As a poet, the first instinct would be to put a “To” in the title, “To Look at Beautiful Things,” putting poetic distance between writer and reader, poet and human being. Semantics at their best bring the world closer, at their most subtle, separate us from the world, from our own experiences, from others. So to leave it as just, look at beautiful things places it in the present, allows it to be active instead of intellectual. This, in itself, is beautiful. The details in poems are rarely of perfection, instead of rattling, gorgeous, terrible imperfection. The loveliness of imperfection is a story worth telling.

The real work of poetry is to remain immediate. Of all these bright constructions – the brightest is the most rusted, the most broken open. There are so many answers to impossible questions, all of them falling short of the magnitude needed to give meaning to life. The bearing of emotion and experience and time is what opens and astounds. The bearing is beautiful.

It’s raining today, and Sunday. I am listening to Hungarian Music for Cello and Piano. It is glorious and moving and hits deep within me. There is a tree right outside my office window and I watch it every day and every season. Today, it is lush green and not hanging or heavy at all, even with the rain. Its branches are dark and gleaming. I love this tree, am attached to it and observe it, sometimes for a long time, looking out my window.

I have had struggles with how I am a poet in my life. I have always wanted to be as close to “real life” as possible, working, washing dishes, loving, listening to music, proofreading, talking to friends and making great effort to live kindly and genuinely and to know myself. The words mean nothing, at the end, and their reckoning is empty without bone and salt. I have always felt connected to the rawness of experience, and this has been painful and ecstatic, prophetic and nostalgic. To stay rooted in right now is to be aware of how memory and hope affect you.

A kitchen of spices, gallon of salt, and a lamp turned on in the living room. The back of people’s apartments white and blank opposite the kitchen windows. Words are so heavy. Their burden is to disappear off the page as quickly as you read them. My dreams were weird last night. I dreamt that I was in a city like Los Angeles, wide, traffic-clogged streets, soot hanging in the slightly reddish air, and I was looking for a crib. I was about to have a baby and I kept wandering around from one friend’s house to another in a perpetual dusk, which was dark and polluted, like a scene out of a comic book. But the baby was very real.

There are things I will never tell. They will come out, hidden, in my poems and stories, never clearly. These secrets are the core of why I write. I will tell you what I find beautiful and I will tell you who I love and that is enough.

There is bearing in beauty. You have to bear it. It overwhelms and scares and brings up feelings of loss and fear. What is borne you don’t hold, you let it become part of you, like steam and blood. The elements that bring you closer to that very gut of presence are paradoxical and have one foot in life and one foot in the grave. Awareness of the body is listening to breath and heartbeat and knowing, one day, they will stop. To stop now, in life, feels sometimes like beckoning death. Slowing down is frightening. Time stops when I’m in the presence of beauty, a suspended balancing act of faith and observation. There is a flow and movement to the suspension and that is the cradle I try to write from. That is where it all begins for me, and when I sit down to write, that is real life to me. Sitting in my office chair, looking out the window, then at the computer screen and typing, I have the deeply felt and borne experiences I am trying to clarify in the poems.

There has been an uncomfortable divide between life and poetry, not that I feel, but that I struggle with in the actuality of writing. Writing is in itself a world, a planet, a home, and it exists bigger than any universe. Imagination and, with it, the rational mind, are great gifts and hem life and writing so they are not separate. The stitches are invisible, but you can see their shadows. As the poem lives and breathes, it is as if a human being, an entity you can have conversations with and watch grow and change.

For that fluidity and for it to exist in the world as a real creature, experience must be raw and always descend to the heart, moving slowly down towards the gut, ascending simultaneously to the mind. Heidegger wrote that truth is to allow moments to change you. The sublime revolution of thought and emotion. Slow or dramatic change of rhythmic cycles.

Words are bursts of air and spark. Incantations, weather systems, pots and pans, and city planning. Communication is just the beginning. Words are life-bearing, life-giving, and give way to what is beneath them, in them, released from their little homey collections of letters and print.

