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RAILROAD Poetry Project Issue Three 31/12/2011

Cover page image ‘Dramatic Railroad Tracks’ copyright FullofSecrets 2010-2011.

Railroad publishes poems and artwork under one-time electronic rights.

Queries? Contact the editor Amanda Claire Eades at


Contents Editorial Your introduction to the third issue of the Railroad Poetry Project e-mag, by the editor, co-founder and critic, Amanda Claire Eades.

Railroaders The best of December’s submissions to the Railroad inbox: Keith Hoerner - ‘Relapse’ Wade Lewis - ‘Standing at the bar’, ‘Giving comfort to lovers’ Patty Mooney - ‘Ashes’, ‘Kids’, ‘Ritual’ Nico Turner - ‘Ritual’, ‘Impetus/Circumference/Circumstance’ Dave Merson Hess – Kenneth Patchen, Bob Kaufman, View From My Mother’s Window Andrew Farnan – ‘Decorating’, ‘Lady Macbeth’, ‘Tin Man’ Amanda Earl – ‘Red car in the future’, Don, Zoe, Erin, Anne & Atila, the Hun in The Land of Google’ ‘and, but not’, ‘Paradise Lost: x regained: one’ & ‘x regained: two’ Sinead Kent – ‘Wisp’, ‘This bold heart beats on’ Jeremiah Walton – ‘Don’t disturb the dead bird’ Joanna Langton – ‘My over(re)active mind’, ‘Moth’, ‘Realisation’ Alice Nicks – ‘Leaving’, ‘Welcome Nostalgia’ Narcisse Navarre – ‘Caliente’, ‘The Letter’ Linda Crate – ‘Bully’ Joe Clifford – ‘Crossing the William Leyman Causeway at Dawn’, ‘Detour’ ‘Open Letter to a Travelling Companion Backpacking Through Europe, 1989’ Jade Leaf Willetts – ‘Note: In favour of not committing suicide’ Railroaders contact details, in order of appearance.

Railroad 2012 A message from the editor about Raillroad in 2012


this bold heart beats on‌



Welcome to the third issue of the Railroad e-mag, the community-driven project that is aiming to be the contemporary port for contemporary writers and artists. Over the last three months, it hasn’t just been me, the editor, that has driven this forward. I’ve always shouted about the importance of people – and I’m not going to stop now. The Railroaders are the backbone of this project, the ethos, its goals and dreams for the future. Without you all, and without your unfailing support in the Railroad, I wouldn’t be sat here, typing this, exhausted, sleep-deprived, overdosing on coffee – but feeling so fulfilled. I think it takes a certain type of person to throw themselves at something in its infancy. A project that pops up on the scene, backed by people you’ve never heard of – suggesting that it is going to be the next big thing on the literary scene. How bold could that be? Precisely. Pretty darn bold. And being bold is everything this project is about. Its conception was a bold act, the creation of it called for co-founders with equally bold souls, and now the Railroad submitters are carrying that on. The bold heart of Railroad beats on, but without companions to travel with, there wouldn’t be a train to catch. Let’s take the Railroad into 2012 with a beat louder than before. This issue has been a huge step up in terms of variety and scope. Not only is Railroad featuring visual art from the talented Dave Merson Hess, an artist who grew up in the North Beach area of San Francisco in the 1980s, surrounded by aging members of the Beat Generation, this issue is the proud purveyor of some exciting concrete poetry and visual poetry. Joanna Langford, from the University of Salford, U.K., and Amanda Earl, a Canadian poet and editor, have provided issue three with some work that questions the link between poetic content and form, and makes poetry a true ‘event’. As the Railroad ethos draws quite a lot of influence from the Beat Generation of the 1950s, it is an honour to be showcasing the work of Joe Clifford who has, for the third issue in a row, allowed me to borrow some of his poetry. This sits so comfortably in an issue that is featuring the visual art of another so heavily influenced by the Beat movement. As with issue two, language figures quite heavily as the axis around which a lot of these poems rotate: powerful verse from Nico Turner, Andrew Farnan and Wade Lewis contain dictates that balances on the tip of the tongue, with meaning cascading down each uttered syllable. We also have some experimental work from the Railroad co-founder, Jade Leaf Willetts, in which form really does become an extension of content – I think it is brilliant that this project is giving poets the confidence to experiment. As you can see, I’m picking up on the poetic community again, as I always do – and not without reason. What I really want to start pushing out to all the followers, fans and Railroaders out there is the idea of, as Joe Clifford describes it, nepotism.


