twin, by janet kuypers
they tell me i was born
two months premature
the first of twins
they tell me it was difficult
my birth
i still can’t hear in one ear
i have an indentation in my chest
on the right side
where they had to run a tube
in me
to keep me alive
they tell me they kept Douglas alive
for three weeks
but he just couldn’t survive
i wonder what it would have been like
to have someone look just like me
we could switch places
fool everyone
we’d be inseparable
my family doesn’t talk about
him much
but sometimes
i still think of him
maybe with the medical world
today
he would be alive
sometimes i feel
like i’m not whole
untitled, by Lee Whittier
eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
only of this lightbulb above me
eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
this lightbulb the way it
would taste in my mouth if
eye could unhinge
and let it roll and bob stiff and
smokey
eyem thinking only of this lightbulb
this lightbulb the creature
which lives inside and
calls it home can I
entice it out to crawl
down my throat feeling
its way in the dark til
it opens to a luminous cavern and die there
on the soft ground now a fossil
say it again
fossil
oh yea fossil
Coslow’s, by Janet janet kuypers
I am back
at my old college
hang-out
years later
sharing some beers
with an old friend
then i remember
being there
with a friend
who used to
work there
she told me about the
women’s bathroom
in all my years
I had never
been there
she said
women write on the wall
at the left
of the stall
women write
that they’ve been raped
they name names
there were arrows
pointing
to other women’s
messages
saying
“i’ve heard this before”
first names
last names
when she told me
of this
years ago
i walked in
read the names
and wrote down one
of my own
i forgot about that wall
until now
and i am back
just yards away
from the
bathroom door
i get up
walk
open the door
years later
all the names are still there
jake jay josh larry matt scott
i can even still see
my own writing
it didn’t take long
to find it
driving, by Steve Wingate
In this dream I am twelve
and not yet fatherless
Me & my dad in a car
one of thoses beefy old Camaros
before they got too slick
He zips through a couple trees -
not a scratch, I can’t believe it
Then through a pile of brush
and down
“Dad,” I say “you’re the greatest
driver in the whole fucking world”
He says “I try”
Then a beach, wild animals
a jungle, a gorge
and I know he’ll land just perfect
on that rock
that looks sharper the closer we get
Christmas Eve, by Janet janet kuypers
we made dinner
fetuccini alfredo
with chicken and duck
vegetables
bread
we ate
couldn’t finish everything
we were putting on our coats
getting ready to go
to midnight mass
i decided to pack up
our leftovers
give them
to some homeless people
on the main street
we got in the car
and drove
to broadway and berwyn
i got out of the car
walked over to a man there
asked him if he was hungry
i got the bowl of noodles
and the gallon of milk
out of the car
another man walked over to me
i told them to promise
that they would share
i got in the car
we were just driving
and all i could think of
was these two men
in the cold
eating pasta with their fingers
on Christmas Eve
untitled, by Paul Weinman
When we meet
to take them out
for their 51st
mom is so pleased
her beautiful boys
are all there
and we signal
to each not to
mention who isn’t.
I love you all
she smiles and
dad nods, not
hearing.
celibacy, by James Valvis
my wife and i haven’t made love in two weeks
and we sit here across from each other
no television no radio no rent
neither of us has a job
and neither of us plans on getting one
it’s like a game of chicken
with boths hands handcuffed behind our backs
and a brick on the gas pedal
and we sit here across from each other
the only thing between us
is a box of mexican jumping beans
and it is so hot the beans are jumping
like desperate men off the empire state building
and my wife and i haven’t made love in two weeks
as my knee accidentally brushes her knee
and she recoils in horror
and we sit here across from each other
as notes of eviction are slid under the door
but still neither one of us will mov
e
and i ask myself as surely as she now asks herself
how do two people come to a point like this
well, anger is a knife in the kitchen
and love a gun shot wound
but we are far beyond all that now
as we sit here across from each other
not having made love in two weeks
going on three
immolation, by Al Rogovin
I saw burning tanks and personnel carriers
while I did my time.
At noght, through the thermal sight,
they looked kind of funny,
Like bad video game graphics through drunk eyes.
In the day, they didn’t look so funny anymore.
I used to keep my wife’s latest letter
in my cargo pocket as a good luck charm,
but it kept reminding me that there were people
inside those burning vehicles
and they might have had wives too.
More than anything, I didn’t want to go like that.
Burning alive means no remains for mommy and wife.
Now at night, when the orange streetlights
outside my apartment whisper:
“Fuck you” in my ear
and keep me up after Letterman
I tell them it wasn’t me.
