For my online literary magazine review assignment, I decided to look at Action Yes Online Quarterly and the Baltimore Review. I have to say overall I am way more satisfied with the set-up of the Baltimore Review compared to that of Action Yes Online, although both are set up with photos of each issue’s artists with links to their works on the homepage, the way they look is dramatically different. For example, the Baltimore Review gives the viewer a more professional look, whereas the redness of Action Yes makes it appear borderline cartoonish or something. The pictures of each writer on the Baltimore Review also appear more flattering to the individual then to those of the writer’s on Action Yes. However, there is also a major difference in the poetry located on each site. A lot of what appears on Action Yes seemed to be structured very creatively, but it appeared as if the writer’s didn’t always take the time to proofread their works, or even put them into a more aesthetically pleasing form. Although I do appreciate the “printer-friendly” option that Action Yes has to offer. Overall I rather much enjoyed the Baltimore review. What I enjoyed most about it was the writer profiles one was introduced to after clicking on the writer’s picture. Not only does it show the specific piece of work, but each profile also has a little bio for each writer, and some even had previous works located just underneath.  Those writer’s using the Baltimore Review were also more prone to using memo’s underneath their poem or piece of fiction, describing whatever details they could.  Also, because the authors of the works found in the Baltimore Review took the time to proofread and form their poems, I found them to be much more desirable, interesting, and easier to read. 

New Poem 2: Saturday Night Live

Saturday Night Live

I felt my existence

in mid-laugh

while my heart

heaved

beneath me.

(beating)

Compressed

by ribs

larger

than your

5.99 dollar offer. 

Memo: This poem was another "out of the blue" poem so to speak. This semester I'm taking a forensic anthropology course, and we've been looking at human decomposition, bones, crime scene investigations, and a bunch of gross things like that. While taking this class, and other anthropology courses, I've been able to see mankind more and more as a part of the animal kingdom, meaning we are animals that share features to other animals, especially in our anatomy. Although we may be aware of our own mortality, many people see themselves as one whole being instead of one made up of individual parts that help maintain out  mortality(such as our heart, lungs, etc.). Anyways, one night I was watching Saturday Night Live and I started having chest pains, which made me think my anthropology class and it all took off from there. I wanted to break away from the normal 

New Poem 1: The Russian Rush

The Russian Rush

I saw it in a video

showed to me by my brother

who knows everything.

I sat (speechless) as an

extraterrestrial attack

ensued Mother Russia

in a massive catastrophe!

Thank God for cameras

or we’d miss fireballs

falling from the sky,

interrupting this daily life

we’d  so ultimately die for.

I put myself in the video

alone, not with my brother

but on a mountain road

waiting for a death

I thought would be less bright.

What came instead was a

boom and echo loud enough

to blow windows and walls

to shards!

I imagined the Russian

me shitting himself in sheer

panic, relieved but shattered

by scorched air turned ablaze,

the stench would be horrendous.

Afterwards, I the Russian

would finally face life

unchained from myself

and become worldly...

After all, I felt all of that

from a crappy-quality video.

Later on, I saw an article

about Russians rushing

for and I quote, meteorites

worth their weight in gold.

Sounds like the world

is back to normal, maybe

I should join them.

Memo: On February 13th a meteor entered Earth's atmosphere traveling 33,000 miles per hour, exploding over the Ural Mountains in Russia. This poem tries to highlight some of the feelings I had when I first saw a video showing the meteor captured by multiple camera phones, as well as my disappointment in the fact that the first article I saw about the meteor was about how people are trying to make money off of it. It was disappointing to me because at first I thought, "wow, maybe they'll take meteors more seriously, seeing as how that could have happened anywhere else and that we were really lucky this time," but I didn't see an article like that until a few days after the other one. As for the actual writing of the poem, I wrote most of it straight through underneath an hour, concentrating stanza by stanza, with little edits afterwards. In some stanzas you can tell where I payed a little more attention to language, assonance  consonance, alliteration etc. more so then in other areas, but most just of the technique came out as I wrote. Although this is a close resemblance in other poems I write, I tried to sound a bit more sarcastic in this poem then in others, hoping that I could make a serious issue to me, sound not so serious and even hysterical to others. 

Cruz Poem

A poem by Cynthia Cruz in her book The Glimmering Room published by Four Way Books press.


Death Star


Angel of cocaine
Overdoses and middle-aged men
Discovered on floors, in bars,
In women's bathrooms-

Beneath a juvenilia of stars.

Quarantined Adderall and Michelob
Chasers.

If no one sees, does that mean
It never happened?

Getting off the medicine
Is like a religious experience,

But that doesn't make it religious,
Does it?

I hope you've collected your lies
In your exquisite
Notebook.

The reason I chose to post this particular poem is because I liked the questions she asks towards the end, and the almost mocking and unsure tone they are portrayed.  Also this poem alludes to a personal experience that I had when I was in the hospital when I was younger, trying to get off the medicine they gave me and writing my “lies” in my notebook, the beginning of my writing “career” as it were. 

Poems

Here are three poems that I wrote and I submitted to Analecta, our student-run publication. Hope you enjoy, constructive criticism is appreciated.
 

Vices

A man from AA
is scared. Like ripples
on the water he is running
out of space. The waves are
imminent and silent
as snowfall.

He lingers
like stale smoke
in the church basement
after his sponsor. She is
all he has that’s worth
anything – like a pearl
among pebbles.

What’s wrong?
She asks and turns
from the mirror
trading beauty for
disdain. I work so much
for nothing, He begs
like a child in pain
Can you make it stop?
Her eyes flicker
sympathy,  I’d like to
she replies
But I can’t do that.

A shame, he mocks.
His eyes roll and
air envelopes his lungs,
I think my wife has left me,
Can you help me forget?
She blushes as red
as cranberries, You know
we can’t do that.

I see, he lies; but he can’t         
see since the blackouts.
I sit in His basement
feeling like an outcast.
Can you help me belong?
She looks away to this
as if floor boards
hold all the answers,
I’ll pray for you but
I can’t do all of that.

He stares and nods
habitually like the
blinking of eyes;
every  other  second
is lost. No need, he smiles
and turns
famished no longer.

Follow the Cab back Home

 

I despise country roads
and their secrets—
I muse as I’m lost
looking for landmarks
concealed by the late hour.

On this Indiana back road
night shrouds landmarks
like funeral garments
turning friends
into strangers.

Ten miles of farm houses
and frosty fields,
I’d almost prefer a maze
to this torture; a maze
is predetermined,  
and can guide
like a river to the sea
leading somewhere.

This road
like a vagabond
roams freely and can go
anywhere.

Tail lights loom
and a cab drives ahead
like a preacher
promising sanctuary
to lost souls.

As I follow the cab a thought
flickers like the vacant stars
above — Everything happens

I follow the cab back home
but it leads to a bar instead.
Dollar wells and loose morals.
Everything happens

 

Staying in or Dining Out

 

(Order Up)

Beef stroganoff, my
favorite. The lines in the yellow hair
almost perfect, like
tree rings.
I wonder how old she is…

The joint is empty
except for us. An
old rock tune,
like this tonic,
raises hopes
and dwindles inhibition.
I savor a bite…

(dry mouth)

               (watermelon seeds)

She waits for an answer; ants
take pleasure in their hills, you know…

My breathing shifts; cows
are overrated, like the truth.
Everyone knows the first animal man tamed
was himself.

She leans, takes my plate.