Finding Ourselves in “The Game of Boxes”, by Julie Kovacs

A review of “The Game of Boxes” by Catherine Barnett (Minneapolis: Graywolf Press, 2012)

“The Game of Boxes” is a collection of poems by Catherine Barnett that draws the reader into different dimensions of the human cosmos with her imagery and metaphors. The first section of the book, “Endless Forms Most Beautiful”, begins the journey of life where relationships and emotions aid in the development of a individual's core being. “Who am I” and “What is life” are prominent questions which are conveyed through many of these poems, with sometimes only a partial answer providing a temporary solution to a bigger problem. At times, the function of memory does not exist, as in “Old Story” where Barnett writes about the clock that lacks an amygdala yet it keeps marching on through time while keeping time. Here no emotions except happiness exist, a robotic joy and peacefulness like those seen on the faces of the citizens on the planet Beta III in the Star Trek episode “Return of the Archons.”

Three poems in this section contain smaller poems simply titled “Chorus” with a subtitled first line “Scavenger Hunt”, “The Mute, the Noise”, and “Prima Materia.” Perhaps it is the way random thoughts generate themselves through the human art model's head in “The Mute, the Noise”, no sounds can be heard, not even breathing, while inanimate artistic images fill the room. Is the model thinking of how an elephant could fit into a church, in the first chorus of this poem? What about the most intimate fears each one of us harbors deep within our souls, in the second chorus? Having too much time to sit and think – or maybe just too much thinking – can do more damage than good in terms of personal development rather than use the time in the actual creation of one's desires. Of course, this could be anything from planting a garden to writing a poem.

“Of All Faces” is the longest poem in the collection, divided into 24 parts. The simplest, and most telling of the human emotional process is the fifth part, describing how those who are “dressed” mask their emotions rather perfectly in everyday life, while the “undressed” are those who wonder who has a greater fear of others. Putting the cart before the horse – or attempting to relate to others on an emotional level while lacking any type of relationship with oneself – is what's at stake here.

The section titled “The Modern Period” consists of poems about the speaker's state of mind, usually in the first person singular once again, and how the human condition is designed to be introspective for some things: “a good day for sleeping”, as the poem “Vast and Lonesomely” concludes after the historical concept of the second sleep in the days of Ancient Egypt. Maybe the first sleep – or the sleep we are used to as individuals at night – can provide us with a glimpse of that, the desire for youth, wealth, a life which can be created in our minds when external forces in our everyday lives prevent us from obtaining our ideal life. In “Apophasis at the All-Night Rite Aid” the author talks about making a late night visit to Rite Aid (not the drive through, I expect as she mentions the new pharmacist standing at the front door as if he was expecting her arrival, “prescribes the moon” to cure her loneliness, perhaps a late date for a drink at the local bar and a chat about existentialism.

The cover of “The Game of Boxes” is unlike any other I have seen thus far in poetry books; this one is composed of iris sketches by the British opthamologist Dr. Ida Mann. It is commonly assumed that it is the eyes which do the seeing and observing our environment (although not totally inappropriate, as our mammalian instincts help us to survive in a world of uncertainty), yet it is the brain which is the base of our visual function. Not a poetry collection to be overlooked, “The Game of Boxes” is to appreciated for its simplicity in describing how emotions are felt in relationships, and why we tend to feel the way we do at times when nothing else seems to help. The good news is, no one is truly alone in feeling this way, for one always has plenty of company in emotional detachment, regardless if one's relationships are superficial or not.

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Cemetery, by Jerry Durick

My mother-in-law’s stone is sinking,
Like a barge floundering
With its bow raised up,
Its stern going under
At a frightening angle.

Her name and years,
The sole survivors hang on
As waves of earth and time
Lap over the sides
And claim even more of her.

J. K. Durick is presently a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Literary Juice, and Big River Poetry Review.

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Sea Chant, by Michael Keshigian

Toward the ocean
he wandered,
deep into the surf and foam,
spray greeting
as he leaned
over the extended wharf
and eavesdropped
upon the ocean’s surge,
felt its throbbing timbre
beat wooden joists
that trembled
with each impending wave.
He acknowledged it,
the rhythm of time,
an eternal pulse
measured in salt and seaweed,
revelation for those who listened
and imagined the ecstasy
beneath the undulation,
a society in silence,
in secret,
without trespassers to spy
the sequential source
buried in the heartbeat
of whales.

Michael Keshigian’s poetry collection, Eagle’s Perch, was recently released by Bellowing Ark Press. Other published books are: Wildflowers, Jazz Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling Knight, Translucent View. Published in numerous journals, he is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee. His poetry cycle, Lunar Images, set for Clarinet, Piano, Narrator, premiered at Del Mar College in Texas. Subsequent performances occurred in Boston and Moleto, Italy. His website is at: www.michaelkeshigian.com.

