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Issue One 31/10/2011

RAILROAD POETRY PROJECT

the online port for poetry that is beat, broken or just plain beautiful

Editors: J. L. Willetts & A. C. Eades


THIS IS THE RAILROAD GENERATION 1


Beatniks, Poets, Readers - alight.... The first online issue of Railroad Poetry Project has stationed. Railroad is a rolling home for homeless poetry. Set up as a platform for those quieted by mainstream publishers, Railroad has taken its first journey towards building a community for ‘outsider’ poets. All those who have contributed are passengers on personal journeys, but they share our collective goal to showcase their ‘unadulterated creativity’. Our aim is to provide a link in transporting railroaders to their destination – how far and long the ride, is the choice of the traveller. Inspired by the writings of the Beat generation, this project was conceived in the spirit with which the ‘Beats’ spread their work. As a poet, the work of the Beat generation has influenced and inspired my work as well as my life. In starting Railroad I wanted to tap into their sense of belief, their sense of poetic brotherhood and their sense of self. I wanted to start something that I like to think they would support. That said, we don’t want to start a beatnik cult – it’s just a big part of who we are. Railroad is a place for poets and we welcome submissions from anyone who appreciates where we are coming from. In starting out you can never be sure where something will lead, and I can honestly say that I am amazed at the amount of interest we have received. The amount of submissions has 2


far exceeded all expectations, and with this sort of response in the first month, it is safe to say the ride is going to be a long one. With so many quality submissions we were able to put together a first issue that we hope is diverse in terms of style and content. We are fans of experimental writing and it was a blast to read through such innovative and imaginative verse. Some of the writers who we couldn’t sleep without publishing are Gary Memi - who, unbeknown to us, has been literally writing railroad poetry and blogging the outcome. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Robert Mullen was penning freight-poems, a sequence inspired by all things railroad. Joe Clifford, the accomplished American writer better known for his fiction has in true ‘beat’ spirit donated some of his poetry to our first edition. S. M Abeles made his way into these pages, ever so coolly dropping four lines of beautiful verse like there is nothing to it. Contemporary verse stretches to the humorous with Suki Spangles and Thom Boulton’s comments on society, whilst Zachary Spencer and Diante Macdonald’s intense verse serves to chokehold the reader with strong imagery and powerful wordplay. The poets named here are just a cross section of the eclectic mix that made their way into our first issue. We really are proud to put together the work of writers’ who have something to say, and who say it through poetry. Jade Leaf Willetts – Editor 3


Gary Dubola Memi

all the time in the world (Wednesday, March 16, 2011) I have been keeping my cell phone out of my pants pocket and away from my testicles Choosing to store the device in a jacket pocket closer to my vital organs Confronted by the choice to work on a personal growth project or watch television I choose television, hands down, every time The same goes for any project with loose deadlines or group efforts I prefer to waste away all my money on useless small things that will eventually be trash Instead of saving for a headstone or paying down the mortgage Let some other tool do what they say on the news I have all the time in the world I found a patient spouse that allows me to make mistakes I often criticize her mistakes openly Yet, she refuses to drop the hammer back down against me In this way, we are both allowed our shortcomings One day, I will make a hard right and veer away from my judgements I hope there is no one in the swale If there is, I hope they thought they had all the time in the world It makes things that can happen in an instant seem so random and isolated When my hair falls out on top And my back finally caves from all the lazy hunching I participate in 4


I will curl up in a cozy chair and read every book I ever wanted to pretend to understand Maybe my wife will make me an Arnold Palmer Maybe my son will pat me on the back and say, "way to stretch things out knowing all along that you had all the time in the world" If I get lost in the moments Staring at my boy who is presently learning to absorb this world in parts Please excuse me I don't know how to disengage Because this is all the time in the world and all the time that I have

