November 17 - Meet Your Local Authors!

Book signings, open readings, come and talk, buy books by sixteen local authors, and enjoy the weather with like-minded friends. 

Local novels, short story collections, art books & poetry will all be available. Buy Holiday gifts for your friends who "have everything" =:-) 

We plan to have open readings all day - anyone can "get in line" and read. Bring your best poem or story to share. No microphones, so prepare to be natural. 

The event is free, come for 10 minutes, or the full time. We have two more Meet Your Local Author events coming if you miss this one. Come join the fun!!! 

Click here to take a peek at last week's fun!
We get better all the time!

Tobi Alfier - Doors of Perception

When One Door Closes, Another Opens

Usually it seems we say this to a friend when a breakup happens, “don’t be sad, when one door closes, another one opens”.  I’m not that nice. I say “put his stuff out on the street with a “free” sign, and go to a spa”.

But this post isn’t about breakups, it’s about writing!

Let me digress. Years ago, I found myself at Rancho LaPuerta in Tecate, Mexico. It was, and still is, a famous “fat farm”. Passports weren’t required yet, and there was a lovely mix of guests—those who were serious, and those who were seriously on vacation. Everyone knew where the best margaritas were in town. After a pathetically healthy dinner, some of us would sneak out to Las Candelerias and drink (Oscar was the nicest waiter ever). We had the best by day, and the best by night.

I feel that same way as a writer. Mostly I am a poet. Occasionally I sneak out at night and write short fiction.

I currently have the one-time honor of stepping in to help proofread for a literary journal. They sent me eighty pages to proofread, not edit. I’m loving the task because I get to see what other writers, whose work has already been accepted, are writing, and I’m relieved to discover that my writing may not be very far off the mark.

So far I have proofed six stories. They are longer than what I write, but there are a few similarities. They have very little dialog. None of it is “he said”, “she said”. I appreciate this, because as a narrative poet, I tend to write narrative short fiction, and I hate “he said” “she said” dialog. Put it in quotes or italics, make it obvious who’s speaking first, and the rest of the conversation will follow (in my opinion).

This journal is consistent in their use of the Oxford comma. So far, most of the writers have used it anyway. I have added very few commas to their work. I use it in mine as well. (Note: Oxford commas do not appear to be universal. My

college-aged son has a number of professors who read blind. They know my son’s papers within two weeks because he is the only one who uses Garamond, and the only one who uses Oxford commas.). Everyone is different.

I usually don’t set out to write short fiction. If a poem isn’t working as free verse, I first see if it should be written in prose. I can tell very quickly by the language and length if it is not a prose poem, and then I change it to short fiction. To me it is very clear that a prose poem is not the same as a short fiction piece. This is an argument that is often “discussed”.

If you haven’t tried writing short fiction, or micro-fiction as it is sometimes called, you might try it. Sneak away sometime, order a margarita and write 750 or 1,000 words. The language doesn’t have to be as poetic, and it might give you the chance to tell that story you couldn’t figure out how to tell in a poetic way. I have only written about eight pieces of short fiction, and I am thankful they have all been published. Compared to hundreds of poems and hundreds of rejections…I may have to order another margarita!

Prose Poem:

Morning Meditation with Stone and Weather

She straightened up against the uneven and ancient stones of the wall in the narrow alley between her pensione and the harbor. The stones, bubbled with texture like yeast in bread, scratched her back in a satisfying way. To be pushed into them and kissed, this one time, would not feel as delicious as the solitary and unguarded flexing of the warp and weft of her shoulders and back. She listened to the clanking of a family meal being prepared across the way. In a language she couldn’t understand, but in smells redolent of her childhood, and her family—her chaotic little family back home in Nowhere, Arizona, that rarely sat down together over any meal, unless it was in front of a ballgame. Over it all, the perfume of the sea, darkened and angry by weather that was calling this home. Clouds overhead the color of dampened hearthstones before being warmed by morning fires. She watched them move slowly across the tiny alley sky, wondered whether they had any rain to leave behind, soft as tomorrow night’s dreams.

