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Dusty Dog Reviews The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious.
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Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997) Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news. |
ISSN 1068-5154
Contributors this month:
Larry Blazek
Janet Kuypers
Lyn Lifshin
C Ra McGuirt
Joanne Seltzer
Cheryl Townsend
Mary Winters
Love Rider, by Larry Blazek
Love is a bicycle, yeah,
love is a bicycle
it goes round and round
and if you don’t go too fast
you get somewhere
and it can last and last
and never use no gas
Love is a bicycle, yeah
Love is a clean shirt, yeah
love is a clean shirt
it wraps itself around you
it makes you feel good and clean
if you’re very careful
it will never lose its sheen
and if it does
just wash it again
Love is a clean shirt, yeah
here, by Lyn Lifshin
something as mysterious
as quarks a pull like
naked charm sets in
changes the air
mysterious as what
happens in houses
where women who live
together a long time
begin to get their
period on the same
day something un
spoken runs from
pillow to pillow may
be while we sleep
like mice in the wall
forms the field of
apples and elderberry
into a sea of glazed
green reflecting
more colors than an
ordinary prism then
the birds come you
drift all day in and
out of yourself
fly until a car churns
up thru the gravel
like lights going on
at the end of a
movie
mint leaves at yaddo, by Lyn Lifshin
In frosty glasses of
tea. Here, iced
tea is what we
make waiting for
death with this
machine my mother
wanted. Not knowing
if she’d still be
here for her birth-
day we still shopped
madly, bought her
this present for.
For twenty days my
mother shows only
luke warm interest
in tea, vomits even
water, but I unpack
the plastic, intent
on trying this
sleak device while
my mother, queen
of gadgets,
- even a gun to
demolish flies -
maybe the strangest
thing she got me
can still see the
tall glasses that
seem summery on what
is the longest day.
Soon the light
will go she says,
the days get shorter.
I can’t bear, she
murmers another
winter in Stowe and
I think how different
this isolation is,
this iced tea, this
time that stretches
where little grows
as it did, green
as that mint except
my mother, smaller,
more distant, gaunt
terror, by Lyn Lifshin
you wake up
to a dream of
chomping into a
sandwich minutes
before going
on stage and
not a tooth
but a chunck of
your jowl comes
out with it
louder than
pipes that
clank and clang
a warning
that something
worse than
you want to
know is happen
ing a road
sign to what
could be ahead
like biopsies
(from)dogwood, by C Ra McGuirt
...
i wish you’d come to the country
with me yesterday
the ride was pink and white and
green
brother larry made bread with
daughter moon
there will never be another day
exactly like that
2 years, by C Ra McGuirt
to the day before
the night i really met you,
i went back
with my new good woman.
we ate and talked and laughed.
i drank
to giddy victory,
and gave a hell of a reading.
i believed it even
after the whiskey wore off.
on the way home, i wept for you.
i can afford to
the brutal muse, by C Ra McGuirt
i am a poet
sick of poetry
less words
more love
is what i
need
i moan
like some
recalcitrant
virgin:
you promised
to only
stick it
a little
ways...
young wives tales, by C Ra McGuirt
anyone in
the western world
with any sense
knows
that going outside
barefoot
or next to bareassed
in the cold
does not give colds
to anyone;
colds are caused
by viruses,
and that you’re better off
naked in the snow
than in a room
full of people.
my young wife
has never heard
of this
superstition:
her medical education
comes by way
of the old wives
of her country.
so I put my shoes on
and yes, my coat
before I go out:
a man can dispute
with his wife
of things unprovable
and unseen,
and sometimes come out
the winner,
but I know better
than to argue with
Holy Mother Russia.
