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THE NEW IMAGIST
THE NEW IMAGIST
Issue 2: Poems by Arlene Ang (Italy), Jim Bennett (England), Dee Rimbaud (Scotland), Anatoly Kudryavitsky (Ireland), and Leonard Cirino (USA)
email submissions only to
Shannon Kerry,
Mary Keane,
and David Seaman:
verseimago@yahoo.co.uk
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The New Imagist. We are interested in finely crafted poetry. Our home base is located in Dublin, Ireland.
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Poetry Submissions:
We read only email submissions. Poems should be pasted as plain text (no html) into the body of the message only; do not send attachments. Please submit up to four poems, put your name in the subject line of the email and include a brief bio with your submission.
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The New Imagist receives first serial rights to the poetry it publishes. Reprint rights revert to the author upon publication. This means that the author of a work is then free to have it republished elsewhere, as long as
1) other publishers do not require first rights AND
2) those publishers credit the work's first
publication in The New Imagist.
The New Imagist does not consider submissions of previously published poetry. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, so long as you tell us that the poem is under consideration elsewhere and let us know immediately if and when it gets accepted elsewhere.
Upon our notification of acceptance of simultaneously submitted work, you must immediately withdraw that work from consideration elsewhere.
We do not have an archive, but we plan to publish an anthology in the near future.
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Imagism
Name given to a movement in poetry, originating in 1912 and represented by Ezra Pound, Amy Lowell, and others, aiming at clarity of expression through the use of precise visual
images. In the early period often written in the French form Imagisme.
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IMAGIST,
A group of American and English poets whose poetic program was formulated about 1912 by Ezra Pound--in conjunction with fellow poets Hilda Doolittle(H.D.), Richard Aldington, and F.S. Flint--and was inspired by the critical views of
T.E. Hulme, in revolt against the careless thinking and Romantic optimism he saw prevailing.
The Imagists wrote succinct verse of dry clarity and hard outline in which an exact visual image made a total poetic statement. Imagism was a successor to the French Symbolist movement, but,
whereas Symbolism had an affinity with music, Imagism sought analogy with sculpture. In 1914 Pound turned to Vorticism, and Amy Lowell largely
took over leadership of the group. Among others who wrote Imagist poetry were John Gould Fletcher and Harriet Monroe; and Conrad Aiken,
Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, D.H. Lawrence, and T.S. Eliot were influenced by it in their own poetry.
The four Imagist anthologies (Des Imagistes, 1914; Some Imagists, 1915, 1916, 1917), and the magazines Poetry (from 1912) and The Egoist (from 1914), in the United States and England,
respectively, published the work of a dozen Imagist poets.
From an Imagist manifesto:
1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word.
2. We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free verse than in conventional forms. In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. Absolute freedom in the choice of subject.
4. To present an image. We are not a school of
painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in
vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce a poetry that is hard and clear,
never blurred nor indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry.
The New Imagist will feature a handful of poems every three or four months, depending what comes our way.
Poems by Arlene Ang (Italy), Jim Bennett (England), Dee Rimbaud (Scotland), Anatoly Kudryavitsky (Ireland), and Leonard Cirino (USA)
5 Poems by ARLENE ANG
A Scenic Dream of Ocean
The chain unlatches. She turns:
a lock of hair slips past her ear.
Her mouth fills with the sea,
an abandoned conch shell among
debris; the ship broken in several
parts, like last year's bread.
She is the mollusc crawling
over bent forks, cracked light
bulbs, torn clothes, a gray hand
clasped around a bunch of coins.
A Dresden shepherdess has lost
her head, the tin soldier bayonets
an open book, a nonstick pan
hasn't the requisites for a home.
Like evening drizzle, fish feed
on bodies, lay eggs in secret
corners. She feels the air from
their gills on her soft back.
Eyes flicker open: the dream falls
starlike into her blue irides.