I don’t just feel like I am an ‘editor’ – I genuinely feel that I am creating friendships with fellow writers who share the same passions as me. It makes sense, then, to support who you know, whilst being open to new people, too. So why not take a bit of your time – on your blog, Twitter, Facebook – to showcase the work of a friend that you admire, or just someone you’ve seen knocking about in that virtual writing workshop we call the Internet? The new Railroad Poet of the Month feature is taking full control of this idea of nepotism, whilst also embracing peer-review. Do it like the Beats, and do what you can, for who you can. We all know how hard it is for writers – we need to support each other. Before I let you all loose on the Railroaders and the work that is gracing the (virtual) pages of this issue, let me tell you about a couple of new projects that I am particularly excited about…

The Jade Leaf Willetts Poetry Protest Based on the blog of the Railroad co-founder, The Jade Leaf Willetts Poetry Project is harnessing the full power of peer-review and nepotism. Jade wants you to help him to get his work out there. Through a simple process of choosing and recording a presentation of a poem, you will be able to spread the beat of Jade’s poetry, and get yourself noticed by taking part in an original project. The favour will, of course, be returned – the project is aiming to bring together a whole record of contributors, and Jade himself will help to promote your work in turn for your time and effort. Get creative – act the poem out, go ‘old school with power point, chuck boards with words on in time to the pace of the poem, in the style of Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’… the power is with you, not only in form, but also the power of peer-promotion. The first contributor was one of Railroad’s favourite people, Joe Clifford. Check out his contribution here for some inspiration.

P.O.V. Magazine An up-and-coming new magazine that promotes itself as ‘the magazine you create.’ With a new theme every issue, be sure to check out for the submission deadline: this is a magazine you want to be involved with! Whether you write poetry, prose, take photos, or are an artist – every creative outlet is considered. A magazine that is truly created by its submitters, as much as its founders. A favourite with the Railroad, keep in touch @pov_magazine for the latest from the Passing Out Victorious team.


You might think I’m mad for promoting what is, in effect, the competition… but that is what Railroad is all about. No, not being mad… but it helps. What Railroad is about is the community, fellow writers, wordsmiths, poets and people passionate about words. I don’t do this for reward. I do this so I know I am making a difference to what I view as the most powerful tool of our age.

Get out there, spread the beat and be bold about it. Amanda Eades Editor


Keith Hoerner Relapse the weather station forecasts wind and rain, sheets of water glass, the rush of God’s voice against deaf ears. good reason to drink: bad weather. sting of throat, numb of brain, unending recovery speak on an empty stomach. step one: we admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable. powerful enough to handle my whiskey; manageable enough to pay my tab. step two: came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. keep speaking to the atheist… and nobody’s saner than me! step three: made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him. understand this: make that a ‘double!’ step four: made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. sure I have faults, but let’s talk about yours. step five: admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. let’s get something straight: i’m the one who’s been wronged around here! step six: were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character bartender, get everybody a round! step seven: humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. i don’t ask anybody for anything. step eight: made a list of all people we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. i don’t say I’m sorry to nobody. step nine: made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. i said, i don’t say i’m sorry to nobody! step ten: continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it. what’s wrong is all this mind-fucking crap; can’t a guy just drink in peace? step eleven: sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of


His will for us and the power to carry that out. what? step twelve: having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry the message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs. (silence) there’s a quieting down at the end of the bar, a crying in beer. death pulls up a stool, sits, and orders his new friend a drink.

