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K r i s t e n   M i c h e l l e   H å v e t

“Train”

No matter; in the deepest of darkness
nearly-upon-water
the big train awaits.
She hails a taxi to the edge, where she will weep.
               Earlier she rises and mutters It’s time.
               She can feel it in her bones like the changing of seasons.
               Her body a gauge.
               The grey cat smiles to say he’s heard
               but he resents her rising.
               Her body’s warm like the unremembered mother
               and when cold rushes in his heart will break.
               He smiles regardless
               though all is mere conjecture.
               She moves out of bed
               gracefully one limb and then the other folding
               until all are upright generally.
               This tragic dancer bends towards the kitchen, to make tea.
From that day forward
nothing moved faster
than the train at the break of night.
His voice is fleeting now a whisper
and she catches it now.
Her body is light.
Along the rail
along the weather
the sleet thrown into the sea
this day moves fast
and rains down upon her gown.
She is tossing and dancing
her long limbs flailing
against the train
the ghost train
that frames the sea.
The cold always rushes in too quickly
and sends her back
along rocks that don’t whither
these days that don’t change.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S a l v a t o r e   B u t t a c i

“I Think The World Is Square”

I’ve taken long walks
Where I can see the horizon
Out there like the end
Of a highway
And I know when I get there
I need to be extra careful
Not to slip and plummet
To my death

I’ve seen those phony pictures
Where they show the planets
Like round balls in different colors
And we are led to believe
They’re spinning
Well, I don’t buy it
I think the world
and all that hangs

in galactic skies are square
as a child’s blocks
and all the people in it
are square with their ideas
locked in the space
of square brain pans
behind four square walls
boxed in lonely square cells

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

L y n n   A l e x a n d e r

“Squall”

squall. the
sudden snow
that hits my skin

is it him?
will he
come?
tonight. late. when I stare at branches scratching at the
sky
wanting my sky to feel as you feel
but you

are
shifty. irritated

where
can I lie? where can I be that flatmatte
photograph

unattractive.
can
I paint this white, pinch my skin to flush my blood?
pinch this
clit to feel in love, grab my always empty
passages? A mask, you ask?

squall.
the sudden snow
can I melt you on my tongue?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

H o w i e   G o o d

“Where I’m From”

I came straight from work
to meet them on the corner,
but, of course,
they had already become
fine particles of smoke.
While I waited, I listened to music
for barbed wire and accordion.
The short days of winter
had sneaked up on us,
the sky like a fogged mirror,
the frozen puddles like pale bruises.
I stood there for what
seemed a lifetime,
naked by then and shivering
and with my hands raised
in the air, an unqualified witness
to an unspecified event.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

C a r l a   C r i s c u o l o

“Morpheme”

Pebbles slip off our tongues,
too small to cause even a ripple
in the silence that constricts us,

each sentence a futile offering,
weighing down on the next,
collapsing whatever lay
injected in our words.
We are paper dolls,
flat and featureless,
cut to perfection. We will throw
our tattered bodies to the wind

and hope the air will carry us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R o b e r t   C r i s m a n

“To Kim”

I fell so fast and so far
off the edge of that roof
on winged feet of clay
I guess I can’t blame you
for waving goodbye

I hit those indifferent rocks down below
left shards of bone that the rats wouldn’t touch
I relearned to walk
through the Bonneville Salt Flats
It took me 800 years…

A guy told me once:
Junkies beg monkeys
to hop on their backs
and ride like the wind
He said
that’s what love is

I don’t believe him

I remember you, Kim
You were cool to the touch
and under the skin
a roiling green sea
Ivory burnished by rage
with all your tears murdered
and locked in a vault

Your eyes were so calm they stopped breezes
your head cocked just so
seeking the sound of the one hanging note
that made sense
I wanted to see through your eyes

Then, nights and your smile
sharp-edged, a hot buttered knife
You whispered soft slurs in my ear
Our bodies in darkness
sang the old song
through bared teeth
and off-key sometimes…
Yet echoes lapped gently
as you closed your eyes
and then pressed against me
to sleep

Wide awake I would raft through wilds
your storms bathing mine in a light
in a forest
rainswept at the end of the world
a place that I’d never called home
till I met you

Then morning
The yellow sun bled
through the east bedroom window on Redwing
me blinking sleep
you in the mirror re-arming
You were vain as a cat, and so what
Your long stride into the wind
gave courage a name for the day

Our love you said later
was theft winging south
For me
what we had
were remembered echoes of home
The heart’s own deep need

________________________________________________________

All photography in this issue by Anna Szczekutowicz. See more at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/annaszczek/

http://annarexic.deviantart.com/

_________________________________________________________

SPECIAL #1: Kristen Michelle Håvet

ISSUE #2

_________________________________________________________

disenthralled is produced by Walter Conley and Paul Dutra.  Contact Walter at disenthralled2009@yahoo.com

ISSUE #3 coming December 15, 2009.

