Shirane adds the following note which is helpful in understanding how kyoka parodies tanka:

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Here the season greeter (reisha) began his rounds of the neighborhood in formal dress, but with each reception of celebratory wine, he becomes more tipsy. The kyōka celebrates the arrival of spring (which coincides with the arrival of the New Year under the lunar calendar), not, in the classical fashion, by referring to an aspect of nature but by capturing an aspect of contemporary social life. (258) Indeed, nature was almost an essential element of traditional tanka—it provided not only an occasion for poetry writing (both private and public) but also a tool for conveying subtle human emotions. As Shirane points out, a natural scene is replaced by a social scene in Yomo no Akara’s kyoka.

Similar to premodern tanka, traditional kyoka consists of five lines of 5/7/5/7/7 syllables.

However, contemporary English-language kyoka uses less than 31 syllables, loosely following a short/long/short/long/long pattern. Here is my own kyoka, which is based on a personal experience on an interstate highway in Indiana: The Chinese waitress tells me I must be Chinese.

I say I’m Korean.

Disappointed, she asks me if my parents are Chinese.

(Shot Glass Journal, Issue #7, May 2012) In a way, this poem is a comic parody of tanka, which tend to sound more somber, lofty, and serious.

On his website, Ben Johnson provides the following set of rules for kyoka writers: 1. The syllable structure is 5-7-5-7-7.

2. It divides in two, the 5-7-5 part is called kami-no-ku (“upper phrase”), and the 7-7 part is called shimo-no-ku (“lower phrase”).

3. There is a subtle turn, often unexpected in the middle of the poem, usually after line two or three.

4. It has a syllable count of thirty one (or fewer syllables).

5. It is humorous verse or a parody of a famous Tanka.

6. May contain internal rhyme, should avoid end rhyme.

7. Try to punctuate lightly, though some publishers prefer no punctuation. (http://bensonofjohn.co.uk/poetry/formssearch.php?searchbox=Kyoka).

Other than Rule #1, Johnson’s advice is right on the mark (similar to tanka, contemporary kyoka are usually written in free style instead of the 5/7/5/7/7 pattern). In their comicality, kyoka and senryu are highly comparable. Unlike three-line senryu, however, kyoka can tell a story more in detail. As in tanka, it is important to provide what Johnson calls a subtle turn in the middle of the poem. In the case of my kyoka above, the turn is indicated by the word “Disappointed” in line 4.

Cherita A cherita is a six-line poem that tells a story. Cherita, which means “story” or “tale” in Malay, was created by ai li, UK poet and artist.3 The form consists of a single line, a couplet, and a tercet (3 lines); it is unrhymed and does not require specific syllables per line. Below are two cherita poems composed by Chen-ou Liu, a Taiwanese Canadian poet:

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faint mist, gloomy clouds sorrow surrounds the day who can take a poem beyond the Pacific a calligraphy of geese flies against the sky (“Story Threads: Selected Cherita”) one, two, three snowflakes seeding the sky of white silence the sound of loneliness gnawing at the corner of my heart grows louder (“Story Threads: Selected Cherita”) The inventor of the cherita format, ai li, explains the form as follows: “Cherita [pronounced CHAIR-rita] is the Malay word for story or tale. A Cherita consists of a single stanza verse, followed by a two-line verse, and then finishing with a three-line verse. It can be written solo or with up to three partners. The Cherita tells a story” (“CHERITA”). Chen-ou Liu also explains, “Cherita is a narrative, untitled short verse form derived from the haiku and tanka traditions…. It can either be written solo or with up to three partners” (“Story Threads: Selected Cherita”). In its sensibilities, cherita is akin to haiku and tanka, yet it can accomplish what the two Japanese forms cannot—by using two blank space lines and by having more freedom in choosing the number of words for each line.

Than-Bauk On her website, Suzanne Honour explains than-bauk (pronounced [θàɴ baʊk]) as follows: “A Than-Bauk,4 conventionally a witty saying or epigram, is a three line ‘climbing rhyme’ poem of Burmese origin. Each line has four syllables. The rhyme is on the fourth syllable of the first line, the third syllable of the second line, and the second syllable of the third line.” Here are two than-bauk poems by Suzanne Honour: Lighten Up Turn on the lights; don’t let sights of dark nights haunt you.

Cold The night was cold so I’m told when the old man died.

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(http://www.poetrysoup.com/term/Than-Bauk#.UHyIcmeD_vo) In the first poem, “lights,” “sights,” and “nights” rhyme; in the second, “cold,” “told,” and “old” rhyme.

It does not take much time to create three rhyming words for each poem. Having to create a set of rhyming words can also result in amusing poems. The first poem below is by Joyce Johnson, and the second one is by me: Too Fat He is too fat, still my cat hunts.

