Crisis Chronicles Online Library

The Base of All Metaphysics (by Walt Whitman)

2012-05-23T11:39:50Z

The Base of All Metaphysics
by Walt Whitman
from "Calamus" in Leaves of Grass, 1871

And now gentlemen,
A word I give to remain in your memories and minds,
As base and finalè too for all metaphysics.

(So to the students the old professor,
At the close of his crowded course.)

Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems,
Kant having studied and stated, Fichte and Schelling and Hegel,
Stated the lore of Plato, and Socrates greater than Plato,
And greater than Socrates sought and stated, Christ divine having studied long,
I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems,
See the philosophies all, Christian churches and tenets see,
Yet underneath Socrates clearly see, and underneath Christ the divine I see,
The dear love of man for his comrade, the attraction of friend to friend,
Of the well-married husband and wife, of children and parents,
Of city for city and land for land.

* * *

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

On Those That Hated 'The Playboy of the Western World,' 1907 (Yeats)

2012-05-21T11:17:22Z

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

On Those That Hated 'The Playboy of the Western World,' 1907
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

Once, when midnight smote the air,
Eunuchs ran through Hell and met
On every crowded street to stare
Upon great Juan riding by:
Even like these to rail and sweat
Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

* * * * *

To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

The Wind Lass (by Lisa J. Cihlar)

2012-05-15T11:48:01Z

Lisa J. Cihlar

The Wind Lass

Standing on the shore, the big lake threw everything at her. Everything it had—sand, broken reeds, alewife bones, and scales. She settled her spine flat on the dune, head tilted to the left, always to the left. Listened to the shush of grain on grain, the rattle of beach pea pods, the screee of seagulls near and far. Covered with a fine particle blanket she wore away. She lost her name. She became a hillock. The black lab bounding down the surf with a red ball in his mouth was called away when he sniffed her. This was the place she dreamed. This was the place she joined the wind and flew apart.

* * *

This is How She Fails (CC#23) — cover art by Lisa Marie Peaslee

This Is How She Fails by Lisa J. Cihlar is a cycle of more than two dozen prose poems comprising 26 pages and featuring a white and dual blue cardstock cover. It is available for $7 US (includes shipping) from Crisis Chronicles Press, c/o John Burroughs, 420 Cleveland Street, Elyria, Ohio 44035. Or you may order via PayPal:

Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances (by Walt Whitman)

2012-05-15T01:51:16Z

Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances
by Walt Whitman
from "Calamus" in Leaves of Grass, 1867

Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these are (as doubtless they are) only
          apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point
          of view, and might prove (as of course they would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow,
          from entirely changed points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

* * *

To read other Whitman selections in the Crisis Chronicles Online Library, click here.

Joshua Clover - Million Poems Show at the Bowery Poetry Club

2012-05-07T18:16:46Z

Joshua Clover reads during Jordan Davis' Million Poems Show at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York in early 2006. Video courtesy of jordandavis. For more about Joshua Clover, see http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/240.

http://youtu.be/EgfMT58xkTg

science project, pocatello (by Chansonette Buck)

2012-05-01T11:00:02Z

Chansonette Buck in Lorain, Ohio, 2011
photo by Dianne Borsenik

science project, pocatello

as a child, i was always drawn by death.
i thought it was a fifth-grade project
but i started it so early. early
i slammed out the shack door,
trotting barefoot on night-cooled dust
through sage, mountain flowers, purpleweed,
combing the borders of the government land
looking for death. sometimes i found it:
horse skulls,
eyesockets,
jackrabbit bones,
field mice under a juniper,
lizard skins drying on the hot red rocks.

* * *
"science project, pocatello" (c) 2012 by Chansonette Buck, all rights reserved. It appears in her just published chapbook desire lines (Crisis Chronicles Press). desire lines features 17 poems on high quality ivory paper with a cover consisting of ashen orange and white cardstock. Dimensions: 8.5 x 7 inches. It is available for $5 from Crisis Chronicles Press, 420 Cleveland Street, Elyria, Ohio 44035.

