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The Neglected Ratio

Volume 1 Issue 2 April 2011

A Magazine for Culture - Politics - Fiction - Poetry


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This is an electronic publication available free of charge on www.theneglectedratio.wordpress.com

Cover Art by Nagendra Paudyal

All intellectual work, photography and art published herein retains copyright of the contributors.

The Neglected Ratio Š Sana Rafiq (2011)


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Contents Stephan Anstey

hinges & knobs in a world without locksmiths, being a tom cat, Lubrication, Friction, and the Fiction of Kindness

p5

Chris Mansel

The Rest Is Silence, Diffractions of Glen Gould cruelty or Sergi Einstein in America (for Neeli Cherkovski)

p6

John Sibley

An Intimate Cannibalism, Attempts

p7

Nagendra Paudyal

Art

p8

Muhammed Riyaz

The Ultimate Self-Analysis - A Review

p9

David Cooke

Nephomancy, Ripping the Belly

p 10

A. Molotkov

On Becoming a Memory, Unchosen

p 11

Barry Carr

Art

p 12

Krishnendu Piplai

The Kiss of Death, locus amoenus’s tragedy

p 13

Doctori Sadisco

This is the Sky of my Endless Dream The Lost Worlds

p 14

A.J. Huffman

By Hammer and Hand, Like a Fly in a Highball, Oversational

p 16

April A.

Changes, From the Heart

p 17

David Alpaugh

Fire and Light

p 18

Barry Carr

Art

p 19

Nicole Taylor

Audience Missing, Name Falling, Nancy’s Poem

p 20-21

Contributors

p 22-24

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Editor’s Note... Dear Readers, First off, I am excited to be bringing out the second issue of The Neglected Ratio e-zine and have so many wonderful contributors’ work present in this copy. We had people send us work from: Nepal; India; Salem & Portland, Oregon; Florida; San Francisco Bay Area; Milwaukee, Wisconsin; York, Pennsylvania; St. Petersburg, etc. I hope you enjoy the wonderfully crafted poetry in this issue and the eclectic art fusions! I am looking forward to more contributions in fiction and critical essays pertaining to political and literary themes in the future. I encourage readers to send their work for publication! Thank you, Sana Rafiq


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Stephen Anstey hinges & knobs in a world without locksmiths Grapes & grape leaves Carved carefully in pine, symbols of some other life bitter or sweet, I do not know. Grim men with bony hands crossed fingers like scythes, blocking anything like luck a guard against the little deaths that come from entering a room without any notion of the key. Roses grow, twist, thorn-prick into the hours and the corners and keep secret the public pains of brick, broke and broken. "Darling," she says in her sweet voice, "Darling, whatever have they built here? What is this place? Why do the roses climb the fence and why are those grapes all unpicked?" He is silent, looking from there up through the spidered windows into the locked cold room full of soul-less filthy shattered artifacts that no one can know. All of this speculation leads only to retreat. She succumbs to the fragrant petals turns away, lured by the best hours and the blissful fermenting then away back along the red brick nowhere.

being a tom cat

I sing a song of meow long unworded words proclaiming the mystery of need. of want. of me. I sing with recklessness and the joy of an alley filthy with desperation with hurt. with loss. with me. I sing beside an empty bowl, short angry words without anything but meaning and rage. and hunger. and me.

Lubrication, Friction & the Fiction of Kindness Three frogs and an ape walk into a bar the bartender offers them a beer the ape takes the cup of beer holds it up, gives thanks and drinks it much to the chagrin of the frogs. Now the ape, a little tipsy, demands another and the bartender says, "That'll be $5." "Hey Man, why are you being a jerk! I haven't changed at all and yet, you're treating me differently." The bartender just shrugs, "Your friends left, so something must have changed."