The 12 Steps mentioned are that of Alcoholics Anonymous


Wade Lewis

standing at the bar There are only so many lines a poem can contra dict before it loses i magi nation to better purpose Life that's why poems should be taken standing at the bar because you cannot afford to sit down even for a mo ment.

giving comfort to lovers i am aware that pressure makes coal beautiful and people ugly and dogs mad and love twisted it is beyond my control to instruct the earth on how to give comfort to lovers.


Patty Mooney

Ashes I told my son I want to be cremated. I said “You can scatter my ashes.” He said “Where?” I said, “Surprise me.”

Kids We were hoping when we had kids they’d have her looks and my personality. No. They’ve got my looks and her personality.


Nico Turner

Ritual beginning to take shape at the edges A masterpiece unfurls, worn with Too much of what is never enough Like one long line drawn From my middle to your end And without warning of distance A field collides with horizon Something never to be reached By reason or will We take part in these things The christening of sounds we keep Hidden Beneath blankets in a room Still, frozen fingertip to fingertip A faint hello as morning beats in through French windows As we Embracing long and fast Frozen, still In the subtle glass cases memory provides Where dust can never touch sacred things Like in dreaming The split seconds that become eternities Falling through oceans The distant sleepers awaken The distant sleeper’s awake



A blank but tolerable reality subdued in color and impetus I drank to you in solace and forewarned thinking (a book told me solife followed suit) carefully, with varying degrees of improvised matter once held by blanketed curcumference (two if by force, one if by will) strange bedfellows unified by darkness to silken the cause to burrow in deep with kindnesses and heartacheyou came to me all wanton and flurry a ritual tide taking me over I turned, blackened, blind to reach for you pillow kissed lips pursed in pursuit of phantoms (you, her, or the other) to seek illusory palms pressed against my chestI called to youno one answered


as if the stars willed it so our vitality, our treasure upheld to the wind with open fists, (like children with vapid causes) the circumstance therein, wistfully abandoned us (a thief of fire) as all became coersion (error, mistake, fallacy, delusion) now (dear friend) we drink to solitude to prematurity to our own creation (all bow now to the rhetoric of mourning)


Dave Merson Hess Kenneth Patchen. Brush pen & acrylic on paper, 2005.


Bob Kaufman. Pen & ink, 2008. From a planned (but unfinished) series of portraits of North Beach poets.


“View From My Mother’s Window.” Telegraph Hill. 1998. Featured in the Ansel Adams Center for Photography exhibit SEE: Selections from the Friends of Photography’s Youth Outreach Programs (1998).


Andrew Farnan Decorating I imagine a girl with a broad paintbrush in a Liverpool terrace; through high windows the sun has lit the room as bright as the beach a couple of stops away on the train I haven't seen this yet because she bought the house in the winter when the sun could not even spark a glimmer in the rain

Tin Man something is rattling inside me like a heart would if encased in the chest of the tin man from MGM's seminal musical the wizard of oz


Lady Macbeth like chocolate, a week ago I snapped a bar of staples in two and in my clumsiness opened up my thumb now in the bathtub daydreaming about America and the dead line, the mark reappears on my skin; rust brown, itself like an old staple bent out of shape, a strange imperfection on a hand, on a body pretty much like anyone's if I were more poetic I would have thought of Lady Macbeth there in the bathtub but that came later


Amanda Earl Red car in the future until we peel back the ears of corn and shove the kernels into farmed tank, we are filled with remorse for the endless repetitions of tomorrows backed up with traffic misericordia the twisted fallouts on the side of the road metaled monumental memoria we are majestic malevolent demons in our machines reveling in the conflagrations of brittle histories of dinosaurs as our bones soften and our bodies grow slack, minds flustered we cluster around suburban megamalls, big clouds of smog devouring us all, choking our lungs, how we cling to the four wheeled contraptions, enrapture ourselves with the atrocity of velocity and gasp in our goldfish bowls for air not recognizing the irony in our iron animals we tear up the earth on rubber tires, our engines fuel spewing apocalyptic beasts turning the globe crimson and crispy

