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bloglist

Kathy Kieth:                         http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/                        David Humphreys                         poetscornerpressblog                        Dianna Henning:                        bloglist                        Ekphraisis                        http://hometown.aol.com/ekphrasis1/                        Richard Hansen:                        http://www.sacfreepress.com/poems/                        Patricia Wellingham-Jones:                        http://www.wellinghamjones.com                                                                     Poets Corner Gold Medal                                   to Medusa's Kitchen for a recent                                   Bukowski entry March 2006

S.P.C. Blog http://www.sacramentopoetrycenter.blogspot.com/ Brad Buchanan:  http://www.miracleshirker.blogspot.com/ Ben L. Hiatt: http://digitaldawg.blogspot.com/ Victor Schnickelfritz http://whimfetishandblogorrhea.blogspot.com/ Crawdad Nelson:  crawdadnelson@sacnewsandreview Collette Jounopoulos (Tiger's Eye) http://www.colettej.blogspot.com/ Cristian Kiefer http://xiankiefer.blogspot.com/ Atasi Jaan http://bindisandbangles.blogspot.com/ James Den Boer http://www.paperwrk.com/ Robert Grossklaus: http://www.xanga.com/dphunkt6/

                  
                       

 
                        

                       
                        

                        

Nancy Wahl has just won the recent competition at Tiger's Eye Journal





































 

I would like to dedicate all my current work to Walt Whitman on the 150 year anniversary of his publishing "Leaves of Grass". His position as "father" of modern American poetry is noteworthy and pivotal in a literary environment that often contrasts academic meritocracy with egalitarian freedom. Tyranny quite often expresses itself in the privelege of the few following conventions of political exclusivity. Self publication should be revered as a legitimate avenue for original work and I would like to salute Walt Whitman as a brilliant beacon for some future poet "Thomas Paine" of style and content.   ******************************************************************************************************************** 2005 is also, coincidentally, the 50th anniversary of  Alan Ginsberg's poem Howl, emblematic of beat poetry. To compare a poem such as Howl with a full length book of the significance of Leaves of Grass is interesting in any case. I personally find Ginsberg's poetry sometimes quite electrifying and I have read polls that have ranked his work highly but I have never heard him refered to as "father" of anything in particular. Perhaps he qualifies as one in a short list of biological "fathers" of the beats beside his publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Please check poetscornerpressblog

Points of Hope             by Nora Laila Staklis

 

Do you know

what it feels like,

as if one-thousand daggers

of pointed steel

no longer hold you captive?

 

For the first time

in my life

I have the freedom

to simply

BE,

 

no longer working

from a base of

shame

and unquenchable

sadness

 

Now it is

as if I came into

the Garden of Eden,

lay down among luxuriant ivy

that cradles my long flowing hair

and

watched the constellations

map out points of

hope.

 

 

 

      About this website and Poets Corner Press        
       Preferably viewed in Netscape or Mozilla Firefox browsers Explorer tends to distort the text size  *   Please set browser
        background color to light gray. Poets Corne Press is a partial archive representing poetry written in the recent past in the
        Stockton, Sacramento, Bay Area and Nevada produced by poets of varied credits. If you recognize a poet of national
        stature on the website you will of course find a corresponding quality. New work may be found in ZamBomba and on the
        Press  page.  It is best to navigate through the website by clicking highlighted links, scrolling down through individual
        works and then returning to your starting position by hitting your back button.
                             
                     Poets Corner Press is a small press that  publishes the poetry of poets from around the world
                     through a contest advertised in major national literary outlets such as Poetry of Chicago.

                    

   With Confidence
by Loretta McKeever

daily
for several months
I pause
to walk behind you
and Isaac

with my own son
roads and roads
away
I envy
your three day
retreat,
calamitous though
it may be

many read
your heart
with confidence
and vie to speak
for you

nearly all are loud,
frightening
the ram
in the thicket

Visitation Rights of the Levee Builders
by William Barr

In late April each man and his
oldest son light the levee fires.
The night bridges are floated
from both sides and joined at

the center. Throughout the night,
I hear footraces, cheers, and the
squeak of old nails in old wood. I
smell crayfish, turnip pudding,

cabbage, and I can almost taste
the walnut prawns. No, I speak no
Chinese at all but the laughter of
the young men echoes into my

morning prayer. When the old
man finally speaks even the dogs
are quiet. There is one final
chorus, then their steps, their

soft leaving steps. At dawn the
levee is covered by fog. But I can still
smell their fires. From the lowest
trail, I smile at shells floating on

the water. This morning I tripped
over sections of their bridges
scattered on the levee, scattered
so casually, in the sedge.

