A Boat Full of Seagulls: 10 Poems and Tangos – Translated from the Spanish by Stephen Page

Stephen Page phot with muse (1)

Stephen Page and Muse 


Poet Stephen Page recently had this collection published at National Translation Month. Here is the link to the pdf file : http://nationaltranslationmonth.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/Stephen-Page-Spanish.pdf


2 Poems by Dongho Cha


Photograph by Diane Sahms-Guarnieri

The Girl
Bar the door! However, when he was hollering these
words, hurrying himself from pillar to post here, the
door was being opened half-widely. The girl moved
forward, inching towards the door, wondering why
she was looking outside, instead of inside, through
the door from here the place where she had been kept
all day long. It was like going through a damp and
dark cave, similar to the old underground chamber,
which had once been a shelter for her and her little
brother during the war. And in time, the girl’s oval
shaped fingertips, feeling the fresh air from outside,
almost arrived at the door. The door was yet unclosed,
but right before it there was a cement-block barrier,
half white and half yellow, touched and tapped by the
girl’s hands, bumped and sweated. The girl, at this
precise moment, was beginning to be dragged and
pulled backward, and her belly was banded and her
whole body was contracted when he irritated her on
the back of her neck with his stun gun. Why all this
happen to me now?, hollered the girl over the door.
The Refugee
Forced from home,
he was sent
to a rangy, narrow chamber.
On the very day
he was brought
here, the gas leaked
out of a crack
between hard yellowed brick
and soft dark red carpet.
No sound was
to be heard from within
the room, but
he heard really
a burring sound
that frightened and
repelled him. And
at that moment,
his head was blown off,
and arched into
the rear of the room, but
not high enough
to touch the ceiling.
It was going
deep into the corner,
while in fact
it was flying
out of the room.
What can I do
when this happens,
so frustrated
he said to himself.
The empty chamber
waits for the next person
who will take this
as his new home. You’d
never, never ever,
wish this to happen
to anyone, right?
Dongho Cha Head Shot
Dongho Cha, a PhD candidate in English at the University of Illinois, Chicago, is completing a dissertation entitled “The Useful Koreans: Labor and Ethnicity in Contemporary South Korean and Korean-American Literature.” He has written about Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Se-hui Cho, race & class dialectics, global capitalism, modernist poetics, world literature discourses, and other subjects for Modern Language Note, Philosophy and Literature and CLC: Dongho Cha | University of Illinois at Chicago – Academia.edu

2 Poems by John Timpane


hobos frieght hopping - library of congress

Photograph courtesy of Library of Congress

Elizabeth and the Tramps
The dandelions always grew, even in 1930;
They ran the fields to the fence where all the boards had fallen,
And if, arrayed in clothes and dirt, they cut across the grass lot
The tramps could beat the watchful men who lay for them with rifles.
If they could make her back door, they could beg for dimes and nickels,
A chicken wing, or three square yards on Grandma’s floor for sleeping.
Her yeses earned her word among the sons of the Depression
Who traipsed to her in random flocks and seldom lost her mercy,
Found succor for their freight car mouths, bandages for the broken,
A shoe that almost fit a foot, and small talk if they wanted.
Night, train time, called the tramps away. A couple stayed on longer
Then struck out aimless through the dandelions that grew always.


Bach’s Great Theme


is God arising from trouble. Beginnings welcome
you; a folk song you know
or wish you knew gives way
to hurdles, threats, twinges, changes wrung
out of memory (watery light box);
you climb walls of thorns to
reach the wasteland, sun in your
eyes; valleys fill with mist, milk,
carillons; lighthouses necklace the coast; the
drunken river of song urges backward;
bass and melody leapfrog; branches whip
across your face; mainspring time relaxes.
Does the Orchestral Suite No. 3
in D Major, second movement, move, or
do you? Moving to be living,
to know, to hear, bear this
chord, those scraps of theme around
corners like spies of the spirit?
Haunts, rehaunts. New fields render alien
the childhood path. Have you been
led? Or is being here, the end, wrung,reset
remapped, equal to hearing what you already


photograph by Jessica Griffin

John Timpane is the Books and Fine Arts Editor/Writer for The Philadelphia Inquirer and Philly.com. His work has appeared in Sequoia, The Fox Chase Review, Apiary, Painted Bride Quarterly, The Philadelphia Review of Books, The Rathalla Review, Per Contra, Vocabula Review, and elsewhere. Among his books is a chapbook, Burning Bush (Judith Fitzgerald/Cranberry Tree, 2010).