Rise & Grind (Tuesday, March 22, 2011) rise and grind is trending which means people are now shouting into the dark present in the future we will all have heads for this separate heads so we can move on when the clouds reveal too much color I am frightened that this is all wrong all this clamoring about in binary so long as there are flags and currency to take part in collecting the walk home is going to be dangerous between this blackout and the true future of things

remains a lot of advertising and rediscovery 5


hashtag this if you feel blue discovery happens once and then becomes a channel that channel you can ride into strait feed me numbers and bubbles make me forget some of this only faces and soft sheets are truly important

Collar (Saturday, October 27, 2007) One of the most painful things I've ever done on purpose was wearing a collar And while feeling distinguished and flashing my airs I choked myself Snapped back into shape I shifted in my chair and breathed in the toxic fumes those electrons that jump off hairs and make the room spin Maintaining poise and holding the pose I had to pause these interruptions could be fatal Cleverly keeping my busy paws busy I examined the other ones that I could see and imagined what it would be like 6


to not have control Others have not been so successful and it's often the others that make a fine mess pride and shame and innate intelligence Leave us with a page turner and we have to constantly ask ourselves do we want to turn pages or be pages

Never Really Dry (Monday, September 12, 2011) When things are really busy We inadvertently share one towel The closest we'll get to being together In our own home For a period of time That damp towel Never really getting dry Reminding each other We occupy the same space Missing each other By a few beads of water A folded bathmat A wet sink

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S. M. Abeles Stray Cat Stray cat you don't know how alike we are. Lucky you.

No Prayers If he ever prayed he'd pray he'd find her again so he never prays

Black Clothes She lives in his pink dreams. she dies 8


when he wakes, So he wears black All day

Fedora Tilting his fedora this way and that until his shadow looked just right

Vintage Man she's got a beatific smile long hair parted big sunglasses she looks just like 9


the California sun, yeah she looks just like 1977, the girl is vintage

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Thom Boulton

(Gallimaufry the Ineffable, a Monster Observer)

overly stimulated an essay by G@maufry.inef.fable . . . on the changes of information interaction throughout a range starting in the 1700s (Jane Austen times) to now, today (April... 2011, just before the wedding).

Essay reads like this... Part One Information is the un-fulfilling food that makes appetite grow more and more. 11


No sooner is it consumed that we crave more... the next hit.

Part Two There, sat... Television on The teleshow so quiet – the advert ring out loud... How dynamic... Flash – Flash – Flash Buy – Buy – Buy

But he don’t mind them peddling, he’s too busy to take their lot in,

Laptops burning hot in hand and lap... and mind

Must check my emails... 12


TV distracts Must check emails whilst on FaceBook and YouTube What was that? Was that an advert for... Text message Here comes the sun starts playing who’s it from? What? message box reads hey how r u? are you? A R e ... Y O u...................... ..........hello attractive female on my box 13


pause

She’s still there... ...and... Gone. Another Text plays another song another tone for another Must check emails ...has requested you... ignore... ignore... Ooo!... ignore... Must check emails! Inbox (1) Did he just enter the room with...? -0 14


another tone... an email on the phone...

- - [double take] - -

Same as this one Congratulation you have won That’s worth a watch... ...low battery? Fuck!

Let me just say this is an overly stimulating experience... to watch, let alone to live... not at all like the past, a more simpler time...

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Part Three There, sat... a gathering hosted The social elite of 1700 – discuss matters of importance. How civilised... Read – Read – Read Talk – Talk – Talk

But he shares no objection to their chatter He engrossed in paper,

Book holds heavy in hand and lap... and mind

Must read this chapter Engaged by the Colonel

Must read chapter 16


whilst flicking ahead

and staring into space Yes sir, quite a sensation! A message? A letter for me? to read? Whomever is it from? What? Homer you oaf you philistine! what nonsense! hello, handsome girl are you attached? pause

are you with... 17


...and... Gone. Another letter? Yes here’s your pay another note from... Must read chapter ...too much Greek! ignore... ignore... Ooo! ... don’t get it... Must read chapter Properly! Did he just enter the room with...?

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yet another message Homer out, Aristotle capital...

- -[double take] - -

What a waste of time!

Yes madam, quite pleasant... ...un paid duty? BUGGER!

Let me just say this is an overly stimulating experience... to watch... let alone to live not at all like the past...