Don, Zoe, Erin, Anne & Atila, the Hun in The Land of Google At Don’s edge, a warlike overstock of dangerous wands. Zoe can’t cope with drinking omnivorous liquid. In a vat of gardens, Zoe’s bare vole with kale muzzle meets Don’s barrel cool snout. Don & Zoe play coal tunes on their world harmonicas in oolong. Cranberry sap whorls Zoe into wondermint. Don pees. Beneath the ensuing eviscerated fish, Zoe finds Erin in the hall. A manure white siren pinhooks Don. It is a hoax, squeals Zoe, the wax actress. It’s an Om sign. Don’s seared and taken. Anne’s braids are named. Zoe is locked up in Vietnam. Don & Zoe are laughing in fits. Zoe lacks the past, breaks her hat later. Attila the Hun wears a hoodie, drags a hottie. Zoe & Don sleep in a lapse of loops. Listen.


and, but not and what if on the concrete the black stain of spilled ink is all that is impermeable if every one of my words on paper has broken down and my bones after eighty years decompose and the hand-built clay pots i have made accidentally so charmingly uneven as my pottery instructor says persist but in shards and buried beneath the plastic detritus of water bottles, thanks to a two-litrea-day habit, that replaced the rioja and the crust of dried sea salt crystals from years of meals cooked for me with care by my husband and the oily residue of catgut strings but not the songs i composed on my acoustic guitar, its rosewood body and abalone rosette turned to dust


Paradise Lost

Artist’s Statement Paradise Lost, written by John Milton and published in 1667 concerns the fall of humanity; in Book One, the letter x does not appear as a first letter, but can be found in the text as a second letter in words such as exalted, excelling, excess, execute, exhalation, exile, expanded, expiate, experience, expos’d , extended, extinct, extort, and extreams. We read about the fall of man and angels, temptations to taste forbidden fruits. The letter x represents the idea of the forbidden as in x-rated; it is a temptation into the modern world of x-rays and narcotics such as X for Ecstasy, the unknown quantity in mathematical equations, in genetics, the X chromosome, in English, the pre-penultimate letter of the alphabet, the 21st century X-box, the post baby boom Generation X. The prefix ex implies vanishing, something outside of the norm, something unwanted, uncouth, the scrawled signature of the illiterate, an attempt at creating language out of shape rather than meaning. X appears in the middle of words in Paradise Lost such as auxiliary and luxurious and at the end of words such as fix and Ox and Phalanx and Sex, but these are rare words in Paradise Lost. Other words such as fire and earth appear numerous times; the most frequent content word Heaven and its variants Heavens and Heav’n occur 43 times. The words in the corpus for this project are words chosen for their reflection of the content and not their frequency per se. In the end in both pieces, we have letters inside words inside a letter, the missing x like darkness made visible as shape.


X regained: one


X regained: two


Sinead Kent Wisp I saw her in Autumn, gutters crowded with leaves. She had knots in her hair and no shoes on her feet. What a slight thing, I thought, spare ribs with no meat. She had almond eyes, blue ringed with gold, small mouth and a dusting of dots on her nose. She might have been pretty if not for the rags, dirt under her nails, chapped skin on her hands. Eyes calm, drinking me like a wine. I asked for her name, said that was a luxury I might know in in time. I thought of her often. It wasn’t until the winter was dying that I saw her again. This time, she is pale, almost clean. Brown in her hair, book in her hands. I asked if she liked what she read but she only smiled thinly. I thought she was mad, then. A piteous thing, shrivelled,


in the cold. I asked where she lived; she said home was a privelege I wouldn’t know ’til I was old.

The last time I saw her Spring was wasting away. She had red in her hair, looked no more lively. I said Wisp, why do you wither so? She replied with a smirk to surprise me. She was starved so I offered her bread; said it’s not what she needs to survive. When I blinked she was gone, bony nymph with no song, and I thought then summer’s nout but a lie.

