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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
children, churches, and Janet Kuypers
(children, churches and daddies)
And the little girl said to me,
“I thought only daddys drank
beer.” And I found myself
trying to make excuses for the can
in my hand. I remember being
in the church, a guest at a
wedding of two people
I didn’t know. My date pointed
out two little boys
walking to their seats in
front of us. In little suits and
cowboy boots, this is what
is central Illinois. And my date
said he was sure those boys
would grow up to be gay. And
the worst part was their father
was the coach of the high school
football team. I think I
laughed, but I hesitated.
I remember being in the
church, it was Christmas
Eve, my date’s family went up
for communion, and all I could think
was that singing the hymns was
hard enough, I don’t know the
words, what am I doing here,
what am I supposed to do? And I
stayed seated, and everyone else
slowly walked to the front of the
church. Little soldiers in a
little line, the little children
in their little dresses walking
behind their mommies and
daddies. And the little girl
said, “I thought only daddys
drank beer.” And I found myself
trying to make excuses.
wedding lost, by Janet Kuypers
And she sees herself in the
passenger seat at night, her fiance
beside her, and the lights seem
all too bright, and the rain seems
all too loud, like the thunder of
soldiers running across a field to
war, swept with the drunken feeling
of patriotism, charging toward their
unknown enemy. And so it happened
that night, the lights got brighter,
the car started to spin, and then
she started to dream.
And she sees herself at the
end of the church, the bridesmaids
have just walked down the
aisle, the music changes for her.
She feels swept with the euphoria
of love, and she begins to walk,
but she falls, the bouquet falling
from her hand. And in slow motion,
white roses and lilies
scatter along the aisle. And she
looks up, and the groom is gone,
and the ground is the ashes
of the house they bought together
after they were married. She
sits up, and she’s at the desk at the
bank, trying to get the loan for the
house. His job is secure, we’re young,
nothing could go wrong. Good thing
he wore the blue tie to the bank, and
not the red one. And she sees herself
waking up from sleep, the oxygen
pipe still under her nose, her husband
there, tie in hand, asking if she’d like
to hold their baby. But she
could have sworn she heard the
baby stop crying. And she panics.
And then she wakes up, her head is bobbing,
but now she’s back, back at the
hospital, looking at the tubes running
out of her fiance’s arm.
done this before, by Janet Kuypers
I keep looking back at your picture. I’ll flip it over to stop from staring at it while I read a page from my book, but a minute won’t pass before I’ll have to turn the photo over again to see your face. It’s as if I can’t get away from it.
My flight was delayed, I’m at O’Hare Airport, the airport that departs three planes every second, or is it one plane every three seconds, oh shit, I don’t remember. I have to wait at least three hours for my next flight, hey, if so many planes take off here, then why can’t I get on one of them? Oh well, so I decided to waste my time in one of the airport cocktail bars, by gate L 4. I thought I’d start with a white zinfandel and work my way to mixed drinks, but this wine tastes so good that I think I might just have to have another.
I’m so exasperated, I hate to wait, and all I have is a good book to keep me company. I used your photo from my wallet as a bookmark. I need these things to keep me sane.
It really isn’t bad here in the cocktail bar by gate L 4, the chairs aren’t that uncomfortable, even though they’re a pretty ugly shade of green that doesn’t match anything in the room. It really isn’t that bad, in a foreign city, in a foreign airport. Not when I’ve got my Sutter Home White Zinfandel. And my picture of you.
You know, there’s a blonde girl dressed well with a bad perm across the bar, and she’s smoking a cigarette. I know I don’t smoke, but I’m almost tempted to ask her for one just so I can hold the cigarette the way you do.
I’d like to taste the tar, the nicotine, the way I taste it in your kiss. You think I don’t like it, but I do.
They’re playing a song in the cocktail bar, a song that reminds me of an ex. I wanted to marry that man. He had a knack of being able to envelope me, to take my troubles away.
