The Nox Anthology - Dark Poets Against Abuse
| A Community of Voices The works of the poets and artists displayed on these pages are a powerful statement from men and women who find violence and abuse in our society unacceptable. In lieu of conventional payment for their works, these creators have agreed to share the intensity of their vision, while their work is honored by regular donations to CASA (Community Action Stops Abuse), a safe haven organization for victims of domestic and other abuse. |
Painting (c) 2004 Malcolm Deeley
Dangling on Raven Wings
by Maria Lupinacci
Rumors always circulate the station,
shadowed anecdotes
of what happens to a man
when he's left in the sub
ways in dark, dank nakedness --
some say it's the ugliness of the beast
that morphs the soul,
non-initiate shrink types
label it lack of sleep
and the dwellers, well
they know different,
they experience it first hand:
Men once affluent in their social status
find themselves perched
on iron slats in raven pose --
silent with arms plastered
to their sides, hungry for the morning's
offering of wayside kill,
these men, filled with Wall Street residue
and the emptiness of a disemboweled lap
top that lacks the flicker of light upon its start-up
screen, they stand on rusted confessionals without prayer,
without memory, without spirit, waiting
for the offing of life
in the name of those who've grown eager
for their tour
to end.
by Maria Lupinacci
Rumors always circulate the station,
shadowed anecdotes
of what happens to a man
when he's left in the sub
ways in dark, dank nakedness --
some say it's the ugliness of the beast
that morphs the soul,
non-initiate shrink types
label it lack of sleep
and the dwellers, well
they know different,
they experience it first hand:
Men once affluent in their social status
find themselves perched
on iron slats in raven pose --
silent with arms plastered
to their sides, hungry for the morning's
offering of wayside kill,
these men, filled with Wall Street residue
and the emptiness of a disemboweled lap
top that lacks the flicker of light upon its start-up
screen, they stand on rusted confessionals without prayer,
without memory, without spirit, waiting
for the offing of life
in the name of those who've grown eager
for their tour
to end.
Defining Jena
by Maria Lupinacci
She's something, this girl;
her coming out portrayed in abstract strokes.
She is the saffron moon
caressed by the eclipse.
You would remember her
if you met her, remember her fear
as if it were your own; her face
would be a ghost sustained within the origin
of your illusions. You would seek
a cure for her, write pages of poetry
to burn in your backyard,
watch her form mingle between flames
and the image you hold unto your self:
how naked she becomes in the shadow of smoke.
Question time before you knew her, before you understood
that sometimes
it is the words not spoken --
the crux in its simplicity of the fact
that reality is a guise
time uses to suspend the soul.
And you would know
that she is something.
by Maria Lupinacci
She's something, this girl;
her coming out portrayed in abstract strokes.
She is the saffron moon
caressed by the eclipse.
You would remember her
if you met her, remember her fear
as if it were your own; her face
would be a ghost sustained within the origin
of your illusions. You would seek
a cure for her, write pages of poetry
to burn in your backyard,
watch her form mingle between flames
and the image you hold unto your self:
how naked she becomes in the shadow of smoke.
Question time before you knew her, before you understood
that sometimes
it is the words not spoken --
the crux in its simplicity of the fact
that reality is a guise
time uses to suspend the soul.
And you would know
that she is something.
| _________________________________________________________________________________________________________ We thank the contributors to this page, and ask that readers respect the copyrights of these creators. Do not reproduce or distribute the poetry or artwork on this page without permission. |
Maria Lupinacci is the author of the chapbook After Dinner Mints (Foothills Publishing, 2005). She is a Pushcart
Prize nominee, whose work has been featured in over a dozen electronic and in-print publications. She is a
Certified Massage Therapist, Reflexologist, Reiki Master and Advanced Integrated Energy Therapist who currently
resides in New Jersey. E-mail her at agni614@optonline.net or visit her website at www.marialupinacci.com.