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Part Four From the points raised, the conclusion must thus be made... that in reality, quite simply your causality for the information bender is not the sender but in fact you... You! Human Race, Mankind... face the inevitable truth and blame – you are guilty and how do you plead? why do you need... such titillation, such occupation, the frustration caused by this surge and gorge of information...? Don’t blame psychology, don’t hide behind sociology... you have a problem which you need to admit, every last one of you...

is an information addict. 21


Gareth Eoin Storey Papa

Papa was the first to order Death in the afternoon In tribute In imitation I pop the champagne cork Pour and add 3cl of Pastis You can try this Maybe Pull out Your notebook Squint Contemplate Pour Taste

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Contemplate Death In the afternoon.

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Andrew Taylor

Flash of Yellow II Singsong throughout August your time is now flit between two trees two nests will you leave in Autumn? will you stay on for me?

Outhouse It'd be enough to be in the yard re-stacked amongst the woodpile temporary shelter for day for week for month

[untitled] Snow stacked angled white birds make circular tracks before light fades

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Hannah Andersen

FALLEN Some nights I beat it back with a stick. This poetry that sings into the ether of my senses, that sinks its ragged teeth into the deep murk of the soul. Let go, I whisper to the thrush song longing for release. Slide back into this twilight’s quiet, into this night’s unending sleep. But the thrush in the throat knows the hurt of hunger, knows how to spin yarns into songs and sweaters.

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So I have shredded everything at the roots, bruised my heart with the lost art of my ancestors. We are chained ankles and feet unfit for walking. We are shrunken eyes and tinder tongues plunging our secrets into songs and poems— while outside, winter falls from the deep hush of night.

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BRIGHT CLAWS For Guiniviere Memories etched between heel and toe, distant memories of distances tread, of quietly meeting the words of the dead to pick the bones from every moment, to hold the bones in our own soft flesh. My bones have ached with the sorrow of knowing, with the borrowed sorrow of saying goodbye that hides in the belly and eats the soul’s seams. The small-boned birds scour the sea for dreams. Like them, I peck and scratch for what lies beneath. And each night, I write the same quaint poem, write the words that wrap my bones in night’s quiet. Yet, the flesh speaks when the bones lie silent. In my flesh is etched the unwritten poem— the breath of the small-boned bird heard singing.

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Anthony Desmond

Cultus Serenade me with a biblical verse In a whisper so pure it only deserves to be heard By a man laid in a hearse Follow me like a brick tied to foot Thrown in a river Though the suicide note was illegible Not because of the ink running miles behind me My childish ways were beside me as betrayal Stemming from the devil's emancipation I hid like a bride's apathy in a veil Laced with compensation The lord of darkness was Jesus to me A hermaphrodite was given to thee A steady final plea Risen from the sea as Aphrodite

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Diante the Poet Pain Click on image for direct link to audio

pain People have problems of facing concrete truth until the sob stories your friends tell you happen to you. I done felt pain and wanted to take a alternative lane screaming to the sky to keep yourself sane. born into sin but am i the one to blame? In dire need of a better relationship with my mom because alot of butting heads is whats been going on. no relationship with my dad either he don’t even know my size in sneakers no love, no happiness, no talk, no clearance. so where do i find my guidance? grandma getting older so no more weight can be thrown on 29


her shoulders. Dont know who to talk to when things go amiss music be my meditation but it can’t keep resulting into this. going down friends list but they all seem fake as a penny in a fountain to make a wish subtracting JB and LJ my brothers till the end they true and safe to call friends. It’s crazy when train of thought start to run and it’s your job to catch it ‘for it jump tracks. searching and searching but can’t seem to find light. Beside that still having to stay between the brackets of wrong and right. It’s useful though because it be the same things i recite. suitable for the ample poems i write that one day will get me in my visualized house with a daydream site.

