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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. |
all questions, comments and submissions can be sent to: ccandd96@aol.com
thanks, and enjoy reading!
take what you want
with guns
never mind
malcolm's chickens
because a child enjoys the
unexpected: uncle in the
basement making bullets,
bent low at gunpowder loader;
crater in his forehead -
one went off too soon. Now
- a laugh - he's safe with
metal plate in brow;
because a child likes a
mystery, whispers cut off sharp:
his son refused to marry, but
shoved a diamond ring in
girlfriend's knitting bag
on glassed-in porch,
lounge chairs' canvas
turned to dust;
because a child delights in the
odd: soggy root near
pond that moved - a snake -
when stepped on; because a child
craves the hidden living object:
green mirrored sphere in garden.
Everyone's doing lines:
white lines and psychic lines
and prayer lines and election lines
and lines from the creep at the bar.
Cuz everyone wants a Navigator
who'll put their life in his hands.
Like a flower growing in a parking lot,
I've got divinity in my soul
and earth running through my veins.
Raucous and raw as sushi,
I walk run leap soar-
exiled angel in the paradise I create.
I rush in the hall
people ramming around.
I'm part of a mab
and you're not here
You're in my mind.
I sense your image
grasp for reality.
I try to place you
among this crowd.
You're nowhere there.
I'm in this mass
but then again, not.
Because when
I'm surrounded
I'm without you.
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
amazing how
when one has a few reverses in life
and worse comes to worse
how much of your life
can be put
into one little
room
that woman
that picture
the images of beauty and softness
of something that shouldn't be touched
that couldn't work
that can't work
the sepia toning
oh how ancient
oh the dependency
oh the degradation
my mind has been cluttered
society's a bastard
I can't see the women
I see the hat
the feather
the adornments of beauty
the preposterous impractical way
she has been made to be seen
and not heard
she's only an image
she was forced with an image
is it a shame
is it a sin
and now I've been tainted
with the knowledge of society
with the knowledge of it's motives
and now I can't even see the beauty
I can only see the opression
"oh, it's not like that anymore" they say
as I wipe the make-up off my eyelids
and wonder who I'm trying to impress
In June of 1980 my manuscript submission had won me a place in the School of Visual Arts pilot program of study with writer/composer Paul Bowles in Tangier, Morocco.
At the time of my acceptance to the program I was working as a regional reporter at the Record, a newspaper in Northern Jersey. I hated it. I wanted to create stories not record them. Paul Bowles was a hero to me. His exotic and disturbing fiction seemed like an oasis; my writing was confined to mental health center openings and traffic accidents.
Right before I left for North Africa I saw an ad in the Village Voice for a play, In The Summer House, by a Jane Bowles. Knowing nothing about Mr. Bowles' biography I called the theater and asked if Jane Bowles was the wife of the writer Paul. An angry feminist voice shouted at me that Jane Bowles couldn't possibly be married to Paul Bowles. Jane Bowles was a lesbian'
Sorry.
The first time I laid eyes on Paul Bowles was in a classroom with about a dozen other writers, mostly aspiring
writers. I realized manuscript strength wasn't as important as financial solvency when candidates were selected. Six weeks cost fifteen hundred dollars and included three college credits. I was three credits short of a City College degree.
Mr. Bowles, a frail, elegantly dressed man of about seventy with a full head of white hair, strode into the classroom about twenty minutes late and told the truth. He said he hated writing workshops and didn't believe they could help a writer at all. He was quite low on funds and agreed to lead the workshop because the money was pretty good.
I thought that was wonderful. The last thing I wanted to do was to spend six weeks in an academic environment. I just wanted to explore Morocco and earn three credits in the bargain.
Mr. Bowles proposed, or maybe it was another student's idea, that instead of meeting X amount of times in a formal classroom setting, he meet individually with each writer for a few visits over the six week term. After a short discussion on where these visits should take place, Mr. Bowles suggested his apartment. That way he could keep his own hours and expend the least amount of energy in service to that SVA check.
All the writers jockeyed for immediate appointments. Not me. I wanted to explore North Africa. My man to man meeting with Paul Bowles wasn't for a couple of weeks.
In the interim I had a dangerous and surreal extended visit to the Rif Mountains that began three days after being introduced to Paul Bowles. I was gone for over a week and no one at the SVA compound knew where I was or what had happened to me. When I returned I was severely chastised; the police had been called in. But that's another story.