SPECIAL #3: Miss Alister, January 1, 2010.

ISSUE #4, January 15, 2010.

All material ©2009 by respective creators.

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16 Comments

  1. walter, you really have created a place that pulls in deep amazing talent… i am not a poet, the genre frightens me… i weep in envy over these pieces, that prove i will never be a poet.

    and, the photography? sweet mother of god. visual poetry…

  2. I absolutely adore the Poetry Special! And excellent choice of photo to accompany my piece. What a lovely surprise!

  3. wow! absolutely wonderful. thank you, again.

  4. How is it possible to be a captivated main audience AND a member of the “house band”? Thanks all for this (& every) issue’s stunning contributions. I’m once again humbled and in awe to be part of this widening circle of talent.

  5. What a great site! The poems in this issue are excellent and I am proud to be listed among them.

    Salvatore Buttaci

  6. Well done, Walt. I am glad to share this space with so many talented people. Thank you.

  7. Another excellent issue. I’m blown away by the talent. I enjoyed them all. Sal created this dark, boxed in atmosphere – without losing his Bradbury touch. Excellent.
    I also enjoyed the stark white of Squall by Lynn. ‘To Kim’ took my breath away. I’ve never heard of Robert Crisman, but I’ll be looking him up. I sure hope he has a book. 😉

    • Robert is going to have a short story, “Roanne’s Dream,” in Issue #3/Dec 15.

  8. I also meant to add that the photography is gorgeous!

  9. Outstanding work. Every poem was excellent. Every picture moving.

  10. Ditto to what everyone’s saying. Walter, absolutely beautiful issue. Anna the photographer is really quite something. Jodi, you made my day!

  11. Another remarkable piece/ collection of work.

  12. a stunning body of work here beautifully presented. this just keeps getting better. great pieces all, particular nods to sal and lynn and howie – just marvelous prose.

  13. I only thought I loved Dark, until that first photo tested me. So good on ya, Anna! After that, I especially dig lost in lines and ophelia.

    Train’s light is shining as bright as a dark thing can shine. The siding, to get ready to go—the resenting grey cat, him smiling regardless—goes to the same place, to no escaping no change.

    The world is square, the human mind… Your momentum builds the blocks to the four squares, to the box of the last stanza… Closed.

    I love the disturbance that Squall is. The branches scratching the sky, the questions pounding.

    …music for barbed wire and accordion. Brilliant. The last six lines, oh… I was born in Unqualified, will die in Unspecified.

    Morpheme is delightful. The futility captured in seven lines is so delicately, precisely, it… It, my experience on this planet.

    Ow. This is how life, love, south, goes. Yet the words to describe it here are of a luminous place… You got rained on good with this immortal beauty, Robert.

    Walter. What can I say? You are one rainswept man, too. Each issue is moving me more, even backed up as I am at the end of the square world.

  14. Dark, haunting, stunning and presented so well. Glad to find this.

  15. disenthralled continues to expand its boundaries with these poems, dark, brooding, transcendent and physical, this is a great site that deserves to be widely known


2 Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. By WHAT’S UP « disenthralled on 19 Dec 2009 at 5:08 am

    […] disenthralled A Literary Journal AboutSubmissionsContactAbout MeSplit-PressonalityImagesIssues « SPECIAL #2: POETRY […]

  2. By Hey…. « disenthralled on 12 Jan 2010 at 10:30 am

    […] SPECIAL #2 (Poetry by Kristen Michelle Håvet, Salvatore Buttaci, Lynn Alexander, Howie Good, Carla Criscuolo, Robert Crisman/Photography by Anna Szczekutowicz/Produced by Walter Conley and Paul Dutra) […]

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