Yasmin ‘Jo’ LaC
Cam - Untitled
Words -Featured Translated Works-
Anzhelina Polonskaya - 20
17 - Chel Eshva Negus
Nigel Holt - 6
44 - Rossetta Baker
-Other Outstanding Works-
Maggie Harris - 8
2 - Yasmin ‘Jo’ LaCam 16, 32 & 43 - Aura Dove 20 - Joel Ormsby 26 - RobAC 30 - Katie Woods 34 - Luna Bee 39 - Aysha Long 41 - Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor
-Other Outstanding Works-
Leigh Herrick - 27 & 28 Eamon longsleigh - 29 Helen Blomfield - 33 Jasmine Wake - 35 Michael Lee Johnson - 36 & 37 Channie Greenberg - 38 & 40 Danny P. Barbare - 12
Edited by Lorraine Kashdan-Lougher Designed by Rob Annison-Clark Front Cover by Bianca-Luciana Farr
Artwork above clockwise from far left: Alice Woods, RobAC, Mark Russell, Rossetta Baker, Kate Hertrich, Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor
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Hello and welcome back to Social-i m a g a z i n e . A f te r a c o n s i d e ra b l e b re a k i n t i m i n g b etwe e n i s s u es mys e l f a n d d es i g n e r Ro b A n n i s o n C l a r k h ave d e c i d e d to m a ke s o c i a l - i m a g a z i n e a ye a r ly eve n t ( p o s s i b ly b i a n nu a l ) a n d i n d e e d , b e i n g as s u c h a c e l e b rat i o n o f t h e m o s t i n c re d i b l e , f o r wa rd m ov i n g a r t a n d p o et r y t h at i t i s a ye a r ly e d i t i o n e l evates the m a g a z i n e to i ts rightful place. Once again t h e e n t r i es f o r this edition d e l i g h te d and a mu s e d u s a n d i t was as a l ways d i f f i c u l t to d e c i d e h ow to s et o u t this sumptuous feast in a way that wo u l d b e d e l e c ta b l e f o r a l l b u t h e re i t i s . We h ave t h e s t ra i g h tta l k i n g t ra d i t i o n a l r hy t h m s o f Maggie Harrisâ€™ poems which c o n t ras t t h e p o l i t i c a l a n g s t a n d
h o r ro r c o n ta i n e d s o b e a u t i f u l ly by L e i g h H e r r i c k , E a m o n L o i n s i g h a n d t h e t ra n s l ate d wo r k s o f A n z h e l i n a Po l o n s kaya As a l ways t h e d es i g n e r h as s et t h es e p i e c es b e a u t i f u l ly a n d a p p ro p r i ate ly a l o n g s i d e t h e b a c k d ro p o f t h e b e a u t i f u l wo r k s o f h i s c h o s e n a r t i s ts . This edition brings u s f e at u re d a r t i s t Ro s s etta B a r ke r who ex h i b i ts some her wo r k f ro m her upcoming b o o k s o o n to b e p u b l i s h e d by Social-i entitled 52 We e k s . We hope yo u e n j oy the p u b l i c at i o n a n d i ts r i c h n es s a n d t h at yo u ta ke t i m e to s at i s f y yo u rs e l f at t h i s c e l e b rat i o n !
L o r ra i n e Kas h d a n - L o u g h e r
Fe atur e d Poem
T h i r t e e n Va r i a t i o n s o n t h e P y t h a g o r e a n S o n g o f R a b b i t s
N i g e l
H o l t
Nigel Holt has lived and worked in the United Arab Emirates for a number of years. He has been published in a number of magazines and journals, the most recent of which are London Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Anglican Theological Review, Crannog, Agenda, and The Raintown Review.
O There is a fearsome order in the resonance of things: mathematics in the singing of a bumblebee’s short wings; a universe of numbers trapped beneath a cello’s strings and the octave from the tonic is the black and white that brings eight and five conjoined in cycled sonnets sung for kings; the music of the sphere in Schumann’s tightly measured rings is thirteen hertz per second in successive shifting swings.
__________________________________ The gold has passed us by, though Sibelius in Belshazzar used it with all the colours of the scale; his repertoire of e and φ like Satie’s key ‘Morceaux en Formes de Poire ‘ formed harmonies that weaved in Fibonacci’s avatar, which, multiplied sequentially, became the me so fa.