This bold heart beats on “We’re animals trying to be angels, but we are not able to know without words; yet we grow without knowing the verb, and we love without grammar.” - Anno Birkin, 1980-2001 Try not to lose sight of what inspires you. You might change, and grow, and move on, but remember that the flicker came to you once. Words that were powerful to you then are still magical now, if you read them the right way. People don’t stop being brilliant, they just forget how to show it. Now darlin’, don’t you ever grow up.


Jeremiah Walton Don't Disturb The Dead Bird Don't disturb the dead bird It's dry cry goes unheard Poked at by sticks broken off a nearby rotted tree Near its body underneath the marquee With young knuckles wrapped around its imagined hilt Its body tossed like a rag doll embossed With cheap black tattered imitation leather The slick tick of time on rain pattered feathers A charred cheap treasure With cracked wings amongst other small things Pulled joints, and ligaments, tied with bodily strings It will never be buried, only spat at Small children squeak "look at that!" And run off giggling with their swords Pretending to be ladies and lords


Joanna Langton My over(re)active mind Flash! And it’s gone in the blink of an eye. mind cloud

Doubt endless endless endless endless endless endless

Endless Fury worry.

The worry:

engrossing spring blossom;


Cloaking pavements

Bitterly undercut by something slightly sinister.

Stare beat thrash it


You must thrash it out of you *You must

KILL IT before it consumes you

renders you



Moth Two Lovers (a state of blinding euphoria): My soul the moth inseparably You’re Light Dangerous You could impair my Trickling tears Tear down


walls Searing white:

won’t You show me Your darkness dull my frustrations Strengthen this Fort. sly subtle smiles speak of sex-filled satis faction soar sweet sleep







XX Note: something complex may be well-organized and logically constructed as well as subtle and intricate, while a thing that is complicated will have something irregular, perverse, asymmetrical in addition to fundamental intricacy; complex is more formal and technical (a problem in mathematics is complex) while something like personal life can be complicated.


Alice Nicks Leaving “A few vices are sufficient to darken many virtues.� Plutarch I entered your life barefoot and I leave with cracked heels splitting burning with each step across the embers of your smouldering vices.



Under winter sky I wrap my arms around trees: Birch. Oak. Copper Beech. Each embrace a reminder of me, before: barefoot in dappled sunlight. Your jacket on soil, Damp earth against leather, each scuff a translation of shifting weight: of hands reaching for hands around the girth of seasons to come, fingertips grazing fingertips never touching and all without a care in the world. So far we were from the dappled sunlight of dreams.


Narcisse Navarre The Letter There used to be such a thing as love letters Where sentiments scribbled would live on Till burned or tossed or ripped apart Now we have these ephemeral “I love yous” Etched in ether, dipped in illusions Missives that go to the proverbial inbox Stored somewhere between cornea and cortex Easily deleted This note’s for you, “You’ve got mail” Used to chime in the background of our lives A dissonance both expected and aloof No tactile thrill of prying envelope apart Of smelling the spilled ink Or perfume, or sealing wax Am I old fashioned desiring a bygone era Where the mere sight of my ankles Would inspire? Where the soft, lingering breath of a well placed Rub would set the mind to rushing fancy Spark the heated flesh Deprive the tongue Dry the lips Soak the thighs Heavenly God I’ve lost my mind To the parchment and the letter You’ve yet to write


Caliente I want to be dipped in Salsa Deep fried, crispy like a maduro Ground and wrapped with banana leaves Like a tamal Roasted in aromatic sazón like pernil I want the strength of the tambor To snap me out of this white ¡Hipocrecia! This skin like cafe con leche Needs more cafe More humo de tabaco Con guayaba More sun, more ocean, more sand More beats than I can even remember Mas Libertad para ser mujer Not just a woman… Pero Mas I want to let the accent loose That makes you uncomfortable That conjures visions of someone, Marginalized, uneducated, spicy, tumultuous, ¡Caliente! I want to be me, that island woman You can’t bring home to your polo, Docker and penny-loafer-wearing family With knit sweaters around their necks Educated en alta alcurnia I want to bury the white girl in me Push her down and drown her In the foaming and vindictive ocean of Yemaya Que valla con Dios o con Olodumare


Linda Crate bully

n. up,


n o e d p e you make me o so you can tear me d i don't know what to think or do. i o s w lovely. p n. you've turned my life u i don't know why you couldn't have let me alone in my own little o w r d, l instead you had to hurt me. just so you could feel better.


