Reflections Through a Broken Mirror ~ Danny Cassidy

That the body can conduct its choir

of heavy robes  the concert of the mind

winter branches budding into praise

& the coda opens
its mouth
of longing—

in wait for the arms to drop.

*

Can the soul labor righteously?

If not, is the righteous
soul merely idle

ornament of resistance

until in the grasp
of his palm

made useful–

as in the grape hyacinths

finally bloomed
and stripped
of its fruit

by a child’s restless wonder.

*

How do we talk
of it, or measure
its tire?

Cracked shell.
Shore arched back

with the tide
(as if the rind

of our earth peeled.)
Calloused hand.

Autumn leaf.
A shattered bulb.

How we praise
the body adorned
with labor:

muscle finally
a form of gauze,

covering

what must
be a wound.

*

How wrongly we have mapped our journey.

The false north stars /   you who

shouted chaos and the earth coiled

its tongue / As if somewhere a window

had shattered  /  the river

a stream of  glass / cutting  light,

bleeding with it,  think moth /

( wings soft oars wading through

the plum pond of night ) / how sharp

their want  at the lip of the bulb.

O  gather eternity, its wax /and oils,

make a wick of this broken earth.

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ALBA: EVE’S CONFESSION ~ Danny Cassidy

As when you wake, slowly
with tender simplicity:

a yawn, a stretch
of sinew and bone.

Every inch of the body’s
violin straining to play

a memorable chord. A man
away from his labor:

the Finch dancing dew
off its feathers;

two Robins as light,
blending in and out of dawn.

Let your waking settle
into this, a caress

to cage your quiet
sparrow breathing—

the mud not yet shed
from your lung’s unending

chambers; my own eyes still
heavy red, ripe with dreaming.

Wings too flutter within me,
Adam, like morning

Birds—which you have so
utterly named—after they

have gathered down
and devoured the seeds.

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But it isn’t, so we aren’t ~ Matthew Kosinski

Drinking cold fruit juice out of tall, thin glasses – we bought them (the glasses) at the thrift store in Elizabeth – sweet mango flesh on her face and hands and wrists – the kitchen thick with burnt-butter smoke and the box fan whirlingwhirlingwhirling on the trashcan near the open window – Chuck’s silvery, hot blister bubbling on the back of his hand – a cast-iron skillet mishap – lovingly rounded slabs of vegan country fried steak on paper Christmas plates – in March, no less – a steady and sustained mist hissing against the window screen – Nicole on the floor and infatuated with a Nepalese revolution she heard about five years too late – that same half-assed singsong of regret: “If only I could…” – the wine-stained, cigarette-singed coffee table pilfered from the side of the street on garbage day, one too-short leg bolstered by a New American Bible – the lanky kid with the canyon-wide smile on the dining hall steps, “God bless you, Sir,” when I took his free scripture without removing my headphones – a moon so full it’s about to burst wide open ascending ever upward until it disappears – when George is home, we hide the ashtrays and claim we don’t smell tobacco – brown bottles sanitizing in bleachwater bath in a large plastic tub on the counter – Nathan, bluntfucked from solo hotboxing the broken-down car in the drive way with Mel’s blown glass pipe – an old flannel shirt turned dish rag flagging from a nail driven into the wall above the sink – Rosemary describing lucid sex dreams she’s had in a phone call from Italy – the washing machine’s heavy hum rising like rippling heat phantoms from distant summer asphalt – and if it were warmer, we’d be drunk on the porch –

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But it isn’t, so we aren’t ~ Matthew Kosinski

