On a paper heart
I’ll write you a poem.
On a wooden heart
I’ll write you a long poem.
On a plastic heart
I’ll write you a fantastic verse.
On a heart of sun
I’ll write you everything that hurts me.
On a heart of hazel nut
I’ll write you for a year and a month.
But to your heart
I’ll join my heart.
ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
Darkness’s light
Light’s darkness.
Thorn’s flower.
Flower’s thorn.
Silence’s word
Word’s silence.
Blackness’ white
White’s blackness.
Night’s day
Day’s night.
Noise’s music
Music’s noise.
Sadness’s happiness
Hapiness’s sadness.
Death’s life
Life’s death.
You’re lucky to feel the warmth
Of May’s sun,
You’re lucky to feel the pain
That you may have in your soul.
You’re lucky to see the tree
That in autumn it’s like sad,
You’re lucky to see the lake
That looks of silver.
You’re lucky to run the forest
That is big and proud,
You’re lucky to walk on the alley
That is like talking to you.
by ROXANA IACINTA BOGDAN
$1.50 remark now only $2~
fast action graphics
with splash dance tactics
brilliant news she said
that’s not all
something new
is about to blow
topple down mountains
glass shadow fountains
illuminated
barbaric
fortunes
the very stuff
orgasms are made of
organisms with higher visions
light with darker revisions
water from liquid fission
little sparks
from your mind
ignite it all
sudden fall
from darkness
into
apple, glowing, motown, southern looks
from a vagabond
on the corner
The theory of everything
First morning after labour
day, dank, dark, and dreary,
softened summer muscles,
swear, It’s too damn early
for back to school theories.
Replies a fall chill, in a shock
of sea air, that Dr. Bluespire’s
lecture begins at 8:30.
Barely conscious, choking
back simulation coffee
black, He can hear himself
contemplating infinite
regressions, the counter
intuitive paradoxes of anxious
freshman questions.
In total darkness, one foot
out the door, he reaches for
his already outdated,
all-in-one accessory:
memory stick, pda, speed
stick, hairspray, man purse,
bus pass, smaller than
a shot glass.
Backpack bulging, cold
and sore, his shirt he tucks
in, more secure, everything
begins to spin, trudging closer
to apprehension, heart
rates soars with worried
expression, the first class
worse than first confession.
It’s raining inside of me
We’re in the final phases of putting together a new issue of Faraway for publication, and we’re all really excited about this issue. Thanks to our listing on Duotrope, we’ve received over thirty new submissions from people from all over the world who have great stories to tell or amazing art to share. I’m proud to be able to put work by artists like Jim Fuess and Ellen Perry in this issue; a story from a couple in Australia, Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip; delightful poems and stories from England’s Christian Pinchbeck and Jim Lyons; poems from David Kowalcyzk, stories from Brooklyn’s Vic Fortezza, and from many others, including all the Faraway regulars. Just check out our Contributors page and look at the growing list of writers who have chosen to submit to Faraway. It’s shaping up to be our best and longest issue yet, and I hope it’s going to catapult us further than we’ve ever gone before. Stay tuned for details.
Everyone had the chance to live the American Dream.
To eat apple pie and drink Bud Light from a can,
the goal that every little boy (and little girl!) aspires to achieve.
The second selection for the Faraway book club is . . .
The edition that we will be following is the Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets, ISBN: 067944369x, or http://www.amazon.com/Wordsworth-Poems- … 11&sr=11-1, which includes the following poems:
She used to laugh a lot
Not sure why, but everything was funny
Sometimes I’d say
“Goddamn, the world is one big shit hole”
The only thing is, I’d say it with a smile
And of course, she’d be on the floor
The new issue is shaping up nicely. So far we’ve gotten contributions from ten writers and artists, several of them new to Faraway. From Faraway veterans the work we’ve received is, in my opinion, the best writing they’ve done, or at least the best that has been submitted to me.
We’re in the process of trying to include more people, particularly from the artist colony in Pomona. There is a lot of great talent there that we have yet to even try to tap. Including some Pomona artists would be great exposure for us, and it would also up our profile amongst the audience most likely to be receptive to what it is we’re doing. We’re also going to try and include some advertisements, which could in time lead to revenue and wider distribution.
The aesthetic theme under consideration is what we’re describing as “Victorian.” The poster to the side should give some indication of the look we’re going for.
All in all, I’m very excited to get started on this issue. I think the new website and our contacts in the Pomona art community have given us a great opportunity to expand and to come back from hiatus with a bang.
If you want to submit something for the inclusion in the next issue, there’s no better time than the present.
Your hills. Your Hills!
Your seven wondrous hills —
Having the look of twenty-five centuries;
Twenty-five centuries for the eyes to see.
Many more figures in temples of shade
Than words in a lifetime a human could say.
Colonnades, balustrades, domes in the sun,
Holy ground, fountains, ancient stadiums.
An emperor’s snarl impressed in the stone
Has transfixed this soul in the center of Rome!
And walking on marble walked on by Seneca,
And by Virgil and Juvenal and Horace,
Has bestirred my thoughts to ancient periods —
Like shouts from the theatres of the Roman Chorus!
Recline here a while — beneath the splash of a naiad,
Or betwixt the pillars of a shrine thrice raided.
The Hills salute, take leave, give life;
Surround the City of our Eternal Rite.
And leaving leaves tears only pomposity could conjure,
From a place sacred and profane — Rome, your grandeur,
Your splendor, your temporal glory, your martial quarrels,
Your divine eminence, your sanctity, your imperial laurels.
And your hills. Your Hills!
Your seven wondrous hills.
Photos by Michael Pitassi