Joe Clifford CROSSING THE WILLIAM H. LEHMAN CAUSEWAY AT DAWN for Mary Anne Nunn Far from the stale coffee of church basements, the Pacific hideouts of Echo Park chateaus where I left a favorite wife trembling at the sound of alarm clocks and slamming car doors, this morning I rise on the Lehman Causeway to see high tide. The Atlantic laps into the distance, the clear blue expanse smooth to Earth’s edge. I fight against nature with a certain satisfaction in the new day’s stifling heat, this Miami sunrise, a bay’s harbor I call home. It’s more than the spectacular color scheme that puts me at ease; it is the periodic reminder of possibility, which says maybe tomorrow will be better. Now, I can’t say I’ve ever been confused with a happy man, and I’ve not escaped the mercy of these moods. I’ve accepted shaky footing as the price I pay, and I may never learn to troll crooked roads. But I’ve also kept the idea of a place where my kind belongs. So I do see it, if only for an instant, even if I keep this cynical man’s sneer. I see it in the blue bays and boulevard palms, a first cigarette or well-penned song, a pretty girl smiling playfully in a passing car. I’m sure for most, they’d need a little more. Maybe I do, too. Just not today. Where all I need is the small reminder there’s nothing to dread, nothing to regret, that these scars are what hold my body together.


There are far worse places than this, due south of a Nutmeg gypsy’s art class, where even the most beautiful places, she said, are defined by the negative spaces in between.

DETOUR Every year in San Francisco the Roxie Cinema on Valencia and 16th used to host the Film Noir Film Festival. Maybe they still do, but since I don’t live there anymore, I can’t say for sure. Each night for two weeks, the Roxie, which usually showed indie, artsy flicks or obscure foreign imports, showcased a collection of black and white gritty tales, corruption and lust lurking from just about the darkest corners humanity has to offer. I couldn’t get enough of it. As the theater lights dimmed, I’d sink in to these stories of rain-slicked streets, hardboiled dicks and crooked cops on the beat; losers in the truest sense of the word before MTV made it something hip to be; hookers and strippers and brother-in-law cripples; punch-drunk prize fighters down on the dock taking a dive. A state of decay, a study of crime, I’ve always been a sucker for the stuff. What I liked best, besides the gunmetal blue cinematography and creepy Mancini scores, was the tough-guy talk. I have never been able to pull that off. I get too goddamned attached to love them and leave them— I don’t like to hurt their feelings.


But before the houselights, hit the glare: A stiff drink, and, “I don’t care,” she says, “if I make it out of here alive.” In no condition to drive, she took a detour. They found her body at the bottom of a desert ravine, a pawn shop receipt in a box where a wedding ring should be. South of the Great Coast Highway, luck ran out on her. Sunglasses or suicide? The coroner never could decide if it was from the sauce or the swing or the withering beauty of everything. “Chalk this one up,” says the PI, “to another dream lost in the promise of the Pacific.”