I don’t know if I can take away my troubles myself anymore. I don’t know if the liquor’s helping, or the cigarettes. Your photo helps, my little bookmark. At least for now it helps.
Sitting in this L 4 cocktail bar reminds me of my brother. When I was young he’d always pick us up at the airport, but if he wasn’t waiting at the gate we knew to look for him at the seafood cocktail bar. a part of me expects him to come walking through the doorway now, flannel shirt, ski jacket, wind-blown greasy hair, coke-bottle glasses. You know, when I’d look at his eyes through those glasses, his eyes looked twice as big as they actually were.
I could imagine him now, I could imagine the smell of his Levi’s of dirt from the construction site. I remember that smell from my father; I’d smell it every day when he came home from work. It’s my brother’s business now, he’s got his own family now to worry about instead of a little sister. So I’ll just sit here at this airport cocktail bar, remembering the days when I’d sit with him in a place like this and I was too young to drink.
God, I want to see my brother walking in to this bar at L 4, ordering a shrimp cocktail. I want to see you, babbling on about a movie you reviewed or a gig your band had. I want something that isn’t so foreign, like this bar. Or maybe I want something that isn’t so familiar.
I took your picture out of my wallet, the wallet that has so many pictures of men who have come and gone in my life, men who have hurt me, men who I have gone through like... like dishwashing liquid, or like something I use all the time and replace all the time and don’t think twice about.
I’ll just sit here, in this airport, trying to care just the right amount, not too much, but not too little.
So I’ll just sit here, in this airport cocktail bar, looking at your photo, and wondering if I’ve done this before.
PATTERNS, by Sandra K.
Each time I looked in the mirror
I saw
your face
haunting me, your words
echoing
all around me
I tried to erase
your memory by
pounding on the glass
But only the mirror
changed
It cracked - creating
a giant web
like the one
of deceit you
built all around
me
Spent and bleeding
I walked away
knowing that
it will never
change
VOYEUR, by Cheryl Townsend
the cigarette looked good
between her fingers like a
firm cock between two legs
she put it to her lips
taking in long deep drags
of its burning satiety
and he watched her as
she enjoyed her habit
across the alley way
window to window level
darkness surrounded him
like her perfume if she was
there his hand like her lips
enjoying each hot drag
taking it in
letting it out
NO RHYME OR REASON, by Cheryl Townsend
It was the moon light, I tell you
It was the fucking moonlight of my soul
Dark like evil with a persistent good
trying to sway my decision
Not quite bright enough
Like a halo in Hell
I couldn’t see it
I couldn’t hear it
I didn’t hear her
but I know she was screaming
and crying about her baby
“Don’t hurt my baby”.
Christ, we were alone
Maybe she had some moonlight too
It didn’t make no sense
Yeah, and I fucked her
Maybe she was screaming cuz I was so good
It was dark
I couldn’t see if she was smiling
But she kept going on about that baby
I think she was crazy, you know
Nobody else around
OH BY THE WAY, by Cheryl Townsend
he raped her
10 years old
it disgusted him
he hated the feeling
hated her crying
hated her fear
hated the power she gave him
hated it all so much
he killed her
cut her up
like shattered glass
like breaking a mirror
of his won reflection
previously published in Radio Void, v. 3, #4, June 1992.
getting the goods, by Lyn Lifshin
“In recent months, according to reports from Thailand published in the Far Eastern Economic Review, murdered infants have been used to transport heroin across the border from Thailand to Malasia”
A wind blowing through
dark elephant grass
a blood sun over the
rice fields a man
holds an infant underwater,
black hair snakes the
child gurgles then
doesn’t a plastic rattle
bobs on the water like a
head before the water goes
from blood to wet bark
the child is slit
emptied out like a trout
or a hen stuffed taut
and plump with small
bags of heroin
And before the moon is
a pale grape in the
musky nught a woman paid
as well as the dead
child’s mother will wrap
the corpse in a shawl
hug it close seeming to
smoothe the damp
hair into place as if
snuggling a sleeping
baby getting the
goods over the border
that July, by Lyn Lifshin
something under
skin crunched and
frizzled so it
seemed someone
else was inside.