Bikini Wax, an Inquiry Into Heteronormativity by Jeremy Freedman

j image

Image by Jeremy Freedman

 Bikini Wax, an Inquiry Into Heteronormativity
I got a hot bikini wax and on the first day I got fired
I marked myself safe and then I got fired
I made myself good and pretty for you but me
and my bikini wax were made redundant
I held up my end of the manly bargain
but now I’m off the end of the bed
and now I’m waxing off my remaining meds
I was a longtime pistolero but now I’m pissing up a rope
my wax was extracted and the rope was burned
either extracting and burning is a binary
either I do or I don’t or it’s not
either way I made myself pretty for you
I made myself pretty sore for you
and now I’m pretty sure I’m sore or I’m not
either I’m sore at you or I’m not
either I’m a native here or I’m foreign to these shores
maybe I’m a member of that lost tribe or I’m not
either I decide what I want or not want
either creating is deciding or procrastinating
or maybe it’s false to be in its thrall at all
either I do what I can or I can’t
either I’m on fire for you or I’m not
either you fired me or you didn’t
either wax burns or it doesn’t
either your skin when sleeping
has the texture of wax or it doesn’t
either I’m sleeping right now or I’m not
either my waning meds work or they won’t
either you think I’m pretty or I’m not
either I’m pretty in pink or I’m not in the pink
these are either bad decisions or useful habits
these either are beautiful facts or brutal fiction
fiction is just a lie that tells the truth
or it’s just a lie that lies there burning
this is either fiction or it’s not
either it’s a capital idea or it’s too much honest labor
either I’m an honest worker or I’m as honest as a liar
I’m the artist here so I won’t defend myself to you
maybe I like a good ass-whipping or maybe I don’t
maybe you’re the one to give it to me or maybe you won’t
either this date will stink in my calendar like rotten fish
in the refrigerator or else it will smell like your rose tattoo
either I’m a teenage fascist or I’m just skipping past the truth
maybe you like one fascist finger inside you or two at most
but not my whole fist please small though it is
I’m either horny as a frog or oily as an otter
maybe you’ll find me grease-streaked
and yellow like the cheese whiz
on top of a cheese steak on the griddle
or maybe I just forgot to sizzle
or maybe I’m as pretty as the dribble
coming from the corner of your mouth while you’re sleeping
I hear your voice either declaiming or complaining
either the burning bush is on fire or that’s not the voice
of the hostess with the mostess I hear
coming from the holiest of holies
calling me madman or calling me madam
telling me either I’m free at last at home free
and independent or else I’m undependable
or else I’m a dog in a dog-shaped doghouse
either I’m the belle of the ball or the beast with the least
maybe that’s the song I’m singing in high tenor
maybe if I were a bell I’d go ding dong dinging in terror
maybe I’m wearing a dress for success or maybe I’m not
either it’s my birthday suit or it’s not my dress
either I’ll grow into it or I’ll hide my ass in the hedges
either I’m hiding in the hedges or I’ll take a hiding
maybe the arc of the moral universe bends toward an ass-whipping
maybe the arc of the moral universe has the shape of my schlong
maybe life is bright and brief as the night is dark and long
maybe the Sicilian defense is no longer worth the candle
maybe Mt. Etna is on fire for you alone and blew
its top again too hot to handle without a glove
maybe there’s comfort in fear and comfort in love
either you’ll drink in the smoke or you’ll run for the hills
either your cities are buried in ash or they’re not
either it’s the ash of Ash Wednesday or it’s not
who can say why your forehead is dirty
I’m pretty sure that’s not a fingerprint I saw imprinted
I’m pretty sure it’s not Easter Monday or Maundy Thursday
either it will stay dirty or I’ll have to clean it up
either this a fork in the road and I’ll take it both ways
or maybe I’m unsighted that direction
or maybe the fat lady lost her tenor and forgot to sing
and this is the end of the bed
maybe I’ll wish upon my lucky star
either we’re lucky or we aren’t
either we stand on something evanescent as heaven
or we stand crotch deep in muck
if we’re lucky this is only the first circle of hell
and either we’re fucked or we’re not it’s too dark to tell
Jeremy Freedman is a writer and artist living in New York City. His poems have been published in 2 Bridges Review, Pioneertown, Queen Mob’s, Cleaver, The Missing Slate, and elsewhere. His chapbook “Apophenia” is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. His photographs have been exhibited in Europe and the United States and have been featured in numerous journals. More work can be seen at jfreenyc.com

Revelstoke Mountain, 5am by Julia Wakefield

Revelstoke Mountain, 5am
The valley holds its breath
no birdsong cuts the deep indigo
of conifer forests
one peak’s snow patches begin to blush
its neighbour waits, a grey silhouette
for its gilding
at last the harsh crow’s croak
breaks the spell
heralds the rumble and screeching of the 5.30 train
as it rattles the bridge and snakes over
the valley floor
in the cherry tree
the banshee twitter of a squirrel
hurls bold threats
at tiny birds
pine scent mingles with new-mown grass
pearls from last night’s rain
cling to every grass blade
beyond the tree line, bald eagles climb thermals
as the sun marches over
the mountain’s edge
clouds muster and retreat from the lowland hollows
linger in packs, throwing shadows to trap
woodlands and rock faces
the mountain is a moving picture
its flanks morph from cliffs to chasms;
where there was one peak
now there are two
here a clear track;
now there is none.
The day grows old
mountains flood the valley with shadows
swallow the sun
spray stars across the sky
toss the moon from peak to peak.