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The Rest Is Silence they say the atrocities mostly were contained to the interior rooms of the home only a few times did his screams of intuition escape the boundary he had set for himself he would read the same passages over and over touching himself deeply as he knew it would running his hands over the paintings that covered the walls imagining the hills and valleys of acrylic exist in the exterior and he is there he remembered what Freud said about a hostile life and thought to himself over and over that he was wrong the proofs, like flashes of a camera are reflected in the interior of his mind in the light when his mother died...he finally understood what Shakespeare put into Hamlet's final passing the rest is silence

Diffractions of Glenn Gould I've seen the forest as barren as the scan of the heavens leaves falling stimulating my vision as much as a Chickering piano being thrown from a decaying star throwing rice into a night fire will create a sound that if repeated will resemble dust being thrown onto glass from a great height or so I found

Chris Mansel this to be true, in a dream You could say I was fortunate and then you could say I was lost as I stood at a deserted turn around counting the amount of turns it took for a car's wheel before it looked as if it was revolving backward a lamp in a small room is not unlike a clock that doesn't keep good time a window to a river crossing resembles the strings of a piano just a roof doesn't repel drops of rain, it drains them How immediately dangerous what silence can become.

cruelty or Sergi Eisenstein in America (for Neeli Cherkovski) colors of hooves being torn from the rider framing the corresponding fall from the hill fragments, a series of prisons where microphone placement shutters against the sun the composer falling to bone images of the scaffolding falling into the sea as the montage begins dust blowing into the lens ( colored by stigmata ) the camera is pointed at me with each jerking motion of the skin the music permeates my grave has slipped into the Dakotas where I was never alive


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John Sibley An Intimate Cannibalism

Attempts

Through the lackluster light a bird the size of sixty birds blackly descends on my laundry line

I am most defined by this hatred of fire escapes and the concession of sorting waves by their direction.

and begins to feast on the bird the size of no true bird that I’d just drawn for you from distant memory

Why not strike out for all shores at once with the honest ferocity of attempt and climb from amnesia wearing only your socks, carrying a net?

on this forgotten anniversary.

Nobody leaves the night in pieces anymore.

I concede there is no true nudity left. I make love dressed in all the world’s love making. The pieces of other bodies combine perfectly into my outline. So I try to climb as far from myself as stairs allow. I’m huffing by the third floor. The railings are rusted. It’s always raining. And the roof will only be so high.


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Nagendra Paudyal


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Muhammed Riyaz The Ultimate Self Analysis – A Review We all know the universe is full of mysteries. Humans are no exception to this phenomenon. Hence we tend to ask certain questions to our immediate relationships from our young age. To say, who am I? What is the purpose of my life? What does my future hold for me? Similarly nonstop questions may overflow from our sub-conscious mind out of curiosity, anxiety, sympathy, etc, etc; these may differ from individual to individual. Hence we get similar as well as conflicting answers. Then we will be in a dilemma to recognize the ultimate truth since it cannot be multifaceted. At this point of time we really go back to ground zero and compare all the answers and judge it based on what our mind says by applying common sense. This is the first step in self analysis, which every one of you must have realized by now. I am sure you all must have a similar story. This is my part on the topic. Hence let me share with you my transformation from an outspoken child to a matured Journalist & humanist. Initially, I got only a few years to live with my parents who were residing in U.A.E. I was brought up then in India by my close relatives. But I didn’t receive enough care and the support up to my expectation from them or from any others. Hence I used to feel solo and think too much and observe various cultures and life styles of many other people. Apart from that, I used to read a lot from newspapers & books out of my own Interest. Hence, I used to take my own decision and express my view points in all matters with frankness and courage. For this, I was termed as an “Outspoken person” or as a "Rebel" by my relatives, friends and also in the Educational Institutions which I underwent studies. But actually, I used to take the good part of their advice. But they never knew about it during those times. Gradually this rebellious nature and also my outspoken view points helped me to gain access to the Press Reporting and Journalism career. Hence now, they have realized it by practically seeing my achievements gained as an International Journalist, Human rights activist and Social worker. They have all understood now very well about my personality, which I developed through years with lots of patience, hard work and sheer self confidence. Lately my view points and reaction have adapted into more liberal and moderate in comparison to my earlier personality. With this kind of evolved mentality, courage & positive confidence, I recently attended a work shop named ‘Life Transformation’ from ‘The Aligned living team’. The experience, I underwent during the course of the workshop was mind blowing and it made me realize & differentiate my real personality apart from what I achieved in my profession. In short, I found out the real me within me. Human Intellect has evolved through millions of years in terms of knowledge and experience in various spheres. But how to apply it perfectly as possible as we can in our life in this fast changing Modern era is always the ultimate confusion for all. Hence I found this program solves that issue through ‘Nine natural basic & perfect principles’ which can be practically applied by every one of us and is a must for our overall success which in turn is in harmony with nature and human conscience. I have found the ultimate innner peace applying those principles in my life and initiated a change of mindset. If I can change, you can change and everybody can change. (Note: Shoot your comments at riyazppmc@gmail.com to attend the 'Aligned Living' workshop and be part of this ‘Global movement’ for real ‘Human Transformation’. Career Profile : ( www.linkedin.com/in/riyazppmc)