The rat escapes. (http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=350218) Late Autumn blue autumn sky raking dry leaves a spry old man (Fireflies’ Light #4 [Nov. 2013]: 11) Sijo The sijo (pronounced see-joe) is a form of three-line poetry composed by Koreans since the thirteenth century. Traditionally it is written in three lines. Each line has four metrical feet, which provide the poem with musicality. Although various subtypes exist, many traditional sijo contain around 45 syllables altogether; it has the structure of 3/3(4)/3/4, 3/3(4)/3/4, 3/5/4/3 syllables, which poets can slightly modify.

Contemporary Korean sijo tend to be written in free style, including the form of prose sijo.

Similar to tanka, most sijo poems deal with nature and love. Unlike tanka, however, sijo poems have been composed by both aristocrats and commoners, including kisaeng (Korean geisha). Below are two well-known premodern sijo. The first one, by the poet Yun Sŏndo (1587–1671), praises the beauty of nature, and the second one, by the poetess Hwang Chini (1522–65), conveys an emotion of love: Korean: 내 벗이 몇인가 하니 수석과 송죽이라 동산에 달 오르니 그 더욱 반갑도다 두어라, 이 다섯 밖에 또 더해야 무엇하리 English: How many friends have I? Count them: water and stone, pine and bamboo— The rising moon on the east mountain, welcome. It too is my friend.

What need is there, I say, to have more friends than five?

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(Peter H. Lee, ed. The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Korean Poetry [Columbia UP, 2002], p. 115) Korean: 동지달 기나긴 밤을 한 허리를 버혀 내여 춘풍 이불 아래 서리서리 넣었다가 어론 님 오신 날 밤이여든 굽이굽이 펴리라 English: I will break the back of this long, midwinter night, folding it double, cold beneath my spring quilt, that I may draw out the night, should my love return.

(Peter H. Lee, ed. The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Korean Poetry [Columbia UP, 2002], p. 91) English sijo are structured in two different ways: either in three lines of 14-16 syllables each or in six lines of 7-8 syllables each. However, like contemporary Korean sijo, they can be written in various forms. The poems below are taken from my five-stanza sijo sequence entitled “Homecoming”: On the gentle slope of the hill my grandmother lies buried.

I tell her why I came back so late, yet she does not respond.

Only shriveled tall grass sways in the wind from the Yellow Sea. * When we were children, the tomboy beat me twice in our fights.

She grew up to become a woman who blushed before me.

Autumn sunlight shines upon the plot where her house once stood. * Decades after I left my land, frost has settled on my head.

Streams and hills remain the same, rice fields remain the same too.

Reeds grow tall on the banks where my friends and I used to play.

(Cave Region Review: A Journal of Literary and Visual Art Vol. 4 [2012]: 80) Linda Sue Park’s Tap Dancing on the Roof: Sijo (Poems) (2007) is a collection of humorous sijo for young readers set in an American setting. This work illustrates the ways in which an Asian poetic form can be completely transformed into an American form in tone and mood. Here is an example:

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Pockets What’s in your pockets right now? I hope they’re not empty: Empty pockets, unread books, lunches left on the bus—all a waste.

In mine: One horse chestnut. One gum wrapper. One dime. One hamster.

Most traditional sijo poems portray the beauty and tranquility of nature, the kinship between humanity and the natural environment, and deeply held emotions, such as loneliness, sadness, and contentment. It is hard to find such elements in Park’s poem above, which sounds light-hearted and carefree. This shows that, similar to haiku, tanka, and other Asian poetic forms, sijo is undergoing transformations overseas.

Conclusion: Uses of Succinct Poetry and Publishing Opportunities It is important to teach approachable poetic forms in English classes, at least in the initial stages of poetry writing. Since the rise of high modernism in the early twentieth century, poetry has earned the notoriety of being an esoteric, inapproachable form of literature. An example is T. S. Eliot’s well-known poem The Waste Land. This pedantic poem uses seven languages (English, Latin, Greek, Italian, German, French, and Sanskrit), and the poet added endnotes to the second edition because not many readers could understand his work. Poetry tends to be more dense and multilayered than prose, and while there is a place for intellectual poetry such as Eliot’s, students who know little about poetry need the type of poems which they find relatable.

Unfortunately, in many English classes, reading poetry has become a laborious, tedious process that seems to require constant analysis. Students tend to approach poetry in the same way they approach a mathematical problem, using intellect rather than intuition. It is no wonder so many students today try to learn the “correct” way to read a poem, although there are many ways to respond to the same poem.

Teaching succinct poetic forms will alleviate the anxiety students have about poetry, and they will actually have fun writing poems to share with others.

