Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Seen, Unseen

Seen, Unseen is a chronological record of manuscripts over a year and a half approximately, spring 2015 to autumn 2016, most of them a page or two in length. All of them have circulated with friends, often with praise, and one of them, loquat (p. 174 in the text), has recently been published in California by a magazine, Catamaran, emphasizing work and authors on the Pacific coast from the Bay Area northward. Though I notice in the issue loquat is published in (#15, autumn 2016) the work and authors seem to be from everywhere. I suggest one read at random with pleasure as a goal.”

Order Here

seen-unseen-front-cover4

Advertisements

Seen, Unseen

Seen, Unseen is a manuscript book of Lewis Ellingham’s prose poems from June 2015 into October 2016, a 280-page, 8.5 x 11-inch format, with cover photography by Larry Ackerman and Tom Libby, published in association with Ithuriel’s Spear Press in San Francisco. Most of the poems are a page or two long; one, Loquat, appears in Issue #15 of Catamaran Literary Reader (October 2016). Publication is scheduled November 2016 at lulu.com, an online for print publisher that has fielded many similar Ellingham books.

2015 Stories

“Lew Ellingham’s beauteous poem-narratives mimic the world’s great public transportation systems.  From our window seats, the meta-polis teems with the smallness and greatness of life’s peculiar machinations. We’ll see folks we know (more that we don’t); and like boarding passengers, the quotidian queues in no particular order.  But most importantly, and pointedly, there’s never a dull moment.

Get Stories through Lulu.com: here
Stories (front cover 1)

POEM magazine

Two prose poems of mine have appeared in a British print magazine, called POEM (Vol. 2,#2, summer 2014). The issue costs $10 (Edpoem@roehampton.ac.uk). Also useful, POEM’s, Facebook address: www.facebook.com/PoemMagazine@POEMmagazine. -lew ellingham

Objects II

Objects II

2013 available here http://www.lulu.com/shop/lewis-ellingham/

credenza

In the final hours of his administration, President Obama has indicated the pardons he is giving convicted federal criminals, a custom famous and infamous in previous presidential administrations. The pardon for Bradley Manning is likely to dominate this custom’s history for decades to come, and is certainly remarkable considering how hotly Manning’s conviction was pursued during this same president’s terms in office…. [New York Times, January 19, 2017]

 

Jacqueline Kennedy had considered options when selecting furniture for the State Dining Room at the White House, her final choices of several Italian antiques surprising even her closest consultants for her ambitious redecoration effort of so many historic rooms in the presidential dwelling. Of particular interest was her choice of a credenza from the residence of Lucretia Borgia and her third husband, Alfonso I d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, a masterpiece of the final decade of the 15th century.

 

Only one pair of eyes caught it. Maybe not surprisingly since the International Space Station is a busy place, human activity programmed in detail. But those eyes were rewarded. The wings were alabaster, a light alabaster, they folded the entire earth and drew back to a thin equatorial line, immediately unfolding again and spreading to envelop — a dimming, then an interruption, an arm of the station cutting the view.

 

The springtime of her final year, in 1519, found Lucrezia often ill, her eighth pregnancy proving even more trying than those previous, none of them easy. While presiding at the Easter banquet, she chanced in conversation with an itinerant priest from Mantua to sample a wine he recommended to assuage her discomfort — a carafe had been drawn, she was served by the principal taster, all in her party savored its richness — and all found ease and merriment. From the empty bottle winged insects flew onto the credenza alighting here and there — the very wood sparkled as they paused. The room was filled with joy, roasts and breads grasped by gluttonous hands, many raved in prophecies. By evening several guests had died in ecstasy.

 

Michelle Obama wandered the state rooms, nodding to the few scattered attendants and servants she encountered on this last progress she would make before joining her secretary before their review at her final staff meeting. She felt growing pleasure rise in her as she paused in the dining room, vacant now, only a few lights on, and the thought passed, “I won’t miss this.” She almost glowed when it occurred to her, “tomorrow I’m going home, really. I miss Chicago.”

 

Only an irrigation ditch, straight and unbroken for half a kilometer, divided the vineyard from the footpath. Overgrown rather, this late in the summer, the grapes gathered here a week already, though a few remained, plump, overlooked veterans of a good harvest. A scum pooled in the ditch water, curling, driven perhaps by the slight breeze that swept the utterly flat terrain of these fields between Ferrara and Ravenna. Only insects clustered and buzzed about, in the silence of a light wind. And then too, along the woody stems of several vines slightly larger insects crept, a few only, and only on a few trunks of some of the vines, their diaphanous wings slowly folding, in certain lights opaque, a light alabaster.

yucca treculeana

never benign. yucca treculeana, the

Spanish dagger nickname imbuing its

most rapturous appearance an elegant threat,

its clotted cream blossoms massed in

a towering crown, the whole plant

the size of a man, the figure a volcanic fountain of

etched emotion, crown yielding to muted green

through the sword-like leafing, so sharp, so vain,

a cascade of whirling knives, a throat, a face, a finial of

ivory, fifty petals, fifty stamen,

the tongue of sensuality

fuzzy, a

pasture for bees and creeping insects —

this is the tower of sex and death, a brocade where

thought is silk and pointless,

a hint of sleep cushioned on ripe cheeses

and heavy wines closing a repast of many courses,

the bloom-crown looming one spring month

each year, cold, sharp winds radiate as memories,

so too roasting heat — this is a desert plant —

its display meant for creatures

already versed in the detail of

pondered observation, the wash

of moonlight in every sun-washed

brilliance,

the fleece of razors, flesh dying

as it is born