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David Cooke

Nephomancy On your back you can see them your futures like a palimpsest of clouds

Telling you this sky is cirrus and woulds blow out while wills blow in and weather or not you need an answer

Over a woad of sky obscured cumuliform and cuneiform mare tails question

What will you do?

What do you do?

Skyscrapers by definition rip the belly of sky like a contract

Asking not with cocktail party patrony but with a whinny of helplessness as when you ask yourself What do I do? Behind them all the roiling glaciers of sun reaching through A couvade of space only to be halted by this fish fleshed firmament Mammatus and anvils in the wings their stilted dialogue belies the social workings before each phrase Are you? Asked almost five hundred times with eyes with chin with stand With hold with draw with child-like honesty a similitude of courtesy when clear skied you asked

Ripping the Belly of Sky

their stories tear up the coming storms with condensation our conversations drop to a street of knees with our eyes, unshaven lies our soles in our mouths, we tumble like scarabs rolling our talks in piles till we can’t stand it and stand ourselves up with under bellies out front, both shield and target, us both Hectors in Achilles armor knowing if we go at the throat we’ll drag around the city

What would I do? Fate and fret locked and swelling winds gall a mare’s nest of clouds

by our tendencies never to bury the nit in sanity


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left with what we say to stomach the boulder we will need to be

Unchosen

need to push, to rip the belly of sky from Scratch again.

the river drags its feet as it tries all these years to run away from me

A. Molotkov On Becoming a Memory I wrap myself I a cloud and float away like that kiss from years ago nothing bothers me the silence empties itself into the cup of your hand – and time is useless when nothing remains you wrap yourself in a cloud and float effortless like a memory or a life or a meaning

you left the soles of your shoes on that small island inside my blood stream time walks around me on frozen stilts I emit distress signals and fall asleep unchosen when I remember this you will see my face for what it used to be when I still had faith

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Barry Carr


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Krishnendu Piplai The Kiss of Death Death is my harlot... she seductively draws me closer to her bed of iron maiden , mesmerizing me with her immortal beauty , telling me we will be together for eternity.. she opens the nail studded lid of the bed and pulls me in.. i taste her moist lips as i run my finger through her cloudy locks, i could feel venom pouring into my lips , intoxicating me.... the lid falls , plunging me into the infinite darkness as i could feel the nails making their way through my body..

locus amoenus`s tragedy i set ablaze the Garden of Eden; ending the illusion of paradise .. which man seeks but never finds, as it wakes up to an apocalyptic dawn locus amoenus smokes to dust, i wash my hands with Adam`s blood. i lie on the carpet of ashes, drinking the tears of the blood red sky


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Doctori Sadisco THIS IS THE SKY OF MY ENDLESS DREAM how effortless the wind's kisses and caresses on a balmy day in June when all but one tree sways in time to its breathing the stoic pine whose branches require a more regal storm i have moved passed your hunter's snare and set up shop in the sun where the birds gossip overhead always overhead sharpening their beaks on those stories told and retold so that lies become the sharpening stones of a false proof in a temporal world in a livingroom where each perception is rooted to a stone falling step by step into a dry river bed the wind lifts my eyes to see the sky always the same and always new i scan the shore to where dams are built and brown fur shines in the warmth so that water swells to fill the dry place and make it rich with life this is the place of my imagination to which all are invited and when i blink worlds shift this is the sky of my endless dream the force which drives through that sky direct from my beating heart singles you out to give you of itself what you may glean not lies lying there like half truths but whole round utopias carefree and in which everyone reaches their

their dream goal not by comparison and not by contest but from the growing itself that source endowed with its own high sky

