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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
featured writers/artists:
D. Phillip Caron
Lorelei Jones
Janet Kuypers
Lyn Lifshin
Linda Ann Loschiavo
C Ra McGuirt
Lisa Newkirk
Carol Raftery
Cheryl Townsend
Paul Weinman
Mary Winters
Editor’s Note
Of the five senses we possess, which is the one we use the least? We use sight and sound constantly, we smell and taste our food three times a day. But we seldom pay attention to the sense of touch, unless during intimacy, for the most part. There are things around us everywhere that we touch, that we physically feel, but we never pay attention to. Try walking through your day looking for different textures, maybe in the chair you’re sitting on, or when passing through a marble hallway. Feel those surfaces. Understand objects in your environment for how they feel was well as how they look.
Once I was in an art gallery with two friends of mine, and I gave this speech to them. We then proceeded to walk into a room with a bronze statue of the Crucifix against the wall. An interesting surface, my friend thought, so she walked up to it and began to feel the cold, smooth metal.
Of course, that’s when the guard from the other room ran in, yelling, “Hey! Don’t touch that!”, but the deed was done. And he’s probably still fearing that the bronze sculpture will crumble to pieces because she grazed it with her bare hand.
There are reasons for some pieces of artwork to be kept away from human hands - delicate, old materials can be kept longer. But to understand the beauty in touch can be as important as the beauty in sound and sight, even if it is in the most simple objects.
In writing and art, the author/artist tries to verbally/visually pull you in, so you physically feel every mood they are trying to portray. Another way this can be accomplished is through actual physical touch. And to interact with art can also make it that much stronger to the reader/viewer. Enclosed are some different textures, different surfaces, for you to physically sense, and some written work for you to emotionally react to. But remember that the purpose is to react - and to feel.
Janet Kuypers, Editor
White Knuckled, by Janet Kuypers
The hot air was sticking
to her skin almost pulling
tugging at her very
flesh as she walked
outside down the
stairs from the train
station. Just then a
breeze hot and
sticky hit her
in just the wrong
way, brushed against her
lower neck, and she
felt his breath again,
not his breath
when he raped
her, but his stench
hot rank
when he was
just close to her.
Her breath quickened,
like the catch of her
breath when she has
just stopped
crying. All the emotion
is still there not
going away. She
walks to the bottom
of the stairs, railing
white-knuckled by her
small tender hands,
the hands of a child,
and that ninety degree
breeze suddenly
gives her a
chill. They say when
you get a chill it means
a goose walked
over your grave.
She knows better. She knows
that it is him
walking, and that
he trapped that child in
that grave
afterward, by Lyn Lifshin
it felt like
being a dishwasher
someone crams
what shouldn’t
even be put in,
caked with what
ever had been
spread on them,
what was valuable
crammed and shoved
in along with
junk by some
one who couldn’t
tell the difference
jammed and then
they slammed
the door and let
everything inside
crank and churn
one summer, by Janet Kuypers
1.
Kevin. You went off to work, I was alone in your
apartment, an apartment on a street corner
in Washington D.C., my first trip alone. You gave me your key,
said you’d be home after work. And so I left,
closing the iron gate door I was so fascinated with behind me. I walked through campus, stretched out in the sun. I tucked the map
in my pocket, walked through M street, took the correct turns.
I remember someone on the street complimented my shirt.
I was almost sure I had been in this town before.
And then I met this fellow, tall, unlike you,
and we went out, and I knew I didn’t
have a care in the world, all my ties were
almost broken, I was almost free. And I’d never see
this man again. Maybe I’d let him kiss me.
And as I walked down the street that night
with him, I skipped. And he liked me that much more.
2.
Sheri. The heat of Arizona smelled like burning flesh.
I met your roommate, your friends, drank at the Coffee
Plantation, iced mocha coffees. And I met yo
u-know-who,
I still don’t want to say his name. He kept me occupied,
no, he made me feel alive, alive to someone who had never lived before,
alive those long five days. I could still mark the day
on my calendar, the day my life was supposed to
change, the day I was supposed to be free. But
it was supposed to be something good, I was supposed to
start caring for myself. Then why does a part of me regret it?
He bought me a rose the day I left. And you took pictures of us.