In addition to making poetry more approachable and enjoyable for students, succinct poetry can be an excellent tool for teaching some of the basics of poetry writing, such as counting syllables, using concise and precise vocabulary, speaking through images, saying one thing while implying something else, and reading between the lines. The skills acquired from writing poetry are also transferrable to prose writing. Almost all college writing handbooks emphasize the importance of using exact, concrete, specific, and evocative language. Writing short poetry can train students to economize words—to express ideas with as few words as possible. Finally, many of the short poetic forms today come from the nonWestern world. By practicing them, students will learn about the cultures behind the respective types.

For students interested in publishing their succinct poetry, the teacher could compile a staplebound class chapbook by inviting all students to submit their works and seeking a volunteer to provide a cover illustration. Upon publication, students will be delighted to see their work, as well as fellow students’ works, in print. The chapbook can be something for them to keep for many years to come—as a reminder of their classmates, their idiosyncrasies, and their interests. Students should be led to see a bigger “point” or avenue for their writing than just a grade.

Talented student poets should be encouraged to submit their poems to online or print journals.

Many websites publish poems by beginning poets. Those sites may not be top-notch venues for creative writers, but they still can give young poets encouragement and self-confidence. Numerous poetry societies also publish annual members’ anthologies and newsletters to which members can contribute their poems. English teachers could do research on local or regional poetry societies, such as the Louisiana State Poetry Society, and introduce them to their students.

Selective short poetry journals, such Frogpond: The Journal of the Haiku Society of America (which accepts both haiku and senryu), publish less than 10% of the submissions editors receive, so they

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may not be the best venues for beginning poets. However, some professional journals publish quality submissions from emerging poets as well. They include Shot Glass Journal, which publishes both free verse and short verse, and The Fib Review, a magazine dedicated to promoting Fibonacci poetry.

Promising poets should be encouraged to polish their works and submit them to professional literary magazines. Short poetry can be an excellent tool for teaching poetry in general, and English teachers can introduce their students to the wonderful world of creativity through succinct poetic forms.

Notes 1

An earlier version of this paper was presented at the annual conference of the Louisiana Council of Teachers of English (LCTE), Lafayette, LA, 19 October 2012.

2

Those interested in Japanese tanka may find the three following anthologies useful: Gurgal, Thomas. Japanese Tanka: The Court Poetry of a Golden Age. Mount Vernon, NY: The Peter Pauper Press, 1972.

Hirshfield, Jane, with Mariko Aratani, trans. The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan. New York: Vintage, 1990.

Ueda, Makoto, ed. and trans. Modern Japanese Tanka: An Anthology. New York: Columbia UP, 1996.

3

Some websites capitalize the word, but I do not see any reason to capitalize a common noun, hence “cherita.”

Because “than-bauk” refers to a poetic form, which is a common noun, I would not capitalize the word as some poets do. By the same token, the words tanka and haiku should not be capitalized unless they begin a sentence.

4

Print Resources Ross, Bruce. How to Haiku: A Writer’s Guide to Haiku and Related Forms. Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 2001. A primer for those who are interested in learning about Japanese poetic forms, such as haiku, senryu, haibun, tanka, haiga, and renga.

Online Resources Fibonacci: Clark, Deborah Haar. “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, Fun... What’s a Fib? Math Plus Poetry” (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/180219). An introductory essay on the form.

The Fib Review (http://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/). An online journal that publishes only Fib poems.

Senryu:

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St. Jacques, Elizabeth. “Haiku or Senryu? How to Tell the Difference” (http://startag.tripod.com/HkSenDiff.html). The well-known Canadian poet explains the difference between the two Japanese poetic forms. As St. Jacques admits, it is sometimes hard to draw the line between them.

Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu & Kyoka (http://prunejuice.wordpress.com/). An online journal that specializes in senryu and kyoka, two Japanese-style poetic forms.

Tanka: A Hundred Gourds (www.ahundredgourds.com). An online journal that specializes in haiku, haibun, haiga, tanka, and other short-form poems in Japanese style.

“Tanka” (http://www.ahapoetry.com/tanka.htm). A website that presents a dozen useful essays, mostly

by Jane Reichhold, on tanka.

Kyoka: Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu & Kyoka (http://prunejuice.wordpress.com/). An online journal that specializes in senryu and kyoka, two Japanese-style poetic forms.

Johnson, Ben. “Kyoka” (http://bensonofjohn.co.uk/poetry/formssearch.php?searchbox=Kyoka).

It provides a brief hands-on guide to writing tanka.

Cherita: Winfred Press. “CHERITA” (http://larrykimmel.tripod.com/cherita.htm). The website explains the rules for writing cherita and includes some exemplary poems.