To The Valley Fog
by Don Campbell

Through the bedroom window
You are there in the morning
Filling every space with snow-like silence
Fooling the northerner with your whiteness

Covering the tops of trees and the roof line of tall buildings
You soften every edge in town
Drip off gutter corners into the streets
Leaving a trail the cats avoid

The valley surface thirsty from a long summer's drought
Is glad for any water...even yours now dirty
From the dust and grime you've trickled off
The leaves and the stone walls

The people are troubled because you break
Their speed as they drive to work
Hawks stay put in their trees waiting for you to rise
Seems like all life hesitates to move

Down by the river, crawling
Through traffic to work or walking
The wet streets to school a few people
Stop in silhouette damp and cold

They pause like phantoms
Gazing into your luminous power
Then move along their way
Shining from within

The New Main, S.F.
by Paula Sheil

A man entered the space. Hair. Black. Soft. Moved down his
back. All of his back. Moved when he moved. Kelp with the
tide. Moved him or followed him. I. Like a tiny yellow fish
darted into his hair. And out. No solid between us. Space
only clarified my having him and letting go. Interrupted by
concrete and glass.

 A man entered the space. Picture him naked on a white sheet.
His skin the color of walnut oil. His fingers. Hidden. I
wanted him. Suddenly. To never forget.

 A man entered the space. Not so many men are beautiful. Not
so many. I personally have seen only four. Maybe five. A
beautiful man is painful to look upon. He is in every aspect.
A man. Has a head joined to shoulders. Arms joined to torso.
Hips riding legs that touch the ground. Thousands. No.
Millions of men pass me in the city streets. One only will move me
to tears. One will disgust me. One will make me pray.

 Beautiful men make me still. I. Become, Eyes only. eyes
hiding in a crowded room. Hurts like loss.

 A man entered my space. Part crane. Part myth. A man with
invisible wings. Who could rise. Perhaps I fear. The capture.
The ascension.

 I now remember nothing except all of him. From where he
occupied space and set his form apart from all other
molecular constructs. Every human who walked into the fifth
floor study registered as not him. I cannot tell you more
than I know. His flesh would be cool. Just enough to keep me
from speaking.

"And the days churned by,
navigable sorrow."
Robert Hass
  Navigable Sorrow by Mary Zeppa         Four Poems at Putah Creek @ Poet's Corner

That March was icy as Grandma's good looks.
We chanced it. Star thistles float. We made a raft,
bet the odds: set our course by Grandpa Henry's

sweet voice. He knew his way around a polka,
led her quite a dance. Can't hardly call them

lovers, though they had 3 glossy sons to shine
through all the gloom that was, and still is,
Illinois. Monee, the most entangled little burg

that ever God spat out upon the dirt, where
they farmed 20, God-forsaken acres, 'longside

my God-forsaken Uncle Irv. Irv of the Shiver,
Irv of the Stutter. Dead-Eye Irv spitting
his barb at an 8 year-old who's grown now

and won't drive across Sacramento to see
if he's shivering still. I navigate by feel

and by the stars. Oh, Little Dipper, Little
Tipsy Bear, my Grandpa could make you
light on all four feet. Polka me 'round again,

Henry. Just cattails to catch at our ankles.
Our hot breath as sweet as wild oats

                  ***

Armory Square Hospital, 1863
by Joshua McKinney             English CSUS
  first published Tule Review  Spring '01

Let the physician and the priest go home.
                                  -- Walt Whitman

The young men haunt his days and nights
within the whitewashed wards. At last a bliss
though terrible. To those outside he writes,
"...there is no time to lose, & death & anguish
dissipate ceremony here between my lads
and me." Without the cloak of poetry,
he cures. He walks between the rows of beds,
his energy unchecked. At last he is free

to love. To give a gift, to dress a wound--
he feels the boys' needs as his own. His advance,
that war, soon ended; the mended gone, he found
the quickening of death, the stiffened defensive stance
of the "good grey poet," a man imprisoned
by the nation's grudging embrace, its frozen optimism.

