|
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.
|
|
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
this is what it means, by Janet Kuypers
my son was shot
now he lives in his wheelchair
I hear him creek as he rolls down the hall
he’s a brave boy
it takes him such great strength to live
he always smiles
he can’t feel from the waist down
but he works so hard
he is so proud
once I came home
and he was so excited
you see, he took a rope
and a laundry basket
filled them up with snacks;
now he could
drag his snacks to his room
this was an accomplishment
he was so proud of himself
I held back my tears
he shouldn’t have to go through this
this is not how he should live
people don’t understand
wen he has a bowel movement
he has to
reach inside of him
and pull it out
he can’t feel
this is what it means
for him to be in a wheelchair
to not feel
touch, by Alexandria Rand
the lust
her lips quiver anxiously
she wants
desperately
the craving
the longing
the yearning
is no longer contained
His eyes fixed
in a trance-like gaze
the erotic fantasies
the passion
the obsession
his burning
torrid
appetite is released
Her heart quickens
as her breath becomes
a pant
sensual
sexual
she is ravinous with need
His hand moves
his anticipation climaxes
salacious
lecherous
his muscles tense with
excitement
the cyprian
lurid desires
the heat
the fire
they cannot hold back
he touches her
Rusalka, by Gary A. Scheinoha
he called her,
this water sprite
half hidden
by reeds
and a bend
in the Turkey River.
Country woman she was
out for an evening’s
bath, unaware
of the great composer
who watched
shocked and intrigued
by the sight.
Little did she
know that
she’d inspire him
to write
one of his
finest chamber
pieces
where the
only faeries
which danced
were the notes
of a flute
driven wind.
domestic violence in america, nashville, tennessee, by Janet Kuypers
i have had my cheek bone
and nose reconstructed twice
we’re divorced now
but he still keeps calling me
he keeps denying it in court
the second death, by Gabriel Athens
the outburst of the telephone
the clamorous ring
the josteling sound
nearly threw me from my seat;
as I spoke to you
as the receiver sobbed
I tried to console you
to calm you down
without hanging up altogether.
Don’t apologize for the outburst
for I don’t mind helping you through.
I don’t need the help myself.
No, I’m not going to go see him;
they have to ship his body to me anyway.
It doesn’t matter.
He was a stranger to me then,
and he is a stranger to me now.
He is no colder than he was.
No, I don’t want to say good-bye
to him:
I see no point
in saying good-bye to a man
I never said hello to.
Or I love you.
And I’m only sorry to see mother
shake as she’s sipping her coffee.
I hate to see the people mourn.
He was such a good man,
it’s a shame to see him go,
we’ll all miss him so.
No.
They did not know
of his yells and screams
in a drunken stupor,
or his terrible indifference;
they did not know
of the stubbornness
or of the ice in his stare.
And I can’t forgive him for leaving me
long before leaving this world.
Daddy,
I am not heartbroken
and I will not miss you.
I miss not having a father.
I have always missed the man
who smothers his baby daughter with love
when he comes home from work
and who loves to call me
daddy’s little girl.
Father,
I will not cry for you,
for you died long ago.
Prefabrications, by Gary A. Scheinoha
In my country,
the place of my ancestors’
birth, there is a legend,
one fellow members
of the bratrstvi
brought along, wedged
between this battered
valise and that steamer trunckful
of memories, all stuffed down,
way down into the hold
of the plachetnkiks, the canvas sails
that bore them across.
This tale consists of a dozen
eggs and how these naive
peasants believe the same
tossed into a wet batch
of cement will somehow
grant good fortune
or at least safe passage
for those who cross over.
If only these footsteps
we take in their dying
shadow were that easy.
A few yokes would scarcely
stain our soles.
Reynolds Channel, Still Life Before the Storm, by Alan Catlin
Storm clouds crest the grass tipped dunes
rolling inland from the sea. On the Short Beach
shore the last boaters heed storm warnings, pack
worn Army blankets, plastic toys, wicker picnic
baskets in the stern of an outboard boat.
Worried women gathered sunburned children,
strapping on their sodden orange Mae West life
jackets, listen as the men drink the last of their
7 Crown from a dark pint bottle they toss against
gray jetty rocks, washing the whiskey down with
warm no label beer, mocking their wives: “Bunch of
women. Worried over nothing. A little rain
never hurt no one.” Later, caught in the channel
riptide, buffeted by the sweeping rush of white
capped waves, they can see the torrential rain
as it hits the beach, moving in close over the water,
and, then, the lightning.
domestic violence in america, nashville, tennessee, by Janet Kuypers
the stick
according to accounts, her husband
allegedly locked her and their
four-year-old son in their house
for about forty hours. They were
essentially hostages. The husband
then allegedly beat the woman
while the son watched. This is the
stick he allegedly used to keep her
in line, it looks like a metal broom
or mop handle, it’s hollow, and you
see, here is a bend in it from the
hitting. The bend looks like a twist
of a garden hose. And this bloody
knit glove, it was tied on here, at
the end of the stick, so that when he
allegedly hit her it didn’t scar her.