Previously published in Suisun Valley Review

Short Fiction:

Grandpa Salerno Wakes to the Predawn Chill of Sevilla

In another time, another life, before even the roosters were up, he was usually at the café in the butcher’s district, a glass of coffee in one hand, churro in the other and a song on his lips. But today, as the sky begins to pinken, he takes a swig of grappa and goes to the river, to say good morning and pay his respects to his departed wife. She left such a short time ago the sheets and pillow still hold her shadow, the cupboard holds her scent on the clothes he can’t bear to give away. He misses her deeply. He will miss her every day.

People greet him as he walks, a chorus of “hello”, “good morning”, “ciao” and “buongiorno”. Most don’t even know his name. They call him Grandpa Salerno because a long time ago he came from Salerno. He isn’t sure they would call him Antoni even if he asked, but he doesn’t mind.

Guadalquivir River Seville

He makes it to the park by the river with his coffee, black, and his egg sandwich, well done, watches the sky and city come to life. He watches Matteo, his friend and fellow émigré, who waves to him from across the river with his coffee, cream and sugar, and egg sandwich, runny. They both came to this country full of promises and dreams. They both ended up happy for a long time, family and years crinkling their eyes with laughter and now, sadness also.

Antoni loves the chill, even as thoughts of his beloved in the lightenng sky warm his shoulders the way she rubbed them warm after a hard day at work. He loves the smells, he loves the people. He loves this adopted city, and wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Today is planting day. Under Antoni’s watchful eyes, three of his four sons, the fourth far away in Trenton, New Jersey, were coming to plant his garden. For the raised bed already built there were lettuces and peas, carrots and herbs. Rolls of copper tape would line the wood to keep out snails.  The rest of the small garden would be protected from animals by posts, wire and a gate, to be built by the sons. There they would plant corn and broccoli. Trellises for cucumbers would line one side, tomato cages the opposite. Plants, fertilizer, shovels and bags of cork for lining a path were all delivered yesterday. They all knew to bring their own gloves.

Also delivered were four bushes—roses created in 1952. Antoni and his wife Rose married in 1952. He ordered four to represent each son. This will be a garden of the heart as well as the body, and after he works his sons to back-breaking exhaustion they will feast on wine and tapas, congratulating each other and deciding who will come each Saturday to visit their father and weed.

It was a long day followed by a late lunch, the sons returning home to their wives, their gardens. Antoni, in an old chair dragged from the kitchen, toasted the last bit of color from the sky with one last glass of wine, whispered to his Rose in a mix of Italian, Spanish and English. And then, walking a little stooped from age and the surprise of being alone, he retired, an early night by anyone’s standards, to dream the plants growing and to get ready for the sunrise tomorrow.

Previously published in Revolution John

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Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.

November 11 - Meet Your Local Writers!

Book signings, open readings, come and talk, buy books by twenty local authors, and enjoy the weather with like-minded friends. 

Local novels, short story collections, art books & poetry will all be available. Buy Holiday gifts for your friends who "have everything" =:-) 

We plan to have open readings all day - anyone can "get in line" and read. Bring your best poem or story to share. No microphones, so prepare to be natural. 

The event is free, come for 10 minutes, or the full time. We have two more Meet Your Local Author events coming if you miss this one. Come join the fun!!! 

Tobi Alfier - Is A Pantoum Always A Poem?

Think of this post as a Pantoum of sorts. You may know where you start, but you never know where you’re gonna end. Here we go…

Part I

My Grandpa Bernie and Grandma Ida, whose name really wasn’t Ida and we don’t know why, used to own a liquor store in San Pedro, across from the Todd Shipyards. After that, my Grandpa became a Cadillac brake repairman. This is such a coincidence because the Literary Journal my husband Jeff and I co-edit is San Pedro River Review. It is not named after California though, it is named after the river in Arizona. Still, Jeff spends a lot of time in his beloved San Pedro and Terminal Island. He even wrote a chapbook about it—Anthem for Pacific Avenue, published by Cowboy Buddha Publishing.