I can only advise, by Joanne Seltzer
you must make your own decision
to report or not report
the incident
don’t shower don’t change
your clothes don’t comb your hair
we must confirm the accusation
has your father done this
before did your mother try
to stop him
you shouldn’t have left the tavern
with a stranger did you flirt
did he menace you with a knife
or just a penis did he hurt
your throat
should you tell your husband
your boyfriend
you must make your own decision
I don’t know your husband
your boyfriend I can only advise
against gonorrhea
those cigarette burns on your vulva
will heal no one will notice
the scars
Hotel, by Joanne Seltzer
translation: Guillaume Apollainaire
My room has the form of a cage
The sun puts his arm through the window
But I who wish to smoke to make mirages
Light my cigarette with fire from the day
I don’t wish to work I wish to smoke
Ma Chambre a la forme d’une cage
Le soleil passe son bras par la fen?tre
Mais moi qui veux fumer pour faire des mirages
J’allume au feu du jour ma cigarette
Je ne veux pas travailler je veux fumer
she let herself, by Cheryl Townsend
in with a quiet key dropping all
testaments on his floor and kitchen
counter then made her way through the
darkness concealing loyalty up the stairs
to where he was sleeping in dreams of her
she slid into his sheets like a shroud he
rose to her needing hands she painted his
skin with lust her tongue tasting Eden he
tuned aware of who and why grabbing his
when forgetting circumstences as the
intensity grew thicker between them he
lavished her patchouli scenting sex she
pulled him into her void whirlpooled in
sweat and moist wanting he pushed all other
from within her filling again with him alone
she took and took knowing the tomorrow her
cries giving impetus to his search for more
than temporary feeling the desperation wrapped
in her thighs she just wanted it all knowing
it was there for her spontaneity and nothing
more always so perfect to her insistence so
sating to his covet relinquishing knowledge
like sweat dripping into the sheets that
will wash the evidence out of the evening in
some day to come
ouroboros, by Cheryl Townsend
I have felt the slap of a hand
across my smile
the snap of a belt
wherever it landed at random
and my hair tight in fists
void the passion of lust
I have heard the words
that last a lifetime
who I am and what
I have given love in confusion
I have taken less in search
and taken vengence
on too many to justify
your little tin soldier, by Cheryl Townsend
stands at full attention
war ready and well feuled
for a nights journey into
deep forests of hot swamp
ravage the countryside and
pillage all that you can
take home souvenirs for your
wife to find like a landmine
“scars”, by Janet Kuypers
Like when the Grossman’s German shepherd bit the inside of my knee. I was babysitting two girls and a dog named “Rosco.” I remember being pushed to the floor by the dog, I was on my back, kicking, as this dog was gnawing on my leg, and I remember thinking, “I can’t believe a dog named Rosco is attacking me.” And I was thinking that I had to be strong for those two little girls, who were watching it all. I couldn’t cry.
Or when I stepped off Scott’s motorcycle at 2:00 a.m. and burned my calf on the exhaust pipe. I was drunk when he was driving and I was careless when I swung my leg over the back. It didn’t even hurt when I did it, but the next day it blistered and peeled; it looked inhuman. I had to bandage it for weeks. It hurt like hell.
When I was little, roller skating in my driveway, and I fell. My parents yelled at me, “Did you crack the sidewalk?”
When I was kissing someone, and I scraped my right knee against the wall. Or maybe it was the carpet. When someone asks me what that scar is from, I tell them I fell.
Or when I was riding my bicycle and I fell when my front wheel skidded in the gravel. I had to walk home. Blood was dripping from my elbow to my wrist; I remember thinking that the blood looked thick, but that nothing hurt. I sat on the toilet seat cover while my sister cleaned me up. It was a small bathroom. I felt like the walls could have fallen in on me at any time. Years later, and I can still see the dirt under my skin on my elbows.
Or when I was five years old and my dad called me an asshole because I made a mess in the living room. I didn’t.
Like when I scratched my chin when I had the chicken pox.
Two-Story Livingroom, by Mary Winters
is eight steps down from rest of
apartment. You pause at top chin
up back straight staring hard into
middle distance: deliver fallen
consort’s funeral oration to sobbing
thousands at Roman Forum even the
bird-hawkers quiet for once or
swoop down fast on tiptoe hoops a-
swing like a fire bell Scarlet O’Hara
escaping naptime at the barbecue
to rendezvous with Ashley in the
library or you imagine last noisy
carom down the stairs you hard-
aging Hollywood star of the 1920’s
you can’t even pay those young men
any more that last quart of booze
did you in. About that middle
distance: how you love to tease
sweet hoaxable real-life spouse -
today the workers are coming to
put a giant platform in the middle
of the room; sorry if it interferes
with twelve-foot-high bookcases for
Dear’s antique medical books ... you’ll
have that room for your own even if
it’s got to be a box in the air.