Liu, Chen-ou. “Story Threads: Selected Cherita” (http://www.scribd.com/doc/65392657/Story-ThreadsSelected-Cherita). The website introduces more than a dozen cherita by Chen-ou Liu, one of the most prolific and accomplished haiku poets in North America today.

Than-Bauk: “Poetry Form: Than Bauk” (http://www.bubblews.com/news/468742-poetry-form-than-bauk). It explains the form and shows an example.

“Than-Bauk Poems: Examples of Than-Bauk Poetry” (http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems/than-bauk).

The website showcases than-bauk poems contributed by many different poets.

Sijo: Gross, Larry. “Sijo” (http://www.ahapoetry.com/sijo.htm). A brief introduction to sijo. Larry Gross and Elizabeth St. Jacques have been instrumental in publicizing sijo in North America.

“Sijo Samples” (http://www.sejongculturalsociety.org/writing/current/resources/sijo_samples.php). A collection of traditional Korean sijo in English translation and contemporary North American sijo.

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Notes on Contributors

_________________________________________________

My ideas usually come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.

—Anais Nin I’d have stopped writing years ago if it were for the money.

—Paulo Coelho I’m writing a book. I’ve got the page numbers done.

—Steven Wright

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Billy J. Adams writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. He was ordained to the Gospel Ministry in 1971 and has served churches in Missouri for thirty years. He is currently serving as a chaplain for the Civil Air Patrol; the CAP chaplain service is part of the USAF chaplain service. His work has appeared in poetry journals, newspapers, and a book series by Guidepost. He has also published one book of poetry and nonfiction stories, Around the Mulberry Bush. Billy is a former president of the Missouri State Poetry Society.

Faye Adams is a freelance writer who has published three poetry chapbooks and four hardback books: one children’s book, a book of poetry, and two books of poetry and nonfiction. She also writes fiction and memoirs. Faye has won numerous awards for poetry, fiction, and nonfiction and has published in local newspapers and in magazines, poetry journals and anthologies. She has been named Senior Poet Laureate of Missouri twice, has helped conduct poetry workshops in classrooms and for writers groups, and serves as an Advisory Board Member of the Missouri State Poetry Society (MSPS). Faye served as co-editor of the MSPS Annual Anthology of Poetry and Nonfiction published by the De Soto chapter, On the Edge.

Alice M. Azure’s writings have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, such as Studies in American Indian Literatures; you are here: the journal of creative geography; Unraveling the Spreading Cloth of Time: Indigenous Thoughts Concerning the Universe; and Yukhika-latuhse. She launched two books in 2011—Along Came a Spider by Bowman Books (a memoir), and a chapbook of poems—Games of Transformation by Albatross Press—the latter selected as the poetry book of the year by Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers & Storytellers. She earned an M.A. degree in urban and regional planning from the University of Iowa and is recently retired after twenty-five years of service in the United Way movement. A Mi’kmaq Métis, her roots are in the Kespu’kwitk District (Yarmouth) of Nova Scotia. She lives on the Illinois side of the St. Louis metropolitan area and is a member of the St. Louis Poetry Center.

Janet M. Banks has been writing poetry for seventeen years. She has been writing professionally for 12 years. Her first book of poetry, Stewed Soul, was published in 2008. Her new and second book of poetry, titled On the Edge of Urban, was released in early 2013. She has been published in the Kansas City Star and other literary magazines/journals. She has also participated in many poetry readings in and around the Kansas City area as well as New York City.

Stanley E. Banks is an Assistant Professor and Artist-In-Residence at Avila University since 1997.

Banks had his fifth book of poetry, Blue Issues, published in 2013 by Naomi Bards Press in Kansas City, Missouri. His other four books are Blue Beat Syncopation (2003), On 10th Alley Way (1981), Coming from a Funky Time and Place (1988), and Rhythm and Guts (1992). While attending Howard University in Washington, D.C., as a graduate student in the fall of 1980, he met Sterling Brown, the great Harlem Renaissance poet, and in the following year, he received the Langston Hughes Prize for Poetry. He has won Honorary Awards which include a Proclamation for Achievement in 2002 from the Mayor of Kansas City, Missouri, and for the entire year of 2002, his life and history in publishing was exhibited at the Black Archives of Mid-America, Inc. Finally, in 1989, he was awarded the National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship/Grant for his poetry.

Gretchen Graft Batz has a B.S. and M.S. in Elementary Education with a music minor from Western Illinois University, Macomb, IL. Her love of nature and simplicity comes from growing up on a small farm along the Mississippi River. Over the years, she has eagerly embraced photography, writing (especially haiku), traveling “off-the-beaten track,” and performing/appreciating music (including singing, dancing, and playing piano, recorder, and mountain dulcimer).