Photograph by Martin Christmas

Julia Wakefield has spent most of her life working as a visual artist, specialising in illustration and printmaking.  Since arriving in Adelaide in 2001 Julia has focused on poetry and spoken word, and her poems have been published in several Friendly Street Poets anthologies as well as in poetry journals Page Seventeen and Rabbit Poetry. She won second prize in WA’s Trudy Graham Literary Award for Poetry in 2010, and was highly commended in Friendly Street Poets’ Satura Prize in 2016.  She has a special interest in Japanese forms and she is an active member of the Adelaide-based Bindii Japanese Poetry Forms group.  Julia Wakefield

Coming On September 15th


Our September 15th edition will feature poetry from Dongho Cho, John Timpane, Jeremy Freedman, and Julia Wakefield.

Submissions of book reviews, commentary, essays and poetry are open at North of Oxford. Our guidelines are here: https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/about/ 

Radio Poems by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

radio poems
Review by Karen Corinne Herceg
Jeffrey Cyphers Wright is one of the proper heirs to the famed New York City poets of Manhattan’s grittier, exhilarating literary scene. He received an MFA in Poetry having worked with Allen Ginsberg at Brooklyn College and studied with Ted Berrigan and Alice Notley at the legendary St. Mark’s Poetry Project. He also taught there and served on its Board. Wright has been at the helm of several publications and currently produces Live Mag! A visual artist as well as a poet, writer and reviewer, he carries the mantle of respected literary giants upon his shoulders with grace and continued innovative fervor. Radio Poems harkens back to the rhythms of eccentric, challenging city streets, artistic enclaves and cutting edge airwaves. This work is part of The Operating Systems’ Chapbook Series now in its fifth year, and the series rightly encourages experimentation.
These poems operate on multiple levels. They not only entertain us, they work hard to encourage our brain cells to engage with disparate imagery and crossfire perceptions. These concisely compiled pieces remain expansive and rich while employing consistent economy of words. Multiple voices add color and varied perspectives, and each poem stands on its own merit. We can “turn the dial” and find a new revelation on every page, absorbing smart dissections and magical leaps. Still, as a collection, Radio Poems is cohesive, linked in both theory and practice with solid expression both thematically and specifically.
There is a startling combination of reality and surrealistic interpretation in Wright’s work. Think of the postcard snapshot these lines evoke:
            Let’s take our love to town,
            golden sun-canyoned angles
            of Manhattan filling the distance
            between unmoving street chasms. (P. 20, ll. 1-4)
We move from station to station with “broadcasts” of advice, announcements, opinions, ads and observations. Some of these poems deliver like musical impressions as in the Gershwinesque “let’s meet” with its light litany of suggestions that banter back and forth like a symphonic tennis match:
            Let’s meet in Chinatown
            at Confusion Square.
            Let’s go shopping for new
            fall outfits at Herald Square. (P. 27, ll. 1-4)
Similar to a proverbial DJ, Wright announces, “Spin me. Put your finger/in and dial—like an/old black rotary phone” (P. 16, ll. 11-13). He has a remarkable ability to keep messages clear within a framework of classic, realistic yet imaginary proclamations, rendering them all authentically.
            He begins the poem “Al Qaeda on the western front” with these tongue-twisting lines of alliterative mastery that bring us up sharply in the fourth line. There is an ominous feeling lurking between the words like a news anchor’s clever announcement:
            The last locust leaves leave
            their last lashes of gold
            crackling in whip-crisp
            blue November glare. (P. 11, ll. 1-4)
There are sparkling and delightful phrases that prompt us to alternately smile or solemnly reflect such as “…a dancer holds her/arms and weaves/the music into shape” (P. 17, ll. 23-25) and “This is how the dead dance/hoping for a second chance” (P. 24, ll. 7-8). There is a serious underpinning to this work, despite often easy top layers of incisive humor. As Wright warns, “The odyssey is not easy./Blows crown every turn” (P. 25, ll. 9-10). Contemporary angst meets ancient myth suggesting a timeless feeling and a summons to seek lofty goals without pretense as in these final lines from “Look. See.” with periods in the title definitive and commanding that ask us to “See if you can be/the one to pull the sword free” (P. 30, ll. 13-14).
Wright can invert meanings succinctly yet with complicated implications as in the terse concluding line of the poem “No Questions Asked” that proclaims, “Always invent the truth” (P. 28, l. 14). It seems less avoidance and more of an imperative to dig for integrity at all costs. Here we have an original voice that seeks liberation through language and challenges our impressions and observations, attempting to decipher how we communicate in the world between the mind and the voice.
            There are essential declarations here, and Wright tells us he is “Having my way with/the airwaves” (P. 12, ll. 6-7). We hear familiar phrases with a new ear, often wrought out of context, to bring the customary into the extraordinary thus extracting new meaning. And this is the poet’s obligation, after all, to render the old new, to elicit inventive and ingenious ways to see life afresh. Radio Poems is the work of a cutting-edge contemporary artist who honors history and heritage while keeping beat to a modern tempo with keen observations. It’s an imaginary ride to real places.
Karen Corinne Herceg writes poetry, prose, reviews and essays.  A graduate of Columbia University, she has studied and read with renowned writers Philip Schultz, David Ignatow, John Ashbery and William Packard. Her latest book is Out From Calaboose by Nirala Publications (2017).  She lives in the Hudson Valley, New York.