|
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. |
all questions, comments and submissions can be sent to: ccandd96@aol.com
thanks, and enjoy reading!
email ccandd96@aol.com for a full version of this story.
Have you ever stood at the edge of a roof
and wonder how it must feel to fall
did you ever stand upon a gallows
and never finish feeling it all
I am Despair
I bring you heartache
I feed you bitter wine
I feel sorrow
when I feel desire
your life is better without mine
I walk in darkness
I dare the lightning
I am terrible to behold
my eyes are empty
and my heart is cold
you'll never melt
my heart with teardrops
those that die young
will never grow old
we made dinner
fetuccini alfredo
with chicken and duck
vegetables
bread
we ate
couldn't finish everything
we were putting on our coats
getting ready to go
to midnight mass
i decided to pack up
our leftovers
give them
to some homeless people
on the main street
we got in the car
and drove
to broadway and berwyn
i got out of the car
walked over to a man there
asked him if he was hungry
i got the bowl of noodles
and the gallon of milk
out of the car
another man walked over to me
i told them to promise
that they would share
i got in the car
we were just driving
and all i could think of
was these two men
in the cold
eating pasta with their fingers
on Christmas Eve
At first - glad to see him
cbeause she missed him:
why she opened up the coffin
to take a look at dad. Mom
looked too - made sure
he wore his wedding ring.
Funeral home helped raise the
lid - proud of its work:
eyelids sewed shut, neat;
hands symmetrically folded.
He looks os rested, so
relaxed, they said -
ten years younger.
Nice suit you picked, said
Aunt - wonder if he's got his
shoes on where we can't see.
Later - glad she didn't touch
his face; just poked his wig.
Dad's first night underground -
was it anything like the
first day home from the
hospital with a new baby:
sense of forever, a fate.
Up ahead
3 young ladies parade
The Walk Of Fame jiving
Very playfully and
Quite lively.
My striken senses
Start and break.
Boy, can that flesh move!
Following them I imagine
The pulse within their wombs
Giving birth to me.
L.A's finest pumping over
Rosco Arbuckle's tarnished star
Not bothering to look down,
Because they don't care about
Silent movie scandals or Coke bottles,
Not these 3 shimmering
Gregarious gypsies showing
Hollywood Boulevard all
That nylon covered leg,
Wearing such modern shoes.
As the Serbs and Croats
shoot each other, Fat Free
mayonnaise is shipped to Somalia.
The message from the other side
of my Sat. morning bed ...
deals with chronic unemployment.
"Why?" she writes on new tissue.
"Why is it that you can be so hard?"
So difficult to get to discuss
that we didn't last night?
I think of the Pennant Race
Stock Market's slow decline.
I am back
at my old college
hang-out
years later
sharing some beers
with an old friend
then i remember
being there
with a friend
who used to
work there
she told me about the
women's bathroom
in all my years
I had never
been there
she said
women write on the wall
at the left
of the stall
women write
that they've been raped
they name names
there were arrows
pointing
to other women's
messages
saying
"i've heard this before"
first names
last names
when she told me
of this
years ago
i walked in
read the names
and wrote down one
of my own
i forgot about that wall
until now
and i am back
just yards away
from the
bathroom door
i get up
walk
open the door
years later
all the names are still there
jake jay josh larry matt scott
i can even still see
my own writing
it didn't take long
to find it
The suburbs were static-
manicured hedges,
monochrome mall rats,
homogeneous housing
seeking conformity.
But from this rooftop cafe,
I watch the city pulsate
like skyscraper light tidalwaves
roaring with blue haired ladies
who walk killer yip yip dogs,
with muscular basslines
that throb like erections from car stereos,
with open mic poetry,
with acid jazz,
el train rumbles,
and flapping flocks of pigeons-
an urban orchestra.
I came to this alien landscape
of japanese animation, barrio murals,
project graffiti, and gallery exhibitions
to walk rainbow streets
and take a hit on the blunt of life.
The best possible chronicler of men
over the ages would be women,
for they have suffered men.