Jane Beal, Ph.D., writes poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction as well as works of literary scholarship. She is the creator of more than a dozen poetry collections, including Sanctuary (Finishing

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Line Press, 2008) and The Roots of Apples (Lulu Press, 2012), as well as three recording projects: Songs from the Secret Life, Love-Song, and with her brother, saxophonist and composer Andrew Beal, The Jazz Bird. She has written John Trevisa and the English Polychronicon (ACMRS/Brepols, 2012), edited Illuminating Moses: A History of Reception from Exodus to the Renaissance (Brill, 2014), and with Mark Bradshaw Busbee, co-edited Translating the Past: Essays on Medieval Literature (ACMRS, 2013) and Approaches to Teaching the Middle English Pearl (MLA, forthcoming). She has served as a professor at Wheaton College and Colorado Christian University, teaching literature and creative writing, and a missionary midwife for low-income, at risk families in the United States, Uganda, and the Philippines. To learn more, see http://sanctuarypoet.net.

Born in 1944 of an Italian immigrant father and a German heritage mother in the ending years of WW II, M.J. Becco grew up on a small, southeast Kansas subsistence farm. The first of her family to graduate from college, she became a teacher in 1967. After teaching in both high school and college, Becco joined the US Army in 1973, one of the first WAC’s to become an Army Engineer, working in electronics and teaching in military schools and units. She traveled extensively, visiting 27 foreign countries during her 20 years in the service. Becco married in the service and had a daughter in 1981. In 1994, she retired from the service and settled in Springfield, MO. She was divorced in 1995, raised her daughter as a single parent, and has one granddaughter. Becco began writing poetry seriously in 2000 with the support of two writing groups, the Springfield Writers Guild and Poets and Friends of Springfield.

Elaine L. Becherer was born and raised in Spokane, Washington, where she spent summers with her family enjoying the various lakes in that area. She is presently retired, living near De Soto, Missouri, on a small lake. She has two children, three grandchildren, and a great grandchild. Elaine is a member of the On the Edge poetry group in De Soto, Missouri. She enjoys the companionship of other writers.

Lori Becherer is an artist, poet and life-long resident of southern Illinois. She has received numerous awards for her poetry, including the Saturday Writers one-page poetry contest and first place in the Wednesday Club of St. Louis 85th annual poetry contest. Her poetry and essays have been published in Penumbra, lipstik, and Head to Hand and in the online journals Sugar Mule and Switched-on Gutenberg.

Lori is a coauthor of Orchids in the Cornfield: Collected Writings of the Heartland Women’s Writers Guild.

William J. Byrne, M.A., graduated from St. John’s University in Queens, New York, with a degree in Contemporary Literature. He teaches Writing and Rhetoric classes at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He spent thirty years in marketing for Volkswagen of America before returning to teach at the college level.

Abigail Rose Crain grew up in Troy, MO, is the youngest of six children, and was homeschooled through twelfth grade. Being an avid reader from a young age, her dream is to write fictional stories that relate to people in the world today. Abby’s other interests include baking, spending time with family and friends, fishing, and spoiling her nieces and nephews. She has completed her first-year at Missouri Baptist University, where she is pursuing a B.A. in English. Abby is so thankful for the opportunity to be published and is grateful that God has given her such a love for the written word.

Jeanice Eagan Davis resides in Oklahoma, but her heart will always wander the open plains of her home state of Kansas. She is currently pursuing a Master of Arts in English with a focus in literature at Northeastern State University. Her poetry reflects her interest in the people, culture, and history of the United States, and her love of nature. She is also inspired by the motorcycle trips she makes with her husband, exploring the byways and back roads of America. She has had poetry published in the Cooweescoowee, a journal of arts and letters published by Rogers State University.

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Dale Ernst is the author of three collections of poetry: Tribute to the Highway, Light Shining Through An Open Window, and Slipping The Steel, as well as being published in poetry journals, newspapers, and online formats. He has given poetry readings at the May Fine Arts Festival (Eureka Springs, AR), Harrison Library (Harrison, AR), Poets and Arts/Austin Historical Society (Austin, TX), and Southwestern Illinois College (Belleville, IL). He was also invited to read annually as part of the spring poetry program at Three Rivers College (Poplar Bluff, MO) and read as the featured poet at Barnes & Noble Books and Borders Books. Dale is a longtime member of the Missouri State Poetry Society, serving as President for two years, as a board member for many years, and currently as an Advisory Board Member. He lives in West Plains, MO. James Fowler (Ph.D., Rice University) is Professor of English at the University of Central Arkansas, where he also serves as editor of Slant: A Journal of Poetry. His poems have appeared in such journals as Poetry Quarterly, The Hot Air Quarterly, Out of Our, Parting Gifts, Burningword Literary Journal, Cave Region Review, and The Milo Review. He has poems forthcoming in Elder Mountain and Futures Trading.