I thought that morning that it would be justice
to never hear from him again. To leave it at that.
But then I had to call him from the airplane
on the trip home. Why?
3.
Joe. You had to be cruel to me, just this once. I thought
we had been through enough, went through
our own little hells already because of each
other. I know we had our differences, but I was looking forward to
seeing you, to seeing southern California, the
stores, the glamour, the beaches, the
commercialism. And you, you had to cart me away
with your religious troops to the wilderness,
leaving me at the campsite while you went off
to church. And I sat there for days,
watching us, watching us become bloodthirsty,
we were trying to hurt each other, we were
like animals, you starting your life with me in tow.
And I saw the redwood forests.
4.
Douglas. I never imagined how beautiful the
east coast could be, rolling hills curling one state
into another. We’d drive up a hill in your
truck and I would lift my head, my chin as high as I could
in anticipation to try to see the other side,
the sloping down of those hills. I remember walking along the beach
in Maine, restored buildings lining
the rocky shore, the fog so thick
you couldn’t see fifty feet in front of you. And people
were suntanning. And I photographed the
lighthouse - how do they work in the fog
like this? It’s so thick, thick like the cigarette smoke coming from
the inside of your truck when we would drive
to antique shoppes in New Hampshire. Thick, like a
powerful force overcoming someone, that
holds you there, that doesn’t let go. Like us.
5.
A week before the smoke and the hills I was
in the Midwest and my father was screaming at me,
two weeks before I was thousands of miles away
dreaming of someone else. And it wasn’t a month ago
when I was skipping past the old Kennedy house,
where movies were made, where this all began.
And now, in this truck with you,
I lean back, watching the scenery travelling past me
streamline into blurred lines of color,
and I think of marriage. Maybe with you,
if time wears on, but probably not, I just
think of marriage, to someone. Marriage,
streamlining life into a blur. Settling down.
Settling. It’s funny how your surroundings change you.
And soon, I know, I will go back home,
carrying my possessions in a tweed bag
with duct tape on the handle, to get back to
something. Driving through the plains to go back to life,
it will all be the same again.
ugly house, or how a place holds a feeling, by Janet Kuypers
This is an ugly house. I hate the wallpaper in the spare room. Those stupid miniature rooms on the shelves in the spare room, stupid ugly miniature rooms she made, why would anyone want a box of a miniature room anyway? She takes up all the space in there, gets mad at me when I put a flower arrangement in there. I’m sleeping in the room, let me at least put something in there so I don’t feel like I’m sleeping in a hotel that chose a decorator with no taste. Why does she have so much stuff anyway?? She’s got a third of her jewelry and half of her clothes there, and I’m the one who sleeps in the room.
I hate the multi-colored carpet in the living room, the barrel chairs with turquoise and melon vinyl coverings. The ugly statues mom is drawn to. A statue has to be inherently ugly for her to like it, I think. The lights hanging from above the bar, the lamp shades are Harvery’s Bristol Cream canisters. That mural of the 5 kids above the couch. I’m at the bottom. I look ugly. It was when I was subordinate and meek and stupid and helpless. Like now.
I hate the stained glass hangings in the kitchen windowsill. And you can see the black paint chipping off the refrigerator door so you know mom tried to cover up the turquoise. Silk flowers that look really crappy. The kitchen flowers are the worst. I hate the wood-branch-tree she decorates for any pagan season she thinks of, even if it’s not pagan, let’s decorate the tree anyway, no one will know the wiser. Or the fact that there are nice things in the house, like two Dali prints, but they look ugly here. Art even looks like trash in this place.
I hate the lamps hanging in front of those ugly melon colored front doors. And that wind chime hanging from the lamp in the front hallway. That rock garden in the front hallway, it used to have a working fountain in it, but I was too little when it worked, but that’s okay, because I think it would be even more frightening with water running down it.