I was quite nervous before my meeting with Mr. Bowles. I was comforted by an attractive actress, Antoinette Bowers. Ms. Bowers, who looked quite familiar to me, was a steadily employed film actress, disgusted that her age (I'd say mid to late forties) had begun to drastically limit her workload. Because of the declining acting offers she wanted Paul Bowles' advice about a roman'a clef she was working on about the film business. She said she and Paul had quite a few mutual friends.
Ms. Bowers was scheduled to meet with Mr. Bowles right after me. It was her second visit to his apartment. S h e volunteered to walk me over to where he lived. Antoinette laughed when I told her my Jane Bowles theater story. I was then informed that Jane was indeed Paul's late wife as well as a lesbian. She insisted I tell Paul the story because it would amuse him. I told her no way was I going to
bring that up. I'd be too embarrassed.
I quickly climbed the stairs inside Mr. Bowles' modest
Tangier apartment building. A maid opened the door and led me to a room without chairs; there were only throw pillows on the floor.
Paul Bowles entered from an adjoining room. His watery blue eyes seemed to regard me with a kind of bored amusement. We shook hands. I couldn't take my eyes off the smoke wafting up from his elegant cigarette holder. The cigarette was quite thick and looked homemade.
His speech was measured and his diction level was incredible high. But what I noticed most was his whistling. Whenever an s word slipped from his lips it turned into a whistle. Paul Bowles plopped himself down on some pillows and motioned me to do the same.
An awkward silence followed.
The maid re-entered the room and Mr. Bowles asked me if I'd like some mint tea. He signaled the maid to bring two bowls and then asked me a few questions about myself. I was hoping he'd mention the story I had submitted for his critique. I fantasized him pouring forth praise and excitement over the discovery of a major new talent. But the only thing poured was the mint tea and it was too hot to drink.
After some small talk about the current political situation in the U.S. - Ronald Reagan's presidential campaign, our hostages in Iran - I made Paul Bowles laugh. Desperate for conversation, I told him the Jane Bowles theater story.
He howled and said Jane would have loved it. When I asked him a few questions about his wife he told me Jane was poisoned by an evil maid she was in love with.
Mr. Bowles asked me if I indulged in the smoking of cannabis. When I answered in the affirmative he produced a bag of what he called kif - a mixture of hashish and tobacco. I nervously rolled a cigarette but was afraid to smoke it.
You see, Paul Bowles had the sharpest mind I'd ever encountered. His manner was so eloquent, his eyes so piercing, I knew I needed all my resources, unimpaired, just to keep up with him. I was quite intimidated by the man. He was the first author I ever met and his fantastic surroundings and unique style made him bigger than life.
After a few puffs I relaxed. He pulled out my story and gave me a detailed critique of it - a grammatical critique. Without mentioning one word about the story's merit or content, Paul Bowles simply produced a sheet of paper that catalogued all my wordsmith's faults. When I finally asked him what he thought of the story he shrugged off a reply.
Okay, Paul Bowles did not think much of me as a writer. Humiliated, I told him I was really interested in writing for the theater. He said then that's what I should be doing.
Telling Paul Bowles about my passion for theater really animated him. He told me he had written the music for Orson Welles' first New York production and had written a few incidental scores for Tennesse Williams' plays, including The Glass Menagerie. Mr. Bowles informed me I had missed Tennessee Williams by a couple days.
Paul Bowles then launched into a description of his musical career. I had no idea he was such a respected composer before turning to fiction full time. He told me amusing antidotes about his failed collaboration with the zany Armenian writer William Saroyan on an opera, as well as funny stories about Gertrude Stein, whom he met when he was a teenaged poet in Paris.
I told him about my frightening yet exhilarating experiences in the Rif Mountains. He laughed and said an American visiting the Rif would be the equivalent of someone visiting the United States and staying in the Appalachian Mountains.
Mr. Bowles didn't think much of me as an artist, but he did delight in my sense of adventure.
Puzzled over the treatment of females I saw, I asked Paul about a woman's role in Islamic culture. He answered me with a wonderful story:
one morning he was writing in bed as he always does, and heard a loud commotion outside his window. He called in his maid and asked her to find out what all the noise was about. She left, stood out on the balcony, and returned saying it was simply two people arguing in front of the building. Paul continued to work until the angry shouts became so disruptive he couldn't concentrate.