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Approaching Death
Uproot the camellias in the garden,
sweep away the fallen leaves whose ochre
stains permeate the grass. Forget
the French windows in the terrace,
how rust has eaten through hinges,
the hallway that leads upstairs.
Cover all the furniture, let white
sheets assume hangings of ghosts.
Draw the curtains, switch on the lights:
Books stand solemnly on shelves,
her Siamese cat disappears behind
the piano, a mud trail on the floor.
Wipe the mirror in the bathroom,
the sink streaked with limestone
like crusts of salt on a cheek,
softened soap clogging the drain,
her fingerprints on the marble
counter mime bruises around a neck.
Push aside the door to her room,
unhook abstract paintings from walls
like magazines she kicked under the bed,
put away medicine bottles on her
nightstand, listen to wind chimes
shiver a stream of notes from the porch.
Silence the gurgling at her throat,
the fingers on her chest that fidget
with lace. Settle down on the chair, ignore
the men with syringes, their stethoscopes
constantly on her chest. You hold her
hand, and it's just another rainy day.
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Girl Scout cookies
appear at random at your doorstep.
The daily newspaper is always further
away, off-center on the stone path
a past tenant considered the next step
to a classic bob. Deep down you know
how a woman evolves to hysteria when
the cardboard fjords in her living room
begin to speak against the big hairy side
of mango seeds she sucked as a child.
You never wanted to sell information
to the detective about your lover's
sleeping habits: neither of them minded
the dadaist paintings on your walls
and never called back. The blender
you bought on sale is liable to crack
up in the presence of ice. Grapes are
less adventurous, the molds on their
bodies like old sweat left by men on
your mattress. Every morning you watch
the quadriplegic sun inch across the sky
and feel the need to wet your pants.
There's no one around to enjoy the view.
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Du Sheng Paints a Mountain Landscape
Nine dragons dwell in the cave. His mother
told stories well: the concubine with
a mouth of gold, the arms instructor who
slew tigers in a drunken fit, the lotus
root and ghosts that ate away its core.
He believed in maidens with butterfly wings
who guarded giant peaches in the orchard,
gods disguised as clouds, and mystic scripts
that stayed demons in their tracks. Half
the forest is gone now, the birds flown west.
In those days, her laughter chimed
morning bells throughout the house.
He carried water home from the brook,
spilt some on the way. His dead father's
sword hung on the wall, tarnished and blunt.
The candle falling in her room was the echo
of another man on her bed, their sweat
penetrating the mattress deeply. That night
Du Sheng's hand trembled over the flames
as he watched limbs crumble to ashes.
He keeps no weapons in his quarters now.
Only his fingers remain busy. Rice paper
helps him forget: here, at the path towards
the village, he chooses a fine brush, paints
a woman, her crippled son trailing behind.
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The Eighth Secret Love Poem
This has nothing to do with my medication.
You massage my left foot while I lie back
and think of mercury seesawing between
14 - 30 degrees. I should like you to taste
the roughness on my tongue. Rorschach blots
make me see things: the nursemaid shaking
milk bottles, her lips wet with heat,
perfume stains on a wrist, cold cucumber
sandwiches on a heifer's back. At the risk
of appearing repetitive, I want my tip back.
The bellhop wears unsanitary white gloves.
It's curious how I notice the similarities
between a crack in the ceiling and your hands
up my sole. Due to unchecked circumstances
I am most liable to call you at three in
the morning to talk about carrying home
lava lamps in the elevator: Objects that go
up and down excite me. At a given hour,
my dog scratches the carpet while dreaming,
upstairs the kickboxer starts jumping rope.
Arlene Ang lives in Venice, Italy where she edits the Italian pages
of Niederngasse (http://www.niederngasse.com). Her poetry has
recently been published in Mississippi Review Online, The Pedestal
Magazine, Cordite, Poetry Midwest and Offcourse Literary Journal.
Three of her poems have been nominated for the 2006 Pushcart Prize
anthology.