People turned a
way as they do
those who’ve
survived some
explosion, lost
their face only
go out at night,
My mother and I
drank apricot
sours, all that
wld stop the pain
as ants bloomed
in the hot noghts
and after lying
flat as long as
I could I brought
the manuscripts
that were howling
all the summer,
diaries we read
of the woman who
only wrote when
she left her body
as lightning bugs
grazed screens
and damp walnut
leaves huge as
palms shook
where squirrels
tore the pale
nuts from them,
like survivors
who, laughing,
wash their hair
in underground
streams
how it happened, by Lyn Lifshin
There was this
hotch outside in
the trees. when we
came back the old
people were crying.
After that I’d shoot
up all the time the
little kids pulling
at my knees crying,
the old woman had
popsicle sticks,
they were scraping
pieces of a woman
off the wall. I
could tell that by
the breasts in a
corner. Even the
animals wouldn’t
come near us
*
You see a guy get his
face blown away you
do things you don’t
want to think of.
By the sixth day I was
mainlining all the
time not to feel
high I didn’t want
to feel anything
*
First you so
scared then it’s
hard to live with
yourself But I
didn’t get hooked
until the hospital
in Japan. You
understand they
nepalmed us by
mistake. First I
couldn’t feel
much. Water won’t
put it out. Now
I go out in the
sun and I feel
fire. I wanted to
get off morphine
but they said why
not get unemployment
TICKET, by C Ra McGuirt
for olga
you got a ticket
for going too fast
through a school zone
and i counseled you
to pay it
through the mail.
i knew it would cost you
less in the end
than going to court
and traffic school,
but you are a woman,
and wise in the way of savings
though new to this part
of the planet,
and you are not
my child
so i could say nothing further.
you sit on my knee tonight,
long wet hair down, bedraggled
and woebegone. you tell me
that they were severe. your head hurt.
you didn’t understand the questions
after the film. you realize
what i was trying to spare you now,
strong woman.
oh, my child
you were chastized by forces
beyond my control.
“a fight for air”, by Edward Mycue
I. A Fight for Air
Towels soak in the sink
Roots crack, splinter
Each sound’s a stone screaming
successive millions
of mute islands
a secret care I keep folded
under my fingernail
dawn after dawn
The thrill is uneven
The saliva curdles
Sunset climbs closely
to the fight for air.
II. Buried World
The Great River
plains desert
Red Rock Red River
Gulf of Mexico
deltas bayous hill country
conscribe an end and a beginning, leading
from these years this journey back
to nineteen sixty-one
Dallas: blotch concrete spread out on the plains.
We’d come to Texas thirteen years before
in a slope-back forties Ford.
I was eleven then.
We’d pass through Erie, Kentucky, Delta States
to arid, fissured land and bottomland and floods
to dying apple trees.
Then summertimes
and othertimes
Dad took us with him one by one
to get to know us
on his travels through his Southwest territory,
him talking brakelinings for a Firestone subsidiary
company that let him go not long before he died
in a chaos of fear
and pain he said was not like pain
but was pulling him apart.
III. Father
“We brought our children from New York
to take a better job.
My wife supported me.
Her hair turned white that first year.
She was thirty-three, had borne us seven kids
in our hometown, Niagara Falls. Through all
we fought and stayed together
pounding with our love.
I was thirty-six that year
nineteen forty-eight.
Our oldest son was twelve.
The baby was a year.”
IV. Rain
Starting
Caution
Stop
Signal
Passing
Being passed
My father seems beautiful
his geographical eyes a cage
of ocean dreams
who’ll never dream again
so stubborn, gentle, singing anytime
some snatch of song he’ll never sing again.