Wondering how two people could possibly make all that noise, he got out of bed and threw open his window. What he saw was more than a dozen people screaming at each other, but only two of them were men.
The escalating effects of the kif reduced to me to a grinning idiot. Bowles saw this and decided to choreograph a musical exit for me. He told me about this fantastic music he had recorded live. It was performed by Aborigines blowing shell instruments inside a cave. Paul said it sounded remarkably like electronic music.
He handed me a pair of headphones, slapped a cassette into a tape player, pushed the play button, and disappeared into another room. But it wasn't primal musical sounds that invaded my ears, but a slurred woman's voice alternately laughing and cursing.
I was embarrassed. Obviously Bowles had given me a tape of his late wife by mistake. When the author/composer reentered the room in what seemed an eternity later, I didn't know whether I should tell him about his error. When he asked me how I enjoyed the music I simply grinned my appreciation. As I was preparing to leave I encountered Mohammed Marabet, a short man of Herculean proportions. He entered the apartment with an affectionate greeting for Paul and a sneer for me. I did not know who he was, but I did know that he intensely disapproved of me being there.
Marabet stared challengingly into my face and said that he had killed men, several men. Paul smiled and watched me. I summoned up all the stoned courage I could muster and answered him:
"Yeah, I've killed men, too." A lie. "I was in the Vietnam War." The truth. Mohammed walked over to me as if to strike me. Although I was terrified I stood my ground. He stood inches away from me, grinding his teeth, looking me up and down. Blood rushed to my head; I instantly became sober.
Paul ended the stand-off by uttering a few words in Maghrebi. Marabet's animosity instantly dissolved. They both laughed. I was then treated to a broken English diatribe by Mohammed about how great a writer he was, even greater than Tennessee Williams or any other of Bowles' friends. And he, Marabet, didn't even know how to read!
I later learned that Mohammed was one of Paul's illiterate proteges. Bowles translated many tales Marabet had dictated. The muscular Moroccan had quite a cult following.
But in the summer of 1980 I just wanted to escape from these two North African literary giants. I jolted down the stairs of Bowles' fourth floor apartment and ran out into the blinding Moroccan sun, sweaty but safe.
Despite the curriculum that stated I must meet with Paul Bowles at least two more times before the term ended, I never saw the man again. But he did give me wonderful advice on places to visit in southern Morocco. And a passing grade.
You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.
Voice of poetic interpretation
whispering through mary jane:
"I have sixteen personalities,
and I dream about death."
Gothic in combat boots,
eyes skewer bimbos
who "Omigod!" at vampires
and evaporate in passing crowds.
Blacknailed, tattooed thunderclap
of autonomous poison pain,
alienating a real world
that fears your unexpressed bite.
Tony looked up from the
engine he was working
on stared wide-eyed at
me. "you look so much
like your Dad." but he
hung his head the whole
while we talked ashamed
it seemed to be still
among the living.
sleazy westcoast bar
misnamed, no honor
or chivalry there
en route from sweaty pool tables
to vomitose men's can
next to unspeakable
women's can
see lisette sitting there
with politically correct
cronie
"I thought about you today"
lisette admits as the pinched
face of her cronie implodes
folds right back into itself
in mean spirited disapproval
and shock
and lisette then my ex-wife
ex-love of life then asks
me to sit down there
in sleazy scummy westcoast bar
amid growing hate and fear
from her friends as they
come to the table one by one
to witness first PC hand
th einvincible power
of love and devotion and love
over fear hate gang-mentality
and sleazy westcoast dust
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands -
shaking - holding the glass of poison -
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.