Fea ture d Poet M a g g i e
H a r r i s
Maggie Harris has been writing and performing as a poet since 1991. She has performed her work across the UK, and in Ireland, Europe and the Caribbean. She has published five collections of poetry and her recent work is a memoir, Kiskadee Girl, Kingston University Press. Her latest performance is a collaboration, Daughters, with Kent poets Vicky Wilson and Frances Knight and dancer Aimee Watmore.
Waiting for Daddy Daddy will soon come I know it I know it Even now his wheels are turning out of the bauxite dust Over the airstrip onto the pitch tar road Daddy will soon come I know I know it Even now his wheels are turning as I looking out The gallery windows he’s steering sharp to miss the potholes And the chickens and the children standing in the dust He might be dreaming of home even as I am dreaming of him My daddy will come soon I know he driving past the school Where I will go one day only he won’t know that because my daddy won’t come home He speeding up the streets of Stanleytown where the bus goes Where my sister rides her bike looking for boys and someone will see the pick-up truck spin off the road with my daddy at the wheel, his hat, the epaulettes and they will say the Captain’s going home I guess and daddy will come home speeding through the streets and turn into our pot-hole road and there I will be waiting, swinging on the gate so it open wide and his pickup truck will turn into the yard and I will say my daddy has come home my daddy has come home.
Even as I sleep Even as I sleep the mountains sing I have not yet had my fill The trees like windswept soldiers Brace their march against the hill They sing against my blue-veined skin With throats of bark and honeyed wood And fill my ear like promises Like hymns.
How do I love you? How do I love you? Let me count the ways – Your picture’s on my bedroom wall Your socks are on the chaise How do I love you? Let me count the ways I love you for your stubble I love you for your gaze Your name falls always from my lips My mind is in a daze I fold your likeness in the sheets My origami phase How I do love you! With the sun’s glare and the wind’s strength The lifeboat’s launch and the rain’s torrent With a cat’s soft paws and a tiger’s leap And the whoosh of a bar-b-q’s flare With the last ferrero and warm toes on cold white sheets So do I love you And always will.
Recapturing the feminine I for one, always appreciated doors opened for me Seats vacated, and to be bought lunch. My equality in this marketplace never depended On the demise of gentlemen. We who never had to tie ourselves to railings Or march, inherited a limitless horizon. But the feminine, always fathomless and powerful as oceans Holding moons and mind transfixed Provoked wars simply with the terror of its beauty. Remember this, young sisters, when your harridan mouths Gob and roar and scream your independence Fuelled by the brief promise of a short skirt And an even shorter night.
Before you left for the coast Before you left for the coast ... you returned my letters to me A great wad weighed down in your arms like shopping. Your shoes were shone Your hair smoothed Your eagerness to leave as brazen as a balloon Tugging at its string. I did not hold you with my eyes Did not remind you with the uncrossing of my thighs But offered you instead the smile reserved for goodbyes Turned my thoughts away from suns and moon and tides.
Spirits Let me rock then, in the cradle of my imaginings Tears like showers of rain, springs, waterfalls Let me lift my face like a child Like a young wolf to the moon My throat full of gospel songs Let my cheeks be as soft as turned earth My lips bruised as plums Let me trace each brook to its source Find there that first cry from the heart. Gods have dwelled here Roamed with the full force of battle Sent their messengers before them In an array of disguises Primeval, battle-worn, whistling Through trees and stone, Old Testament To the bone. Lilith dancing like Isadora, Isis a disco diva Mary with her pained son. Theresa, Bernadette, all perched on my altar Amongst the mascara and the rosary And an emissary from the East Held fast in my kohl-rimmed eyes and blue laugh. Incantations tumbled like corn Its music borne on beads and trembling In Hallelujahs, Hare Khrisnas, Oms. Then Reason and Enlightenment, Descartes, Kant, Darwin, Mill and from the West of Africa, the drum. Oh spirits, leave me be.
Feet pace the stone floor Feet pace the stone floor Hands pull back the curtains The trees are still there Tall and full of menace Fingernails itch To touch the sky These walls hold me close In their embrace Each day they hold me Closer still I understand now Those women wandering streets With invisible companions Immersed in vibrant conversations At the very tops of their voices.