In the end, I always come back to putting my hands and eyes on things, my TV, desk, sinks, calendars, coffee cups. Looking at people, meeting their eyes, listening to the beautiful, loved sounds of their voices, interacting with a true and open heart, giving birth. What comes to me in dreams or poems is truth and bears out in my life, day to day. The struggle with poetry and life and always, always connecting them, drawing the lines, threading the gaps, always taking care that one is of the other, has defined my life, as love has defined my life.

Love, especially romantic love, has always driven what I write, all of my poems are love poems so the striving and making are the same thing…paper airplanes floating from my office into my bedroom.

-Arielle Guy

Three days after, but we can still wish for a very happy May Day and the start of Spring with the last issue for about a year ~

Poetry~

- Simon Pettet, poems from Hearth

- John Moore Williams, plus vispo

- rob mclennan

- Andrew Lundwall

- Andy Nicholson

- Paul Siegell

- Collabs by Micah Ballard & Patrick James Dunagan

- Michael Schiavo

- Kyle Schlesinger

- Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, visual texts

Poetry, Writing, Art & Photography~

- Anjan Sen

- Robert Chrysler

- Jason Mashak

An article on Futurism~

- Neil Watson

Graphic novelty~

- Francis Raven

A memoir of Washington Heights~

- Joy Leftow

Specials from Dusie poets~

- Mackenzie Carignan

- Juliet Cook

Two CD reviews for summer, Bright Brown and Basic Astronomy~

My editorial on poetry, memory, and presence~

**************

As I wrap up three years + and take a break from Turntable, I am filled with gratitude for all of the amazing contributors and all the wonderful people I have met through editing this magazine. Creativity and community go together and I have been consistently inspired.

Susana Gardner of Dusie, who devotes so much of her time and energy to gathering so many poets and artists together deserves a huge shout-out! This year, I was lucky enough to be part of the group and we were able to collaborate and make each other's chapbooks. It was one of the most challenging, educational, and marvelous experiences I've had! Every single one of the Dusie poets is a powerhouse of creativity in their own right and all of them have taught me so much, about community, book arts, and friendship.

So that's that. I'll be back next year to revel in more of your brilliance.

Returning grace and grateful.

Enjoy the Spring!

Bright Brown, Brooklyn-grown good soul and rustle

Bright Brown was formed on the G train, which is quite a good ride for the G, considering many people call it the Ghost Train. Nick Smeraski, with a slew of drum cases, met Alex Nahas en route from Park Slope to Williamsburg and the current lineup of Bright Brown was formed, Nick on drums and Alex on Chapman stick, playing and singing. Their new CD, No Matter How Faint There's Light In Everything comes at you with dark heart and plea. From the first yearning, "Are You Listening" to the last song, "King of Thirst," Nahas' voice is heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time, the music layering over and under like sweet and sorrow. The lyrics are poetic and thoughtful and arrangements carefully wrought so that the sadness is placed in glimmers of light, melodies in a comforting bed of sound. The drums are gentle and solid, hitting the spot, in a perfect setting for the sparse, yet somehow also rich, textures of the songs. Recorded, mixed and produced at Head Gear Studios and Bright Brown Sound by the band members themselves gives the CD depth and authenticity. My favorite track has got to be "Aurel," for its sweetness and homey feel. All around, a haunting, intriguing excursion. Just close your eyes and listen to this one, preferably on headphones, so you can lose yourself in the world of the songs and learn something about where inner and outer landscapes meet.

You can go to myspace.com/brightbrown for a preview of the CD and tour dates.

