THE WIRE HARP

The Snow Man

2010-11-28T19:43:00.000-08:00

I've learned my lesson. I'm terrible at updating blogs. I've decided to resume my posts with our Wire Harp Poem of the Week selections, which can be seen posted around the SFCC campus. Recommendations welcome! I may even give away books someday!

~~~

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

After a delay, Whitman.

2010-07-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

Better late than never. There's some triteness to brighten your day.

But in all seriousness, I do have a splendid poem to share with you all. Well, its actually only a section of a poem. The writer's name is Walt Whitman, and the poem I'm drawing from is titled The Song of Myself. You've all heard of it if you took an American literature class, which may also mean that most of you don't want a rehash of that same boogering. But bear with me. Whitman isn't a booger. And contrary to what you may think of poets in general, Whitman wasn't a insulated loungeabout either. He was a nurse in the Civil War, and spent the greater portion of his income supplementing his supplies. Death surrounded him, yet Whitman notes that without the Civil War "and the experiences they gave, "Leaves of Grass" would not now be existing." The Good Gray Poet can lay claim to a poet lineage unlike any other, and he may have perhaps, along with Emily Dickinson, granted America its most lasting legacy. Enjoy this glimpse of Whitman's creation, and bear his advice in mind: "No one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a literary performance, or as aiming mainly towards art and aestheticism."

~~~

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition,
out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Well Hello There Byzantium!

2010-06-24T09:47:00.000-07:00

But wait, let me introduce myself. My name is Ryan Miller, and I'm the literary editor for the 2010 - 2011 Wire Harp. Though Derek may stop in from time to time to amaze us with his bearded poetic might, I will be doing most of the babbling on both this blog and the Wire Harp's Facebook page. To counteract the babbling, I will try to (regularly) post poetry, complementary music, articles on things I like and dislike, and anything else that fits in the cracks. Mostly poetry, though, as I don't know how to do half the things I just listed. I'm a social networking Neanderthal, yet am slowly refining my hand axes and beginning to domesticate sheep. If something incomplete (or possibly insulting) finds its way onto either of the Wire Harp's pages, disregard.
Back to poetry for a moment. I'm a reader, not a writer, and I think this is probably the most important factor in how I'm going to operate as an editor. This isn't to say that I'm going to be lax on submission requests, but I want people to be aware of what poetry has been before they try to make it was it is. I have no fear of poetry's "death", as many in the literary community do, but I do feel that it will sicken if modern writers of poetry write blindly. If all art is inevitably plagiarism, as Harold Bloom puts it, then I would much rather we plagiarize what we find the most beautiful and the most human, even if it is "old". That's that. Let's read some poetry!