Ancestral Call
by  Calder Lowe

Rising above the steady snore
of the purifier, a train whistle
from the nearby tracks scoops away
two metallic llamas and a solitary
wooden elephant plodding along the tops
of the bookshelves.  In their absence,
camels from a caravan in a painting,
stumble, lose their footing in the sand.
The cats paw at their reflections in the window.
Time is restructured in that instant
of misdirected sound.  Count back
one, two, three centuries.
Train whistles, bugles, church bells

thread through clouds.
My ancestors blow glass
in the Black Forest of Germany,
carry Lafayette off the battlefield,
make an error in judgement about
a new boarder from the coal mine.
Glass glows in the Von Eberhardt furnaces.
Some of the goblets flower, some crack.
A Polish soldier reloads his musket,
and in hard times, a distracted divorcee
ignores an infant daughter dying in her cradle,
gives her son away to an orphanage
tucked behind the spire of a Presbyterian Church
in Pennsylvanian woods.

Solstice Greetings       by   Julia Connor

hold what you have loved                 
firmly in mind

what is
bears also the tendency
not to be
bittersweet
the salts reshuffle      

why not moisten 
the fingertip
and write 
the beloved name in air
right now

                                    

 

Blue Prose   by Carol Frith    First  Published Tule Review   

Lawn chairs like lateral road maps--
the grass scans blue. I won't go out
today. Bent light. Light like water spots.

Nobody walks here anymore: three apricot
trees and a peach. The leaves fill with
blue, separate into blank space.

Now, a man in blue grasses sits down on the
lateral slats. Answers turn over in the
middle distance. Think of the way

a blue vein of light remembers itself.
The man in blue glasses frowns
in his lawn chair. He listens to me.

I have a baker's dozen of blue words
to offer: azure, turquoise, opaline,
etcetera. On the other hand, except for

their pastel variants, some blues are
almost untouchable. Notice how all four
of these blue trees balance each other

against the pale bermuda grass. The man
in blue glasses wipes smears of light
from his eyes. Tomorrow, I will close

the window. I will go outside. Tomorrow,
I will translate the man's blue hands
into prose for you.

Spring Equinox                      by Jane Blue
first published in Poetry Now

I feel peeled, coffin-ripped.
The worms of night sated now.

My spectacled eyes
tender as incubated babes.

Elms hang infant leaves
like minuscule laundry.

At a bus stop, a bird walks
high in a tree's new fringe,

pecking, sashaying
up the limb skyward.

It pauses to call "chip-chip"
into the Morse-code morning.

Soon, someone replies,
"chip-chip." The bird saunters

out on the attenuating branch,
then steps into air.

What soldier, what saint
will I be in this new life?

Outside
by Gary Short

Some strings of light.
Mostly absence.
Out the window, trees,
the narrow margin. The edges
carved in new sun.

I sway,
stalled at the warm window.
Out there the sweep of wings.
Out there wind's tangle.

I sway to the absence,
a disappearance like hushed flight.
Now the wind nods slack with sleep.

In the tree outside my window,
the scurry of wings
like a preface to arrows.

Latticed shadows of limbs
weave a net of the day.
The sway of the tree I depend on
to summon me.

Catching The Autumn
by Lara Gularte                        

I am tired of my own long story,
my blouse stained with vignettes.
The gold ring I lost can not be found,
my china teapot stays broken.
Familiar faces are stacked,
piled high in snapshots.

In this half-light of my life
I will cook a soup of claws and spine.
When my eyes fail I will eat more parsnips.
My skin will become bleached wood,
preserved by salt.
I want no candy hearts or sticky adjectives,
no flower bouquets
or fortune cookie futures.

Give me a love song of nouns and verbs,
of hard surprises.
I will be an old woman with good bones.
Stars will face down and die,
the night will wear itself out,
and I will not let go of anything. 

 

To A Small Moth

(--Pronuba) by Susan Kelly-DeWitt           

You hover, a tiny flame
     above white candles
          of yucca--the night air

sings you, breathes
     you. While death
          crouches in his slack

cocoon, you fling your

     invisible rope-bridge

         of moth dust, white

                   panicle to white panicle.
                         I too wing my way-
                             crepuscular--

                  while the singular brightness
                        of the Swan
                             arches over me; as if

                 like a spark
                       I could be drawn upward
                             toward Deneb.

                I wish I could fathom
                      our tracery! unravel our skein
                             back to start, beyond

                mystery.
                      We are both salted
                             by moonlight

                but you, pollinating mother,
                      climb boldly up the stairs
                             of each petal, leaving

                gilded
                      footprints.