**************************************************

Basic Astronomy, Lessons in Being an Earthbound Astronaut

Imagine, a CD that took seven years to make and it's just 23 minutes. All the instruments are hand-played. Imagine a 1920s brick building, 500 feet from a double-decker freeway. And David Haldeman, joined by friends, among them Greg Dunn, on guitar, recording this modern CD, DIY and old school. The method matches the sound. From the first notes of "Books," the first song on Slow News Day, I was taken into another time and place. There is a romance that is old-time and hallucinatory to the music of this CD. Haldeman's voice is sultry, in a postmodern, humble kind of way. I do not use the word "postmodern" ever, but it fits here, as the music and sounds and voices are placed in this modern time, where we are now, but have an innocence and psychedelia to them that is transcendent. There is an incorporation and flawless blending of modern and old-time, rubbing cheeks with folksy, idealistic roots while standing firmly in this day and age. Songs like "Captain Salt Is Dead" are beautiful, sad fairy tales told to adults, who still are sad about things that happened two hundred years ago. The title track is another image-laden story and the listener is carried along pleasantly, lulled into some sort of half-sleep, woken up by the seemingly upbeat "Wave that Flag," then realizing that this story isn't any happier. "Bicycle Song" wraps up the lineup with a note of hope and love and down-homeness. The overall impact of Slow News Day is of being pelted by gigantic cotton balls in a field of poppies. Not a bad way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon.

You can find more at myspace.com/basicastronomy.

-Arielle Guy

The Hermit’s Valentine to His California Ghost Bride

You gotta move. Sloopy with me

shake it like it was not was

in the solstice breeze strangle.

I coast to boast of dandelion fuzz

& on the beach whips the pleasant off.

You’re so fine there’s no surprise

when the bison bat the penguin

out the stagecoach & take their rightful

shotgun. Tequila arriba in the klieg light

too bright for albino mariachis.

We’re reeling in the right to fake it

for the franchise we agreed on Thai

during halftime now you say

it’s the seventh-inning stretch. Sing

Alicia Keys in the middle of the day

where we do our business no matter

how devious. Don’t now the sinners

praise too. The hibernation hits

you mime a mighty mustard.

Won’t be long ’til June the big warm

ready for the rascal

& with me groove to greet

her in the shouting soft of summer.

Am louder when you come around

to clap with me our teepee. We go back

what we want to find not what

Goodman Gloryhole derives from

the tea leaves. Crochet me a cock-warmer

for these Cambridge nights been bitin’

me in the Old Jack Frost. Newly-arrived

from Croatoan. Midnight

brought you back to me when all

I saw in my future was a desert starting

somewhere inside. Jump good

gracious to the countertop.

Talented the dwarf is I’d prefer

you the giant you are holding

up the sky over me huge arms

around me & your auburn locks

do dangle down delicate ’pon

my dong. A dirty boy don’t change

& can’t do better one day

tho maybe. Take this Rebecca ’til then

your big mouth piece of cake

beautiful noises to banter my

mind with barter for those days

I’d never have forget it. Baby. You take

me in the bad times good

I’ll take you any day undeniable

Stockton Malone.

Sometime in the Gegenschein Your Name is Late Eternity

Intrepid chanteuse. The ballerina balances

even so she balances the sun

parting not the way I remember you.

Organ grinding drone the monkey pumping

hard against that open door. Ed Skoog

Tom Franklin & me eatin’ chili cheese dogs

Wild Turkey misty Ripton night before the

fuck-up set me free to freak the true tribe.

Once upon a man a time pushed upon me

rightly zucchini feta pancakes. That man

was high the better one to ask the last

question I should’ve answered never did

Thomas Sayers Ellis. Enough name-check

let’s go see a movie. My mind’s’nough

make Sundance. What order

doesn’t matter just that she

forevermore speaks of shadowy wood

ripe open seed-bee white dew drop.

I open the door. You been trying to stop

that kid from “Carouselambra” just let him

listen ’til he gets the movement

down into the Lite-Brite blizzard I clown

face fashioned. Could’ve walked

today to Mile ’Round still wondering

what happened to all my long ago gone.

Scuba-diving through your luxury box.

Hey hey hey hey. Wobble wipe the floor

with whoa. Don’t tell me what it is to be

a woman. I got enough sense to know

the last thing I do’s go there.

Let’s take it back a step so I can

’splain myself to the lake monster

want you strapped behind me. Buenoes Aires

I adore thee. Protect me like a war criminal.

Natalie Portman won’t never date you.