Aura Dove- Conscious Mind
Fe ature d Photo S h a d o w
M o n s t e r
Chel Eshva Negus
Chel is a student at the University of Creative Arts specialising in the medium of digital photography. Her art delves into the realm of the unconscious, exploring the surreal, the uncanny and the macabre, a dimension limited only by the imagination. Taking inspiration from visual artists such as Gregory Crewdson Her work has theatrical feel to it and an atmospheric use of light and shadow. She seeks to invoke a sense of wonder and curiosity with every image she creates. To regress the viewer to a fantasy world suppressed since childhood.
Chel Eshva Negus -
- Shadow Monster
Translated Works By
Anzhelina Polonskaya Translated by Andrew Wachtel
Angelina Polonskaya ( 1969) was born in Malakhovka, a small town near Moscow. Since 1998, she has been a member of the Moscow Union of Writers and in 2003, Polonskaya became a member of the Russian PENcentre. In 2004 an English version of her book, entitled “A Voice,” appeared in the acclaimed “Writings from an Unbound Europe” series at Northwestern University Press. This book was shortlisted for the 2005 Corneliu M Popescu Prize for European Poetry in Translation and for the American Association of Teachers of Slavic and East European Languages (AATSEEL) prize for literature in translation, The Rockefeller Award.
So Now the Soldiers Have Gone So now the soldiers have gone and no one’s left. They ate and drank here, here they spat on the floor, while you touch my forehead and lips – neither Polish nor Russian. It’s a strange Sunday, like a wrist without a pulse, where should we go, dear landlady? We’d intended to live for a long time, offering some kind of bread, some kind of water –offering. Wait a bit, the forests have their phthalic depths, the soldiers are gone but the wolves have certainly remained. You’ll be like a bright summer noon, with an open collar, someone will enter without a fight and you’ll tell all. No blood and no violence, but you won’t lie, you can’t, the soldiers stand and watch— they never left.
Previously published in The Malahat Review (2010) Canada
Snow (Monologue) Were my dad alive, I’d say to him: “There’s snow everywhere. It’s drifting so high, papa, you can’t find a clear place on my body. I’m beat. And there’s nowhere to go.” And do you know (let’s suppose) how he’d answer? “Give me the shovel, my girl? Clearing snow’s not women’s work?” Oh, no. You didn’t know my dad. He said: “There’s no salvation in little things. I knew that and, calculating, I watched the snow fall. The window frames and the pines that weren’t cut down in summer are all buried, and there’s a hole in my left temple. Believe me, your dad did all he could— I rubbed my eyes, then disappeared.”
Still Life with Potato Field Tell me, why is there war if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay? The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t guess who’ll be lying down in the blue beet tops by morning. A cold year. The train cars smell of rubber boots, bodies, and exhalation. A distant port wanders with ships and in the crowd it’s easy to pass as a refugee. Time marches on. The clock face strides with metal arrows, like a crane in the lagoon. The bazaars are filled with traders, while the moon’s saber edge slashes the cigarette smoke. The house is like a white fish diving into the mist. It’s been a long time since there was light in the window. At the edge of the field a female figure freezes, hiding potatoes in the folds of her skirt. In the leaden air, where there’s no place for lungs, you hear only the clang of a gate’s hasp. For an instant the face looks out into the night, then hides its grief behind sticky fingers.
Previously published in Poetry New Zealand ( 2006) New Zeland
(...) The Sea has neither swans nor bright bedrooms, With whom will we fly and where will we lie down? It’s fate, my angel, but when enmeshed you can’t avoid calling the doctor, or laughing off the answer. You’re aging. These hands are aging. Instead of down the swan’s nights shine white, while you have no one in your open heart— just a foolish sailboat trying to escape.
Hourglass Put your hands on my shoulders— and we’ll greet one more star. We’ll spend one more night making a feast for hungry eyes on the white field of your chest, gathering moisture for our lips on the moonlit slopes of your knee. And when time comes to take us - to break us apart, we’ll pray to turn our hearts into the dead sand that has poured thousands of times from one side to the other. Or into the drone of dead time?