THE LOST WORLDS What is all this I am dragging with me into the future? I have decided to let you go. What you added when you added it, beauty and friendship, affection and trust. Bye bye. What of that stuff which smells bad and is following me down these newly paved streets, like a pack of unwashed dogs growling now and then at my heels? Haven't these same heels turned into gold once or twice, long after they were dog shit, long after I stopped at the curb to scrape off the bottom of my shoes, dragging them through the newly mown grass while the yelping mutts locked in my memory burst forth from the ground, zombie flowers from lost worlds now owned by centipedes and roaches from the tenements of a fetid city. One which enslaved my heart, tied me to poverty and offered me morsels of the tireless flame of others' striving.


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The lost worlds fall down past where memory can reach. They fall through all my prior errors of judgment. There in a confessional of someone else's religion, I sinned against my compatriots; youthful trust which turned into betrayal, and made a weight to drag the darkness up around me so that I could shiver and know its intimate cold. Sorrow leaps forth which could be my own unless it pours from the mouth of another. A fountain carved into cherubs and a small boy pissing on those who would be friends. Not that. The dark shroud hides not them but myself, in the tomb of my own shadow, speckled with my version of truth, and the willfulness which makes enemies of the timid. I break, not because I am made of glass, but because I am Sisyphus under the weight of ugly days within an ugly world, of liars and thieves, gossip and anger moving in its own river, on a trajectory of worse and worse torment. Not that, but where I rise into the passion of my insights and love. Where I feel the sweetness of a tiny bird above me singing, Where there is liberty and hope churning new fires out of the old, committed to the alchemy of the threshold of each person's becoming.

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That is where I place my faith. My trust in the heart which found itself, and when tested shows only its fearless light. ****** Against my fingertips these lingering thoughts take on letters They drop one by one through invisible keys Like old type-faces which fax my heart to anyone who'll listen Sounding these words in their minds or not at all I am so alone that the others think I oppose them My makeshift attempts to convey my thoughts seem to offend I have gone insane and returned only to find you talking to yourself And my hands drip not words but flames and irritants How have I offended thee pray tell What as a small child in a body enlarged by time have I done Transfixed by deeper feelings than should be allowed inside any animal Have I transgressed? Have I shot you down in a diatribe which is forgotten? Have I turned my back and walked into the darkness away from your sweetening light? The silence which creates absence confounds the essential mood I want to weep to brood to pout to be sorrow but for what? I have moved because a flood carried me, not the written word. In my heart you were all carried Loved and cherished while masked by uncontrolled fear In a minor key of working life and in a place


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where I was made new I saw the necessary gifts unfold in their time and come and recede

Like a Fly in a Highball Dance down the center of the dots.

Now there are old mistakes that fall like dead letters and stale dreams From which I turned and walked away to haunt the way seconds haunt A clock the way type-faces reincarnate until their very ink Hardens to stone in the sleep of a forgotten life I am locked inside the dream of those stones which once were words And I will never escape their wrath as I start anew.

Make it sharp. Like a razor before its blade. It cuts my eyes in two. Or three. Thousands of pieces at peace. All images in their own light. But still part of the whole. The thing that’s not me. Though I often see it in my mirror.

****

A.J. Huffman By Hammer And Hand She sits in a pool. Of glass. Counting fingers.

Snarling bloody hate. That is the shape of fear. Turn it around and the picture is clearly dead. But aren’t we all? At least, in our heads.

Oversational

Lost. She knows they are not hers. Her touch is too dull to leave such damage. These belong to regret. Which is new. And apparently missing. The depths of her blue.

Set free in the light. It isn’t right. I am not a member. And do not belong among the golden-haired world. Of angels. Though I am a saint. But only to sinners. And sins alike.