Sailing To Byzantium
by W.B. Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

~~~

P.S. Recognize the opening line as a movie/book title? And you thought ol' Cormac came up with that one on his own. See, quasi-plagiarism? Don't worry kids, it only causes cancer in the state of California...

P.P.S. However, only artists get away with plagiarism. Everyone else, cite your sources!

Thank You

2010-05-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

Thanks to everyone who made this year's "Wire Harp" possible, including advisers, staff, everyone who submitted, and everyone who came to the coffee house. It wouldn't be possible without you.

Congratulations to Hayley Sims, who's poem "No Abstractions for Lone Women" won this year's Richard Baldasty Poetry Award.

And Congratulations to Ryan Miller, who was chosen to be next year's literary editor. Knowing that the magazine has been left in good hands I look forward to next year's issue.

Keep on writing, and don't forget to submit next year!
Derek Annis
Literary Editor
2010 "Wire Harp"

Coffee House Reading

2010-05-23T16:14:00.001-07:00

The 2010 issue of The Wire Harp comes out May 26(this Wednesday). Join us in Sub Lounges A and B at 11:30 a.m. to pick up a free copy of the magazine and listen to this year's published authors read their work. We will be serving free inspiration, coffee, and snacks. Also, some instructors may be willing to offer extra credit for students who attend this event, so don't forget to ask your instructors about this ahead of time.

Ag. Agent | Steve Reames

2010-02-09T21:55:00.000-08:00

Start with eyes

grey as the trunk

of Jep's apple tree and

startling as its age.

Follow her eyes

from old bark to new growth

and bright apples in the foliage.

Reach for vertical yellow

streaks on round red.

Bite, finally

pungent, feral, sweet

the hoped-for surprise

open and encompassing

as her smile.

Taken from the 1990 issue of The Wire Harp.

Broken Wings (for George Herbert) | Ethan Abata

2010-02-01T17:34:00.000-08:00

I'll give you some goddamned Easter wings.

I robbed them from a dead man.

He fell from the sky today--

He flew too high.

Gorgon paradise,

Made of words in the dark

Shines like a justified slaughter

Up in the sky, always beyond your reach.

Taken from the 2001 issue of The Wire Harp.

Drug Abuse | Randy Olson

2010-01-25T18:19:00.000-08:00

Never mind how I arrived here.
I am a swimmer at the bottom of the pool
With my hand stuck in the drain
Fighting desperately for a breath of fresh air.
There are some people sitting around the pool
Admiring how long I am able to hold my breath,
Talking about me, pointing to me like I am some
Kind of hero, saying that they envy my
Position in life.
But I am here at the bottom,
Desperately trying to wrench my hand free
So that I can come up to the surface
And begin to live once again.

Taken from the 1987 issue of The Wire Harp.

The stairs of bookshelves that line my room | Alesha Suydam

2010-01-17T23:37:00.000-08:00

impose upon me
histories upon histories
supine details
malice
bound by thread and paper

force language down my throat
that i may choke on verbs and
conjugation
drown in letters and
punctuation
and finally gain my breath between
italics and exclamation

points.

do not let this incense burn your
sacred decomposition.

let me climb you
and rest in your spine

my hand in
your hand opening and closing
in mine

your head in my lap
and contentment
folded in your mouth

Taken from the 2007 issue of The Wire Harp.

No Little Mother | Jane Johnson

2010-01-10T14:23:00.000-08:00

I know you think that I am a natural appendage.
you look at me like you
look at your hand.
Whatever I say--it's a reflex
and you're sure you know the back of me
--but I am a Universe (you didn't know this).
People live
and die inside me--
no one ever leaves.

Taken from the 2002 issue of The Wire Harp.

Buried | Jason Rellik

2010-01-03T17:19:00.000-08:00

After you left
I still had your smile,
locked up,
sealed away,
flung into a pit
and buried.
I long to gaze upon it
again--
but I cannot break
through the bedrock.

Taken from the 1998 issue of The Wire Harp.

Emily's Tyger | Steve Reames

2009-12-20T22:59:00.000-08:00

How much starlight would it take
to make you sore, shepherd, afraid
of the dark or of indifferent cold?

Awakened by the slap
of single-handed night, I shudder
at the prickle of stars still as air.

In the firmament,
winter solstice burns bone zero.
Terror spreads like glory in my skull.

Taken from the 1994 issue of The Wire Harp.

Moon | Lindsay Williams

2009-12-13T13:51:00.000-08:00

the moon,
when passing by,
became snarled in the overhanging branches of a tree.
I strove to free it
but, evading me,
it skillfully unspun the trap
and sailed away
beyond my grasp.

Taken from the 2004 issue of The Wire Harp.

Nausea | Bonnie Haines

2009-12-06T17:27:00.000-08:00

I was afraid I'd barf up my guts,
and sure enough,
that's just what happened.
It took a long while to get all
the pieces stuffed back in there,
and I wasn't sure where those
loops of intestine belonged,
much less the elusive spleen
we all read about but never see.

So now I'm settling down to sleep,
hoping I did it all right.
Never happened to me before.

Taken from the 1993 issue of The Wire Harp.

Submission Guidelines

2009-12-03T08:45:00.001-08:00

1. All submissions must be typed in standard font. Handwritten submissions will not be considered.

2. Your name, address, phone number, and email (please! our preferred method of contact) should appear in the upper left-hand corner of the first page of each submission:
Jane Doe
1234 My Street, Spokane, WA 99200
(509) 123-4567 JaneDoe@email.com