it felt like
being a dishwasher
comeone crams
what shouldn't
even be put in,
caked with what
ever had been
spread on them,
what was valuable
crammed and shoved
in along with
junk by some
one who couldn't
tell the difference
jammed and then
they slammed
the door and let
everything inside
crank and churn
That summer
Louie Campos went
To bible school to
Learn moral values
Louis had already
Been to juvie
Aired a switch
At Mrs. Reed in
5th grade &
Deemed out of
Parental control
Was the 1st kid in class
To watch someone
Die under a
Street light
Earned the nickname
"Castro" taught to
Throw but never catch
& did some time
A 6 yr. meatball in Chino
Came back to the streets
24 yrs. old & able to
Use his metal
Against blood
Stayed alive another 5
Hussling pool & rolling dope
Carried a gun in
A pocket with a crucifix
& pulled them outside
A flop on 27th Street
Shooting it out with
Gang boys dropping him dead
That summer way back when
"Castro" Louis Campos went to bible school
& I haven't been to
church since
it is terrifying to see
one of your own
go down the drain someone
you went to law school with
who would therefore
be as sane and rational
as a person you could find
like yourself
his wife turned up
at Legal Services one day
no money two kids
she wanted a divorce
because all of a sudden
he started beating her up
at the hearing on the
restraining order he cursed out
the judge then kicked down
his door which is
not considered good form
in any event
next we heard he was living
in a Y in a bad part of town
where he dropped a teenage boy
off a balcony for making noise
who has not thought of doing
such things but we do not
of course act on our impulses
some say drugs were involved
there has got to be a reason
he is in jail on a murder charge
and we (at least for today)
are not
"Could you pull out a can of sardines to have with lunch?", he asked me, so I got up from my chair, put down the financial pages, and walked into the kitchen. The newspaper fell to the ground, falling out of order. I stepped on the pages as I walked away. I realized he hadn't been listening to a thing I said.
He had to look for a job, I had told him before. This apartment is too small and we still can't afford it. I put in so many extra hours at work, and he doesn't even help at home. There are dishes left from last week. There is spaghetti sauce crusted on one of the plates in the sink. I opened up the pantry, moved the cans of string beans and cream corn. There was an old can of peaches in the back; I didn't even know it was there. I found a sardine can in the back of the shelf.
I saw him from across the apartment as I opened up the can. "We have to do something about this," I said. "I can't even think in this place. I'm tired of living in a cubicle."
He closed the funny pages. "Get used to it, honey. This is all we'll ever get. You think you'll get better? You think you deserve it? For some people, this is all they'll get. That's just the way life is."
I looked at the can. I looked at the little creatures crammed into their little pattern. It almost looked like they were supposed to be that way, like they were created to be put into a can. The smell made me dizzy. I pushed the can away from me. I couldn't look at it any longer.
children with uzis
rarely appear on
milk cartons
The closet her
mother couldn't
pass, the floor
boards a burnt
sienna. Even
after a clean
up the police
barricades, tape
flannel still in
the shape of her
body on the floor
where she waited,
the gun in her
lips, watched
light come up
two days after
she shot at the
woman she sold
her house to
leave for South
Carolina with
who left after
their 17 years
left Jane with
her back aching.
Morphine was
losing its punch.
She waited under
flannel as tv
blared "lesbian
shoots lover's
friend," in the
upstate town where
she was town historian
She cocked the gun,
heard footsteps
her finger on the
trigger as the light
lost its softness
at the edge of town
an old church with steeple,
spire and bell, huge,
leaning, lurching like a
beached ship's hull.
wooden and white
except for the peeling paint
and worn-out spots on the
stairs and aisles where
countless shoes have trod
all these years.
but the church is no
longer a church where
people go to pray. it's a
theater now where people
go to escape from life in a
more entertaining way.
girl at the window
has a gun
nothing you can do
but watch
I rolled off into the grass
and left you there layed
you stayed like a woman
I just left
I don't know why I left
you gave me what I needed
a smile of acceptance
a receptive body in the breeze
a chance to be together
I could tell you I love you
but I'd be lying to both of us.
Me need for you
isn't your need for me.
Sometimes I have to leave
where there's someone to mind.
I could just stay here
and give you a touch
to make what happened
be a prelude for more
but i've taken what I wanted
and found that it wasn't.
Air Force survival manual:
city dweller, you ordered it rush
a decade ago for nuclear war.
Your plan: merge at the
Golden Lamb Inn, Lebanon Ohio
with other surviving kin
but you always knew if
any place was going to blow
it was New York City. So that
manual warning of deceptively
appealing smallish mammals and
welcoming inhabitants with
straightforward unclouded smiles
is of course just a placebo, but
still you enjoy the pictures;
those natives like travelers
entering your personal space in the
train station "just to ask one
question" - people who make the
hair on the back of your neck
stand up, their threatening
masquerade to look just like you,
with bottles of acid to throw in
your face - which you know too
drips down from "innocent"
air conditioners in summer and
rooftops year-round as citizens -
"innocent" - water their
high-up gardens while you
hurry along head down.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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@aol.com... 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
Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.
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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.
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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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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.
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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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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")
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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, 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.
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 book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 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. 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.
Published since 1993
No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.