“I didn’t pull no god-damn trigger. I was just the driver.
You’re looking for Sgt. Chios.” I say.
When I finally get to sleep,
I dream that I am looking through,
a brand now pack of baseball cards
with the pictures of dead Iraqi soldiers on the front
with their complete major and minor league stats on the back.
I wake up in the bloodbox apartment
on warm April mornings
late for work again,
bitch slapped
with war fever and tears burning behind my eyes.
kissing a mechanical ape, by Duane Locke
On the side street near the discount house, I saw
a man of marriageable age kissing a mechanical ape.
Then this same man began hugging himself.
I asked, “What does this mean?”
He replied, “I refuse to destroy my emblem by reasoned discourse,”
and he continued to hug himself.
This is a strange neighborhood, I thought,
I am returning to main street where there are traditional stores.
When I arrived each stoire was having a founder’s day sale,
and I saw a thousand men in silkish suits,
each man hugging himself, and in silkish dresses
a thousand women each hugging their children.
graffiti, legend and folklore, by Tammy Boyd
I tired of fiction early,
leaving behind Judy Blume like
a cheap doll given by a
dirty old uncle. Started
picking up books more
appropriately titled
Are you there, Master
of the Universe? It’s me,
Moishe.
Trading the children’s section
for the cold spaciousness of
the grown-up stacks -
a miniature scholar
crouching in the shadows
of the towering shelves,
gleaning and perusing
black-and-white photos
of People Who Had It
Worse Than Me.
Bored to death of being a kid,
I changed my reading habits
dramatically.
In sixth grade my teacher called
my mother to inform her that
I was reading Stephen King
novels in geography class.
(They definitely would have
sensed a problem had I been
found reading Escape from a
Nazi Death Camp.)
It is in bad taste to have
thought, in my elementary
understanding, that I could
relate to their sad, dark eyes
hollow with fear and lack of food,
feeling deeply the hopelessness
of their capacity and just
beginning to notice my own?
After all, I was just a ward
of the state, a child of the
system, a nameless, faceless
receiver of public aid, a
welfare leech too young to
know my dependence on the
spectres of the social workers who
would visit my house to stuff
me into their smelly little cars
(do I smell gas?)
and play AM radio
(How can you tell and adult
that “Sexual Healing”
is not a song for kids?)
on the way to therapy,
feeling like a psychology experiment
destined to self-destruct,
threatening to vomit all over the
Citation symbol on the dash.
After I was released from the
Department of Public Welfare
files I ventured into the
blinding sunlight of the wide
wide world, and only
sometimes read book like that,
trading Treblinka for the
Song of Albion and only
occasionally flashing back to the
horror of Nazi Germany and my own
childhood nightmare when I
stand before White Crucifixion
by Chagall and tremble for a
moment picturing gestapo jerks
trashing the room and poking a
machine gun into my back
whispering “Spit on it or die.”
Do I dare folloow the example of
my adopted nacestors, raising
my hands to the ceiling and praying,
“Jehovah deliver me,”
welcoming the spray
of bullets, the working out
of His deliverance and my redemption.
It is in bad taste to have
thought, in my elementary
understanding, that I could
relate to their sad, dark eyes
hollow with fear and lack of food,
feeling deeply the hopelessness
of their capacity and just
beginning to notice my own?
After all, I was just a ward
of the state, a child of the
system, a nameless, faceless
receiver of public aid, a
welfare leech too young to
know my dependence on the
spectres of the social workers who
would visit my house to stuff
me int
o their smelly little cars
(do I smell gas?)
and play AM radio
(How can you tell and adult
that “Sexual Healing”
is not a song for kids?)
on the way to therapy,
feeling like a psychology experiment
destined to self-destruct,
threatening to vomit all over the
Citation symbol on the dash.
After I was released from the
Department of Public Welfare
files I ventured into the
blinding sunlight of the wide
wide world, and only
sometimes read book like that,
trading Treblinka for the
Song of Albion and only
occasionally flashing back to the
horror of Nazi Germany and my own
childhood nightmare when I
stand before White Crucifixion
by Chagall and tremble for a
moment picturing gestapo jerks
trashing the room and poking a
machine gun into my back
whispering “Spit on it or die.”
Do I dare folloow the example of
my adopted nacestors, raising
my hands to the ceiling and praying,
“Jehovah deliver me,”
welcoming the spray
of bullets, the working out
of His deliverance and my redemption.
the happy furnace cafe, by John Alan Douglas
The overweight heap in apple red overcoat staggered onto the cafe bench across me. His beard was brown with street slush black marks charred his elbows. His pock-marked face was flushed.