Steak love. Ouch. Not enough my mouth’s

like a foot all the time high stepping

let’s hit the mattress for keeps. Nowhere

I go watches TV any more I guess

that’s good for all of us bad for Benson.

Volcano sacrifice. The appeal alluded me

’til miraculously my cock grew

cunt formed wholly by the magic

lava I bartered my entire collection of

M.A.S.K. & M.U.S.C.L.E.

for services I never dreamt rendering unto

myself. One Roman afternoon

you were there brighter than the rest

of the world only one other time

I’d seen this before. You through the door

both times space flipped its hip.

Dalmatian devotion I’m done.

for Emily Lundin

Michael Schiavo is the author of The Mad Song and is the designer and co-editor of the literary journal Tight. His poetry and nonfiction have appeared in The Yale Review, jubilat, Tin House, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Forklift, Ohio, Seneca Review, Fou, The Raleigh Quarterly, and elsewhere. He lives in North Bennington, Vermont. You can find him online at michaelschiavo.blogspot.com. You can also find his book, The Mad Song, at www.northshire.com/siteinfo/bookinfo/9781605710150/0/ and the magazine, Tight, which he edits, at tightjournal.blogspot.com.

FIRST LESSON IN ARABIC

It was hard to see
that he was an ordinary man
that I was an ambassador
& there was no one you could trust
besides the merchandise.
Some said he carved them forever
& even if I tried to forget
the fragrance would always bring me back.
There were alabaster jars
they had things written on them
painted figures
all of which were crossing a bridge
no one dared to drink from them
this I knew
his own kind wouldn’t even whisper
the secret of distillation.
It was said never to be recorded
not even through symbols
& this I knew too
right past the first sip

BEYOND REACH

In impossible realms
Tattooed virgins Melville knew of
Work out the literature blues
Mouthing their names for each other
One is Wisdom Wrong another Paralyzed Perfect
I let them mess with my hair
This took place centuries ago
I had brought Homer along
His rudimentary charm & dialogue
Went over big with the little ones
Having withheld the story for so long
I'm pleased it's now coming out
Released in print by a World Press
Minus a sudden release in the Underworld
I have put away my sorrow
Tattooed virgins Melville knew of
Glad I brought Homer along
His chants, the dance continues

NEW SHAPES

Humbly alive again
walking through someone else’s
death not mine this time
they are usually small
then you move on to the next
unaffected, besides paranoid pale
& the usual horsemen
they like to be spoken to
at random at ease
to recognize they are there
is all that they want
it’s better to keep it up
at random and not summon
for your own sake
but sit back and do what they want
all the while taking notes
not your notes, only theirs
then you act like nothing happened
and keep on acting
because nothing does happen
unless they want to.

LAST MINUTE WISH

Brought under the city
shown his hand, a good deal
worth of lid, substantial recompense
as glad as I was
told the old stories, his past swindles,
his refusal compelled my acceptance.
Parting the shirt from my breast
an offering of all I could think of,
what else was there:
minutes of wasted breath, why bother
washing his hands of it,
he pulled back the curtain—
It is now and it goes on every day

Micah Ballard was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He is co-editor for Auguste Press and works for the MFA in Writing Program at the University of San Francisco. Recent books include: Absinthian Journal, Bettina Coffin, Emblematic, Scenes from the Saragossa Manuscript, Death Race V.S.O.P. (with Cedar Sigo & Will Yackulic), Evangeline Downs, and Easy Eden (with Patrick Dunagan). A new collection of poems, Parish Krewes, is forthcoming from Bootstrap Press, Nov. 2008.

Patrick James Dunagan lives and works in San Francisco. Recent publications include: From Chansonniers (Blue Press, 2008) and an essay on Creeley and Stevens expected in Fulcrum 7. Numerous book reviews and poems have appeared in Big Bell, Blue Book, Cannibal, Chain, Galatea Resurrects, Jacket, Mirage #4 Period(ical), Morning Train, One Less magazine, Pompom, Poetry Project newsletter, Try!, and are expected in Vanitas and the forthcoming Easy Eden (PUSH 2009).