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Your look in the window still shows. It's fixed in the soul, it's fixed in the glass, This moment can linger for good either pass, It's changing. Well, destiny knows.

I prefer the night. Its hollow can swallow any sound. Even the screams

From The Heart

I mirror. Precisely.

I'm here in the corner, devoured by cold, My little ribbed shell hides a desperate sigh, It holds an enigma for you to unfold Until I'm asleep to your breath's lullaby.

Rolling gold. Into a thorny halo. And driving deeper

My soul is rushing beyond the extremes, Revealing the vibe that is hard to appease, But once you discover the door to my dreams, My consciousness lives through a moment of peace.

into the death that holds my head. ***

April A.

Whenever my lips start exploring your skin, They bleed unexplainable bitter remorse My poison leaves stains, and it feels from within, But lips ever sealed do appear much worse.

Changes *** I'm looking around and searching you there, The bright prospect lights only frown as I stare, My heart's getting lost in the shatters. I know you'll pick them all up when you come, And I'll never mind if you steal at least some, Just keep them, and nothing else matters. Those white and green lights got my secret revealed, I'll write it all down and cherish it sealed, One day it will find destination. Whoever discovers the mystery penned, They won't guess a word, I have got it all planned, This madness becomes my salvation. The eyes of the suburbs will warm and appease My heart, ever-aching, with evident ease.


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David Alpaugh FIRE and LIGHT On his PBS special, Dale Chihuly wonders why fellow artisans have yet to follow his daring lead into the ether of a shiny new art: filling glass with NEON gas (or paying staff to work the pump). Suffering (so i guess) from Anxiety of Influence Dale has nothing to say to those who lit his incandescent way: ignoring the father of the neon lamp (Georges Claude, way back in 1902) plus thousands of obscure illuminati who filled tons of glass with noble gas long before Chihuly came along— at times climbing high as Michelangelo to beckon needy pilgrims down below. Who doesn’t prefer art for art’s sake? Except when on a raw winter night still alive after skidding on black ice we lift survivor’s eyes and see: JOE’S BAR AND GRILL LIVE DANCING GIRLS! MOTEL VACANCY


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Barry Carr


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Nicole Taylor Audience Missing No busy people are here, not in this line, nor in this one either. Crazy, mean, bitchy people Missing here too. I’m near to no one who is negative. No one saying “Have a nice day.” or “I’ll try to call.” No one named Frankenstein, nor a horse face or bird brain like tonight’s Seinfeld rerun. Bush or Nixon caricatures, Stereotypes or handicaps hidden unless…. Zero long traffic or grocery lines, confusion or contradiction is all gone. Busy attitudes gone. Interested readers gone.

Name Falling The names went up to the penthouse. Names belonging to: people, their places, their businesses, their products, … fell from the window and landed on the sidewalk like that woman on this week’s murder mystery show. You know the show type where the investigation was impending, suicide or homicide, by name or fact dropping. I never “get” the plot or idea. Falling they yell such things as: “This town is too small, boring, or dirty.” “She is too negative or too busy.” “She is crazy, bitchy, or mean.” “He is too sensitive.” “Is that a Sony TV?” “Are those Nikes?” “Are those Birks?” or “Is that a new flat screen projection TV for the wall.” It may be a crazy idea but I want to kill this ideal. I want to push those words over the edge then revive and convert them to a more positive translation.


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Nancy’s Poem Nancy, 75, friend of friends/ artist In 1981, twenty eight years ago, I lived near Mary in Oakland. We became best friends. I introduced her to her husband. I am “loyal but skittery.” maybe another dog sign as me? My home is “attractive but eccentric.” My art is attractive, quick, self-educated, self-promoted. Our neighborhood was “dodgy and dangerous.” We watched the cul-de-sac for Afghani terrorists selling drugs and women. Mary did not understand or hear my fear or voices. I know internal voices and internal electronic sensations. I like to talk but my boyfriend likes his silence at times. Mary and I do not talk much anymore. I moved a few times when electrical or security systems worried me: wires and alarms.