snubs, by Mary Winters
Coldest shoulder between her and
red-hot myth of married love, tall
tale sung by prankster Beach Boys:
“wouldn’t it be nice...” so
nice if we were married nice
particularly since we would
“sleep together,” but
that’s where everyone’s wrong:
he needs “privacy” to sleep
which means he never ever touches
her in bed except when he itches
itches hoping she’s itching too
then he inches on over scratching
at her heart, her mouth, her...
Then she’s off to the couch:
she needs self-determination
vengeance - “silence” -
to sleep and what can he say
that’s her trump card because
he snores imitating major
appliances plumbing disasters
power tools army aircraft so loud
he wakes himself up laughing
while she hopes that too-short
couch won’t permanently gnarl her
knees in compensation for her
recompense; knees in the morning hot
stiff and aching as if she’d been
kidnapped, buried in a too-small
wooden box underground.
Clay, by Janet Kuypers
so I was at this bar, on the coast of florida - the west coast, the gulf side, you know. it was this place called lana kai, and my friend gave me a ride all the way from naples, which is a good forty-five minutes south of the place.
and so we were sitting there at the bar, which is half indoors and half on the beach, and all these old men kept staring at my friend’s chest. a couple guys bought us beer and one guy asked me to dance. I was surprised he asked me to dance, and not my friend - men were usually more attracted to her.
but the guys were jerks anyway - one looked like a marine with that haircut and must have been high on something, one looked like he decided to forgo hygiene, another was twice my age. it’s not as if I try to pick up men in bars anyway.
so after a while I couldn’t stand being at the bar, next to the reggae band that was playing (I never really liked reggae music anyway, I mean, it’s too slow to dance to), so I begged my friend to come walk with me on the beach.
christ, I felt like a ten-year-old with a bucket and shovel when I kicked off my black suede shoes and ran into the water. I always loved the feel of sand when it’s drenched in water. it feels like clay as it seeps around my toes, pulling me into the ground.
so there I was, splashing in the water, wearing a black sequin dress, throwing my purse to the shore, taking a swig from my can of miller lite. this was life, I thought. pure and simple. an army couldn’t have dragged me out of the water.
so my friend found some guy to hit on, as she usually does, and she wanted me to hit on his friend. I found him ugly as all sin, and impossible to talk to. I told him that one of the rafts on the shore was mine, and instead of driving to the bar I sailed. and he believed me. I told my friend flat out that I wouldn’t go with him. she was pissed that I didn’t find him good-looking.
so then He strolled up from the bar to the beach, an intriguing stranger, and He walked up right next to me in the water, still wearing his shoes, seeming to know that I needed to be saved. as most knights in shining armour would. and He said hello to me, and He started talking to me, and He cracked a few jokes, and He made me laugh. and okay, I’ll admit it - he was good-looking, really good looking. I remember at one point, looking at him made me think of a greek statue, He had this curly hair, this sharp chin, these stong cheek bones. but those greek statues could never talk to me, they have no color, they don’t come alive. they’re made of stone.
His name was Clay. and when we talked He crept into my pores, the way the sand made it’s way between my toes. His voice tunneled into me, boring me hollow, making me anxiously wait to be filled with more and more of His words.
my friend disappeared with her new-found monosyllabic lover, for hours, until long after the bar closed, leaving me stranded. there I was, forty-five miles north of my home at 2:20 in the morning with no means of transportation. it could have been worse, I could have been somewhere other than on the beach, I could have been sober, and I might not have had a knight in shining armour named Clay to save me.
and as He drove me home (an hour and a half out of his way), I couldn’t help but run my fingers through his hair, it was an uncontrollable impulse, like the urge to drag your fingers deep into the wet sand. I told Him I was just trying to keep Him awake for the drive.
it’s almost better if I never see Him again. then I can always think of Him this way.
driving by his house, by Janet Kuypers
I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. I don’t even want to see him again. I don’t want to have to think about him, I don’t want to think about his big eyebrows or the fact that he hunched over a little when he walked or that he hurt me so much.