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Zachary Spencer

Wall Street Blues I came down from the verdant hills on a transcendental dream. When the dawn came down upon us, I smiled kindly on the scene. And when I saw the sun around the bend, smiling kindly back at me, I knew the path was loving because the path had been conceived. Never let me Know a truth That doesn’t know Compassion, too. “Know your presence while you enter this blessed Star of Morning world, And learn your essence from the sidewalk shadows who scantily unfurl. ‘Cause they know their art like they know the seas, filling the waves with curls,” Proclaimed the prudent sun from up above, and with them my heart whirled. Wrapped in a tarp, Sketching the scene, Watching people, Lovin’ the trees. The leaves were turning as I rambled the apple cider atmosphere, And I gazed upon the figures passing without glancing to revere The portraits of these daytime angels whom absorb their shameful sneers. 31


In the night I woke upon this and couldn’t help but shed their tears. Sorrow fills me, The world’s grown stale. In the winter, The hearts will fail. But never let me know a truth, That doesn’t know compassion, too.

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S.I. Blues

I progress and I perceive Americanized Indians, Flashing raincoats and blue jeans, Octo-Arm Indians of the Orient– The ones from India! Remember, Sam?– spoiled by British Rule. Out here in the Jungle, A great deal more concrete Than the ones they must be used to, We hide ourselves from our souls. Save us with your Eightfold Path, I say. Oh, no wait, that is China! Or maybe it was China… Well, save us with your dreamy life. Lash us with the unborn notion of nothing. Asceticism just isn’t the right approach. Although the Island, or the Jungle, might have it that way, With its Visions of the Virgin Mary all over the place. For godsakes, someone just show us our souls.

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Psycho-Delics I like to sit in the dark, and make colors with the fires I’ve tamed. I like to walk in the park, and feel bitter towards the men I’ve blamed. Destroyed by the sun, I fear all of the fruit I gave. To kids on the street, looking for their drugs and cards to play. Make for the woods, I’m better off where I own the straights. Picked from the vine my soul intertwines when the fires go out. I sit and create without psycho-delics to talk about. The eyes shift while I sit and I sift through the archetypes. 34


Robert Mullen Frieght Poems

Rollin’ on silver track slipstreams iron hide snake union pacific markings Rail track clatter under moon lit skies beat poets pen jerks across the page in a box car jungle Freight train touched by moon beams explodes into a cloud of moths 35


Screamin’ freight train flickers red, blue, yellow swaying leaves

Dormant in the morning tide the union pacific dragon iron hide locomotive wrapped in angular skin, still, silent. Head light flickers, flares blazing flame withers the fabric of darkness before the engine bellows, the beast twitching, lurching, rollin’ out silver track slipstreams billow in its wake as the union pacific dragon screams along steel tracks gliding through pine cone valleys 36


skimming over bleached deserts under moon beam storms and unrepentant sun beams before climbing into mountain peak mists infinite iron tail disappearing into boundless clouds

Head light tearing into the night box car vagabond scrambles Freight train rattle the rail road rhythms chronicled by the box car poets Dormant, desolate rusting hulk

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the rail yard its final resting place Freight train rollin’ down the tracks more than likely its gone its gone and its never coming back

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Suki Spangles

Cracked Symbols

the cracked string-bead spaghetti throng swirls bedazzled bedraggled and comically wretched a mournful shimmer around cartoon candles huddling in the gloaming gloom unragged and healthy the hum of the crayon-prayer-faithful numb their pagan-bling makeshift memorial an installation art totem as delicate as graffiti sold on the shopping channel bottles of vodka nestle with silver spoons and opened cartons of cigarettes and suffocating garage forecourt flowers clinging for dear life inside their unopened cling-film shallow grave attached felt tip fly-tipped post-it-sentiments words you are so mist words YOU'RE NOT DEAD YOU'RE A STAR!! words xxx Luv Lucy 39


words we mourn your loss 4u etc from across the road she circles her own mind for a clue to theirs as this dead girl sings of rehab from a tinny mobile phone speaker rendering her soundwaves disembodied her sonic angel feathers crash land a last bow r.i.p cashback as Rapunzul's saturn return death dances into her vaporised tower of ringtone sorrow bemused walking away she muses - oh the irony they're offering up as symbols of devotion the very paraphernalia that killed her - what a way to go and what a way to be remembered then she makes the sign as she nervously touches her pendant of the cross