Isn’t that funny? You can tell that
the son was there for it all, too, he
doesn’t talk much at all, and he never
leaves his mother’s side. She limps down
the hallway now, and he follows.
nothing much more to say, by Brian Tolle
nothing much more to say.
every time i start to get a foot hold,
night comes and reminds me that i am alone.
why is love
so much more important in the dark
perhaps because we can’t see anything to replace it
or we are confronted with the hole in our hearts
or the bed is cold
even after you warm the sheets
there is still space
on your right
and your left
above, below
inside
the light does not come from within
we are no longer fooled by the hope of it.
the light is simply reflected by a tint that is
mere leaf on the skin
with the light gone
gold is black,
the same as diamond
(the same as dirt)
the voice not heard calling
yelling
sooth, or whisper
the hand not smoothing
smacking
the love won’t enter
continued
the dark that wraps fingers as
fully as a willow round the water
has no sinister plan
but is
it being the not being that cannot not be
the malice of the loneness
is inherant
in the loneness alone
no killowatt hour
no jule
squeezed through filament
will change the truth of nothing.
only love.
Brian Tolle
the dream, by Gabriel Athens
I walked past the slide
almost stepping on the boulder in a children’s marble game.
As I stopped at the swingset,
I heard two girls talking.
Slap bracelets, plastic purses, bows in their hair.
The blue-eyed blonde said to the brown-eyed brunette,
“If you dream that you die,
you will.”
Those brown eyes exploded with fear.
As I walked away,
I stopped and leaned against the jungle gym.
The memories bombarded me-
Why did I have that dream?
Why did I stop myself?
Why didn’t I die?
It was four years ago.
I was walking in a field
where the brown weeds stood a foot tall,
almost entirely covering the wretched, abandoned train tracks.
The pollution-grey sky
occasionally hurled its anger at the ground,
making rippling waves in the dead grass and straw.
I never asked why I was there.
Holding my denim jacket closed with one hand
I put my left hand in the coat pocket.
I felt the cold steel in my hands
and pulled the .22 pistol out into the light.
The polished silver-grey barrel
reflected my fingerprints.
I never asked why it was there.
I stopped walking,
switched off the safety,
turned the gun toward my stomach,
wrapped my finger around the trigger,
pressed my eyes shut, and fired twice.
But I opened my eyes
and stared at the waving weeds
as I felt the heat and the force radiate through me.
As I stood there, I began to hunch over
and all of my senses slowed down.
The weeds moved slowly, and as I started to walk,
my steps became shorter, yet longer to take.
Feeling dizzy, I couldn’t even think.
But I knew it should hurt, and I waited for the pain,
but I just wasn’t dying fast enough.
So I tried to keep walking,
but it felt like I was falling,
and I turned the revolver to my stomach again and fired.
I felt the jolt. I felt the force. I felt the heat.
But it just wasn’t working.
I just wasn’t dying.
So I moved the gun to the side of my head.
One shot rang out.
My ears were ringing slowly but violently.
Why wasn’t I dying?
I shot at the temple again, and once more.
Walking, slowly, now used to the heat
and only feeling tired.
Then a voice in my head told me to stop the dream
and I woke up.
Beads of sweat dripped down from my temple.
I tasted them
to make sure it wasn’t blood.
I pushed myself away from the jungle gym
as I watched the girls on the swingset.
The brunette stared at the blonde in innocent amazement.
They’re all just lies.
I turned around and walked away,
kicking the dead grass.
accounts for the need of gun control, January, 1995, by Janet Kuypers
One day a man decided to kill people.
A shooting spree. So he went into a
gun shop, picked up a pair of assault
rifles, a number of rounds, each of
one hundred bullets. And he bought
these things, he didn’t need a
permit or a license. Just walked in
and out. And he went to an office
building to take out his revenge
on the world. My wife was there,
took five bullets in the back. I wonder
if she suffer before she died. We went
on a ski trip together last Christmas.
She looked so beautiful with the
snow in her hair. This man didn’t need
a license, and yet I needed a permit to
retrieve my wife’s ashes from the
crematorium. He didn’t just do this to
her, you know. Or to the other victims.
He’s tortured me, and our baby girl. Our
girl is darling. She’s blond, like her
mommy. We have to live with
this trauma forever. This should not
be how we have to live.
As my girl’s second birthday approached
this year, I asked her what she
wanted. She said she wanted
to see mommy. Guess what
she is going to want for her
third
Brown Ducks, by Mary Winters
Ducks, young-old brown ducks;
a baker’s dozen (our Mother is ample,
their own abandoned them) -
the Franciscans of Scargo Lake, Cape Cod:
quiet, humble, moving together;
gently beaking the reeds at water’s edge
for modest meals of algae, bugs:
their feathers plain, unreflective umber
outdone by shrieking, lurid jays above.
Glint of emerald green or teal blue nearly
hid beneath their wings: glorious, gaudy
scapulars against fresh-made simple habits
feathers’ modest dark-brown markings
so clear, concise. Care was taken here...
Ducks who with pebble-throwing boy
show us lazed in lounge chairs
Faith, Hope and Charity: faith -
those whitish pebbles must be bread.
Hope - even if the first were not,
the next will surely be. Charity -
for not slashing the teasing boy
to shreds for mockery; for striking a duck
on the perfect curve of its low-bowed head
with one of his larger stones.
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
|
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
|
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.
|
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
|
|
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.
|
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
|
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.
|
|
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
|
|
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.
|
|
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.