And I hate the playroom, the room i’m sitting in now, look at how cluttered it is, all the jewelry she’ll never get around to selling, all the fabric for clothes she’ll never make, all the exersice equipment that collects dust because she feels she can WALK her way to a perfect body. You know, she doesn’t like me using the treadmill because she thinks I’ll wear out the motor. What difference does it make? Books she’s collected because I collect books. She wants this of mine, I owe her this, I adopted this from her... She’s so petty, and no subtle hint I make makes a difference. She slams on any idea I ever have. She makes me feel I can never be creative, because it won’t work out. And she wonders why I’m insecure. Don’t you get it? You made me this way, I hate what you’ve done to me, I hate what you’ve become, and now I have to sit here and live with you, in this ugly house. And when I move out I’m going to still have to live with myself, with all this insecurity, with all this anger. And I’ll still have the memory of this house in my mind.
Invidia Adducti (from the Seven Deadly Sins Series: Envy), by Linda Ann Loschiavo
Wet, wet, the season of the fish, when she
First netted his fresh jealousy, wore it
Out, flapping helplessly against her like a
New winter coat, ‘til it became a tight fit,
Constricted every move, watched and weighed
Her - cock-eyed, so misjudging - but still sold
Back to her for much, much more than it was worth.
picking black caps, by Lyn Lifshin
buckets clanging on suede
around your waist
like the quiet when
people make up their
minds not to fight
but really want to
we walk up the travel
road in baggy pants nothing
seems possible the bags
are so big and the thorns,
the poison ivy we get
stoned on the berries tho
kneeling in the sun then
in shade reach over
barbed wire as if that
purple was something
good inside us
spontaneous combustion, by C Ra McGuirt
fire and fire
do you think
this can work?
how hard do
you want it
want it for real?
i can still feel
the back of your
neck
on my palm
can you still
feel my palm
on the back
of your neck,
camille?
untitled, by lisa newkirk
being bad
to remind yourself
that you’re not comfortable
with who you are.
you’re stupidly frozen for some reason
paralyzed
you can’t get moving or motivated to help yourself
you keep hoping one day
you’ll stop taking afternoon naps
all afternoon,
you’ll call back the people you promised you would
call back
you’ll
send out resum?s in next day’s mail
to the people you promised to send them out to
last week,
you’ll exercise
to keep up that healthy body
to get rid of that double chin
you see appearing in the mirror every time you look
you’ll write up checks
for the bills
that are now months overdue
it’s all too much to do
so
for now
you wind up relenting
and relying
on being bad to yourself
to take control of your life:
you eat the rest of the half gallon of
milk chocolate fudge ice cream from Dean’s
and a cheddar cheese sandwich
with thick slices of fake-colored orange
cheddar cheese
and mayonaise
lots
on both pieces of seven-grain wheat bread and
on top of each little bite
you take the knife and spread more mayonaise on after each bite
more fat
to clog your arteries,
purposefully
yet without any voluntary muscle movement,
this huge white eggy blob (mayonaise is made from eggs)
is on the next spot on which you’re supposed to put your lips
and sink your teeth around,
that blob will be in your mouth
chewed and mushed up with that seven-grain wheat bread there is
(mostly mushed)
and swallowed
down to your stomach
and forever into your body
you can’t take it back, even though
you haven’t put your lips around it yet:
you chew
you think it’s control
this deliberate badness
but it’s not
it’s being lazy
you’re helpless
down queen street west, by Cheryl Townsend
“you got to get in to get out” - genesis
Where the in are all out
with black and white and neon
the spare change seekers
are rolling up the sidewalks
oriental minis and french collage
conglomerate vegetable stew
art deco creativity into the macabre
ten speed travelers excel the tour
sing vagabond blues rat-a-tat-tat
street urchins color landscapes
just a block or two into the zone
a stand-off, by Paul Weinman
As the Serbs and Croats
shoot each other, Fat Free
mayonnaise is shipped to Somalia.
The message from the other side
of my Sat. morning bed ...
deals with chronic unemployment.
“Why?” she writes on new tissue.
“Why is it that you can be so hard?”
So difficult to get to discuss
that we didn’t last night?
I think of the Pennant Race
Stock Market’s slow decline.
signs of the times, by Paul Weinman
Long-forgotten friars stumble
onto the Interstate, try to dodge
run between trucks and cars
ramming past. Some are hit
others kneel to pray at roadside.