Drinking cold fruit juice out of tall, thin glasses – we bought them (the glasses) at the thrift store in Elizabeth – sweet mango flesh on her face and hands and wrists – the kitchen thick with burnt-butter smoke and the box fan whirlingwhirlingwhirling on the trashcan near the open window – Chuck’s silvery, hot blister bubbling on the back of his hand – a cast-iron skillet mishap – lovingly rounded slabs of vegan country fried steak on paper Christmas plates – in March, no less – a steady and sustained mist hissing against the window screen – Nicole on the floor and infatuated with a Nepalese revolution she heard about five years too late – that same half-assed singsong of regret: “If only I could…” – the wine-stained, cigarette-singed coffee table pilfered from the side of the street on garbage day, one too-short leg bolstered by a New American Bible – the lanky kid with the canyon-wide smile on the dining hall steps, “God bless you, Sir,” when I took his free scripture without removing my headphones – a moon so full it’s about to burst wide open ascending ever upward until it disappears – when George is home, we hide the ashtrays and claim we don’t smell tobacco – brown bottles sanitizing in bleachwater bath in a large plastic tub on the counter – Nathan, bluntfucked from solo hotboxing the broken-down car in the drive way with Mel’s blown glass pipe – an old flannel shirt turned dish rag flagging from a nail driven into the wall above the sink – Rosemary describing lucid sex dreams she’s had in a phone call from Italy – the washing machine’s heavy hum rising like rippling heat phantoms from distant summer asphalt – and if it were warmer, we’d be drunk on the porch –

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The Man Shrouded in Snow ~ Danny Cassidy

For years you’ve been left there on the oak tree

by the fence. I’ve seen the flurry of squirrels

in spring cling at your feet, claw your bared

torso and climb the height of birds. Absurd

that you were nailed there in the backyard. Left

idle to the labor of weather. Angled just right

so that a mother washing dishes could feel

the rush of hot water and gaze through the kitchen

window at your immaculate form. I have

watched too—at a distant—in the periphery

of comings-and-goings. I knew your name

but never said hello. Because you were the same

man radiant in the paintings, holding your heart

of fire. The emblem gleaming gold at dawn light

off a brother’s chest. How this house has grown

quiet like forsaken ash. But now in the breadth

of this blizzard, three days in, the slowly receding

blanket of snow prostrate at your feet, I am

in awe at your maker. Who said no to precious

metals, who grew tired of the scent of wood, who

lacquered your body with the dew of bones,

a whiteness that makes you cold and somehow more

approachable. You there crucified in silence,

basking like snow in warmth’s cruel ecstasies.

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A Poem by Amy Lynn Ruth

blackest canopies over this longing suburban town and also the very night time shade of navy where unsinkable ships have glided with coy buoyancy into silence I just think it’s wild how evanescent is a smile have you ever felt depersonalization after a couple too many hits nah, man I’m good over here but these cans don’t taste the same when we were fifteen and grasping grappling with key locks pushed up against this couch back unzipped and pressing teaching sweet first loves and lasts that I swore to her would never fade away well, we’re back in town again and her new boyfriend awkwardly stands in the kitchen corner tracing chaser circles on the counter he’ll tell you the government’s been stealing from our essence earth pretending it’s for some greater good and we don’t have the slightest of clues what goes on out there but hey, man I’m just trying to have a good time don’t even bring up time tonight.

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Alfa Art Gallery’s New Brunswick Salon ~ Call for Artists

New Brunswick Art Salon, Fall 2011 – Call for Artists

About the Exhibition

In the 18th and 19th century, Art Salons were the greatest annual or biannual art events in the Western world, celebrating the farthest advances in academia and the arts. The Alfa Art Gallery, in order to bridge talented and highly esteemed artists with the New Brunswick public, holds its own Art Salon exhibition biannually in the spring and fall.

Call for Entries

The Alfa Art Gallery would like to invite artists to submit work for the New Brunswick Art Salon, Fall ’11. There are two artist categories: newly emerging artists and professional artists. All submissions must be in by September 25. Artists will be notified if their work is accepted by September 30. The exhibition opening will be held on Friday, October 21.

Theme

For this exhibition, artists must submit works celebrating diversity or unity in a community.

Submission Requirements

All applicants must be associated with New Brunswick as a resident or as an artist who exhibits in New Jersey. Students and faculty members of Rutgers University and neighboring schools may enter. You must at least be pursuing an undergraduate career to participate. Degree does not need to be related to art.  There is no limit to the number of works entered.

To enter for consideration, please email the following to info@alfaart.org:

  • Images with title/dimensions
  • Resume/CV
  • Statement about your work
Or contact:
Jewel Lim, Event coordinator,

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