John J. Han is Professor of English and Creative Writing and chair of the Humanities Division at Missouri Baptist University. He is the author of four haiku volumes: Little Guy Haiku, Chopsticks and Fork, Thunder Thighs, and 2,4,6,8. His poems have also appeared in periodicals and anthologies worldwide, including Asahi, Cattails, Cave Region Review, Elder Mountain, Four and Twenty, Frogpond, Geppo, Haiku Page, A Hundred Gourds, Kansas English, Kernels, The Laurel Review, Mainichi, Mariposa, Nepali Art and Literature, Prune Juice, Shot Glass Journal, Simply Haiku, South by Southeast, Steinbeck Studies, Taj Mahal Review, Under the Basho, Valley Voices, and World Haiku Review. Han is the editor of Wise Blood: A Re-Consideration (Amsterdam & New York: Rodopi, 2011) and the author of hundreds of scholarly articles, reference entries, and book reviews. A native of South Korea, he earned his M.A. and his Ph.D. from Kansas State University and the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, respectively.

Mary Kennan Herbert teaches literature and writing courses at Long Island University in Brooklyn, NY. She is originally from St. Louis, Missouri, birthplace of many poets. Her poems have appeared in numerous literary and professional journals including the Journal of Poetry Therapy, the Journal of Loss and Trauma, the Journal of Medical Humanities, the Journal of Religion and Health, the Journal of Religion, Spirituality & Aging, the Journal of Aging, Humanities and the Arts, the Journal of Social Work in End-of-Life & Palliative Care, the Healing Muse, and the Yale Journal of Medical Humanities, Educational Gerontology, and JAMA, among many others.

Carol Sue Horstman, a graduate of Washington University in St. Louis, is a sculptor, painter, filmmaker, photographer, poet, and illustrator. After teaching all of these subjects, as well as music, for 40 years, she retired to become an independent artist pursuing sculpture sites in communities and gallery venues. She has a large sculpture in front of the Art Center in Quad City, Iowa. Carol also constructed a 96-pound book of milled steel that has garnered many awards; the pages turn, and the book is called My Mystery.

Carol has been published as a newspaper cartoonist as well as in the NLAPW magazine. She is a member of the On the Edge poetry group in De Soto, MO, which she finds is friendly and supportive.

Donald Horstman has been an artist for 65 years and an art educator for 47 years. He holds a B.A. degree in art education from Washington University in St. Louis and a masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in media technology from Webster University in St. Louis. As well as printmaking and poetry, Donald excels in sculpture, film, photography, painting, ceramics, and drawing. He shares a studio with his wife Carol in their home on beautiful Lake Fond Du Lac located in Fenton, Missouri. www.sculpture.org.

138 Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal

Terrie Jacks graduated from the University of Missouri with a B.S. in Education. She has taught school, substituted, and currently volunteers as a tutor. She has lived in several different states and spent several years in England. When her two sons were young, she made up stories to tell them. Now her grandchildren give her inspirations for stories and poems. As for her credits, she has compiled a dozen collections of poems and stories that she presented to her grandchildren for Christmases and birthdays. Several of her poems have been published in Cantos, the MBU chapbook Fireflies’ Light: A Chapbook of Short Poems, and in the OASIS Journal 2012; several stories have appeared in the MBU chapbooks The Right Words: A Chapbook of Nonfiction and Flash: A Chapbook of Micro Fiction.

Recently she has been published in Cattails, and she has been illustrating stories in the Korean-American Journal.

Elisabeth Keller has lived in St. Louis all twenty years of her life, currently residing in the Webster Groves area. Keller is an art enthusiast, singer, and enjoys playing the guitar and piano. She is pursuing a double major in early childhood education and special education at Missouri Baptist University, waitressing to make ends meet. Her love for reading and writing began as early as elementary school, and she is inspired by poets such as John Donne, Edgar Allan Poe, and Walt Whitman. Her dream to write a novel some day was influenced by her love of reading the works of authors such as Aldous Huxley, John Steinbeck, and J.D. Salinger. Future ambitions also include traveling the world, singing a song with Ed Sheerhan, getting her master’s degree in English or History, and designing her own house.

Rocky Lochhaas is a recent graduate of Southwest Baptist University. She became more interested in poetry after taking a contemporary poetry course her sophomore year, and she began composing original poems in a poetry workshop course this past year.

Robert A. Lofton (A. A., East Central College) is studying for his B.A. in English at Missouri Baptist University in St. Louis. He is a native of Union, Missouri. He served as President, Vice President, and Treasurer of the Psi Psi chapter of the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society. He also served as the General Editor and Assignments Editor of Timeline Online, MBU’s student news source.