Tobi & Buick photo by Jeff

Jeff also loves old cars, Buicks and Cadillacs especially. He would have loved my Grandpa. I loved my Grandpa. He was dark-browed and handsome. I used to sit on his lap and pull his chest hair. He used to feed me bagels sent by Uncle Al in Miami, with cream cheese. Grandpa Bernie died when I was four and I’m now sixty. I still remember him. We all still remember him. I’m sorry Jeff never had a chance to meet him.

Part II

Shortly after my Grandpa died of leukemia, my family formed a charity that sponsors a researcher; right now they are funding research at Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles.

They have one event every year – Secret Saturday. Two hundred people get on buses and go to secret places.

One year Jeff and I made a small chapbook for everyone with poems about grief and love, loss, beauty. The cover artwork was done by my Aunt, Debra Gordon. Aunt Debbie is one of Bernie and Ida’s youngest. She’s a beautiful artist (all of my book covers are either Debra’s art, or Jeff’s photography. I am a lucky, lucky poet!).

Part III

Every year Aunt Debbie and Uncle Edward make Thanksgiving for family and friends. This year they’re having 67 people.

art by Stefan Keller

One year they invited three Sumo Wrestlers we met at Secret Saturday. Deb made a HUGE pot of rice, just for them. I sat across from them. They were very young, very sweet, had no language and I loved them. I cannot begin to tell you how much they ate. They have to (I, on the other hand, have no excuse).

So there you go. It was quick, but we started with Grandpa Bernie and we’re ending (a couple weeks early) with my most heartfelt wish for a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday—from my family to yours.

Please feel free to share your favorite Thanksgiving memories in the comment section below! I'd love to read them.

Note: A Pantoum is a poem. The form includes some repetition, so be sure to go back for seconds, and I’ll have an extra bite of mashed potatoes—just for you!!!!

*   *   *

Holiday Dinner

 

Dinner by Kehl Mack

Violets and sweet peas in small bulb-vases,

like two hands holding water, cupped

and nourishing. Tendrils gently easing

over the sides, the blooms almost

drooping with tender sweetness,

almost the same shade as candles

bought for the celebration,

blessed for the occasion.

Salt cellars tiny with their little spoons,

miniatures in hands large enough

to place entire salt licks for deer in fields

that border the farm. Pepper shakers

by every place, with two shakes worth

and no more. No one can slide their farmer-

thighs under the table but they try for the night

to match the gentle grace of the blooms,

and because it is so, they stretch for plates

full of holiday fare—

Meats redolent of fruit, baked to caramel, a meal

of decadence, wine, bread. They pray nothing

loses its way on the open-air journey

to sitting-far-back mouths, but that’s what the dog

is for, the dog who as a rule is usually locked

out back, peering in at the table like a thief.

They have said grace together, prayed individually,

caught the eye of loved ones, cringed at missteps

or a poorly-worded promise. Such is their holiday,

once a year, when the moon is high as vulnerability,

when they love with unwavering generosity,

go home with wholehearted relief.

Previously published in Homestead Review

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Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.

Tobi Alfier – When You’re Stuck

“Stuck” is not writer’s block. “Stuck” is when you’ve had a horrible week, you don’t want it to invade your poetry but you want to write. Five years from now, you don’t want to look back at your poem about jumping off a bridge and think “oh yeah, that was the week I fell twice, slammed my hair in the car door and got four rejections”. Nuts to that.

You don’t want to watch TV until you fall asleep, you want to write. Give yourself permission to try something different! You may surprise yourself. You will grow as a poet. You will take your mind off your anger/madness/sadness. And you will not drink all the bourbon!

Years ago I went to a reading by Beckian Fritz Goldberg at the Desert Nights, Rising Stars Writers Conference at ASU. Holy cow!!! She read from her book The Book of Accident and her poems brought me to my knees. They were powerful. They used raw, nasty language, and they were absolutely great!! I bought that book immediately after the reading, and transcribed “Twentieth-CenturyChildren (5): Blood-Kissing” with just my thumbs into my phone. I sent it to my (now) husband. His reply? “Please get me a copy of the book tomorrow”.

I still say that Beckian Fritz Goldberg gives me permission to write brave. To say things I would normally never say. The first couplet of the poem I transcribed is “The boy in the girl’s ear says, Kiss me until/   you draw blood.” The poem ends “The way desire is—/   live rat sewed up inside us.”  The whole poem is scary, and great, and dang! If I could write like that, I’d forget EVERYTHING!