Cover foto captured by Steven B. Smith in Oaxaca, Mexico

Chansonette Buck spent her childhood “on the road” as stepdaughter of a Black Mountain poet, living all over the American West, in England, and in Spain. She holds the PhD in English from the University of California, Berkeley, where she concentrated on 20th-century poetry and poetics and wrote a dissertation on childhood trauma as the source of William Carlos Williams's poetic obsessions. She has a BFA in painting from Massachusetts College of Art, and has won awards for her visual art, her poetry, and her teaching. Chapters of her memoir Unnecessary Turns: Growing Up Beat have appeared in Why We Ride: Women Writers on the Horses in Their Lives (Seal Press, May 2010) and Polarity eMagazine (Fall 2010). Her poems have appeared online and in print, including a feature in the journal tinfoildresses 2012. Her first chapbook, blood oranges (NightBallet Press, 2011), was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Berkeley with her family, her boa constrictor, and way too many cats and dogs.

Glimmer (by Carl Sandburg)

2012-04-30T11:57:11Z

Carl Sandburg

Glimmer
by Carl Sandburg
from Smoke and Steel [1916, Harcourt, Brace & Howe]

Let down your braids of hair, lady.
Cross your legs and sit before the looking-glass
And gaze long on lines under your eyes.
Life writes; men dance.
And you know how men pay women.

Science of Mind (by Ben Nardolilli)

2012-04-29T20:39:15Z

Science of Mind
by Ben Nardolilli

I close my eyes and see
All my regrets are vermilion,
They are not quite burning,
And not quite bleeding either,
My face senses a strange heat,
And I open my eyes to it,
There is snow on the ground
But flames in the trees,
A wolf howls in front of me,
Here everything is beautiful
And nothing is worth saving.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

When Helen Lived (by William Butler Yeats)

2012-04-28T00:32:09Z

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

When Helen Lived
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

We have cried in our despair
That men desert,
For some trivial affair
Or noisy, insolent, sport,
Beauty that we have won
From bitterest hours;
Yet we, had we walked within
Those topless towers
Where Helen walked with her boy,
Had given but as the rest
Of the men and women of Troy,
A word and a jest.

* * * * *

To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

Nature and Art (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

2012-04-26T11:32:01Z

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

Nature and Art
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]

To my friend, Charles Booth Nettleton

     I

The young queen Nature, ever sweet and fair,
     Once on a time fell upon evil days.
     From hearing oft herself discussed with praise,
There grew within her heart the longing rare
To see herself; and every passing air
     The warm desire fanned into lusty blaze.
     Full oft she sought this end by devious ways,
But sought in vain, so fell she in despair.
For none within her train nor by her side
     Could solve the task or give the envied boon.
     So day and night, beneath the sun and moon,
She wandered to and fro unsatisfied,
     Till Art came by, a blithe inventive elf,
     And made a glass wherein she saw herself.

     II

Enrapt, the queen gazed on her glorious self,
     Then trembling with the thrill of sudden thought,
     Commanded that the skillful wight be brought
That she might dower him with lands and pelf.
Then out upon the silent sea-lapt shelf
     And up the hills and on the downs they sought
     Him who so well and wondrously had wrought;
And with much search found and brought home the elf,
     But he put by all gifts with sad replies,
And from his lips these words flowed forth like wine:
     "Oh, queen, I want no gift but thee," he said.
She heard and looked on him with love-lit eyes,
Gave him her hand, low murmuring, "I am thine,"
And at the morrow's dawning they were wed.