Robert served as a volunteer tutor of English in the Academic Success Center and as English Fellow to Ms. Mary Ellen Fuquay. Outside the academic realm, he has delivered many sermons at his previous church and works with the Truth Zone children’s ministry at First Baptist Church of Union, where he now attends services.

James Maxfield has taught English composition, creative writing, and other undergraduate English courses at a number of colleges and universities in Ohio. He is currently completing two books for publication: A History and Anthology of Folk-Rock Lyricism (a book all about the 1960s) and Poetry in Mind (a book of insights into the philosophy of writing poetry). Jim’s new book A Year of the Haiku— Journeying to Moonshadow was recently released and is available.

Bob McHeffey is an English teacher and a former basketball coach from Poway, California. He workshops many of his poems through the students in his classes. His work has been seen in American Poetry Journal, Abbey, and Long Story Short, among others. He is currently in the process of rediscovering his lost works.

Ben Moeller-Gaa has a writing degree from Knox College, is a contributing editor to River Styx literary magazine, and is a member of the Haiku Society of America, the United Haiku and Tanka Society, and the Haiku Foundation. His haiku, book reviews and essays have appeared in over thirty journals and several anthologies spanning four continents, six countries, and four languages. Ben is the author of two haiku chapbooks, Wasp Shadows and Blowing on a Hot Soup Spoon, from Folded Word Press and Poor Metaphor Design, respectively. For more information on Ben and his work, please visit his web site at www.benmoellergaa.com.

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Gregory Ramirez was born, raised, and currently resides in Fresno, California, with his wife Stephanie and their children Gabriella and Nicholas. His poetry has appeared in The Broad River Review, Cantos, Hawai’i Pacific Review, if&when, and Heyday Books’ reprinting of Highway 99: A Literary Journey through California’s Great Central Valley, among others. He teaches full time at the Madera Community College Center.

Lee Ann Russell is an Honorary Life Member of the Springfield Writers’ Guild (past president) and Missouri State Poetry Society; member of the Missouri Writers’ Guild, Poets & Friends, Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, and National Federation of State Poetry Societies. Her one-act play, Decision, was performed in Hawaii. She has myriad awards for poetry, photography, fiction, and non-fiction and is the author of How to Write Poetry, Ballad to Villanelle, which contains examples of poetry, forms, and definitions. Publication credits include Writer’s Digest Poetry Collection, Hot Flash Mommas, Old House Journal, Farm and Ranch Living, The Ozarks Mountaineer, Springfield! Magazine, Your Community Hospice, Ozarks Magazine, All Roads Lead to Branson, Branson’s Country Review, Home Life, The News-Leader, New Seasons, Camp Fire Smoke Signal, KEYS to Springfield, Senior Pages, Senior Living, Union Labor Record, and Eureka Springs Times Echo, among others. Her photographs were on the covers of Ozarks Mountaineer and NFSPS Encore.

Victoria Scheibe graduated from Missouri Baptist University in Spring 2014 with a B.A. in English, a minor in Journalism, and a writing certificate. In addition to her studies at MBU, Victoria spent Fall 2013 at the University of Oxford, studying the history of the English language and early Renaissance British literature. Victoria hopes to become a published author and work with authors in a publishing house in London or New York. Victoria has been published in several collections published by MBU, such as Cantos, Fireflies’ Light, and Flash Fiction. In her spare time, Victoria loves to research, write, read, bake, draw and paint, and spend time with her family and friends.

Joshua Smith is a recent graduate from Missouri Baptist University, where he earned his B.A. in English and a Writing Certificate. A self-proclaimed Faulkner admirer, Russian literature junkie, and caffeine addict, Smith lives in Kirkwood, Missouri, with his wife Megan; the couple’s first child was born this spring. Smith currently works as a coffee professional and part-time tutor, and hopes to one day teach full time.

John Samuel Tieman’s award-winning chapbook, A Concise Biography of Original Sin, is published by BkMk Press of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. Another collection, Morning Prayers, is published by “The Pittsburgh Quarterly Online.” His poetry has appeared in The Americas Review, The Caribbean Quarterly, The Chariton Review, Cimarron Review, The Iowa Review, River Styx, and many other venues, and has been translated into French, Japanese, Arabic, Serbo-Croatian, and Spanish. A teacher in the St. Louis Public Schools, Dr. Tieman is also a widely published essayist. He earned a bachelor’s degree and his M.A. from Southern Methodist University, and his Ph.D. from St. Louis University.