The best possible chronicler of women
over the ages would be men,
for they have suffered women.
Then let the scars sing.
when he was a child, a little boy, he
would walk through the living room
over and over again
he would see the book on the shelf
a science book, a volume
from a set: a book about
how the world works
once he looked though the pages
found a drawing about the life
of planet earth, how it was
formed, how eventually the
temperature would rise, all life
on earth would eventually die
and reading that it was
millions of years away didn't help
with the fear, the instant panic:
so he took the book, hid the
one volume from the rest,
so he wouldn't have to see it
when he walked through his
own living room
She wasn't ugly because of any kind of looks, but it's difficult for a 14
year old girl, just discovering that she's that much more sexually superior
to men, to get away from the fact that there is a huge birthmark on her neck
in the shape of a size 6 shoe print.
Tlintha would go to school, huddle within her frothing friends of
bad-teethed, wobbling humanoids who couldn't get a date combined if they'd
each put up a forth of a guy, so the fact that she was always teased about
getting an early hold on the psychological tendencies of spinsterhood,
because of those high-collared shirts, was lessened when she'd hold her
straight posture up next to Margerine Tumduldle who had the hair crop of a
black bear.
The incident came like most do about the cruelty of a childhood. Some guys
coaxed a track jock into leading her on. Puppies are led when you've got
food. Tlintha was ready, after a week of this, to be asked out, forgetting
her own deformity in the midst of ideals, but what the track star did was
send her, on Valentine's Day, a bouquet of the finest Jordan hightops that
would fit in a flower basket. She turned like the song a whiter shade of
pale, and taking the paper book cover from her Life Science book, hid her
neck with a deeper layer.
After that, it was easy to stand out, overlooking the cars. Hoping. Just
waiting.
Finally a good specimen came along, and she waited for the invite.
"Would you like a lift?" a man in straw hat and guttural language asked.
She'd never seen him before so answered, "Yeah!"
After fifty miles, the love of the tragedy wore off and Tlintha was looking
at the road stops with a passionate squirm. She thought she'd been behaving
fine up to here, so said, "Can we stop?"
No answer, and fifty more miles were gone before she sprinkled the car seat
with little girl juice. It's hard to find a willing school, Tlintha thought,
this much closer.
He didn't say a word about the wet spots, dragging her up, binding the
wrists, and pulling her by the head up the back steps. Farm country. No one
would bother them.
She was in a chair. Calendars from 40 years past cluttered every inch of
kitchen space, but it felt good looking at the still scenery. The windows
were painted in model paints, the kind used for doing model cars, ships, and
the girl knew because most of the plastic parts were stuck to the dead
windows, as if being just beyond salvation, but almost.
The man took off his hat, and had fuzzy ears. "I used to have a little girl
like you," he said, explaining no further, but they were only words. He
thought she expected them of him. Her dress was up before she had time to
find the humor, the delight in what was about to happen. The man flabbed her
legs, stuffing the puffy socks deep into her black shoes held to the feet
with fake-jewel studded Velcro pieces. The left looked...
Taking a sword from the utensil cabinet, a rather long utensil cabinet, he
began to probe the fleshy part of her leg with the handle, tapping it out
almost like some kind of cigarette.
Needle, Tlintha should've thought.
The blade sliced as fine as a stitch pulled out of a wound, but he wasn't
about to let the first drop be wasted to an unappreciative floor. No, he'd
had too much of that already.
The suck was great, and he kept his mouth around the base of her fleshy
ankle underside until his sinuses demanded he come up for air through the
mouth. Only thing that didn't make it perfect, that bothered him was that she
never screamed. Oh, sure, the basic yell after the prick, or the slice
through the flesh, but not much satisfaction after the fact. It would have to
work later. But then.....!
"You don't have AIDS!" It was a question as soon as he thought it, but
Tlintha was insulted, and refused. There was nothing he could do to coax her,
what did she have to lose? But over the next three days he ceased to care.
The way to go, was The way to go, and they became fast friends as he probed
every vein she had to give.