* * *

Dear Mosquitoes (by Ben Nardolilli)

2012-04-26T00:29:43Z

Dear Mosquitoes
by Ben Nardolilli

The limbs of the fertile city spring out
And blossom and rub,
Fingers keep moving along lovers' backs
To make pretend explorations,
Though they know every vertebra there,
In other rooms, mouths open to share
Breaths when there is nothing more to say,
I look for a cool abode of bricks
To abide by and find a little night to hold
In the shadow of this bright day,
A relief for me because the night is a fine time
To be an isolate untouched and alone.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

bath poems - moon train (by Chansonette Buck)

2012-04-24T10:10:00Z

Chansonette Buck in Lorain, Ohio, 2011
photo by Dianne Borsenik

bath poems

moon train

listening to
the moon train
passing beyond
the bart tracks
while it rains
that lone
lonely whistle
i hear
on wakeful nights
without you
i sink deep
into these
soft warm waters
running my hands
along the contours
of my wet
body, as i imagine
you might...if you
could...if you
wanted to
as i sink
deeper
into the warm
wet and watch
the play of patterns
thrown by candles
onto the ceiling
above me

Cover foto captured by Steven B. Smith in Oaxaca, Mexico

Hummingbird Woman (by Carl Sandburg)

2012-04-24T01:31:19Z

Carl Sandburg

Hummingbird Woman
by Carl Sandburg
from Smoke and Steel [1916, Harcourt, Brace & Howe]

Why should I be wondering
How you would look in black velvet and yellow?
in orange and green?
I who cannot remember whether it was a dash of blue
Or a whirr of red under your willow throat--
Why do I wonder how you would look in hummingbird feathers?

The Colored Soldiers (by Paul Laurence Dunbar)

2012-04-21T13:04:16Z

Paul Laurence Dunbar, 1872-1906

The Colored Soldiers
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
[from Lyrics of Lowly Life, 1896]

If the muse were mine to tempt it
And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!

In the early days you scorned them,
And with many a flip and flout,
Said "these battles are the white man's
And the whites will fight them out."
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
Of the foes' increasing tread.

Then distress fell on the nation
And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
No! the nation shouted, No!
So when war, in savage triumph,
Spread abroad his funeral pall--
Then you called the colored soldiers,
And they answered to your call.

And like hounds unleashed and eager
For the life blood of the prey,
Sprung they forth and bore them bravely
In the thickest of the fray.
And where'er the fight was hottest,
Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
At the very mouth of hell.

Ah, they rallied to the standard
To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
Of the battles of the free.

And at Pillow! God have mercy
On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
O'er the hot wrought spirits sway,
Of the gallant colored soldier
Who fell fighting on that day!

Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
In the depths of slavery's night;
Their muskets flashed the dawning
And they fought their way to light.

They were comrades then and brothers,
Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,--
Ah! those virtues are not dead.

They have shared your nightly vigils,
They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
Has made rich the Southern soil.
They have slept and marched and suffered
'Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
And have been as brave and true.

And their deeds shall find a record,
In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
Every blot of Slavery's shame.
So all honor and all glory
To those noble Sons of Ham--
The gallant colored soldiers,
Who fought for Uncle Sam!

* * *

To a Shade (by William Butler Yeats)

2012-04-19T14:49:59Z

Yeats [by George Charles Beresford, 1911]

To a Shade
by William Butler Yeats
from Responsibilities [1914]

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade,
Whether to look upon your monument
(I wonder if the builder has been paid)
Or happier-thoughted when the day is spent
To drink of that salt breath out of the sea
When grey gulls flit about instead of men,
And the gaunt houses put on majesty:
Let these content you and be gone again;
For they are at their old tricks yet.
                                                  A man
Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought
In his full hands what, had they only known,
Had given their children's children loftier thought,
Sweeter emotion, working in their veins
Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place,
And insult heaped upon him for his pains
And for his open-handedness, disgrace;
Your enemy, an old foul mouth, had set
The pack upon him.
                              Go, unquiet wanderer,
And gather the Glasnevin coverlet
About your head till the dust stops your ear,
The time for you to taste of that salt breath
And listen at the corners has not come;
You had enough of sorrow before death --
Away, away! You are safer in the tomb.

     September 29, 1913

* * * * *

To read more Yeats in the Online Library, please click here.

Subjects and Inspiration (by Ben Nardolilli)

2012-04-18T23:25:32Z

Subjects and Inspiration
by Ben Nardolilli

I have written her plenty of sonnets,
Odes, haikus, and when drunk
Have penned prose poem apologies,
These are basic, she expects them.

