In order to promote the upcoming Spring 2009 issue, the magazine will be hosting a reading. We are asking those who have submitted in the past and those who will be published in the upcoming issue to read from their work.
If you are interested, please contact us by email (ubiquitous.submissions@gmail.com) with your name, email & phone number, and the piece(s) you are interested in reading.
What Day? Tuesday, April 28th
What Time? 7:00 PM
And Where? Engineering Bld. 371
Hope to see you there!
Monday, April 20, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
Poetry: Sojourner
Sojourner
Backward foam is offered up by Venus
and a blacksmith, fallen to the sea,
only to return
it there, finding in its deepest black
the spreading -- continents spreading from Africa.
Burdened an searching, Isis
straps on her sandals, brave Isis
is searching in the night. Pale Venus
light guides her out of Africa,
through the delta to the sea.
It waits in fish black
for her return.
A return
of the leg, Isis
finds it, of the black,
coarse hair, she finds it. Fish have swallowed Venus,
fat, decapitated, out of sea,
into an Austrian tomb, a Slovakian tomb, across Africa
to a tomb, not Africa --
off cliff face, into water and foam, a return
to the sea.
In trees and under sand, limbs gathered; Isis
places them like pineapple in a basket, but Venus
rests belly deep in black,
in fish guts, a black
pearl first: Rodinia first, Godwana second, Pangaea third, Africa
fourth. First, Venus,
second, phallus, then Osiris erected upon his return,
the old leaf phallus cast by Isis,
the flesh lost out to the sea.
Into the foam, Isis went, into the sea
to find Venus, rescue from the black.
God will have to satisfy Africa, the flesh won’t return
~ By Robert Balkovich ~
Backward foam is offered up by Venus
and a blacksmith, fallen to the sea,
only to return
it there, finding in its deepest black
the spreading -- continents spreading from Africa.
Burdened an searching, Isis
straps on her sandals, brave Isis
is searching in the night. Pale Venus
light guides her out of Africa,
through the delta to the sea.
It waits in fish black
for her return.
A return
of the leg, Isis
finds it, of the black,
coarse hair, she finds it. Fish have swallowed Venus,
fat, decapitated, out of sea,
into an Austrian tomb, a Slovakian tomb, across Africa
to a tomb, not Africa --
off cliff face, into water and foam, a return
to the sea.
In trees and under sand, limbs gathered; Isis
places them like pineapple in a basket, but Venus
rests belly deep in black,
in fish guts, a black
pearl first: Rodinia first, Godwana second, Pangaea third, Africa
fourth. First, Venus,
second, phallus, then Osiris erected upon his return,
the old leaf phallus cast by Isis,
the flesh lost out to the sea.
Into the foam, Isis went, into the sea
to find Venus, rescue from the black.
God will have to satisfy Africa, the flesh won’t return
~ By Robert Balkovich ~
Poetry: Collada
Collada
El niño with his little hands is playing in the kitchen
with a miniature bindle stick made from ball lightning fragments
and shards of eddy. Balancing it against the eye wall,
el niño hitches the neap tide and claps his little hands together.
Tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
Above a nocturnal thunderstorm, by the jet stream,
the thick albedo quakes the atmosphere.
El niño, tired from riding the mountain waves,
curls up inside an ice jam. His muggy little hands
are awake and stay curious:
Do battle with the isopleth! The North
Pacific high approaches. Azores high and Bermuda
high, el niño stands at the nadir and contemplates
the lotus. Beneath the omega block he cultivates a lotus.
El niño meditates:
The lotus has five white little fingers. It grows
in the aphelion. It sips hoarfrost from the tip of
each white little finger. It blossoms at red tide
and dies at mare’s tail. Stands in a field of moist adiabat;
tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
~ By Benjamin Korman ~
El niño with his little hands is playing in the kitchen
with a miniature bindle stick made from ball lightning fragments
and shards of eddy. Balancing it against the eye wall,
el niño hitches the neap tide and claps his little hands together.
Tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
Above a nocturnal thunderstorm, by the jet stream,
the thick albedo quakes the atmosphere.
El niño, tired from riding the mountain waves,
curls up inside an ice jam. His muggy little hands
are awake and stay curious:
Do battle with the isopleth! The North
Pacific high approaches. Azores high and Bermuda
high, el niño stands at the nadir and contemplates
the lotus. Beneath the omega block he cultivates a lotus.
El niño meditates:
The lotus has five white little fingers. It grows
in the aphelion. It sips hoarfrost from the tip of
each white little finger. It blossoms at red tide
and dies at mare’s tail. Stands in a field of moist adiabat;
tomorrow el niño meets the nexrad:
~ By Benjamin Korman ~
Poetry: The Unnatural Scale
the unnatural scale
but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnson. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.
~ By Adah Gorton ~
but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnson. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.
~ By Adah Gorton ~
Poetry: A Translucent Dream
A Translucent Dream
He read the classics, Huck Finn twice,
And took coffee black with sugar.
When I was a girl, I took sugar and cream,
And wrote poem after poem
And wrote dream after dream
Of the houses and the people in this town.
Remember when I went to your town?
You kissed good, and how I missed your sugar!
Under your sheets, we made love twice.
My skin was dark, against yours, (a fair cream)
And I showed you that poem
And dreamed the sweetest dream.
It was night and the snow fell like sugar
When we were driving into town.
You stopped for a coffee; I took mine with cream.
That winter, I read her book of poems twice,
And dreamed less real dreams
So I just drank the poems.
Remember sleeping in church, twice?
Once in the morning, and you woke from a dream.
Next at midnight– we were the only kids in town.
Looking up at the ceiling, painted cream,
I recited to you one of The Small Poems:
We sat at the table with nothing but sugar.
On your birthday, I thought the salt was sugar
So I made your cake twice,
Then bought vanilla ice cream.
Your friends came from out of town
And I found my old poem
About the wildest horses, and the wildest dreams.
After the end I wrote you a poem.
She said, a love affair merits a poem twice:
When it is stale and when it has sugar.
We met in my saddest dreams.
You were a ghost in my town,
A shimmering translucent cream.
Night sky is a poem, and the moon is cream
Dashed with sugar for stars in my town,
Twice baked, but only in that dream.
~ By Rachael Taylor ~
He read the classics, Huck Finn twice,
And took coffee black with sugar.
When I was a girl, I took sugar and cream,
And wrote poem after poem
And wrote dream after dream
Of the houses and the people in this town.
Remember when I went to your town?
You kissed good, and how I missed your sugar!
Under your sheets, we made love twice.
My skin was dark, against yours, (a fair cream)
And I showed you that poem
And dreamed the sweetest dream.
It was night and the snow fell like sugar
When we were driving into town.
You stopped for a coffee; I took mine with cream.
That winter, I read her book of poems twice,
And dreamed less real dreams
So I just drank the poems.
Remember sleeping in church, twice?
Once in the morning, and you woke from a dream.
Next at midnight– we were the only kids in town.
Looking up at the ceiling, painted cream,
I recited to you one of The Small Poems:
We sat at the table with nothing but sugar.
On your birthday, I thought the salt was sugar
So I made your cake twice,
Then bought vanilla ice cream.
Your friends came from out of town
And I found my old poem
About the wildest horses, and the wildest dreams.
After the end I wrote you a poem.
She said, a love affair merits a poem twice:
When it is stale and when it has sugar.
We met in my saddest dreams.
You were a ghost in my town,
A shimmering translucent cream.
Night sky is a poem, and the moon is cream
Dashed with sugar for stars in my town,
Twice baked, but only in that dream.
~ By Rachael Taylor ~
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