But do I write like that? No. Trying does take my mind off being stuck and cranky though.

Lately I have been captivated by the poetry of Chuka Susan Chesney. She has a way of writing that is well and beautifully thought out, but in ways I’ve never seen. I told her she writes like a Victorian Italian Carnival, which doesn’t even make sense, but it’s the only way I can describe her. You know if Peacock Journal has found her, her poetry and art is outstanding (ed note: a great sale on a beautiful copy of Peacock Journal you can hold in your hand right now - $2.54 per copy - you can even see me reading it on the sales page). Here is one of her more “sedate” poems:

Coffee with Jesus

Jesus drinking coffee
inside her heart,
camellias reach,
embracing the barreled ceiling with
mystery. The cups
line up with the
sandwich plates; and
she, a stranger, looks on as
Picasso’s dove
flies blithely through the kitchen window,
sent and invited.

Patterns waltzing with the sunlight
flutter above their heads,
starfish spin in tight circles,
adorning the room with Byzantine
heraldry. The dishwasher
hums itself to sleep; and
she, a stranger, wearing a white robe,
floats sublimely through the air,
blessed and beloved.

originally appeared in Peacock Journal

Almost without realizing it, I have found myself writing—still like me—but incorporating words in ways I never would have before. There is a wacky exuberance to Susan’s writing. I feel in my heart that she must wake up every day and turn pirouettes on her way to brush her teeth. I can’t explain it.

Another thing to try when you’re feeling stuck, but you definitely want to write, is a new form. I love Pantoums. The form isn’t hard to remember, but I have to look it up every time I write one at Poetry Net. You never know where they’re going to lead you. You’ll be so enthralled by the journey, you’ll forget you feel like hell. When the form doesn’t work, which happens to me all the time, “un-Pantoum” it and make it a regular poem.

Pantoum Gone Wrong

I will take a vodka tonic and some chips.

Please tell me that my smile lights up the sky.

Make me blush and make me think of you

even if tomorrow I’ll be asking myself why

and kicking myself for being so stupid.

I will know you are lying but believe you anyway.

I will only halfway question your motives and sincerity.

Wearing my heart with longing for our conversations

I will look for you, and I will find you.

It makes me want to taunt you and test you,

all the time my leg inching closer to yours.

I flirt with an eye to mapping your limitations,

my agenda is one of maximum sensations—I

don’t even know if you have an agenda.

A kiss in the old days was a ticket to freedom.

Now most encounters lead to a chasm

of disappointment and emptiness.

Lord knows, I carry my own share of baggage,

disheveled and dangerous, I order another drink.

Please find me beautiful, I have a passion for you.

Make me blush, and make me think of you fondly.

Lord knows I carry my own share of baggage

so I will settle for vodka tonic and chips.

appeared originally in Hot Metal Press (permanently closed)

So try a new form and do keep your eyes out for Chuka Susan Chesney. She has poems and art in Peacock Journal, Inklette Magazine, Claudius Speaks, and Rogue Agent Literary Journal, and her art graces the cover of Issue #13 of Picaroon Poetry. She will make you smile. Your Pantoums will take you strange and wonderful places. You’ll totally forget that the fog kept you from seeing the meteor shower, your house is freezing, a raccoon came in through the doggie door and ate all your dog’s food…and all the other junk that can make you stuck—will just disappear!

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Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.

Nov 3 - Meet Your Local Authors!

Book signings, open readings, come and talk, buy books by over a dozen local authors, enjoy the weather with like-minded friends. 

Local novels, short story collections, art books & poetry will all be available. Buy Christmas gifts for your friends who "have everything" because few people have a good collection of books by local authors =:-) 

We plan to have open readings all day. Note that the open readings will go on all day - anyone can "get in line" and read. Bring your best poem or story to share. No microphones, so be prepared to be natural. 

The event is free, come for 10 minutes, or the full time. We have three more Meet Your Local Author events coming if you miss this one. 

Good times! 

November Schedule!!! Meet Your Local Writers =:-)