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Poem by JIM BENNETT
Crabs
D-Day 6th June 1944
as the door
of the landing craft
dropped open
mute sounds of battle
turned up to full volume
out they poured
the first wave
splashing through the shallows
waves within waves
onto the beachhead
churning sand
cursing, praying, crying
dying
throwing themselves down
like crabs
crawling forward
over the broken bodies
of their friends
through air thick
with war
they crawled
into history
Jim Bennett is a writer who was born and lives in Liverpool in the UK. He teaches Creative writing at the University of Liverpool. Jim has had several books of poems published plus a number of books for children and technical books.
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Poem by DEE RIMBAUD
THE HITCHER’S LAMENT
Damn these margins,
damn the fine folk who constructed this free-flowing concourse
and left their excavations, like excrement,
on the sludgy pavements
where poor pedestrians like me
must trudge, tripping over gravel piles, bricks, sand,
and buckets of tar macadam,
black and fetid as botulism.
Damn these cars,
damn their slipstreamed, sunbeamed, roaring engines,
the growling of the windy wake
they blow in the faces
of poor pedestrians like me
who must suffer the snickering smiles
and tax-paying smug superiority
of the fast-tracked amoral majority.
Damn this thumb,
damn these cramped, clutched, cluttered fingers,
the icy rain racing down
soaking the threadbare jackets
of poor pedestrians like me
who must throw themselves upon the mercy
of the car-driving, Darwin-defying,
surviving and thriving, amoral majority.
Damn this destination,
damn this pre-destined, pre-programmed procrastination,
the icy rain on my naked skin
driving delirious ecstasies
into poor pedestrians like me
who must throw away the shackles of yearning to be
tax-paying, smug and superior,
one of the fast-tracked amoral majority.
DEE RIMBAUD
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Dee Rimbaud, 7 Lothian Gardens (0/1), Glasgow, G20 6BN, Scotland, United Kingdom
Email: thunderburst@ntlworld.com
Web-site: http://www.thunderburst.co.uk
SIGNED COPIES OF DEE RIMBAUD'S BOOKS NOW AVAILABLE DIRECT FROM THE AUTHOR.
NOVEL:'Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God', Bluechrome Publishing, 2004, ISBN: 1-904781-40-3, Signed copies available direct from the author, see: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/dee.rimbaud/stealingheaven.html
POETRY:'Dropping Ecstasy With The Angels', Bluechrome Publishing, 2004, ISBN: 1-904781-06-3, This collection won The Poetry Kit Poetry Book Award, came 4th in the 'Poetry 2000' Poetry Book Award and was nominated for a Saltire Award. A selection from the collection reached the final six of The Robert Graves Award. Signed copies available direct from the author, see: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/dee.rimbaud/droppingecstasy.html
'The Bad Seed', Stride Publications, 1998, ISBN 1-900152-20-7. Signed copies available direct from the author, see: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/dee.rimbaud/thebadseed.html
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Poem by ANATOLY KUDRYAVITSKY
PIERROT AND A BEAM OF LIGHT
'A beam of light
pursues me,'
he says and covers his
shyness
with his pale fingers.
'It finds me, always finds me,
even in my room,
even under the blanket.'
His face as white as the paper
on which he writes his elegies.
'The beam of light
and shadows around my eyes.'
'The beam of light,
blackness and silver.'
'The beam of light
pursues me,' he starts it
all over again.
'Yes, pursues me,
and it has a face.'
Born in Moscow in 1954. His father originated from Poland; his mother was a daughter of an Irishman from South Co. Mayo who ended up in the Stalin's GULAG. Poet, fiction writer and literary translator, he has lived in Ireland and Germany since 1999. He has published 7 collections of his Russian poems, the latest one is 'Visitors' Book' (Third Wave Books, 2001). A book of his English poems entitled 'Shadow of Time' is due from The Goldsmith Press(Ireland) in the second half of 2005.
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Imago Poetry/UK
Send E-Mail to: verseimago@yahoo.co.uk
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