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Contributors

Stephan Anstey is the founder of Shakespeare’s Monkeys and Shakespeare’s Monkey Review, both venues primarily for poetry and poets. As an artist, he is focused on spiritual exploration and the celebration of the individual in mankind’s endless war against an increasingly invasive society. Anstey’s art is primarily a combination of poetry, paint and digital collage, some of which is on display at the Arts League of Lowell Gallery on Shattuck Street in Lowell. He lives an idyllic life in the historic mill city of Lowell, Massachusetts with his beautiful and beloved bride Ellen and their talented and wonderful children, Emily, a Classics major at Boston University, and Cameron, an excellent trombonist with many bands at Lowell High School. Chris Mansel is a writer, filmmaker, epileptic, musician, photographer and a permanent outsider for some reason. He is the author of While in Exile: The Savage Tale of Walter Seems, Soddoma: The Cantos of Ulysses, Interviews and two books of photography entitled, No Burden and Ahisma. Along with Jake Berry, he formed the band Impermanence who have released one album, Arito. He releases music under the name dilation Impromptu who have released four albums and have just released a new Cd Indentions On The North Face of Everest. His writing has been published in the Experioddi(cyber)cist, Apocryphal Text, and the Atlantic Press among others. He has made over 260 short films for other artists as well as his own work. John Sibley Williams is a poet and small press publicist residing in Portland, OR. He has a previous MA in Writing and presently studies Book Publishing at Portland State University, where he serves as Acquisitions Manager of Ooligan Press and publicist for Three Muses Press. His poetry was nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Prize and won the 2011 Heart Poetry Award. His chapbooks include A Pure River (The Last Automat Press, 2010), Door, Door (Red Ochre Press, 2011), From Colder Climates (Folded Word, forthcoming), The Longest Compass (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming), and The Art of Raining (The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, forthcoming). Some of his over 100 previous or upcoming publications include: The Evansville Review, RHINO, Rosebud, Ellipsis, Flint Hills Review, and Poetry Quarterly. Muhammed Riyaz is an International freelance Journalist, Press reporter, Writer, Social worker & Human rights activist for the past 10 years who has worked in India, Saudi Arabia & United Arab Emirates. Apart from that, he has gained expertise and owed many designations during these years in various sections of the Corporate world like Media, Sales, Marketing, Public Relations, Business Development, Events, Conference, Career Counseling, Administration, Customer Service, Strategic consulting, Project Handling, Database & Call Management in various industries like Newspapers, Advertising, Event Management & Information Technology. Currently he is a business consultant for several organizations. His core interests are analyzing global political relations between various nations and other burning issues. He writes articles on general topics which are of importance to day to day life of the common man as well as many important topics which are of grave concern to the global community. Apart from these he is a Crime & Investigative reporter too. He is associated with many projects of media and human rights organizations globally. His volunteering activities include participating in various Global Peace, Human Rights & Social rights campaigns. He has actively associated in the last decade on many programs conducted by many Global Organizations viz Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, International Organization for Migration, Red Cross, Journalists against Nuclear weapons, etc. and with prominent people like Prof. Noam Chomsky, MIT,U.S.A (Global political speaker & critic of Imperialist nations).