3. No more than 6 literary submissions in total, please (some may be poems, some may be short stories, some may be essays, but no more than 6 total). Poems: typed single-spaced. Stories and essays: typed double-spaced, limit the length of each story or essay to 6 pages. For these prose submission, please write “fiction” or “nonfiction” on the top. Thanks!

4. Submit to Laura Read’s or Connie Wasem’s mailboxes in Bldg 5 (across from the English Dept office) in a secured envelope. Write “Wire Harp Submission” visibly on the envelope.

For further information, contact: laurar@spokanefalls.edu or conniew@spokanefalls.edu

Preferred Submission Deadline: 3 Dec 2009 (end of Fall 09)
Absolute Latest Deadline: 10 Jan 2010 (2nd Monday of Winter ‘11)

Invitation to Bathe | Steve St. George

2009-11-29T19:28:00.000-08:00

What began with the perfection
of a liquid moon
And the mystical circular ripples
Caused by the tossing of a coin
Imprinted with the image of a dancing satyr
Has ended in a devious distortion
of the pond

But I have dipped my toes
In the warm sweet waters of madness
And have chosen rather to suffer
The indignity of my uncleanliness
For the preservation of my sanity
And the quiescence of a liquid moon

Taken from the 1988 issue of The Wire Harp.

Triolet | Kathleen Stevens

2009-11-22T19:52:00.000-08:00

In order to get grades of A
I spend my time in study.
I never stop to rest or play
In order to get grades of A
Etched on my tombstone it will say
In letters grim and muddy:
In order to get grades of A
I spent my time in study.

Taken from the 1984 issue of The Wire Harp.

American Falls Reservoir | Dolores Lee

2009-11-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

My knees scabbed thick
like red-brown worms,
I kneel beside the body
on the rough planks of the dock.
The carp's puckered lips
open and close as if to suck
water from air,
air from water.
Inky pupils spread
into gray clouds.
Dipping my left hand
into the reservoir
I feel the dingy lukewarm water
swirl between my fingers:
And think of Mama's kitchen sink
full of soaking dishes.
I nudge the fish
over the deck with my shoe.
Its body lands silently and sinks
deep into the reservoir.
It floats back up to me--
on its side,
eyes open wide.

Taken from the 2000 issue of The Wire Harp.

His Song | Rachelle Sorger

2009-11-08T16:42:00.000-08:00

Broken pieces
of a cold winter
lie jagged
beneathe me.

I ache,
like rust
on a summer gown.

Sometimes he walks.

With me he falls.

He says I broke him
the day
I told him
he couldn't sing.

It's funny how I don't remember anything
except the beauty
in his voice.

Taken from the 1999 issue of The Wire Harp.

Campfire | Crystal Goings

2009-11-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

The small light of the fire
Grows brighter
And little by little
Steals a world away from darkness.
Rebellious shadows leap near the light
And try to reclaim
What was theirs.

Taken from the 1986 issue of The Wire Harp.

Accomplice | Tom Versteeg

2009-10-25T23:46:00.000-07:00

You're barely down off the red ball
and somebody says here
help me shake open
this valise full of bones.
The handle against you fingers
is so smooth
and so cool, but what you'll stare at
when your eyes close even years hence
is the way each femur glowed
like the nightstick of a cop
from the land of the dead.

Taken from the 2008 issue of The Wire Harp.

Aftermath | Lisa Oman

2009-10-18T19:24:00.000-07:00

"There's nothing left."
The words pierce my heart at first,
But then bounce off.
There had to be something!
We drive past flattened houses and rubble.
Even the trees were smashed,
Molded to the ground.
I turn to look at our house.
Grandpa's staircase stands,
as if it hadn't been informed
Of any Hurricane.
It climbed steadily up,
to midair.
He always bragged how damn sturdy
Them ol' stairs were.

Taken from the 1996 issue of The Wire Harp.

The Long Porch | Bonnie Haines

2009-10-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

We climbed the railings in our dirty white sneakers,
ate warm, sweet mangoes in the musky shade
beneath the deck.
There were boards we knew,
boards that creaked,
those that shifted and sank
slightly at a step.
We had the territory marked out,
defined by our own set of signposts.

The tops of the trees were as familiar
as the trunks,
personally handled by each of us,
hand and foot.
We knew the wind in those trees,
all the sounds of night and day--
the birdsong in dewy morning light,
rustling and cracking of branches
mingling just above our heads
as we clambered over the railing
into the jungle.

Taken from the 1992 issue of The Wire Harp.

2009-10-04T10:29:00.001-07:00

Watching People Sleep
(I like to think she Knew I was there)

Sometimes
when I'm awake at night,
I go to your room and
watch you sleep, my daughter says.
She is eight.
I try to remember--
did I feel her gaze
across the room
in the morning light?
I like to think I knew
she was there.

The last time
I watched my mother sleep,
she floated
in a water-filled mattress,
belly swollen
by the football-sized tumor.
She opened morphine eyes and
I think
looked at me.
Had she felt my gaze
across the room
in the morning light?
She closed her eyes.
She died.
I like to think she knew
I was there.
I was thirty-six.

~By Pat Kondas~

Taken from the 1997 issue of The Wire Harp.

Rose by the Porch | Georgia Tiffany

2009-09-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

What is this he asks
me to do?
The last rose
has one startled view of
my face all at once
stiffened by the coming
frost. October
changes the way sun
slips across the stoop,
the rhetoric.
Twin blades of the
garden shears glint
in my hand.

Taken from the 1989 issue of The Wire harp.

Get ready to submit!

2009-09-01T05:41:00.000-07:00

The Wire Harp will be accepting submissions soon, so shake the dust off all your rough drafts, finish that art project, grab your camera, and get ready to submit. Come see our table on club day for more information, and keep your eyes open for fliers on campus.