She delights in being a subject,
Being mentioned, praised,
And raised above everyone else,
But heights do not bind her to me.

I have written tales without her in them,
Stories of decline, decay, and ruin,
Visions of rivers carrying flames,
And scenes of cities turning into ash.

These I have put down and set out
Because I knew at the end of writing
About all these fine collapses
She would be in the next room, waiting.

* * * * *

Ben Nardolilli currently lives in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Pear Noir, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, and Yes Poetry. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. He maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish his first novel.

Night Litany (by Ezra Pound)

2012-04-17T22:37:02Z

Night Litany
by Ezra Pound
from A Quinzaine for This Yule (published in 1909 by Pollock and Co.)

O Dieu, purifiez nos cœurs!
          Purifiez nos cœurs!

Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me
          in pleasant places,
And the beauty of this thy Venice
          hast thou shown unto me
Until is its loveliness become unto me
          a thing of tears.

O God, what great kindness
          have we done in times past
          and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
          O God of waters?

O God of the night,
          What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
          Before the time of its coming?

O God of silence,
          Purifiez nos cœurs,
          Purifiez nos cœurs,
For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the
          likeness of thine handmaid,

Yea, the glory of the shadow
          of thy Beauty hath walked
Upon the shadow of the waters
In this thy Venice.
          And before the holiness
Of the shadow of thy handmaid
     Have I hidden mine eyes,
          O God of waters.

O God of silence,
          Purifiez nos cœurs,
          Purifiez nos cœurs,
O God of waters,
          make clean our hearts within us,
          For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters,
          And thy stars

Have seen this thing, out of their far courses
Have they seen this thing,
          O God of waters,
Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing,
Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.

          Purifiez nos cœurs,
O God of the silence,
          Purifiez nos cœurs,
O God of waters.

* * * * *

Two American Haiku by Heather Ann Schmidt

2012-04-16T15:43:49Z

     two selections
     from The Bat's Love Song: American Haiku
     (2009, Crisis Chronicles Press)


     March 20

     Three golden finches
     sing in the white birch trees:
     pieces of sunshine.

     June 25

     Rain on my roof:
     tears of a goddess leaving the
     world heavier now.

The Bat's Love Song: American Haiku is available for $5 (includes shipping) from Crisis Chronicles Press; 420 Cleveland Street; Elyria, Ohio 44035. You may also order securely through PayPal:

* * * * *

Heather Ann Schmidt has taught writing and more for several institutions of higher learning in Michigan and online. Her most recent poetry books include On Recalling Life Through the Eye of the Needle [2011, Village Green], Transient Angels [2011, Crisis Chronicles] and Batik [2012, NightBallet]. She is also the founding editor and publisher for Recycled Karma Press. Heather's forthcoming collections include Red Hibiscus and Field Notes. Find more at http://heatherannschmidt.yolasite.com.

His Own Face Hidden (by Carl Sandburg)

2012-04-15T18:32:21Z

Carl Sandburg

His Own Face Hidden
by Carl Sandburg
from Smoke and Steel [1916, Harcourt, Brace & Howe]

Hokusai's portrait of himself
Tells what his hat was like
And his arms and legs. The only faces
Are a river and a mountain
And two laughing farmers.

The smile of Hokusai
is under his hat.

A Game of Statues (by A.J. Huffman)

2012-04-13T15:12:15Z

A Game of Statues
by A.J. Huffman

“I was a god and self-enchanted”
-- May Swenson

Look at me.
Can you see the world
in my eyes?
I have built it
for you.
On my knees.
They hate the dirt.
And have damned me
for the duration.
But I will live
with the scars
and the stares.
If you will acknowledge my presence.
As needed.
As desired.
I want to be worshipped.
By your words.
As well as your skin.
It isn’t a sin.
I promise.
As long as you are willing.
To stay.

* * *

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published three collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, and Cognitive Distortion. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including links to her work, on Facebook and at http://twitter.com/poetess222.