Whatchamacallit   by David Humphreys    55 word units are counted                                                                            in the body apart from title Blind bat's shot in the dark, never having been here before we hang clichés out on the clothes line to flap in the wind of wondering what it was that could be said so well that time and time again would find no better way to express what it was we wanted to say succinctly. *** What’s Not There     won 1st place 2007 55 word contest         Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there is how Miles Davis said it cool as cashmere in a leather lined limo on the way to the jet flying to palm trees and a white sand beach blowing in time to waves wondering where is the loveliness who started this jam session to begin with? I Thought (Anti-war)   by David Humphreys                                 won 1st place in                                                                                                                                      55 word contest 2003 that by now I had learned something                           held by the Stockton Record but I have learned nothing. If the firestorm of Dresden’s bed of skeletal buildings I smile into our daughter's sweet kiss good night and you wake me into the morning of joy and I have done nothing to stop the madness, nothing can be meaningful about anything whatsoever. If This Is All I Know    silver medal 2nd place 2006 If the sun is a golden sled above the ice-bound lake of wishes, I may not know the owl of night. Summer's river whispers warm, January brushing across the knuckled back of June, two sides of the same hand. If I know this and love brings angels beneath Andromeda, perhaps an owl will fly tonight.                                                              Kayak The igloo of the heart is where survival is all that matters and the bone blade in the bait of fat, spills bear blood on the white tabletop outside, frozen and congealed, sizzling wind chill. Inside, the world is kept in a passionate mad embrace rolling up from a capsize to seize the vanishing moment.

Radio Program Samples summer '97 mp3 files may be played with Windows Audio Player Heaven Flying Around in Space  by Gilbert Schedler Egrets Along the Yolo Causeway by Susan Kelly-DeWitt Pruning the Wisteria by Carolyn Eads Visitation Rights of the Levee Builders by William Barr Crazy Moma by Doug Tedards Descending Scale  by Muriel Zeller Floating Flowers  by Catherine Webster At The Swans' Crossing   by Paula Sheil Self Portrait as a Slight Wobble in the Motion of Stars by Catherine Webster   Transubstantiation  by William Barr To a Small Moth  by Susan Kelly-DeWitt In Light  by Patrice Gates A Deer Visits the Lamar Dodd Art  Gallery by Doug Tedards Diving Into Dark Fish Water  by Don Campbell April Encounter by Muriel Zeller The New Main Public Library S.F.  by Paula Sheil Cape Cod  by David Humphreys Walleye For Dinner  by Gilbert Schedler Reason  by Carolyn Eads With Gravity  by Patrice Gates

1st Audio CD Program  These mp3 files may be played with Windows Audio Player Intro Talking to Eve by Paula Sheil The Chase by Muriel Zeller In Fawn Dreams by William Barr Heron in Winter by Catherine Webster Stone Posture by Don Campbell Outside by Gary Short Stonehenge by Patrice Gates Coyote Does the Hale-Bopp Hop by C. L. Hodge Unified Field Theory by David Humphreys Salamander by Frank Andrick Aunt Lucy by Lara Gularte Occurence of Cancer by Doug Tedards The View by Susan Kelly-DeWitt Thanksgiving by Jane Blue My Husband Watching Football by Don Campbell Reading at Barnes & Noble by Daniel Hettsmansperger III Pershing Avenue Rhapsody by Ron Houssaye Roses by J. Alfred Phelps Gifts by Anne Struck Maria by Nicholas Warner Eating a Peach by Carolyn Eads Isn't Each Child by Paula Sheil Yellow Rainboots by David Humphreys Green Is Not Just Green by Richard Rios Magdalen at Cana by Loretta McKeever Vespers by Gary Short Catching the Autumn by Lara Gukarte Dreamer by J. Alfred Phelps Signoff

Audio Poems These files are Real Audio Download a free player here Sound Engineering          by Jeff Crawford Percussion                       by Abassi Hunt Wlliam Barr Transubstantiation Jane Blue Spring Equinox Robert Dash Favorite Poems: Mending Wall by Robert Frost Lisa Derr La Mirada Carol Frith Blue Prose Tom Goff After Sushi David Holman Something About The Way You Write Susan Kelly-DeWitt To A Small Moth Mort McDonald Concerto For Fog And Piano Joyce Odam Into Winter Gilbert Schedler Walleye For Dinner Paula Sheil At The Swans' Crossing Douglas Tedards Riding The Morgan Anna Villegas Love Song For My Falconer Catherine Webster Floating Flowers Mary Zeppa Navigable Sorrow

 
















                        