The Barren Spring The off-licences smash-grab-trashed by lads on-the-lash; The trainers google-map-flagged by flash-mob-Olympians dancingthe-dash; The electronics stores ping-hash-tagged, uploaded, cache-cashed; The neighbours' cars stone-smack-bashed, gutted - or stashed and moustached; The newsagents papier-mache-mashed into sachets of ash; The takeaways tandoori'd, soupcon'd and charcoal grilled with 40


pyrotechnical panache.. And no No one wanted papadums with that.. The clothing arcades hosted giveaway-and-getaway negligees down alleyways; The chemists' sprayed bouquets of Michael Faraday's more laissez faire protegees; The baby stores pitched tearaway mum scrums, Supplementing their love-handle ass-cracking bingo-wing oven buns, Gravity rippling burning Rome lite relay-marathons, Husain Bolting the chiffon, Manning the futons, Sending encrypted smiley emoticons, Up and down, Up and down, Up and down, Hitting home-run home runs, As on-call baby dads GPS riot app'd, Flooring time like neutrinos, Tearing up the dual carriageway, Giggling fiddling Nero's.. Yeah, it was ok; It was all child's play.. And the Arabs who couldn't be blamed for this, rejoiced, Hey hey.. And, After the fire, 41


As volunteers vacuumed on tv with bling-brooms, And brickbatologists cling-fumed in chatroooms, A photographer, disbelieving, swung-zoomed on a strange bloom: For there, through the smoke, through the clearing, That spurned wallflower loomed: Another book shop Perfectly unconsumed.

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Andie Lewenstein

Evening Blues On the road, two lay dead a badger in the headlights, later, a moon-spotted deer. The singer on Radio Two sang somebody's darlin my boy on the streets looking for bar work, my girl packing a suitcase, catching the night train. I wish someone would come (singing glory hallelujah), put gold in the boy's purse, light on the girl's long road, make the ground soft and ready 43


to lay the animals down, sweet Jesus, coming on home.

The Other Life There is no mobile phone. You miss the train and trust he will wait for you. There is no supermarket. You buy a meat pie from the corner shop and a tin of Batchelor peas. There is no video recorder. You watch Planet of the Apes on a black and white portable and make your own entertainment: marjuana grown from seed in terracotta pots; you play marbles, and lose them. You picture him in Euston Road, head bowed against the hard rain. It is so cold. There is nothing but the Incredible String Band singing, this moment is different from any before it. These moments -

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you will hold them in your palm, string them together like beads, hang the beads around your neck: each train the last train; each bead the last bead; each minute the last minute.

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Patty Mooney

Gods No songs are sung. Your gods are cruel to reject you. Everything you could ever desire. Embrace me as your king and as your god. Your joys will be endless. I want more. I want sushi.

Gold People don’t realize there’s gold coming out of their mouths. Beautifully put. 46


Chillin’. You can get stabbed. I did my duty and let you know. She’s recording everything.

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Jason C. Segarra .khalom. (dream series) I. i "am". my self is still. my world is in motion. i'm ready and not quite prepared, again for the first time in a non-repetitious cycle how my flesh surrounds my bones is of a strange geometry, familiar in it's mystery II. every moment is perceived thought limited by the sight before me 48


reality turns over in it's sleep on the bed of the universe III. waking life has taken it's time with me which version am I ? the dreamer or the dreamt?

IV. sympathy is in the brevity of my flesh. as my eyes close this distraction is revealed to me all the more... V. i watch from the lip of the cosmos as the debris of time is swept off it's edge, falling upon us, masking our luster. we are space garbage... 49


.origami. little teeny tiny parts and pieces needled into loops, infinite infinitely linking images, all subtle and such windy; catalyst for a shudder touching each with a unique tale paper-frail So is life

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Malik Peterson Performance poetry – click to view

Yesterday’s Future is Present

360˚ Blind Eyes

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Jade Leaf Willetts

Wednesday Dad Through a window I watch a tree dancing off the last of the summer. I think of you, less than a mile from this room in a glorified hut that serves as a church hall, where you spend an hour after School, until work is done. I thought about you as I ate my lunch, alone, knowing that you were eating the same meal, separately. I will not see you tonight as it is not Wednesday but I get by on a wallet photograph and a hope, that I will make enough money, one day, to take you somewhere beautiful, for a while.