Prize nominee, whose work has been featured in over a dozen electronic and in-print publications. She is a
Certified Massage Therapist, Reflexologist, Reiki Master and Advanced Integrated Energy Therapist who currently
resides in New Jersey. E-mail her at agni614@optonline.net or visit her website at www.marialupinacci.com.
Ellen Williams currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her work has been published in Christianity and the
Arts Magazine; Broken Streets; Poetry Hour; and Short Stories Bi-Monthly. She has recently completed a novel,
The Rock That Age Built. She often writes under the pen name Kyler Berry. Ms. Williams can be reached at her
e-mail address, writer163@hotmail.com.
Arts Magazine; Broken Streets; Poetry Hour; and Short Stories Bi-Monthly. She has recently completed a novel,
The Rock That Age Built. She often writes under the pen name Kyler Berry. Ms. Williams can be reached at her
e-mail address, writer163@hotmail.com.
Gene van Troyer teaches English as a second language in Okinawa, Japan, as his day job. He is also
the past editor of Portland Review, and co-editor with Robert Frazier of Star*Line, the journal of the
Science Fiction Poetry Association. His poetry and fiction has appeared in Amazing Stories, Asimov's SF
Magazine, Velocities, Last Wave, Burning with a Vision, and elsewhere. Presently he is editing a
collection of collaborative poetry due to be published by Ravenna Press in early 2007. Mr. van Troyer's
website can be visited at http://web.mac.com/gevantry/iWeb/genevantroyer/Welcome.html.
the past editor of Portland Review, and co-editor with Robert Frazier of Star*Line, the journal of the
Science Fiction Poetry Association. His poetry and fiction has appeared in Amazing Stories, Asimov's SF
Magazine, Velocities, Last Wave, Burning with a Vision, and elsewhere. Presently he is editing a
collection of collaborative poetry due to be published by Ravenna Press in early 2007. Mr. van Troyer's
website can be visited at http://web.mac.com/gevantry/iWeb/genevantroyer/Welcome.html.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Before I Speak
by Ellen Williams
by Ellen Williams
Soon to be a Stream
by Ellen Williams
I thought it odd how the level
of the lake was down, and its bank exposed
like the skin of a virgin, bare, unseen, untouched
and then, nature takes its course,
showing what's under the body
of water, and under the clothing - the body.
The lake will move long and slow
this year, and wild geese will dip
their necks even further down
to get a sip of the transforming lake,
that will soon be a stream. I lean
my head back and breathe in the view
my eyelids slim and closed, enjoying how they feel
with the warm rays of the sun sinking into my soul,
and I dream of this same time
next year, if the lake will be full and pregnant
with life, or shallow and thrust my bones
upon the exposed banks.
by Ellen Williams
I thought it odd how the level
of the lake was down, and its bank exposed
like the skin of a virgin, bare, unseen, untouched
and then, nature takes its course,
showing what's under the body
of water, and under the clothing - the body.
The lake will move long and slow
this year, and wild geese will dip
their necks even further down
to get a sip of the transforming lake,
that will soon be a stream. I lean
my head back and breathe in the view
my eyelids slim and closed, enjoying how they feel
with the warm rays of the sun sinking into my soul,
and I dream of this same time
next year, if the lake will be full and pregnant
with life, or shallow and thrust my bones
upon the exposed banks.
i learn early
that silence is family
something to keep between
the mattress and walls,
between the minutes on
the grandfather's hand clock
and the spaces between my teeth,
till i wake
one day, screaming amidst
nightmare swirling in sheets,
till i open mouth and bowels wide
screaming, sucking, tears burning
a groove in my path.
quiet kneads
at me, doubles over
to fit some deep furrow.
He passes over the line,
"double the dose"
and so I swallow and keep dying
i walk around
my empty pages looking
for words in the carpet,
looking for whatever will save me
i try to find a home
somewhere amongst
my sister-brothers
the insane and suicidal,
a home where I fit
amongst the tapping
keys, the scratching on page, and
midnight meetings of frivolous
streams of hair
flying in the wind
everywhere I go.
that silence is family
something to keep between
the mattress and walls,
between the minutes on
the grandfather's hand clock
and the spaces between my teeth,
till i wake
one day, screaming amidst
nightmare swirling in sheets,
till i open mouth and bowels wide
screaming, sucking, tears burning
a groove in my path.
quiet kneads
at me, doubles over
to fit some deep furrow.
