IT HAD BEEN WINTER

by Roger Aplon

She came to him followed 

by her mother & her three daughters. He waited

sipping strong black coffee 

& reading the interview with Dayan’s wife &

how the country’s moral 

fabric was being shredded, how power soils men.

It had been winter, they’d

made a pact, to plant in the spring, invite neighbors, 

the way it had been then,

as their grandfather’s dreams had been written down, how

the land would bear fruit for those 

who dig the wells, bend to furrow & set the seed.

In his dream, his kids play hard 

ball in Gaza when Rachides’ play in Tel Aviv.

In his dream, the Likud

who strut like crowned-kings in Jerusalem, ignore 

their spite, open the cells, call

off the dogs – demolish these blood corrupting walls.

Roger Aplon was a founder & editor of Chicago’s CHOICE Magazine with John Logan and Aaron Siskind. He has published one collection of short stories (Intimacies) & nine collections of poetry, most recently, The Man With His Back To The Room (2007) & It’s Only TV (2013). He occasionally reads his work with musicians from Wormhole & Trummerflora Collective in Yokohama, Japan & the US: San Diego & New York City. He was recently awarded an arts fellowship from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, New Mexico.

THE YEAR IN REVIEW IN PICTURES: AN ABRIDGED SECTION

by Alan Catlin

2012 Collage by Laura Serra

“Every war is ironic because every war is worse
than expected.” Paul Fussell 1924-2012


American sailors with captured Somali pirates
Thousands of people return home after ten years of war, Darfur
Frozen child, refugee camp, Afghanistan
Man on fire running, New Delhi
Nik Wallenda highwire walking over Niagara Falls Gorge
Kim Jong reviewing the troops, May Day, North Korea
Human skull and bones mass grave, Mazar I Sharif, Afghanistan
Pussy Riot in Moscow Courtroom cage
Wendy Maritza Rodriquez after seeing the corpse of a relative
Forty six new graves cut in a field, Krymsk, Russia
Statue of Blessed Virgin Mary after the fire, Breezy Point, Queens
Aerial View of Manhattan showing blackout of the city after Sandy
Israeli family braced for incoming rockets near Ashdod
Palestine residents clearing debris, Gaza City, the next day
Night in Syria after airstrike in Aleppo
26 killed, 20 children, 6 adults, Newtown, Connecticut elementary
            school massacre (not shown)


Alan Catlin has published numerous chapbooks and full-length books of poetry and prose, the latest of which, from Pygmy Forest Press, is Alien Nation.

MY SIX-MONTH DAR MEMBERSHIP

by Tricia Knoll

The Joining

Because of a maple fife.

My mother did the hard work
chasing down county seats
tracing that Webb girl,
genes where you got a second toe
longer than your big one.
The shoe fits when you honor that toe.

My grandmother, widow of the warden
wanted the grid filled
back to the Webb House,
that bawdy tavern
Braintree’s seat of battle plans.
My mother did the bidding
of grandmother’s nagging, finding

Jabez Cleveland, a fifer
in the Connecticut 8th regiment
died, thirty-eight at Bunker Hill.
He played a simple six-hole flute
of infantry battle calls
wake ups, soldiers, marching tunes
over greens, through woods
in-the-reeds shepherds songs
legacy of wind in thigh bone.

His thick blood of revolution
cries in my veins
--and in yours--
this must end
and heats me up
too many flag-draped coffins
limb from limb
so much this earth has given

Keep the simple six-hole flute
at your fingertips, my girls,
your pulse a beating drum.

The Parting of Ways

I thought learning
of generals and simple bravery
powder horns and compasses
would help me know

Jabez and his flute
the stepping drum
his blood, mine
that of my girls

Then bowed gray heads
chins to chests with golden pins
ask God
to bless America
there the flute calls me elsewhere

My Jabez plays
a humpback whale song,
a mother’s shrill screams in Gaza
above a bloody baby cradled,
plays for soldiers on both sides
wanting home
for monarchs out of milkweed,
AIDS orphans --
an aching god does not single out
the few

or ignores adopted babies
Bangladesh, Korea,
China, the Ukraine --
their blood becomes
our dearest family blood
they too may
hear a Jabez and his fife

I tuck his tune inside
my breath of reed
and boiling breast
to change direction.



Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet who is also a master gardener and a frequent writer of letters to the editor of The Oregonian. Recent poetry publications include RAIN Magazine, VoiceCatcher, Verseweaver, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Pirene's Fountain.

DECEMBER ONCE AGAIN

by Diana Woodcock

"Jazz Beat" painting by Debra Hurd

What can I write to shed light
on this dark December night?
A Connecticut town grieves for
twenty-six dead—victims of the latest
school shooting.  Tibetans are setting
themselves on fire for freedom,
ninety-five since February, 2009.
Listening to musicians walking the bass,
feathering the line, I let the blues take me,
wrap me in the Great Mystery.

All are one, meant to sing and sway
together, to love.  The blues is all about
love, longing, loss, listening,
improvising, sharing our stories and
struggles, recognizing each other
as sister and brother.

Look into the faces around you
moved by music—see how they
seem familiar?  What better way
to pray for justice, an end to violence,
than to sway to the swing of jazz?

