found poem 2012 | assembled from the pages of the new yorker

The morning was cold and the sky was bright.
Aretha Franklin wore a large and interesting hat.

There's something ridiculous about a woman
who takes seven husbands
as if she had rummaged through the drawers of masculinity
and come up with seven dwarves.

The real hippie
is neither biddable
nor daft.


by Ron Reed

photo | eastvan moving

stephen adly guirgis | begging god for an ounce of daylight

Fear has cost me years of my life, it has been at the root of my depression, and it has inflicted a lot of real pain on me and, by association, on others. I have found that – for me – the only thing that truly relieves that fear, that allows me the liberation to try to live and to work and to be the person that I want to be – the person that I am – is to have some kind of connection and relationship with “God”, or, as I often rebelliously address Him – “fuckin’ God.”

I don’t want God in my life. At all. Ever. Trust me. And I don’t know what God is. But, what I grudgingly – very grudgingly – admit, is that I need Him. You may read this play and love it. Or maybe you’ll hate it. Maybe you’ll skip over it entirely, or skim it and get bored. I don’t know. But I need to say that, in the end, in the pathetic, sad hours, after all the cigarettes have been smoked and every tool of procrastination exploited, what got this play written was me getting on my knees on the linoleum floor of my kitchen and begging God for an ounce of daylight. And those ounces came despite my best efforts to ignore them. Maybe this only proves that God can help you write a shitty play, I don’t know. I’m not here to sell God. I’m the kid who stole money out of the church collection plate to buy nickel bags and play pinball – and I wouldn’t put it past me to try it again. But, this God stuff is true. For me.


Stephen Adly Guirgis
author of Jesus Hopped the 'A' Train, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot
in "Best Plays of 2000: New Playwrights' Series"

photo: Rob Olguin in Jesus Hopped the 'A' Train

j.b. priestley | after finishing

After finishing a piece of work that has been long and rather difficult, I have a sense of the satisfaction that can expand into delight. This does not come from surveying the work done, for at these times I am rarely sure of the value of what I have just created, am more than doubtful if my first intention has been fulfilled, and may even wonder gloomily, while I hold the work in mind, if I have not been wasting time and energy. No, the delight springs from a sense of release. I have been in prison with this one idea, and now, I feel, I am free. Tomorrow, ten times the size of last Tuesday, is suddenly rich with promise. Time and space are both extended. I catch a glimpse of fifty new ideas, flickering like lizards among the masonry of my mind; but I need not bother about them. I am now the master and not the slave. I can go to China, learn the clarinet, read Gibbon again, study metaphysics, grow strange flowers in hothouses, lie in bed, lunch and dine with old friends and brilliant acquaintances, look at pictures, take the children to concerts, tidy up the study, talk properly to my wife. What a world this is to be free and curious in! What a wealth of sunlight and starlight and firelight! And so for a little while, before the key grates in the lock again, there I am, out and free, with mountains of treasure before my dazzled eyes. Yes, there comes a moment - just a moment - of delight.


from "Delight," chapter 4

luci shaw | presents

"Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift."

2 Corinthians 9:15

What's so good as getting?

The anticipation, snow

in the air, people with lists,

voices that drop when you

enter the room, the pine-wood

fire smell and the smell of pine needles from the trimmed tree

by the window – it all narrows down

to the heft of the package in the

hands, the wondering, the unwrapping

(Careful – the paper's too pretty

to tear), the oh, the ah. What's

so good as getting

if not giving?

The covert questions, the catalogs

with corners turned back, the love

that overlooks cost, the hiding place

in the hamper, the card whose

colored words can't say it all,

the glee of linking want/wish

with have/hold, the handing over,

fingers burshing, the thing

revealed, the spark as the eyes

meet, and the hug. What's

so good as giving?

ron klug | joseph's lullaby

Sleep now, little one.
I will watch while you and your mother sleep.
I wish I could do more.
This straw is not good enough for you.
Back in Nazareth I'll make a proper bed for you
of seasoned wood, smooth, strong, well‑pegged.
A bed fit for a carpenter's son.

Just wait till we get back to Nazareth.
I'll teach you everything I know.
You'll learn to choose the cedarwood, eucalyptus, and fir.
You'll learn to use the drawshave, ax, and saw.
Your arms will grow strong, your hands rough ‑‑ like these.
You will bear the pungent smell of new wood
and wear shavings and sawdust in your hair.

You'll be a man whose life centers
on hammer and nails and wood.
But for now,
sleep, little Jesus, sleep.

luci shaw | advent III

Advent III
for Marya Gjorgiev

The Third week, and about now
Mary is heavy with God, her first
and the Father’s only, with a journey
to plan for, going south. Anxiety
is in the air. It is so dark and cold
and kind Joseph is only a man, not
a midwife. She feels answerable
for the welfare of the heaving life
in her belly.

Let us feel with Mary in her
waiting and knowing. And not
knowing. Today I try to remember
all the world’s mothers and every
new child yet to arrive, made
in the same God-likeness. Pray
for more than a cave in the hill town
when their time comes. Though that
will do if there is love enough.


Luci Shaw