Nostrils flaring, lungs honking, at the end
he couldn’t hold his teeth
only wanted air Air
His food came back
I hear him say NO, No not pain I’m
falling
No steel,
green-painted, rented tank of oxygen could help
since death will come when cancer eats the brain.
It rained the day he died
and it rained again on burial day (Good Luck,
it’s angels’ tears, they say the Irish say.)
The dog killed cat run off morphene soaking into sand.
Gigantic stones snakes apple trees his eyes.
V. Grave Song
End of night
melted
threw my heat in the fire
O my mama place in the white
it was too big for me
I wanted out out I got out
Go downstairs
say of wiz de light off wiz all de lights
up up up
up wiz de fire up wiz de fire
(say UP with the fire)
I am afraid
of the door rats on the stairs miles
miles miles to the light and I can’t
say it
there’s only me
and and everybody
and that is no body nobody
but some thing
behind
Lock it! Lock it!
Go go downstairs
Run Run Run Run out out out
They are moving
Dark
is light Things in the air
Tie Ta Tie Ta
Tie Ta Tie Ta
people gone
Cows moo in the fields and are gone
It does not hold
Hums Hums Hums
Hung birds in bottles, eggs writhing like worms
and the fire burns.
VI. Little Lifetimes
Children crush crackers between stones
celebrating luck and joy
seeing with ears, breathing music from trees, flowering
in pure deliciousness
awakening graves, unarmed againstt the rain.
In time - silence:
stoning sterile trees,
praying the dead will sleep between the swollen roots.
The wind rushes in saying hold my ground, carve
your own road - the design that develops.
Now a face begins to emerge seeking air
examining death to doscover patterns
in the movements of little lifetimes.
INTERIOR SPACE, by Connie Meredith
Just inside the door
there’s a stuffed moose head
then six stairs up
to the Widow’s Watch.
There’s a piano, and a chair,
It’s mine;
It’s safe.
It’s home for the historian,
the dreamer,
and the frightened child.
I slide down th banister
when I like.
originally appeared in Scripsit 1992
by Jim DeWitt
I recorded this almost as if from an interview after I’d talked with Lana, age seven, a student in one of my reading groups. She was very anxious to tell me about her ofter-recurring dream. Her mother Cathy died just the year before in a fiery Pinto crash. Here is the exact substance of what she said:
Dream, oh persistent dream
will you return again tonight?
The darkness comes back longer and blacker still.
Mother, I see you drift like an aura
into my bedroom and ask
“Why are you crying, Lana?”
Yes, I thought I’d been awakened
by my own tears when you came again.
“What’s wrong, Lana, what’s wrong?”
Your voice seemed so harsh.
Then as it woke me up I saw my father
standing beside my bed, concerned, comforting.
Then I’m flying high above the earth
in a small, open airplane.
Suddenly it’s being shot at repeatedly.
I can feel the hot bullets so close to my skin.
It explodes. The flames are
a bright yellow ball all around me.
Now I’m falling faster, faster.
The pressure of the air feels like dying itself.
I look down and I see my own funeral.
I’m fixed upon my open grave.
Flowers are everywhere, bright-colored
living blossoms surrounding the casket.
The mourners are standing there
everywhere around.
All of a sudden a hawk dives down at me
picks me up with a jerk
carries me higher and then drops me.
Now it has become a huge bat
that throws me hard, back into my bed.
In its mouth is a shiny fish.
The bat slaps it down onto my bed.
Its cold fin scrapes my skin.
I escape across my bedroom
to hid in a dark corner of the closet.
The fish has turned into a ghost
puffing up gray-white, almost filling the room
high up to the ceiling.
It forces me to come out of the closet
after suddenly popping inside it
with a booming “BOO!”
Then I drift back into my bed
and sliding underneath my bedsheets
begin to cry softly.
The night is even more completely black.
Oh Mother, I can hear you asking again
“Why are you crying Lana?
What’s wrong, what’s wrong?”
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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
829 Brian Court
Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA
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,
829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or 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.