                                                            Poet's Corner 1st Audio CD                 Poet's Corner Audio CD 2                                    

Radio Program Samples  *** 1st CD Program More poems can be found in Audio Poems See: In Fawn Dreams by William Barr  Stone Posture by Don Campbell Vespers by Gary Short  Roses and Dreamer by Joe Phelps Catching the Autumn by Lara Gularte A few of Camille Norton's Corruption Poems Aperture Corruption Napoleon's Boots and Dante's Body Interlude with Night Cows Paul Bunyan and His Blue Ox Babe Audio Engineering by Jeff Crawford

New CD 2 Audio Program  As time permits we are installing more of this program These mp3 files may be played with Windows Audio Player Field of Stones  by Joyce Odam Apres Moi La Deluge by Roger Naylor Light in New England by Sotere Torregian Acupuncture  by Melanie Bishop Sievers Writing a Love Poem  by Shonda Renée Dark Energy/ Dark Matter  by David Humphreys Golden Palomino by Sotere Torregian Buying Indulgences by Paula Sheil Into Winter  by Joyce Odam Giftwrapped  by Melaie Bishop Sievers Washington Park by Sotere Torregian Baby Universe for Stephan Hawking by David Humphreys Another Word for News by Paula Sheil You, Robinson Jeffers  by Tom Goff Spaeewalk  by Shonda Renée Parallel Universe mp3 by David Humphreys Subdivisions  by Melanie Bishop Sievers Goodman  by Norine Radaikin After Sushi   by Tom Goff Odd Couple   by Shonda Renée The Cosmological Argument  by David Humphreys Notes from Blackbelt Class  by Paula Sheil To Be a Woman by Melanie Bishop Sievers Witching Hour  by Roger Naylor De Neuveux  by Sotere Torregian On What Is Writing  by Paula Sheil Love Poem  by Joyce Odam Audio Engineering by Jeff Crawford and David Humphreys Guitar by Ken & Daniel Malpas

    

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Favorite Poems
Inspired by Robert Pinsky's                            Father's Day 2001
Favorite Poem Project

Contemplation of the Sword   by Robinson Jeffers           read by Tom Goff            My Grandmother's Ghost       by James Wright          read by       Susan Kelly-DeWitt Fox                                  by Adrienne Rich          read by       Julia Connor After Making Love We Hear Footsteps  by Galway Kinnell          read by        Anna Villegas       San Joaquin Delta College When In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes   by Shakespeare          read by        Anna Villegas       San Joaquin Delta College Geronimo's House               by Elizabeth Bishop           read by       Paula Sheil               ZamBomba And Death Shall Have No Dominion    by Dylan Thomas           read by       Lisa Derr Mending Wall                      by Robert Frost           read by      Dr.  Robert Dash   Honors & Spanish  Univ. of the Pacific The Road Not Taken             by Robert Frost           read by     Maurice McDonald                        Poet Emeritus Stockto The World As Meditation         by Wallace Stevens           read by      Dr Douglas Tedards                 English                 Univ. of the Pacific The Lake Isle At Innisfree    Text    by William Butler Yeats           read by     Dr. Robert Benedetti      Dean Emeritus               College of the Pacific Altitudes                                       by Richard Wilbur                                                       read by     Dr. Robert Benedetti     Dean Emeritus               College of the Pacific Redemption                                  by George Herbert                                                            read by     Dr. Robert Benedetti    Dean Emeritus                College of the Pacific Happiness                                     by Carl Sandburg            read by    George Turner Casida of the Dark Doves        by Federico Garcia Lorca            read by       Richard Rios                English:    San Joaquin Delta College Love Is Not All      Text            by Edna St. Vincent Millay   1931                               read by         Candace Andrews        English:    San Joaquin Delta College God's Grandeur       Text           by Gerald Manley Hopkins          read by         Candace Andrews       English:    San Joaquin Delta College The World is Too Much with Us     Text     by William Wordsworth   1807                            read by         Candace Andrews        English:    San Joaquin Delta College                   She Walks In Beauty                       by George Gordon, Lord Byron   Stopping By Woods               by Robert Frost On A Snowy Evening         read by    Matthew Fox-Humphreys      Son Stopping By Woods               by Robert Frost On A Snowy Evening         read by     David Humphreys                 Father The Lake Isle At  Innisfree    by William Butler Yeats I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore, While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.                   Love Is Not All     by     Edna St. Vincent Millay Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release. Or nagged by want past resolution's power. I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be.  I do not think I would.