At age twelve, Marcel Toussaint first published holiday cards he had designed. An award-winning writer, he has published poetry in dozens of anthologies. Toussaint has read his poetry on NPR, and has been featured in major newspapers and magazines. He represented Saint Louis at the 2011 National Veteran’s Creative Arts Festival in Fayetteville, Arkansas, with a reading/performance of Shadow under the Bridge. The poem earned him a National Gold Medal. Remember Me Young, his first anthology, was published in 1997, and his autobiography Poetry of a Lifetime was published in 2009. Toussaint’s first novel, Terms of Interment, was published in 2011; further information can be found at www.nacgpress.com. Reflective Reflection, a collection of poems, will be published in the near future.

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Angela Tynes was born in Saint Louis, Missouri. She attended Valley Park High School, graduating in 1997. In 2001, she graduated from Fontbonne University with a degree in English. She entered the field of education as a gifted teacher in Jefferson City, Missouri. She moved several times until 2007 when she was hired to teach English at Saint James High School. In the six years she coached speech and debate, her team won numerous conference trophies, and four of her students advanced to state. Angela has prided herself in being a leader in the implementation of 21st-century skills and technology in the classroom. In January 2010, she began graduate school at Missouri Baptist University. In April 2014, she graduated with her M.A.T. in English. Angela and her husband recently moved after she accepted a new teaching position at Lake Career and Technical Center with Camdenton Schools.

Jennifer Lynn Wills is a single mother of two daughters. She is a Registered Nurse in a busy Emergency Room in the Greater St. Louis region and has been avidly writing poetry for four years. Her most recent accomplishment is winning first runner up out of 900 entries for the 2011 Foley Poetry Contest in America magazine for her poem “some things won’t be stopped,” which was published in the July 2011 issue. She writes from a small desk, next to a big dog, in a small town in Missouri, of which she has been a resident since childhood. She is currently gathering her finest works for pursuit of her first book publication.

Jessica Wohlschlaeger is an instructor of English at Missouri Baptist University in St. Louis, MO. Originally from Effingham, IL, Jessica moved to St. Louis to pursue an English and Secondary Education undergraduate degree at Missouri Baptist University. After graduation, she proceeded to a graduate program at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville to pursue a Master’s in American and British Literature. After completing her degree, she and her husband moved back to St. Louis where she has been employed full time at MBU for the last three years.

John Zheng: See page 36.

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Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal Submission Guidelines Cantos, a journal published annually by Missouri Baptist University, welcomes submissions by writers and visual artists. Send previously unpublished poems, short fiction, excerpts from a novel in progress, and nonfiction as e-mail attachments (Microsoft Word format) to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn@mobap.edu by March 1. Send previously unpublished artwork, including haiga (illustrated haiku), as an e-mail attachment to the editor, John J. Han, at hanjn7@gmail.com by the same date. We do not accept hard-copy materials of any kind, and upon arrival, they will be recycled. Along with your work, submit a 50-150 word author bio written in third person. The target date for publication is May 31.

Our review time is approximately one month; earlier submissions receive priority consideration. There is no monetary compensation for contributors. Those who are selected for publication receive one complimentary copy of the issue in which their work appears. The editorial team evaluates all submissions for suitability, content, organization, structure, clarity, style, mechanics, and grammar. We do not consider submissions that include profanity or foul language.

Poetry: We welcome poems that pay attention to both form and content, that can appeal to a broad range of educated readers, and that are neither inexplicable nor simplistic. Poems should consist of 40 or fewer lines; limit up to five poems per submission. Indicate the form used in the poem parenthetically after the title.

Prose: We value submissions written in lucid, precise, and concise style. Prose works that contain a number of grammatical and mechanical mistakes will not be considered. Place serial commas to separate all items in a list (as in “poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction). Use curved quotes (curly quotes) for quotation marks and apostrophes: Opening quotation marks should look like 66 (“), closing quotation marks should look like 99 (”),opening apostrophes should look like 9 (’til), and apostrophes indicating the possessive case should look like 9 (Emily’s, not Emily's). Periods and commas are placed inside quotation marks (“It is very simple,” the goblin replied. “I can easily shrink my body and get inside the jar.”). Press the tab key once for the first line of a new paragraph, leave two (not one, not three) spaces between sentences, and follow MLA (Modern Language Association) style if citation is needed.

Fiction and nonfiction should be fewer than 2,000 words each. We consider up to three works from each author.

Essays for the section “On Writing Creatively” (2,500-5,000 words each) are normally written by invitation. However, established writers and poets who wish to provide our readers with creative writing tips are welcome to contact the editor before submission.

Visual Art: We consider single images, picture essays, and haiga. Single images should be titled, and images used in picture essays must be explained within the narrative. We prefer docx for drawings and jpeg for photos.

Currently, we are not seeking cover images.