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week of March 20 - 26, 2000
Sam Silva and Billie Dee
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
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Sam Silva
samsilva54@email.msn.com
Bio (auto)
Sam Silva, writter-poet. (Fayetteville, North Corolina)
Columnist for Spring Lake New for approximately 10 yrs.
Published a total of ten chapbooks and numerous audio tapes with
five legitimate Small Press markets.
Published no fewer than 150 poems in a variety of literary and
other magazines including Samisdat, St. Andrew's review, Poetry
Motel, Boulliabaise, The E.C.U. Rebel, Paranasus, Sow's Ear, Dog
River Review, Thirteen Magazine, Brouhaha, Pembroke Magazine,
Sandhill's Review, Third Lung Review, Synesthesia, many many others.
Nominated a total of seven times for Pushcart Award, by three
seperate literary markets.
Recipient of Emerging Artist Grant and Mini Grant from Arts Council
of Fay./CC.
Regularly featured guest on WFSS Literary program A TIME TO LISTEN.
In addition to Poetry, has published numerous essays, and some
short fiction, and is currently a regular contributor and political
essayist to the alternative central Florida publication IMPACT,
Many of Sam's books are available through Barnsandnoble.com including
De La Palabra currently featured in the Featured Poets Section of the PSH Bookstore.
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Sam Silva and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Where the Dog Goes for his Doggeral
Withered old snooty-nosed bama!,
with your fine southern diction, nasal
from the place you put your nose.
Yes!, you know what art is,
its the kind of pretty thing
I wipe my ass with all the time!
Yes!, you know what makes a poem!
Professors of poetry!
And stuff
made of that snuff
that feeds your little hose,
and no, it simply must not
rhyme!
Glory as Cheap
In a portrait...done for someone else,
needless to say,
you painted Faust at that most mystical moment
when contentment seals
the mouth,
the kiss, the energy and ardor
of a thousand devil-deals
whose fate shall blast all metaphysics south.
You paint him in the blindness
of the ego's rapture
with a circus cape
...that these have ruled
the cities of the world
the same fool's way
that circus master's capture
that emptiest glory of the day
...these men
obliquely lost in thought
that for the seed of man's immortal clay
a different kind of justice
with its wars and rape are taught.
What made the ruler of the Roman games,
the doctor of power's principles of light and dark,
think his soul so worthy
in that aspect of his discontent?
A simple painting tells me what he meant...
Dream in a Shiver of Oils
Like angels that you paint, you should live forever!
like sweets and smiles and shining,
child of the season's come to celebrate your heart.
Things that you deserve!, more than faint and clever
words...that beg a silver lining.
I die of this sad bliss!
Like every sleepy nighttime kiss
hidden under clouds that weep.
I will fall asleep,
dreaming
of your art.
Billie Dee
billiedee@eudoramail.com
Bio (auto)
"As a child, I never considered being a poet ... I wanted to be
Madame Curie."
Billie Dee earned her B.A. degree from San Diego State University
and M.D. from the University of California at Irvine. Her poetry
has evolved out of thirty years of world travel, intensive personal
journal writing and "... passionate, voracious, omnivorous reading."
She lives in Southern California with her family, a chihuahua
and six canaries.
Billie is a familiar face at many West Coast poetry venues and
an enthusiastic fan of "spoken word" performance. Her recent work
is filled with concrete imagery, layered metaphor, and highly
textured language. She is especially interested in sensory detail
and what she calls "... those odd moments in life that snap you
into new awareness." When asked to describe herself as a writer,
she replied, "word drunk."
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Billie Dee and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover
without written permission from the author.
Shalimar
Two a.m. and still awake. He gets up again
to take a leak. Third time. Down the hall
the sulfur night light in the bathroom glows
ominously. He thinks of Hieronymus Bosch,
the orange sheen of asses in a Lake of Fire.
"Pretty soon it will be my ass," he mutters.
A convertible glides down the street, its top
luxuriously open to the night. And faint music,
tender music he recognizes but can't name,
drifts in through the open bathroom window ...
congas, Latin trumpet the memory of a party,
drinking and sweating in the humid night.
Swaying on a balcony against a woman
wearing Shalimar, her hand gliding luxuriously
between his legs. What was her name?
He stands in front of the toilet, straining
to catch more of the melody. It's gone now.
The night's deserted. Lawn sprinklers kick on
and beat against the grape-stake fence.
"Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,"
he whispers to the porcelain bowl, swaying
with his eyes closed, naked. Holding himself.