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Contributors Doctori Sadisco: POEMS OF BLOOD I write poems because I must. People ask me why I write these poems, and I tell them it is in my blood. No other reason. Then I ask them, "Why do you breathe? Is it to live?" I write these poems because they are my breath. I live through these poems which are a transmission from more than I know to what you can find out. I am the poems you see, and they are many. Just as the swarms of cells in my flesh are many, and the swarms of molecules in my cells are many, and the swarms of atoms and subatomic particles in the basic nectar of my being are many. All of these which compose my existence need a voice, this is that voice: Poems of Blood. David Cooke, an evocative and thought provoking writer, received the 2009 Ruth Stone Poetry Prize and a 2010 Pushcart nomination. His poetry takes on varied meanings when read or heard. His facility at blending everyday language, puns, and natural images with the scientific, mythical, and religious is enviable. His work appears in Flatmancrooked, Hunger Mountain, A River & Sound Review, and Heavy Hands Ink. His first chapbook To Sleep From Scratch an homage to ambiguity is in prerelease. Currently, he lives in Portland , Oregon. A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. A. Molotkov is a writer, composer, filmmaker and visual artist, and co-founder of the Inflectionist poetry movement (Inflectionism.com). Born in Russia, he moved to the United States in 1990 and switched to writing in English in 1993. He the author of several novels, short story and poetry collections and the winner of the 2010 New Millennium Writings and the 2008 E. M. Koeppel fiction contests, nominated for a Pushcart. His poem “Being” won second place in the recent Hawaii Review contest. His other fiction and poetry has appeared in over 25 publications, both in print and online. In February 2010, he spearheaded a one-hour poetry and music performance “Love Outlives Us” presented by the Show and Tell Gallery in Portland, OR and repeated on KBOO in June. His web site at www.AMolotkov.com/literature contains links to some of the work previously published online. David Alpaugh is a poet, essayist, dramatist, and songwriter living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Literary Journals that have published his work include Able Muse, The Chronicle of Higher Education, Evergreen Review, The Formalist, Light, Modern Drama, Mudlark, Poetry, Poets & Writers, Rattle, Thema, Twentieth Century Literature, Wisconsin Review, and Zyzzyva. Links to his poetry, essays, songs, poetry readings, and YouTubes are available at his website: www.davidalpaugh.com Barry Carr is the recipient of the National Hallmark Scholastic Art Achievement Award. He wrote and directed the stage play, "Then & Now", he also composed and published a variety of classical music CDs currently on the market. He is currently the CEO, President of TeleVideo Production Co., Inc, A Multi-Media Entertainment Company. Email: telvid@juno.com Nagendra Paudyal is an artist from Nepal. He has a masters degree in Fine Arts and Nepali Literature. "Special Study of Contemporary Fine Art" under the Guidance of Life Member and Former Vice-Chancellor/ Chancellor, R.N.Academy and Renowned Artist and Writer Late Lain Singh Bangdel. He can be reached at shreews@ymail.com Krishnendu Piplai is pursuing his third year bachelor`s degree in VELLORE INSTITUTE of TECHNOLOGY, India. Music and literature are his primary interests inspired by the works of eminent poets like Rabindranath Tagore, Jorge Luis Borges and Michael Madhusudan Dutt. His poems share the darker phases of the human life which are mostly turned a blind eye to.


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April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd. She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes. April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter. Her work can be found on http://april-abd.bravehost.com/Homepage.htm Nicole Taylor has attended college in Salem, Oregon where she lives near her siblings, mother and other British family. She has been published in her college newspaper and a local anthology. Nicole has also won several contests in a local bookstore and her college newspaper. She attends local workshops, readings, and festivals. She is dancer, an artist and a volunteer. Nicole has been published at wordgathering.com, other online sites, Yes Poetry the Silverton Poetry Association, and The Chemeketa VISIONS of Chemeketa Community College. Her poetry has won first place in Chemeketa VISIONS and several places in the Jackson’s Books Annual Poetry Contest, a now closed local independent bookstore and host of the Third Thursday events. She attends at the Third Thursday readings, Third Wednesday, Second Sunday readings, and other area events. In spring 2008 she won an anonymous donation to Vern Rutsala's Silverton Poetry Association class and a scholarship to Lawson Inada's Improvisations and Lively Noise workshop Everyday Poetry at Sitka Center for the Arts and later two short workshops during the Oregon State Poetry Association Spring 2010 Conference in Eugene, with Quinton Hallett and later Matthew Dickman. In spring 2008 she had two poems published online at wordgathering.com and another poem was performed in her DanceAbility dance group, through Chemeketa College. Dancer and poet Ruth has read a few of her poems at campus Soapbox Readings and published one in her poetry e-mail newsletter, Very Local Poetry. Her poems, art and blog can be found at her blog and links: http://www.apoetessanthology.blogspot.com/ and http://alternativereel.com/includes/poetscorner/display_review.php?id=00103

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The Neglected Ratio Š Sana Rafiq theneglectedratio.wordpress.com Massachusetts, United States

The Neglected Ratio ezine issue 2  

Cover art by Nagendra Paudyal

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