Previously published in International Poetry Review (2006), USA
Rob AC - Self Portrait
Defeat of Barbarism He begged he begged they searched him & emptied him he terrified he begged from the ditch from the wound begging begging as they celebrated begging begging hands up frozen begging & afraid frozen begging as he bled through widespread alliances as he bled through US backing as he begged from the ditch of ruin for the terror passed for the terror yet to come begging & begging the hauled-up him up they threw him down removed his pants & the bursts the bursts while he begged of laughter of shots of emotionless indifference-with-results pulled to his feet from the ditch today begged for mercy begged for anything a man makes allegiances you know a man makes alliances & pledges all even from the ditch even before he concedes to death even as he witnesses how it lives in the casting stares of his plundered comrades a man can change you know so he begged for all even knowing this was war even knowing how peace was ever held in captivity yet he rose his hands & begged & surrendered all before the rifle shots & those of the photographer who found him for the New York Times hands up frozen in death looking a little like Big Foot after the battle at Wounded Knee
Morning Epistle in the Month of 2000 Bombs
October 23, 2001 Afghanistan: Operation Enduring Freedom, et al Reading today how B-52s dropped Smart Bombs and C-17s pre-packaged snacks Reading we may never be the same—(as if we’d changed)—after these attacks I wondered which foods could buffer any such counterattack, retaliation, defence or counter-offensive even as between all lost and everything begun since 1 Tower 2 came down fall pushes on continuing its nothing new preparation toward spring— where today from between the branches of a distant ash a chickadees’ vocalize a bird calling :one to no one until one called back— Writing I wonder what is heard if even obliged by so small a bird whose music stilled my nerves reminding me of something else If the poem calls If the cadence of a song is like the curled tongue that from its own edges pushes out its sound saying: further or flattens to insist on: possibility is it then sufficient to merely hope that from this fragile web or through the utterly imposed a post-bombing snack is at all enough to balance the delicate matters of human to human or bird to bird or tip to unbearable wing
Leigh Herrick 28
The Opening of a Book The opening of a book is as revealing as the ancient peering inside a womanâ€™s wound. There is no revolution cynical enough to succeed any longer, never count on change. The fruity, bourgeois pursuits of liberals can only be compared to the conservativeâ€™s love for despotism. Cultural conversion will be centuries long in transition, but will only begin when human empathy is considered a replacement for the old Gods. I am no longer oppressed by governments or corporations, but by the idiocy of my lower-middle class upbringing. The body tires of constant failure as it is generally agreed that an age similar to 65 should be the beginning of the farewell to slavery. Consistent with torture, the mind (which longed for rest) now demands more suffering.
Joel Ormsby - Word Misery
s - Untitled
Aura Dove - Psychedeliseed
Walked: We walked. Tracing the veins out from the pulse of the CBD Found ourselves under concrete Graffiti spattered, heard our echo sought refuge from the townâ€™s heartbeat. Sometimes we only have footsteps Today, the story behind your shattered smile. How easily people break, and suddenly. Heartless, faceless, heavily booted they didnâ€™t like the look of you. Fisted, they beat you down, kicked your head until your face caved in and you curled up spitting blood on a visit back to your home-town. Helen Blomfield
Luna Bee- Bums, Boobs and Bellies
She. And so. .she cuts her hair in memory of Samson and his Delilah, Past memories all strewn on the floor behind her. She looks in the mirror and quietly knows no checkered history of games once played could ever begin to make her change For she is her and her is me Her reflection now is all there be.
Nikki Purrs Soft nursing 5 solid minutes of purr paws paddling like a kayak competitor against ripples of my 60 year old river rib cageI feel like a nursing mother but Iâ€™m male and I have no nipples. Sometimes I feel afloat. Nikki is a little black skunk, kitten, suckles me for milk, or affection? But she is 8 years old a cat. Iâ€™m her substitute mother, afloat in a flower bed of love, and I give back affection freely unlike a money exchange. Done, I go to the kitchen, get out Fancy Feast, gourmet salmon, shrimp, a new work day begins.
Michael Lee Johnson
Charley Plays Crippled, in Chicago, with arthritis and Alzheimerâ€™s, in a dark rented room, Charley plays melancholic melodies on a dust-filled harmonica he found abandoned on a playground of sand years ago by a handful of children playing on monkey bars. He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local market and the skeleton bones of the fish show through. He lies on his back, riddled with pain, pine cones fill his pillows and mattress; praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beads Charley blows tunes out his celestial instrument notes float through the open window touch the nose of summer clouds. Charley overtakes himself with grief and is ecstatically alone. Charley plays a solo tune.
Michael Lee Johnson
Inviting in the Cat Zarni’s hedgehog fixation was rudimentarily fabulous, but financially rash. Spiny mammal farming, the critters’ raucous celebrations aside, proved expensive; they fashioned their own hats only for parties. Otherwise, those prima donnas insisted on designer goods. To forestall further loss, Zarni invited in the cat.
