May 20-26, 2019: Poetry from Ralph Culver and Robin Ray

Ralph Culver and Robin Ray

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Ralph Culver
letter_perfect@fast-email.com

Bio (auto)

Ralph Culver lives in South Burlington, Vermont. His poetry, fiction, and criticism have appeared in many publications, and he is a past grantee in poetry of the Vermont Arts Council and multiple nominee for the Pushcart Prize. In 2012, he received the Anabiosis Press Chapbook Prize for his collection Both Distances (Anabiosis Press, 2013). His most recent collection, So Be It (WolfGang Press), was published in 2018. His new poetry collection A Passible Man is forthcoming from MadHat Press in the spring of 2020.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Ralph Culver and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Koan of a Sort

The sounds of water as she rises from her bath
while I slice bread in the kitchen:
how can I still feel sorry for myself?

 


Robin Ray
edrobin62@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Robin Ray was born in Trinidad & Tobago and emigrated to the US when he was twelve. From Mt. Vernon HS in NY, he attended the School of Art & Design at Iowa State Univ., then became a nurse at Eliz. Seton College. As a musician, he’s worked as a recording engineer, played in several bands and released a few albums along the way. As a writer his works have been published at Darkest Before the Dawn, Red Fez, Scarlet Leaf Review, Fairy Tale Magazine, and elsewhere. He has also published two novels, Commoner the Vagabond and Murder in Rock & Roll Heaven, nine novellas, two short story collections and one book of non-fiction. He now makes him home in the Victorian seaside town of Port Townsend, WA. Visit Robin on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Robin Ray and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Soccer

One Sunday afternoon in the stands didn’t suffice;
two was better, but I would’ve preferred
three just to get the gist of this ancient game the Chinese call cuju.
Four weeks ago, soccer was as familiar to me as convent food, but
five times already I’ve viewed your instructional video from
six in the evening till my roseate eyes glassed over at
seven in the conquered morning, practically
eight days a week. And you know what?
Nine times out of
ten, I de facto understood what the
eleven players’ position on each team was. Still, I’ll bet you
twelve quid I can’t recall anyone’s name except Pelé’s.



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