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Joe Clifford

THE PAPER MILL There is an old paper mill by a pond, a brownish brick building with broken glass. A rusted plaque states it’s been there since 1918. Each weekday morning as the sun comes up, the workers, stout men whose fathers were born in this town, line up at the roach coach, mimicking pidgin English, exchanging good-natured jabs with the Vietnamese vendor as they stuff their pockets with pears and plums, ham sandwiches and hardboiled eggs. They pour large coffees into Styrofoam, poke at the powdered cream that won’t sink. The men all have their first names stitched in red on the breast pockets of their gray work shirts. In the summer, when the local high school lets out, the mill will hire boys to sweep tool shavings and collect splintered pallets by the loading dock. For the boys, the men they work with are an oddity. They can’t understand why anyone would sign up for a lifetime of this. To them, the stifling August days stacking cardboard boxes in musty warehouses is a novelty, a chance to put some change in the pocket, scratch to take out their girls Friday night.

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When the work week ends, the men will often gather for drinks, cheap six packs and tall boys from tail gates, at the back corner of the lot. They’ll laugh loudly at the incompetence of the boss’s nephew, openly declare their lust for the blonde who helps keep the books in the front office, make arrangements for that weekend’s big game. Besides an excuse to snicker, the men don’t have much use for the boys, who would only serve as another reminder of what used to be temporary, when they, too, planned on only staying the summer.

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LEAVING RUTLAND, ON THE WAY TO PRISON for Becky Tracing her fingers along the ridges of a tattoo scar, she says, It’s a shame you have to get cut so deep to get one of these. A gray Saturday, blanket tacked to the window, we listen to the sounds of cars spinning rain along the boulevard, the rush of last-minute Christmas shoppers. The motel room clock says I have two hours left with her. And I know I may see her when I get out. We might have lunch or talk, fuck, whatever, but I know once we leave this room, she will never be mine again. She rolls on her side and strips off the towel, spreads her wet black hair over the pillow and says she wants to remember the way I feel inside. And I wonder who will be taking my place tomorrow? Like peeling the gauze from a freshly inked tattoo, she says not to worry. It’s the season, the state we’re in. Vermont in December is no way for lovers to say goodbye.

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And so we come to the end of line… I suppose, here, I really should be saying something monumental about the poets and poems we have included in Issue One of this e-magazine – but, as I’m sure you will all agree, the monument is the poetry itself. There is nothing I could say, as critic and coeditor for this project, that isn’t already shouting out from the pages you have just looked through. The Railroad team have developed this project because they have witnessed the power of the internet, and wanted to harness it for the quieted poets of today. We want to give them a platform to shout from and it is through you, listening to their call, that we can safely say that the Railroad community is becoming a reality. As my co-editor said in the introduction to this first issue, the standard of submissions has been astounding and the level of coverage we have gained as a result of our fans’ hard work, retweets, likes and follows has really been true testament to the power of people when they come together. It has been hard to ignore the recent media coverage of the Occupy Movement that is sweeping the globe and, whilst Railroad doesn’t want to get involved in the politics of the uprising, we have found it difficult not to see parallels with the occupiers and their ability to make themselves seen and heard. So take Railroad to be your stage to occupy – this is your chance to set up camp with us. Community has never been more important to us, both as Railroad and as individuals, and now that the first issue has gone live, we really want to ask our fans to help us spread the beat of 57


Railroad. No action is too small – whether it be through Twitter, Facebook, your blog or site, let your followers know what you think of us. If you want to be involved on a bigger level, then sign up to our Railroader’s Database – supply us with your address and we will send you as many Railroad related things we can get our hands on. We’re starting out with the humble business card, so drop these around your town – but we are in the process of moving into posters, wristbands, t-shirts and stationary, so get your name down to be part of the beat. Now that Issue One has stationed, we are going to be hard at work on Issue Two, due to go out at the end of November. If you like what you see and believe in what we stand for, then submit your genius to us at railroadpoetryproject@gmail.com for a chance to be on board the Railroad journey. We are always open to submissions. All that remains for us to do is to let our contributors take charge of their own journeys, so here are their platforms. Add them, follow them, blog about them.

