Sunday, April 26, 2015

The Sound of Sugar....Gary Dop

Have You Heard The One About

7 the madwoman who gave birth without screaming
till she held her child? She wailed:
He’s going to die. He’s going to die. And he did

eighty-four years later in a fishing village where he retired
with his wife and their latest Shih Tzu, Dreamy.
I know there’s no satisfying punch line, no

little joke about mom’s prediction, and nothing
to barb with the sanity of a mother’s pain—
nothing, that is, till you examine

your satisfied sigh when you heard that the baby
lived. Distracted, you pranced past the little truth—
every joke’s companion—the madwoman

was right: The boy died. The crazy mother
mourned the death to come, the death
of the old man in the infant, the death we forget

in favor of what we call sanity, that flimsy gift
of some other madwoman who birthed
the rest of us and the jokes we bear.



About the Poet:
Gary Dop teaches writing at Randolph College on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His essays have aired on All Things Considered, and his poems have appeared recently in Prairie Schooner, Agni, Rattle, New Letters, among others. His first collection of poems, Father, Child, Water, is forthcom­ing from Red Hen Press.



About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it. 

Saturday, January 31, 2015

The Sound of Sugar....Shangrila Willy



HUNGER

came down from the hills

stealing in through a slight break
in the fence, a thoughtless day’s work
of forgetting. He slinks round the back way
looking for scraps I’ve left. Rough-furred
and bony under hand, I’d lost sight of him
in summer’s bustling seeds and furrows.
Now, as the days thin,
pared sliver by sliver at twilight’s
widening rim, I think of his warm burr
curled at my spine. I begin leaving him bowls
of empty and scraped plates of watching.
Soon, he is my sleek companion again,
his footsteps dogging mine.



About the Poet:
Shangrila Willy is a collector of words, shoes, fables, and other em­broidered things. She lives in Baltimore with her lugubrious Great Dane and her husband who mucks about in brains. She has most recently been pub­lished in Pear Noir!, Rattle, and Gargoyle; and has work forthcoming in Mea­sure, Magma, and cream city review.


About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it. 

Saturday, January 17, 2015

The Sound of Sugar....Juan J. Morales

Boy Scouts vs. Zombies

In my elementary school
gymnasium, Scout Master tells us
to do our civic duty
with sticks we sharpened
and pockets knives we aren’t supposed
to know how to use yet.

There are no merit badges for this.
We are never prepared
for parents and teachers possessed
with the undead gait
that rips through school to eat children
and anyone in between.

If I survive, I will join
the future leaders of a hellish country,
rebuilt by the orphans who sob
for forgiveness to their hungry-for-flesh
families we execute
against our will.

I don’t want to wear
this uniform anymore. I don’t want
to think about being
loyal to my den or being
a good citizen by putting down
our bit up Scout Master.

I will not think about my absent mother
or my reanimated father
attacking towards me. I will
pretend I get a pin or patch for this. I will
act like it’s not him anymore
and other lies to keep myself alive.



About the Poet:
Juan J. Morales’ collection of poems, Friday and the Year That Followed, won the 2005 Rhea and Seymour Gorsline Poetry Competition and was pub­lished in 2006 by Bedbug Press. His poetry has also appeared in Acentos Re­view, Many Mountains Moving, PALABRA, Poet Lore, Washington Square, Zone 3, and other journals.


About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.  

Sunday, November 23, 2014

The Sound of Sugar....Erica Dawson


Everybody Down

Around this time of year, someone will fall
Over Great Falls. It could be me if I
Left Tampa’s flatness for Virginia’s drawl.
Altiloquent, high-flying cardinals’ cry

Whit chew. The Civil War has its own app,
e-iPhone forts; but, love rides war roughshod
Over Virginia for lovers and sap
Sugar maples. I could get right with God

Here, and descend from blue preoccupations
Catching humidity latching on white
Oak trees, and tangle with indoctrinations:
Survival of the fittest; fright or flight;

Heat rising. Metamorphic slab for miles
Above the water table, stipule spines
Float somewhere for a stagnant spot. Rock stiles
Tease ticks to Climb back up. The ripples’ brine

Is really schist’s sharp grains. How do you like
Me now, God? Accident of fractured bone,
One with nature, the solstice, and a hike.
I bloom in spring. In spring, I die as stone.




About the Poet:

Erica Dawson’s first collection of poems,
Big-Eyed Afraid (Waywiser 2007), won the 2006 Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize. Her new collection, The Small Blades Hurt, is forthcoming from Measure Press. Her poems have appeared in Best American Poetry, Poetry: A Pocket Anthology, Harvard Review, and other journals and anthologies. She teaches in the undergraduate, and the low-residency MFA, program at University of Tampa.