Some cars stop, drivers/passengers
draggin bodies - some still kicking
to highway’s shoulders. The Virgin
Mary is seen by some - Her face
just above the “Y” of cliff’s sign
HOLLYWOOD. Abortion clinics
across the Country offer 2 for 1
coupons - redeemable within one
year. Masterbation seminars
become coffee-break chatter.
a cup of tea, by Carol Raftery
a cup of tea sits on a clean white saucer,
blowing steam at the chill morning air
its newspaper companion, yet unread, lies at its side
crisp, and crackly and new
the sunbeam crawls slowly over the windowsill,
down the sink, over the counter,
up onto the cabinets
Milly the cat leaps down from a chair
she picks at the blue and yellow throw rug,
each claw grabbing a tuft of material; she lies down,
her fur a ball of orange fire
she pushes her velvety front paws forward and her back paws back
long and lazy and bathed in sunshine
like the day that stretches out deliciously before us
people today care
“It kills me to think of all the people who have been so hurt by rape. Women who never wanted to tell their own families because they might be blamed for it, women who became afraid of intimacy or who became angry or cynical, women who didn’t want to go to the authorities because they didn’t want to be raped again. This isn’t fair. It just shouldn’t happen. What hurts me more is to think that people still think rape is a joke. You haven’t hurt like these women. It’s not a joke.”
alone in my father’s house, by C Ra McGuirt
on a moonless night in early spring
searching his song-seasoned gibson for
a warm and wintersweet melody
to cuddle my partner’s christmas words.
alone in my father’s house,
the lights of nashville, tennessee
through sliding glass across the dark
beyond the backyard river.
alone in my father’s house,
the women are waiting, the Great Work undone.
i came here to check on the place,
& do some laundry.
alone in my father’s house,
stealing my father’s fig newtons.
everything is sealed and in its place.
alone in my father’s house,
my menial job is waiting,
but presently, the night & i
have more important things to do.
alone in my father’s house.
my old man’s guitar is always in tune,
& never in hock, unlike some i could name.
i blow smoke into his smokeless air,
sip beer, & wait for clothes to dry.
alone in my father’s house,
my stepson’s photo on the fridge
although i helped to bring him here
i have no picture of my vanya;
more of my sort-of-a-wife’s
slavic superstition.
alone in my father’s house.
i wonder if my father will
ever get to meet my new woman. i want her to meet him.
she digs his songs. yes, father; she’s crazy
uncertain.
alone in my father’s house.
nothing is sure. i have dry clothes to fold
a guitar to put back, an ashtray to wash
beercans to rinse & recycle,
trash to go out, & lights to turn off...
before i lock up, i need to make sure
that i leave this house as i found it.
Lunch, by Mary Winters
is the innocent meal; the
wholesome repast. You’ve been
awake out of bed crossing items
off your list long enough to
have eaten before; now time for
childhood picnic food a sandwich
you gripping it tight in both
hands. Add some soda or coffee
even some milk just taking on
fuel for an afternoon’s
work. (Later the fun begins.)
Status revealed by where one
eats lunch you compassionate
wishing all secretaries out of the
communal kitchen and into their
own private office door with a
lock where you like lunching alone
reading the paper gentle unwitting
rehearsal for years at the end.
Solitaire, by D. Phillip Caron
nine of clubs
The many men, so beautiful
One Marine,
six-six and two ten
with a rifle in one hand
an ax in the other;
two fifty caliber boxes
below his ruck
and he was shining black.
He smiled but never spoke -
smell of gunfire had him.
spade, queen
and they all dead did lie
Three days on an empy belly -
rain, mud, leeches and jungle
and rods of war and rainwater
and snakes.
Seven days of rain and choppers
don’t fly for hunger
just blood and dead.
Hell of a rain.
beer cans empty across the floor
jack of hearts
William kicked that box,
a c-ration box
on a dirt road from to nowhere
One in two million
but one with a booby-trap -
on a dirt road.
An artillery round c-ration box
and there was only half a body,
half a William
and a whole red road dirt
from to going
and a piece of body,
a piece of a box
and me in the wind
on a sunny day
A helicopter came.
eight of diamonds
the great house of Tarquin
should suffer wrong no more
Hospital
underground
with roots, worms and leeches,
a hospital
through the dirt
with its own bloodbank.