He had to untie her during the second week, he had no information to go on
about what happened to them at this stage, didn't they all die by this point?
But the Red Cross freebies he'd all sent away for had all said the same thing
anyway. You constrict, it lessens the flow of blood. But still she helped
with the cooking. For as long as the fainting spells stayed away.
But the frequency was more and more, and now the couch seemed like the
safest place. He'd always honored her statement about keeping the lace
turtleneck around her back neck regions, but it was becoming serious.
Tlintha's body was a sack of black slits and scabby cuts that wouldn't heal
back together for all the E in the world, and the pussy was just out of the
question. By the time he was warned of her little woman's period, most of the
good stuff was gone. It was no use. He had to go in through the neck.
Waiting til night, the man thought it would be better on her. The old house
creaked with a farmhouse's personality, but little girls sleep sound, don't
they? he wondered. Slipping into the den, he cursed himself for not taking
her by surprise during the last month. He'd forgotten how she slept off the
faints..
Boxes of cereal were the only garbage around, but many. Still, they hardly
made a sound when crunched; nothing in them anymore. The man came up. Hand
was to her clothed neck, and he peeled back, excited for the rush that was
there. The unexplored territory that would combine them to that kind of lover
again, without the horrendous need of a fuck. It would be a -
He saw the heelprint. Took a few steps, and wondered. The moonlight through
a chip in the model paint was the only thing keeping his high eyebrows from
being.. nothing. Like the question of if a tree falls in the woods...
Tlintha yawned and stretched the tight covers back, wondering at the air
that was all around her. Helping her up and into the new morning that was her
world, and licked lips for the Frosted Flakes soon to come.
The street was bare, and she didn't understand. In a mattress, in the middle
of nowhere. A two-laned street at best. She was in shock. Shock for.. however
long it was. Didn't feel used. Couldn't think about where the nearest bus
stop was, which was counties away.
highly emotional, talkative people.
It's like having the radio on
all day - there they are
in the background making sound.
More like a soap opera, really.
I overhear recitations of grievances:
their pland to return defective
clothing at lunch. Their ongoing duel
with the electric company. Re-enactments
of phone calls with soon-to-be-ex-friends.
Rehearsals of dreaded of longed-for
encounters with parents, spouses.
Highly colored descriptions of our boss.
They cannot get a cup of coffee
from the cafeteria without spending
fifteen minuted describing some trivial
non-event of their trip, though I have
noticed it is extremelt difficult
for either of them to answer
a direct question. Sometimes
I'm interested in what they're saying -
I like them both - but they remind me of
a computer I read about in a spy book
set "too deep" that always provided
too much detail. The art of summary
is unknown to them; they do not
sort or discern. I used to take part
in their conversation; I'd go home
exhausted with nothing to show for it.
Which is my basic problem with their
constant talk - what's the pay-off?
It cannot save us from our real lives.
Days when we sat in the gold gym,
Friday afternoons, hot Indian summer
days. Days with a pep assembly,
there would be a contest, which
grade could cheer the loudest?
Those were the days when the
cheerleaders lead us on in school
spirit, and we wished the football team
luck in the evening's game. The
cheerleaders even decorated the
lockers for each football player the
night before a game. Streamers. Signs.
I think of this now, one of those
players went professional, maved
across the country, made it big.
Had a friend from high school visit.
And they drove out on a road together;
could they still hear the cheering, the
screaming, faster and faster, down the
road, they're winning the big game,
faster and faster, then black.
The hero walked away from the twisted
mangled wreck, to find his friend
could'nt hear the cheering. No one
assembles for him now, for the loss
of his friend. Why did the hero get
all the attention?
There was no screaming, just the
low, dull moan in his head as he
ended his own suffering, his own guilt.
And we assembled again once more
for him, this time not on a sunny
Friday afternoon, not anticipating
something. The anticipation is gone.