Ordering a cafe au lait, he pushed his fat map into mine. Even before he opened a Ustinov mouth, foul ice-cave breath engulfed the entire cafe, scnding early Xmas shoppers home early. Then he spoke.
“Son, I see you are that most unfortunate of
mortals, a poet. Pardon me, career poet.
I give you my entrails in sympathy.
But you should try my line; inert,
comatose 6 months of year, then
each july (JULY mind you!) up
early to start mass assembly
of toys toys toys.
Pah!!”
I looked at him with my best blankness,
then started in “You agonise over so
few work days along the rolling
year -onlysix mere months of
abusing children and even
adults with promises of
plunder - erecting
false hopes. But
I submit a pot
of poetry to
some editor
five times
a day
EVERY day of the year!” To which the red
roly poly givaholic fell down on his
credit cards (only the best) and
crawled on all pudgy fours
out the cafe door
to hell.
And he could be heard all the way down
the icesheet paved with bad intentions:
“happy noel happy noel”
a christmas card to
awaiting furnace doors.
I held out my cup composed of human skin
and asked for more.
like dogs left out near the crumbling adobe, by Lyn Lifshin
old dogs people
have dumped left
out in the country
the people soothe
their minds with
thoughts that the
old dogs might
catch a chicken
and 1ive. My
husband and I
would walk around
at sunset the adobe
rose in the last
light rose and
cantaloupe sand
with the dogs
howling the
ones that still
could. My husband
would put his
arms around me
tight tighter
I don’t know how
people could be
so cruel he said
how heartless was
30 then my
hair smelled of
pinon and I thought
I’d gotten over
things I was afraid
of 30 years later
and I could be
those dogs I
don’t know where
my next meal will
come from
abandoned like
those old sick
dogs my Junior
League card in
my wallet next
to New Mexico
food stamps
Sub Rosa, by Linda Ann Loschiavo
Let us not to the marriage of true minds
Admit daylight; rather let’s loll behind
Blind twilight, where lies lie smoother at starched sup-
Pers, unwinding amateurs time wound up
Wounding. Cornered by candles, undetectable:
Fingering mousse in your hair, delectable
To dream of just desserts. During these days of
Whine and root canals and bygone love,
Unfriendly sunshine ferrets out silver
In my ponitail, singles out my shiver:
Your hand, cosy in its gold band. No fairytale
Regaling lunar lovers with lost nightingales,
These seldom days wink soon enough: sneaky
Squeezes easy, tangled tongues in a taxi,
Creating history to be revised - wee,
Wee, wee, all the way home, where you rehearse
The dream behind a locked door, then flush your queen.
Offer a favorite preservative: can-
Dle gloom. Halve a heart and do mine good in
Sultry sunsets, where clocks stand bewitched,
Smiles veiled, and some little snitch will always twitch,
Baring bold sailboats on bikinis and such
As the forked tongue of greedy nightfall thrusts
Out endless wicked possibilities
Of crabbed and futile fantasies.
daggerman, by C Ra McGuirt
“sacrifice cattle little & big;
after a child.”
- the Book of the Law
commanded by my god
in a ice garage 200 miles
away from his warm bed and mine,
i have sacrificed a child.
no lion lives on this cold concrete.
a weak wolf howls within its walls.
tears go to ice in my eyes,
& there is no more wine
frost-covered mountain, by Larry Blazek
Up on
Frost-Covered Mountain
We can see
for miles and miles
oh yeah
We could
be there together
and from there
we’ll see nothing
but blue skies
for miles and miles away
the martyr and the saint, by janet kuypers
they gave their daughter the name
of the Patron Saint of television
and the television’s always been
one thing she hated about him
or was it the drinking that he needed
more than her
the business has gone bad
I’m a failure I’m not a man
he said he respected her
then he’d call her
a twenty dollar whore from Vegas
and the mother would hold
the child, the saint, the pure angel
hold her ears and hope she
couldn’t hear
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Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997)
Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics.
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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Ed Hamilton, writer
#85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious.
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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Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet
I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?
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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
|
C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
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.
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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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.
|
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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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site)
I just checked out the site. It looks great.
|
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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John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs)
Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool.
(on “Hope Chest in the Attic”)
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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Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!
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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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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.
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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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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.
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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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Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)
Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!
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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, 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!
Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
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...
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.
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.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
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...
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
Children, Churches and Daddies
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design
ccandd96@scars.tv
http://scars.tv
Publishers/Designers Of
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
Sponsors Of
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 (founded 1993)
has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey.
Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry,
and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information,
education and entertainment.
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. |
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