Three dead and two alive
o-positive starving bloodbank
in fear of the next wound -
a highway to dying
but they wanted water first.
spade, king
by on call passion she paid the rent
His turn up and he laughed
hunkered in a hole like a worm
but next time he was below
and I laughed to cry.
Mortar, artillery what care
the metal burns when it bites
so we laugh at the other
over that spider hole
in the rain.
diamond ten
a thousand thousand slimy things
You guys hear any sniper fire?
A new lieutenant at the door.
Yes sir,
come from outside the wire;
Conception was Spanish, deadly
while Jerry sweated cold
and cleaned that Remington
between pieces of machine-gun
half a dozen poker faces
and disassembled rifles.
one streetlight at a time
queen of clubs
Thirty-five miles an hour
from a duce and a half
and he threw the ration can
but missed the kid.
I wanted to pop my cap
but he was in a truck
and I was in another
and sargeants in both
and no one was hurt -
but the killing
would have been easy
from the back of that truck.
four of hearts
ashtray full to overflow
The letter said don’t care
but I already knew.
Mike don’t care
and Slick don’t care
or Bim or Jew or Stumpy,
Swish dead last week -
me too.
Hurts that you had to write it.
lived on: and so did I
diamonds again, four
The greatest stone
is the kids -
arms lopped
after medics vaccinated
but Charlie wanted fear.
A pile of arms
beside pregnant women
with their bellies split;
the fourteen year old
staked and raped
with a burned stick
left to plug the blood.
There ain’t enough killin’
at night to pay it -
just the dark.
She smiles, waves
Ace of hearts
Word is, the dying goes to God -
gave seven one day
but kept my own;
would have give it back
but no one took it.
So I listen for the wire
and finger at my bandage.
Black three, spade
She flashes white
The bush belly low
muzzle up to eyes
vines pull across ruck -
do quick release
to stop that distress;
eyes have freedom to move
naked tangle.
A blot, a black
rifle jumps
twenty gone, another magazine
and bust another pull.
The unmoving black
a dink, a body
dead.
And from below the bush
“Why the hell you shootin’!”
Well, a joker
stood a good handsbreath out
behind the Tuscan’s head
biographies
An Army captain from 1966 to 1985, D. Phillip Caron has been published in periodicals in Minnesota, California, Tennessee and Virginia. Caron authored “Eagles and Other Prey”, a book of poetry on Viet Nam, which received a Pulitzer nomination. Caron describes himself now as “Just getting older and cranky.”
Lorelei Jones is a high school art teacher, working on her eleventh masters degree, I think. Her art work stemmed from photography into computer generated collages. Her work will be appearing at the art exhibit “Women and Children First,” starting December 3rd.
Janet Kuypers, editor of anything she can get her hands on, has just had the chapbook “Slate and Marrow: a collection of poems” published through Bootleg Press. Contact cc&d for more information.
Lyn Lifshin resides in Washington D.C. She has been published on many occasions here at cc&d, and her latest series, Vietnam Veterans, was written after visiting veterans and listening to their stories.
Linda Ann Loschiavo is completing her first book of poems, Sudden Exposure. Her nonfiction, colums and essays have appeared internationally in over 500 journals, magazines, newspapers and anthologies in 37 countries. Her poetry will appear soon in poetry New York, Sistersong, and Athena. She’s also finishing a novel, Sex, When She Was.
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.
Lisa Newkirk is a freelancer for the Chicago Tribune. This is the second time her work has appeared in Children, Churches and Daddies.
CarolRaftery is a recent graduate from the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana, with a degree in News/Editorial Journalism. She currently works in Chicago, and this is the first time her work has appeared in Children, Churches and Daddies.
What can we say about Cheryl Townsend? The cat-woman is buplisher of magazine Impetus, of Implosion press, based in Ohio. She is too cool to do justice to.
Recent chapbooks from Paul Weinman include He Brings the Blood and My Feet Are Tied. He is the education supervisor for the New York State Museum. And as modified-fast pitcher collected 42 wins and 18 losses for the Albany softball team.
Mary Winters’ work began to appear in publications such as Art:Mag, Black Buzzard Review, Ellipsis Magazine and Potpourri, among others. 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.