A Pakistani girl shot in the head
because the Taliban cannot understand
her hunger and yearning for higher
learning; they do not recognize
she is their sister.  Let the blues take me.
shape my prayer for peace, lead me
to transcend nihilism, alienation.

Listening to the blues, to the sounds of
migrant workers in this oil-rich desert town.
Thinking about blood diamonds,
underground railroads, women and girls
sold into the sex trade.

This is Advent season, time
for preparing for the light.
Long dark December nights.
Listen to the blues.  Gaza.  Aleppo.
Keep listening.  The call to prayer
mid-day, the mosque.  Revisionist
Zionist leaders.  Jihad.  Refugees.
Cambodian children amputees
still playing among landmines.

Dear jazz drummer, please
keep feathering the line.


Diana Woodcock’s first full-length collection, Swaying on the Elephant’s Shoulders—nominated for a Kate Tufts Discovery Award—won the 2010 Vernice Quebodeaux International Poetry Prize for Women and was published by Little Red Tree Publishing in 2011.  Her chapbooks are In the Shade of the Sidra Tree (Finishing Line Press), Mandala (Foothills Publishing), and Travels of a Gwai Lo—the title poem of which was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  She has been teaching at Virginia Commonwealth University in Qatar since 2004.  Prior to that, she lived and worked in Tibet, Macau and Thailand.

GAZA REDUX

by David Radavich

From Yahoo News: "A Palestinian worker shovels sand as he repairs a damaged smuggling tunnel dug beneath the Egyptian-Gaza border in Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip November 26, 2012. Knee-deep in craters carved out by Israeli air strikes, Palestinians wielded shovels and planks to reopen tunnels used to smuggle in goods from Egypt to Gaza, as international aid agencies raced to replenish Gaza's supplies." Photo by REUTERS/Mohammed Salem.

This time invasion
may work.

Bombing, certainly.

We can’t allow ourselves
to be victimized.

You can’t complain
we shouldn’t assassinate
your leaders.

We have declared you
terrorists.

We define you.
We can kill if we choose.

Don’t blame us
for the consequences.

All blood is
not created equal.


David Radavich’s recent collections are America Bound: An Epic for Our Time (2007), Canonicals: Love’s Hours (2009), and Middle-East Mezze (2011).  His plays have been produced across the U.S., including six Off-Off-Broadway, and in Europe.  He is currently president of the Charlotte Writers’ Club.

INVASION OF GAZA 2012

by Buff Whitman-Bradley

Image source: Occupy Wall Street

Inside the heart of the invader
There is a cave where the corpses are stored
A cave of ice that keeps the bodies
From decomposing and putrefying
So the invader needn’t suffer the stink
Deep cold freezes the last expressions of terror
On children’s faces
Freezes the arms of dead parents
Around their slaughtered infants

The frozen bodies are neatly stacked
In the lightless cavern inside the invader’s heart
To make the most efficient use of space
So there will always be room for more
Because the bodies keep coming and coming
And they must be put away somewhere
The grandfather mowed down
In his olive grove
The teen picked off trying to get home to family
The pregnant mother crushed
By her collapsing roof
The toddler burnt to a crisp
By white phosphorous

Inside the heart of the occupier
Are bleak frigid factories that turn the murdered
Into building materials
For constructing homes on stolen land
With lovely gardens and swimming pools
Inside the heart of the occupier
Are bitterly cold prisons
Of torture and indefinite detention
For those who resist
The relentless encroachments
Of the mad blind machine

Inside the heart of the nation
In a cave of black ice
The explosive voice of self-righteous hypocrisy
Booms and echoes off the walls
We are defending ourselves
We are the upright and the good
We are the chosen and
All we do is the will of God

But there are other voices as well
Inside the heart of the nation
And inside the heart of the world
The small voices of grasses in green pastures
The healing voices of warm rain and still waters
The steadfast valiant voices of those
Who refuse to cooperate with bulldozer politicians
With marauding colonists
With tormentors of the rightful inhabitants
Voices nearly impossible to hear
In the roar of war and propaganda
But necessary to hear and to heed
If true justice is to roll down like waters
And true righteousness like a mighty stream


Buff Whitman-Bradley is the author of four books of poetry, b. eagle, poet; The Honey Philosophies; Realpolitik; and When Compasses Grow Old; and the chapbook, Everything Wakes Up! His poetry has appeared in many print and online journals. He is also co-editor, with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley and Sarah Lazare, of the book About Face: Military Resisters Turn Against War. He has co-produced/directed two documentary films, the award-winning Outside In (with Cynthia Whitman-Bradley) and Por Que Venimos (with the MIRC Film Collective). He lives in northern California.

FOR BOTH: TWO HAIKU

by Mary Krane Derr

Image source:   EPA/MOHAMMED SABER in The Telegraph

Israel, Gaza:
same panic rockets over
next-of-kin faces.

Parents dash to shield
children with their bodies though
bodies can't suffice.


Mary Krane Derr is a poet, writer, musician, and nonviolence activist from the South Side of Chicago. Her poems "Rubble Dream,", "At This Address," "Prevents Conception/By Her Very Own Choice,"   and "Transit of Venus?" all previously appeared in The New Verse News. "Transit of Venus?" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.