He passes over the line,
"double the dose"
and so I swallow and keep dying
i walk around
my empty pages looking
for words in the carpet,
looking for whatever will save me
i try to find a home
somewhere amongst
my sister-brothers
the insane and suicidal,
a home where I fit
amongst the tapping
keys, the scratching on page, and
midnight meetings of frivolous
streams of hair
flying in the wind
everywhere I go.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
STAINED WITH GREY
by Maria Lupinacci
LIquid dream
you pretentious serpent who trips
me into somebody who cares.
I loathe your cure, your
vomit of truth that trickles
through my frame.
The metal burns teasing the batter,
my fix calls me home. It paints my wings
in shades of blue.
Rebel, rebel, my antidote, curse
the innuendos. I am flying
free. I have entered the purple
palace of Tainted Means.
I am a moon kissed by stars, caught by a lasso
weaved out of pins. "To the ground, to the ground."
I hear the worms chant.
I shout back, "Crawl mud-eaters,
Crawl! Twist and grovel. Spiral
down, spiral down."
I'll meet you in the next meantime
of colored yesterdays
smothered
by black and white
masochistic screams.
In dedication to Cristina Marie Riggs - September 3, 1968 - June 20, 1991
by Maria Lupinacci
LIquid dream
you pretentious serpent who trips
me into somebody who cares.
I loathe your cure, your
vomit of truth that trickles
through my frame.
The metal burns teasing the batter,
my fix calls me home. It paints my wings
in shades of blue.
Rebel, rebel, my antidote, curse
the innuendos. I am flying
free. I have entered the purple
palace of Tainted Means.
I am a moon kissed by stars, caught by a lasso
weaved out of pins. "To the ground, to the ground."
I hear the worms chant.
I shout back, "Crawl mud-eaters,
Crawl! Twist and grovel. Spiral
down, spiral down."
I'll meet you in the next meantime
of colored yesterdays
smothered
by black and white
masochistic screams.
In dedication to Cristina Marie Riggs - September 3, 1968 - June 20, 1991
| OR |
Time Flight
by Gene van Troyer
His skin feels
like the sail of a soaring kite
tautened in the thermals
of a time wind.
Higher and higher
on the negative heat, he rises
into the abyss of the
uncertain sky.
Clouds wait, pregnant
with yet to be formed shapes. Stars
wait for yet to be named
configurations.
Stars. Clouds. Wait.
Wait. The paralysed imagination.
The blank sheet starved for
definition
wait. While
the forest of the valley below
recedes into the bowl
of life past.
The horror
assails him. Of bleak scarecrows
in naked fields. Boney branches
of fruitless yield.
The terror
hails him, he thinks it cries
for more, but he banks
away
rising higher
on the relentless wind
for everything that
waits for him
everything felt:
the sun hot on his wing of skin. But
this time it will not
melt.
by Gene van Troyer
His skin feels
like the sail of a soaring kite
tautened in the thermals
of a time wind.
Higher and higher
on the negative heat, he rises
into the abyss of the
uncertain sky.
Clouds wait, pregnant
with yet to be formed shapes. Stars
wait for yet to be named
configurations.
Stars. Clouds. Wait.
Wait. The paralysed imagination.
The blank sheet starved for
definition
wait. While
the forest of the valley below
recedes into the bowl
of life past.
The horror
assails him. Of bleak scarecrows
in naked fields. Boney branches
of fruitless yield.
The terror
hails him, he thinks it cries
for more, but he banks
away
rising higher
on the relentless wind
for everything that
waits for him
everything felt:
the sun hot on his wing of skin. But
this time it will not
melt.