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Real Time, by B. Z. Niditch

In acts of seeing
every confidence card
given out of court
and Platonic caves
by thirty,
having transgressed
every romantic notion
and totemic martyrdom
with a suspected voice
from ironic spontaneity
exploding
at personal innuendo,
over eaten pages,
on extraordinary diaries
having explored
words through cudgels
of foreign bodies,
greening fields
dark tombstones
rechecked auras
to envision
waning thresholds
of artistic remnants,
with unconsoled sights
ascending times
we smart
from last laughs
surviving to escape
for the next ropes
of a linguistic work out

B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art, The Literary Review, Denver Quarterly, Hawaii Review, Le Guepard (France), Kadmos (France), Prism International, Jejune (Czech Republic), Leopold Bloom (Budapest), Antioch Review, and Prairie Schooner, among others. He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

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An Eighth of a Lemon, by Donal Mahoney

For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens

who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,

life’s Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.

Donal Mahoney has had work published in Exercise Bowler and various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

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Beauty Of The Sea, by Ronald Brown

Sailing upon the charted seas
my dreams command me.
And as my spirits sing with joy
every time a wintry breeze
blows through my hair
I remember my teeth chattering
while I held a cup of tea
and sea gulls flew over me.

All the waves were rolling my way
and I watch schools of salmon at play.
And I saw a white whale resting,
sunbathing in nature’s largest pool.
My friend in the sea lay unrusted, untarnished
in the sun’s golden rays.

The sun sets and my ship sails home.
But the dreams command me to return
to the life of the sky and sea,
to bring my warmth to the cold wind.

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Rise Like The Sunshine, by Ronald Brown

I saw you walking toward me now,
and I didn’t turn away. But I really
wondered what your mood would be today.
You see, sometimes I’d see you laughing.
Then next, I would see you crying.
Then two minutes later, everything seemed to
be all right. I sometimes don’t understand, but
I really think it’s very nice. When someone can
change the stormy weather to sunshine.

She would fly like an eagle.
Then she would fall like the rain.
Then she would rise like the sunshine.
Waiting for the next day.

Don’t ever lose your visions,
of what you know to be wrong or right.
Because in the end, everything will be all right.

She would fly like an eagle.
Then she would fall like the rain.
Then she would rise like the sunshine.
Waiting for the next day.

Ron Brown lives in Kansas City, Kansas andworks as a Direct Support Specialist that deals with adults who are mentally challenged.  He has been writing poems and short stories since 1995. The poems he writes cover a vast number of issues like child abuse, domestic violence, bullying, love, street life issues, women’s and men’s problems, and a host of issues that affect young adults.

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Birds of Paradise, by Holly Day

wings pump but the body
won't leave the ground. flight feathers
like fingers, become fingers, grasp
as the pieces of falling ice
fill the glass and it comes to her over the bar.

throws head back, screeches into the air
joins the raucous cry
of the bright-colored, leather-clad
flock. blinks
preens briefly
strikes perfect planned silhouette
takes another long sip of her drink.

Holly Day lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota and teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch, and Music Theory for Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, and German. Her novel, "The Trouble With Clare," is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.

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A Silent Shroud, by Dawnell Harrison

The winter is cast in ice –
The cold-hooded mother’s

Dregs are in full bloom.
The red-hot cauldron

Of the morning sun cannot
Melt this snow tundra,

It cannot be shaken down.
I watch the flakes descend

In a silent shroud –
The season is dragging

Me down like the pull
Of the ocean’s tide.
Plenitude has no voice here.

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Reflection, by Dawnell Harrison

The reflection of garnets
Darkens in the sullen night

Of your eyes.
Once they were little crushed

Diamonds of light.
Your body is a stream

That leave me holding
Emptiness.

Your eyes are winters
Glazed in ice.

The world whitens
Under the ashes
Of your memories.

Dawnell Harrison has been published in over 60 magazines and journals including The Endicott Review, Abbey, Iconoclast, Nerve Cowboy, Mobius, and many others. She has also had 3 books of poetry published through reputable publishers titled “Voyager”, “The Maverick Posse”, and “The Fire Behind My Eyes.”

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Evidentialism, by Rich Murphy

“truth is that which makes a people certain, clear, and strong.” Martin Heidegger

Thrown into wild life, the clearing
defines authenticity from city.
Where else could the human
condition be? Meadows rubbing elbows
worked together enough in sunlit patches
wholly owned. As soon as pastures
linked arms, bad faith polluted
with rumor, reputation, and coercion.
Angst all around responsibility fled
into inter-state expressways for delusion
and paved complaint into compliant.
Asphalt, concrete, steel, and glass
relieved guilt with distraction.
(Facebook tapped into folk
and mirrors when alienation
invaded with cyberspace.) Time
and place squeezed lives into mobs
ripe for marketers. Harvested green
from limbs, most gifts and dreams
fertilized futility for propheteering,
a science able to rationalize
anything and believes nothing.

Murphy's second book Voyeur was published in 2009 (Award Winner 2008, Gival Press). The Apple in the Monkey Tree (Codhill Press), his first book, was published in 2007. Chapbooks include Family Secret (Finishing Line Press), Hunting and Pecking (Ahadada Books), Phoems for Mobile Vices (BlazeVox), Rescue Lines (Right Hand Pointing) and Great Grandfather (Pudding House Publications). Recent prose scholarship on poetics has been published in Imaginary Syllabus, Anthology chapters, and many others. He lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts.

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