Be part of the beat… Amanda Claire Eades –Critic and Co-editor

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Issue One Railroad Poets In order of appearance‌ Gary Dubola Memi Gary Dubola Memi currently lives on Long Island and commutes into Manhattan five days a week. On these mornings, you can find him writing poems aboard the Long Island Rail Road. These poems are instantly posted on his personal blog. Gary lives with his wife, his dog, his mother-in-law, his son, dust and belongings of various weight. Select works have been published by Snakeskin, ProtestPoems.org, a handful of stones, and qarrtsiluni. Blog: http://railroadpoetry.blogspot.com Twitter: @enri_zoltz S. M. Abeles S.M. Abeles turned back to creative writing this summer after a lengthy layoff. Thus, these are his first publications in some time. He draws inspiration from the beautiful community of poets on Twitter. The poems here, and additional works, can be found at Everything Is Empty. Website: www.everythingisempty.blogspot.com

Thom Boulton Thom has been writing poetry since his first year of college. Over the past eight years he has developed his writing style and expanded into modern techniques and contemporary methods. Thom has been developing his poetry to make it more accessible and artistic. His aims are to bring poetry back into the spotlight by offering readers 59


short bursts, philosophical thinking and poetry, all themed on current affairs and issues. Website: http://gallimaufrytheineffable.webs.com/ Twitter: @GallyIneffable Ebooks: http://www.scribd.com/System24

Gareth Storey Gareth Eoin Storey isn't married and has no children. He was born in Dublin and has had poems published in various rags such as the nth position, the smoking poet and alternative reel. His hobbies include daylight drinking and getting lost. Blog: http://dirtysuitcase.blogspot.com/ Twitter: @storeygareth Tumbler: http://www.tumblr.com/tumblelog/cestqoui Andrew Taylor Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool based poet and editor. His latest pamphlet of poetry ‘The Lights will Inspire You’ was published by Full of Crow. Poems have recently appeared in REM Magazine, Durable Goods and Blue and Yellow Dog. He is currently editing an academic book about British motorways with London artist Edward Chell. He has a PhD in poetry and poetics and currently teaches poetry at Edge Hill University. Website: http://www.andrewtaylorpoetry.com Twitter: @dradny Bibliography: - Comfort and Joy (The Ten Pages Press) e-publication, April 2011 - The Lights Will Inspire You (Full of Crow Press) Oakland, USA, March 2011 60


- The Sound of Light Aircraft (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press) Newton-Le-Willows, May 2010 - The Metaphysics of a Vegetarian Supper (Differentia Press) online, December 2009 - Make Some Noise (Original Press) Cumbria, August 2009 - And the Weary Are at Rest (Sunnyoutside Press) Buffalo USA, June 2008 - Temporary Residence (Erbacce Press) Liverpool, October 2007 - Poetry & Skin Cream (2nd Edition) (erbacce Press) Liverpool, October 2007 - Cathedral Poems (Paula Brown Publishing) Poole, August 2005 - Poetry & Skin Cream (Erbacce Press) Liverpool, December 2004. - Turn For Home (The Brodie Press) Liverpool and Bristol, August 2003. Hannah Andersen Hannah Andersen was born and raised in Southern California, where she currently lives with her husband and two skilled ninja kitties. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of California, Berkeley and works as an Advertising Copywriter in order to unleash the essence of poetry upon an unsuspecting world. Blog: www.redcrowpoetry.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Red-CrowPoetry/106621176068172 Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/redcrowpoetry