All we can cling to are the lockers
covered in streamers, the cheering.
the body
is dug up
on a cloudless
summer afternoon
the sun
shining down
on the field
without mercy
a black
teenager
naked
half his face
gone
where the dogs
attacked
hands tied
behind his back
bullet
in the base
of his skull
this is
baseball
hot dogs
apple pie
and
chevrolet
tell your
children
and see what
thet learn
I am a mild-mannered, slow-
moving person and I have
an amazing rapport with animals.
Dogs, hamsters, even fish.
(Not horses because I don't think
they're particularly bright;
you're standing beside them
and they lose their focus
for a moment, a thousand
pounds lands on you.)
Last summer our neighbor's cat
came to our yard when
they were doing errands.
I told Ralph if he was lonesome
he could stay with us;
why didn' he lie down
on the drivewaywhere it was warm
and take a nap. Which he did,
you should have seen
the look on my husband's face.
But I have scared millions
of birds into flight.
Crows, blue jays, cowbirds
- something about my presence.
Off they go.
Just my face at the window.
I think the duck is frozen
into the ice over the lake.
Perhaps it fell asleep, stupid
duck, overnight and the ice
closed in around it, trapping
it. But no, it stretches out
its pretty wings, flutters
them, stands up and waddles
away, annoyed, glancing
back at me, as I shuffle
gingerly towards it trying not
to slip and fall down. If it
could talk I suspect it would
say, "thanks for bothering
me, ass-hole. Can't you see I
was as conmfortable as a day
lily on a sunny spring day?"
The flower of injustice
grows best
on the side of tyranny
that lapps the shore
of the isle
consisting of the defiled
and rotting remains of innocents
deceived, disarmed, shot in the back, and piled.
Americans, take no pride
What have you done to stem this tide?
The Nazi, dictator, and Communist
foul deeds turn our stomachs
in disgust
gaze upon
an Indian reservation
19th century massacre
present indignation
They came here
They learned from us
Coiled in drawers,
a few pinned into
a mate, most
abandoned or
stuffed into
the dark. Silks,
cotton, leather.
73 pair of white
you can see have
been around.
Suede like skin,
discarded or
rlpped away.
The gloves take
the shape of
where fingers
were crushed
or reached, the
scents: Joy
perfume, Jolie
Madame, moth
balls on wool
in rain. No
light's touched
much of what
folds in on
itself. Lace
and button
imprints like
fossils, wait
like believers
for the mesiah,
a second coming,
for air that
will rise them
up, fill them
Rolled up sleeves,
Dark denim, strings pulled
At the buttons
Your hands, the
Rough edges, the nails
Jagged, not cut
Your fingers, I've
Noticed them: one has
A long scar
Along the tip, and
Your skin is rough
Along the nails
Your hands, they're
Skilled hands of an
Artist at work:
And like a
Conductor, you
Orchestrate
Bring beauty
From the dying
Flowers at
The table. They
Line up quickly,
At attention:
Fall into
Place so gracefully.
You create
Symphonies,
Move mountains, Seas
Part for you.
You can do
Anything. I
See that now.
You must be
My savior. Let me
Follow you.
Let me create
Beauty in your
Name, let me
Feel your power.
It's all in your
Hands, your heart,
Your mind:
I've seen you stop
Wars, feed the
Hungry. Why are
You so strong? Why
Are your flowers
So beautiful
I throw back my shoulders
and stand up straight
just like my mom sued of ask.
But now, you're about to leave
walk away with what held me together.
How was I to know how to listen?
How to hear words of feelings? Needs?
I can press with the best
stand in a storm for hours
done three women in a day, twice.
Come back, hold my bowed head.
Weakness is my strength.
All women have secrets and here is mine.
i don't remember
a wood cemetery there - is it bitter
simply
requestion the relative contact - after
reburial
gets me wondering - what
i still want to know
about soybean
fields, about wills
residents, who handle names, addresses
claim a reclusive retirement
in a potter's field
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
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.
|
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?
|
what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
|
C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies)
cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.
|
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.
|
Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.
|
MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
|
Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.
|
Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.
|
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")
|
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.
|
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!!!
|
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.
|
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.
|
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
|
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.
|
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.
|
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!
|
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.