About the Sound of Sugar:

We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.  


Saturday, November 8, 2014

The Sound of Sugar....Charlie Malone

Illusive, Weeded

white chicken feathers scatter across the lawn
red specks glisten wet grass thick with
dandelions.
                  the door to the coop is ajar.

beyond this    flight    thick rows of pine

dead limbs scratch and snap

                                               heart slows
deeper in the woods     skittish deer bed down
within the rectangle of a toppled sugarhouse
bucket rust.

                        pick up a brick and the wet
rotting leaf smell it holds down rises

the cold mass fills small hands.

an earthworm writhes in the vacancy
reddish centipedes scatter

a potato bug rolls in the palm.






About the Poet:
Charlie Malone recently returned to the Midwest to occupy a house in the woods outside a small town home to a not-exactly-small university, Ferris State. Malone studied literature and writing at Kent State and Colorado State and liked it just fine. He is grateful to all his students, teachers, colleagues, his wife, and the the kind editors who see something worthwhile in his work. Charlie's writings can be found in or are forthcoming with The Dunes Review, Phoebe, The Laurel Review, as well as the anthology A Poetic Inventory of Rocky Mountain National Park. 


About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Sound of Sugar....Steve Langan



THE MIDWEST

I remember this old guy at the bar
where I worked gestured toward a girl
seated with friends at a round table
and said, You really need to learn to pause,
study the small of a woman’s back,
the parallel lines subtly curving upward—
are her shoulders little shouts or whispers?—
and her neck, slightly untuned, does it plead?—
to know how best to begin to pursue her.
But I was mainly interested in scoring then,
in showing you how many bottles I could
hold aloft in the dim light, and getting
and staying loaded for days at a time.

It’s rude to talk too much about yourself.
That’s what we learn here in the Midwest.
Days are numbered, we ask you to contribute
to the bottom line, to catch one another
in your sullen reproaches, crashing swoons,
make it look easy these next squalid hours.
Some little nitpickers claim we’re improving.
But we can’t all be angels of mercy or pain,
hunting and gathering, failing and building,
saving nothing for later, sleeping it all off.



About the Poet:
Steve Langan was born in Milwaukee and raised in Omaha. He earned degrees from the University of Nebraska and the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Langan is the author of Freezing (2001), Notes on Exile and Other Poems (2005), Meet Me at the Happy Bar (2009), and What It Looks Like, How It Flies (2013).




About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

The Sound of Sugar....Natalia TreviƱo


Tortilla Skins

In the hot light of your kitchen, ‘Uelita, you showed me how to
press the thick dough against your popping, aluminum table. Your
hands the size of the tortillas to come, willing the mass to open
as soft disk. My hands too small to maneuver, to stretch over it,
to pull the dry powder in. I was fifteen and knew you were happy.
Years after ‘Buelito had died, you a new kind of woman. Certain eyes.
Laughing, traveling, playing cards. Able to wake and say no, to skip
the heat of the day to cook the midday meal. Bake a cake instead, at
night. Crochet and smoke at the same time. Speak up around men.
Accept a small glass of beer. The dough as cool as your hands, your
red fingernails disappearing into the ball. Would you remarry? I
ask. You are quick to answer. Yes, it is ugly to live alone. Your fingers
have memorized this motion, this touch. All I can think is how the
wives in Mexico flail in sick waters, in tired, wakeful oceans, choppy
white crests salting their faces, silenced and gasping by the slap of
spray. Romantic novella endings kneaded into the eyes and ears of
daughters, spiteful neighborhood chisme, the sealing orders from
men, sons, brothers, husbands. The lines on your face, Uelita, deep
like the folds of the dough in your hands. The portraits in your
living room, bridal framed faces, faint as shells at the end of flat
beach, stripped of color by the brine of dry sunlight, waiting for
the tide to soak them, turn them, or swallow them. Bone exposed at the
back of the neck, you bend to your yes. And we press our tortilla
skins to the heat, their faces down, to cook them.




About the Poet:

Born in Mexico City, Natalia grew up in Texas where her mother taught her Spanish and Bert and Ernie gave her lessons in English. Natalia has won several awards for her poetry and fiction including the 2004 Alfredo Moral de Cisneros Award, the 2008 Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prize and the 2012 Literary Award from the Artist Foundation of San Antonio. Currently, Natalia is an assistant professor of English at Northwest Vista College where she works with students of all levels.



About the Sound of Sugar:
We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.