OPEN LETTER TO A TRAVELING COMPANION BACKPACKING THROUGH EUROPE, 1989 Drifting at night toward Greece, forced to sleep between parked cars in the boat’s garage, petrol dreams at nineteen and the meaning behind cheap rate, third-class travel. Knapsacks packed, sleep deprived, we didn’t mind riding train lines all night, legs cramped in standing room only cars, swiping chocolate bars for lunch, baguettes and jelly in Germany, because, we said, this was living. Later, when that crook filched our cash in Crete and we fought over whose fault it was, Mediterranean light blinding in the hot, midday sun, all nomad novelty had lost its appeal. Three months playing traveler, we were two boys homesick, finding we had little left in common. I got the card you sent when my mom died last year. The postmark read Bear Lake, Michigan. It was very considerate. Thank you. I still have all those photographs, ticket stubs, and third-degree sunburn scars from Nice, even that small piece of the Berlin Wall spray painted concrete, lavender and green. Do you remember that pretty girl who consoled us our last day on the isles? How she said in exotic, broken English that our extra water bottle saved her life? I wish I still had her. Funny how no one sticks around forever, how folks can just come in and out of your life like that.


Jade Leaf Willetts







Railroaders The poets and artist who have contributed their work to this issue, in order of appearance. This is intended as a resource – if you like the work you see and want to know more, please use the details of the Railroader to get in direct contact. A wide range of work is often found on blogs and websites. Railroad is all about fostering a tight-knit artistic community. Keith Hoerner Keith Hoerner, BS, MFA – lives, writes, and teaches in Saint Louis, Missouri. His work can be found in literary journals from the Midwest to the East Coast. Contacts are welcomed by email. Email:

W. M. Lewis W. M. Lewis is a Brisbane-based poet and fiction writer, whose work has appeared in Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, and Eclecticism. You can find me (a little too often) on Twitter at @w_m_lewis. Website: Twitter: @w_m_lewis Email:

Patty Mooney Patty Mooney has been writing poetry since the age of 15. After taking a hiatus of writing poems for about a decade (2000 – 2010), she returned to it in order to work through the grief of losing both her father and a brother in 2010. She wanted a clear-cut delineation from the mood and scope of her earlier work. This “new style” occurred when she began to write Air Poetry, a way of writing that is somewhat foreign to traditionalist poets in that the Air Poet must leave their own mind and open up to the conversations of others. There’s gold in the air that falls out of the mouths of conversationalists, and it’s fun to collect these genuine nuggets. Air poems by nature are short, funny, whimsical, poignant and sometimes very deep. Patty has started to entertain a worldwide audience with Air Poetry at and at where anyone can post an Air Poem. Patty is a video producer by trade and loves to mountain bike with her husband in the San Diego outback. Blogs: “Air Poetry” “A Life In Business” “A Diary Left Open” “Soldiers Heart” Twitter: @airpoetry Facebook:

Nico Turner Former member of Los Angeles based musical duo VOICEsVOICEs and most recently a member of Brightblack Morning Light and Vincent Gallo's RRIICCEE, Nico Turner has toured all over the world in pursuit of capturing experimental sound. She approaches


words with the same experimental fervor. Her creative writing college professor failed Turner, but later asked her to be a part of a Poetry Anthology, citing Turner as one of her most brilliant and most disappointing students. She currently resides between her native Los Angeles, and Sacramento, CA. A book of Nico's poems, titled VERSUS, will be available next year. Blog: Email: Magazine:

Dave Merson Hess When he's not drawing, Dave Merson Hess writes music for films and TV. A proud native of San Francisco's North Beach, his art has appeared on album covers and in zines including Mi Abuela Es Jazzista and We Still Like. Website: Twitter: @indiefilmscore

Andrew Farnan Andrew Farnan studied English Literature as an undergraduate and completed his MA in Women’s Writing at Edge Hill University in 2009. He lives in Lancashire and works in Merseyside. Twitter: @andypilgrim

Amanda Earl Amanda Earl is a Canadian poet, editor & publisher. Twitter: @KikiFolle Website:

Sinead Kent Sinead Kent was born in 1988 in Wolverhampton, to a short, pleasant lady called Susan. Sinead soon outgrew her mother and all known sensibilities, veering between wild aspirations of acting and teaching before realising she was really only good for one thing. That would be writing, by the way. A self-published author and published poet at 16, Sinead let her inner control freak run free and formed her own independent publishing imprint, Painting Lies, in 2009. Her short stories collection Fight the Sky features fiction from 2004 onwards, and 2011's poetry collection, Revolve, brings together notable bits of teenage angst, again from 2004 right up to the present day. Sinead still lives with her mother. She may never leave. She likes romantic films, long walks on moonlit beaches, home cooked meals and lying to strangers. Blog: Twitter:


Jeremiah Walton Jeremiah Walton is 16 years old and attending high school in New England where he's always resided. He is in the process of publishing his first book, a collection of poetry titled "Nostrovia!". His first free ebook was released this past month. It's a poetry collection titled "To Your Health: Humanities Diagnosis". He has been writing poetry for two years now, and writing short stories and short lyrics for as long as he can remember.Jeremiah Walton is 16 years old and attending high school in New England where he's always resided. He is in the process of publishing his first book, a collection of poetry titled "Nostrovia!". His first free ebook was released this past month. It's a poetry collection titled "To Your Health: Humanities Diagnosis". He has been writing poetry for two years now, and writing short stories and short lyrics for as long as he can remember. Email: Website:

Joanna Langton Joanna lives in Manchester and is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing at The University of Salford. In October this year her first chapbook was published by erbacce-press entitled [fill the silence]. Joanna is currently planning a trip at the end of her MA to visit SanFran and embrace all things beat. Chapbook: Twitter: @JoLangtonPoet

Narcisse Navarre Website: Poetry:

Linda Crate Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native and graduate of Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. She has a Bachelor's in English-Literature. Her short story Chase the Mourning will be published in the April 2012 edition of Dark Gothic Reconstructed Magazine.

Joe Clifford Author of the memoir Junkie Love, the noir novel The Lone Palm, the blog ‘Candy and Cigarettes’, and an editor and rock ‘n’ roller. Blog: Twitter: @JoeClifford23

Jade Leaf Willetts Jade-Leaf Willetts is a writer, artist and musician. Jade-Leaf blogs at What Would Neal Do? and is the co-founder of Railroad Poetry Project. Blog: Twitter: @JLeafWilletts


Thank you to everyone who has supported Railroad since our first Tweet way back in October. Being part of such a powerful and passionate literary community has been mind-blowing. You are all fantastic and you are all part of Railroad’s success to date. With a view to 2012, I would like to open

up submissions to include all artists – visual as well as linguistic. I believe that all art has poetry at the core - to exclude any form of artistic expression would be against the Railroad ‘Unadulterated Creativity’ promise and the essence of Railroad itself. So, if you’ve created it, submit it: poems,

videos, paintings, sketches, don’t be railroaded by form. Due to commitments elsewhere, there will be no Railroad magazine for January 2012. All submissions received to date are in the pot for the February issue, which will be a bursting with poets from all over the globe. Do not fear:

Railroad will still be operating in the same way – twitter, facebook, blog posts and the poet of the month feature. We’re just taking a break to get up to date and ready for a busy


As 2012 progresses, I am hoping that I will be able to take Railroad a little further along the journey. In the next few months, the site will be over-

hauled to make it a far smoother online port for all types of artists and associated projects. Railroaders will have their own pages, Stations will have their own section and there will – I hope – be space for advertising, so all contributors can advertise your blogs, websites and publications. Railroad will start running competitions, and there will be plenty more chances for the team to grow, as the Railroad widens. Crucially, my message is that Railroad has been a

learning curve for me – I hope that as my


skills begin to grow the Railroad format will become more professional, glossy – and do justice to the artists that

the pages hold.

Long term, my aim has always been to collate a year of Railroad e-magazine issues into a print anthology. If all goes well, that will become a reality this year. I urge everyone to get on-board and keep spreading the beat. This project is for you: the writers, artists, poets.

Amanda Eades Editor


Issue 3  

The third e-mag from Railroad, spreading the beat of contemporary poets from across the globe.

Issue 3  

The third e-mag from Railroad, spreading the beat of contemporary poets from across the globe.