I know it’s pretty pathetic of me, but sometimes when I’m driving I’ll take a little detour and drive by his house. I’ll just drive by, I won’t slow down, I won’t stop by, I won’t say hello, I won’t beat his head in, I won’t even cry. I’ll just drive by, see a few cars in the driveway, see no signs of life through the windows, and then I’ll just keep driving.
I don’t know why I do it. He never sees me, and I never see him, although I thought I didn’t want to see him anyway. When I first met him I wasn’t afraid of him. Now I’m so afraid that I have to drive by his house every once in a while, just to remind myself of the fear. We all like the taste of fear, you know, the thought that there’s something out there stronger than us. The thought that there’s something out there we can beat, even if we have to fight to the death.
But that can’t be it, no, it just can’t be, I don’t like this fear, I don’t like it. I don’t want to drive by, I want to be able to just go on with my life, to not think about it. I want to be strong again. I want to be strong.
So today I did it again, I haven’t done it for a while, drive by his house, but I did it again today. When I turned on to his street I put on my sunglasses so that in case he saw me he couldn’t tell that I was looking. And then I picked up my car phone and acted like I was talking to someone.
And I drove by, holding my car phone, talking to my imaginary friend, trying to unobviously glance at the house on my left. There’s a lamppost at the end of his driveway. I always noticed it, the lampshade was a huge glass ball, I always thought it was ugly. This time three cars were there. One of those could have been his. Through the front window, no people, no lights. I drive around a corner, take a turn and get back on the road I was supposed to be on.
One day, when I’m driving by and I get that feeling again, that feeling like death, well then, I just might do it again.
i wanted pain, by Janet Kuypers
You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.
biographies
Larry Blaczek’s whereabouts are unknown, but we suspect he’s trapped in Indiana somewhere, and relief crews are working on getting him out.
Janet Kuypers is working as a production manager for three magazines in Chicago. She designs books and magazines in her spare time, and had recently published “Hope Chest In The Attic”. She has had over 55 written pieces and over 55 visuals published. Her work focuses on feminism, and specifically, acquaintance rape.
Lyn Lifshin resides in New York, and the poems in this issue mark the second issue she has been published in, along with others in this list. She has had a number of books published.
C Ra McGuirt lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife, Olga, and stepson, Ivan. A performance poet, unpublished novelist, and former professional wrestler, McGuirt has been hosting Nashville’s popular “Poetry in a Pub” series of open mic readings for over six years.
Joanne Seltzer’s poems have appeared widely in anthologies, such as When I am Old I shall Wear Purple, and in literary journals, such as The Croton Review and Kalliope. She has also published short fiction, literary essays, translations of French Poetry and three poetry chapbooks of her own work.
Cheryl Townsend is the editor of the literary magazine Impetus, and is the author of scads of chapbooks of thought-provoking material, usually concerning women’s sexuality in today’s society.
Mary Winters’ publications were law related until 1991, and since then her work has appeared in many magazines. “Only One Promise” from Winters was chosen as a Plainsongs Award poem. Winters works as an attorney in a civil legal aid office in Newark, New Jersey. Born in Pittsburgh and raised in Cincinnati, Winters now lives in New York City.
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One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.
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Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
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As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.
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Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.
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what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
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I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.
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Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv
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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
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Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
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Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.
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C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
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Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.
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The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061
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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.
want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.
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The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright �
through
Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.
Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.
Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
ccandd96@scars.tv
Publishers/Designers Of
Sponsors Of
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,
which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...
Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.
Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design
http://scars.tv
Children, Churches and Daddies magazine
cc+d Ezines
The Burning mini poem books
God Eyes mini poem books
The Poetry Wall Calendar
The Poetry Box
The Poetry Sampler
Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters
Reverberate Music Magazine
Down In The Dirt magazine
Freedom and Strength Press forum
plus assorted chapbooks and books
music, poery compact discs
live performances of songs and readings
past editions:
Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest
Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest
Poetry Calendar Contest
current editions:
Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites)
Collection Volumes
Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates
or prices for annual collection books.
To contributors:
No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio.
Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of
Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden.
Children, Churches and Daddies copyright
through
Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual
pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.