Parsimony Plagued Racheli Parsimony plagued Racheli, who, otherwise enamored with twittering, often sent her seemingly uxorious husband, Stephen, demands for flowers, furs, and funny salutations. For $29.95 and a fake Internet address, he bought amity. Again a flophouse recluse, he enjoyed caffeine’s heartburn, sugar’s irritability, and his gun’s silencer.
Aysha Long - Untittled
From the Diary of a Sleep Disordered Undercover Agent ‘closed my eyes at noon. Awoke at sunrise, two states away. Their Aquarium Full of Millipedes Her corazón kissed her wherever and whenever she desired. Compensating for a testicle crushed, while riding a mechanical bull, he gladly imparted frequent, public affections. Consequently, she was surprised when he demanded that she relinquish her share in ownership of their aquarium full of millipedes. Booting the Baby’s Buggy Clarabelle insisted on lifting the perambulator “all by self.” The boot, to which she reached, was a half meter higher than my girl. Had I not surreptitiously enhanced her design, she might have folded in Thomas, too. Insufficient Acquiescence “Resignation accepted,” scribbled the Dean, “not for gender discrimination, but for insubordination. You, my dear, wolves would attack.” He offered, as she closed his office door, “why couldn’t you have known better? Quietly, he addended, “nasty woman.” Prosecution proved ineffective; the school’s top official, an ex-governor, commanded audiences with the nation’s sitting president. What’s more, lawyers were disinterested in contingency work. The mass media were both costly and biased. Whereas a mediation centre ruled in her favour, it was only after she signed away rights to future litigation. An “anonymous” tip to the regional EEOC, though, more than sufficed.
Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor - Toking With Howard Marks
The Lecture One eye on the clock The other on the teacher, Holding back a yawn Later, the book As if not enough time Flowing like the James River Water from the kettle Everything worthy Everything was heard.
Danny P. Barbare
Aura Dove- Healing Mandala
Fe a tured Art is t R o s s e t t a
B a k e r
Rosetta Baker is a Kent-based photographer and creator of Rosetta Takes Photos - a local company focussing mainly on events, weddings, and portraiture. Rosetta’s photographic interest started from a young age, but began in earnest when she was told by a world-renowned photographer of the National Geographic that “it was a difficult world to get into, so [she] may as well not bother”. Her style is that of the bizarre, and beautiful. With no professional training, Rosetta concentrates on pure colour, light, and form to achieve her images. Also, any excuse to dress up. Rosetta has taken photos in a professional context for many companies, having had her work used in advertising, and turned into large canvasses to create atmosphere in (for example) local pub, The Foundry Brewbar. Rosetta is very interested in displaying her work to a greater number of people, in particular her 52 Weeks project, which she holds great pride in.
Rossetta Baker - Untitled
er - Untitled
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52 Weeks by Rossetta Baker Social-i Publications presents â€˜52 Weeksâ€™ by Rossetta Baker. A photo stor y of one year of her life. In this, the first publication from Social-i Publications, we explore a year in the life of Rossetta Baker with 52 self portraits to mark her emotional journey through the year. Keep following us on our website www.social-i.co.uk and our facebook group for updates on the release date and where to get hold of copies.
Rossetta Baker - Untitled
Social-i on Tour Social-i is where you’ll find ergonomic art for odd shaped people, and a whole plethora of words and pictures from a whole host of very talented people. This magazine is a platform to showcase work from around the world as well as the work of our artists from the travelling gallery.
We are a collective, an amorphous blob of creativity. We are painters, set designers, photographers, tailors, sculptors, printers, makers, carpenters and poets and writers. Travelling the earth in our winged time machine we spread artistic knowledge and resourcefulness. Unfunded and unhinged we pull it all together to generate spaces filled with energy, colour and ethereal experiences. Whether you wish to draw a dream capture a poem, get messy with clay or
create an impression in alginate we help you along the journey. With humour and jollity we go about this, all the while with the highest regards for our artists (most of the time).
As well as the travelling gallery and workshop space we have a publishing arm which we run our own poetry and art submissions publication in which you are reading now. We are now beginning to release other publications, in hardcopy form, beginning with ‘52 weeks’ by Rossetta Baker If you wish to book Social-i for your festival or event, would like to buy or commission a piece of work or just fancy a chat please go to our website www.social-i.co.uk or call us on 07875 608530 to speak to us directly.