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Anthony Desmond Born in Detroit, Michigan; Anthony was home schooled and raised in Center Line, MI, by his single mother. Anthony discovered his gift for writing poetry at the age of sixteen and would describe his work as "eccentric, abstract." Intrigued by pain and sadness, his poems mostly cover a wide array of subjects from a dark, grimy and bold point of view. He doesn't believe in censorship; his poetry is honest and offensive, only for the sole purpose of not holding back, thus, weakening the poems. His inspirations come from the struggles of everyday life, politics and death; religion and his hero, legendary dark poet, Frank Stanford. Anthony Desmond hopes to become a phenomenon in the world of poetry and impact millions with his art. Blog: http://glassstaircase.blogspot.com/ Diante the Poet Diante was born April 20, 1990, in the District of Columbia on a sunny but windy day. High school did not come easy for Mr. McDonald. From precocious outbursts to teachers, to bold movements with classmates, Diante battled with authority. He had an epiphany in tenth grade and discovered, by having a better outlook on life, his future becomes brighter. That is where he gave full focus on his writing. The poetry calmed his anger - he had control of his words. He used those words to settle the score with life and how it was dealt to him. Diante met a crazy technician that produced the annual Black History Productions in the school. With her encouragement, Diante was able to use his poetry as a platform to express his life, his opportunities, his dreams, and his future. Poetry gave him a chance to say exactly what he felt on any given day without the repercussion of higher authorities or backlash. Poetry opens the 62


windows to his heart and head - poetry is like meditation: “My emotions on paper. I have something to say. I can say it best without interruption of anyone, anything anywhere. If you want to read it, here I am.� Blog: http://diantethepoet.wordpress.com Zachary Spencer I am part of the new generation from Upstate New York (around Syracuse) and am currently living in Staten Island, NY with my girlfriend. Blog: http://zachsthinktank.wordpress.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/people/ZachSpencer/100000583713567

Robert Mullen Robert Mullen is a graduate of Liverpool John Moores University. He write poems and prose, sometimes surreal, sometimes not. He has had links to his work featured in the Brauitgan Library Newsletter, The 23 (Issue one, August 2011) and has been published by the plum plum. http://theplumplum.org/2011/09/28/354/. Email: skyraftwanderer@googlemail.com Blog: skyraft.wordpress.com

Suki Spangles Blog: http://sukispangles.blogspot.com/ Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/SukiSpangles 63


Andie Lewenstein I have worked as a typist, shop assistant, turkey inseminator, teacher and co-worker in a drugs rehab centre. My first published poem appeared in Spare Rib, my latest in Artemis magazine, and my work has appeared in anthologies and magazines including Poetry South East, Rockingham Press and Obsessed With Pipework. My brilliant career has been somewhat compromised by a bastard disease called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, but the beat goes on. I am a single-tasking space-gazer who does not juggle her life and I am writing a novel. Blog: www.readingthesigns.blogpost.com Twitter: @readingthesigns

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 http://www.airpoetry.com and at http://facebook.com/airpoetry where anyone can post an Air 64


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: http://facebook.com/airpoetry Jason C. Segarra Jason C. Segarra is a husband, father, writer and photographer, born and raised in New York City and currently residing in Madison, Alabama. He loves the harmony in disharmony that occurs in life. He does not wish to duplicate reality with his words but wishes to bend it just enough to where reality and what his eye sees is separated by tiny nuances. Some of his work will have many nuances and some, maybe just one.

Malik Peterson Website: http://malikpeterson.com/ Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/user/TheeMalikPeterson Twitter: @MalikPeterson J. L. Willetts Jade-Leaf Willetts is a writer, artist and musician. Jade-Leaf blogs at What Would Neal Do? and is the founder and co-editor of Railroad Poetry project. Blog: http://jlwilletts.wordpress.com Twitter: @JLeafWilletts 65


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: http://joecliffordcandyandcigarettes.blogspot.com Twitter: @JoeClifford23

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Issue Two – November 30th 2011 67

Issue 1  

The Railroad Poetry Project is an online platform for poets and their poetry. Dedicated to making the voice of contemporary poetry heard, ou...

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