August 18-24, 2003: Michael Ladanyi and David Howerton

week of August 18-24, 2003

Michael Ladanyi and David Howerton

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Michael Paul Ladanyi

Bio (auto)

Michael’s chapbook, Palm Shadows, was released in June 2002 by Purple Rose Publications, Mar Vista CA, the printers of Promise Magazine His chapbook, Spelling Crows of Winter, will be released by Pudding House Press,
<> in the late summer of 2003 He is currently searching for a publisher for his full length poetry book, Humming Riddles In Naked Seasons, and his chapbook, The Artist in a Field of Worms
Michael Paul Ladanyi resides with his wife and two daughters in the foothills of the North Georgia Mountains His poetry has appeared over two hundred times in print and online journals in the US and abroad during the last two years His most recent print publications include: Snow Monkey, Spring 2003, Maxis Review, (Marygrove College, MI) Spring 2003, Joey and the Black Boots, Spring 2003 farewell issue #41, and The Circle, #24 Winter 2003 His most recent online publications include: ken*again, Volume 4 #2 Summer 2003, Write-away-poetry, Summer 2003, The Muse Apprentice Guild, Spring 2003, Poems Niederngasse, #57 May 2003, Voices, Spring 2003 and The Pedestal Magazine, Summer 2003 issue #16 His work is upcoming in several magazines and collections of poetry, including the anthology, In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself Volume 5, Tryst, Poetry Life&Times, James River Poetry Review, among others
Michael’s poetry has been featured in several magazines and journals, and he has been awarded many Editor’s Choice and Poem of the Issue Awards He received a Poet’s Hall of Fame Nomination from Skyline Literary Magazine, (May 2002 issue) for his piece, Liquid Chiron’s and Periwinkle Sound, and placed in the top ten of the Net Poetry and Art Competition, (Dec 2002) with his piece, Spelling Crows of Winter
Michael served as a poetry editor with Rustlings of the Wind for over a year, until the publisher decided to close the magazine after a successful five year run He is a poetry reviewer with the magazine Write-away-poetry, and the founder, creator, publisher and co-editor of Adagio Verse Quarterly.l

While his first, and deepest passion, is poetry, Michael also enjoys music, to the point that he has completely filled one wall of his living room with the largest entertainment center he could find, and the rest of the room with as many stereo speakers, sub woofers and anything else that plugs in and creates sound This is all much to the dismay of his wife, who can often be heard screaming, “There’s no more room in here!”

When not writing and spending time with family, he enjoys collecting antique glassware ranging from the 1890’s to the 1960’s, which he stacks on what shelves in the living room that are not covered by stereo speakers.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Michael Ladanyi and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author

The Artist in a Field of Worms

He quickly digs in his pockets for change,
hoping to scrounge enough to pay
for a half-price afternoon museum ticket Finding it, he slides the handful of warm
coins and two crumpled dollar bills into the tray In front of a charcoal and pencil Buddha
he shuffles a pocket-book of Ginsberg’s
poems and the museum’s guide to that
weeks featured artwork Long thick
lines of charcoal stare at him as
splintered face bones, drunk and
love-forced sections of dry black earth He imagines the artist in a field of worms,
grinding his long-cheated hands into
a water-papered sky, sticky fingers
smearing across 90 miles of snaking white,
mud, grass and dung covering his feet—
and wishes he were there.

Unrecognized Patterns

~For William~

The rheumy sun has failed this
cool august morning;
it hangs by thin, bone-sung arms,
a gaunt loss onto itself
William, I have often wondered
how calm my clacking blood
would grow if I were to hold this
suicidal repose, if I were to leave
these colored words to rot,

to wander grey layers of skewed
seasons we once lived;

each night to walk unrecognized
patterns our eyes have traced
upon blue-suckled, blood-drawn days
What would they teach themselves
that we have not languished over?
Would they, as frightened sparrows,
be released from behind my eyes?

My voice seems to rise and
fall as manqué echoes trapped
beneath cold river stones,
leaving me only naked sighs.

The Sun Will Sit and Cry

The sun will sit and cry and tell
me of a thousand yellow griefs,
how the slim-fingered sky meets
and breaks, plays blue cords
of sweet despair locked in fading
sighs and green-etched currents
beneath our greater deaths
The sun will sit and cry and show
me how to weep as drizzled moss
below purple-hearted oaks, grey arms
of what we see in ourselves that
glitters as stars upon shadows
of timed souls, our wider eyes cutting
their teeth, scrawling upon bare bone.

David E Howerton

Bio (auto)

I’m a part time programmer part time cook Live in the American River Canyon just outside of Auburn, California I done some landscaping sign painting cooking and even made jewelry for awhile to make ends meet I live a rather quiet life there are three adult daughters and a cat who insists that he’s boss My hobbies include type design, soapstone carving, and walks in the woods, and collecting dragons.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by David E Howerton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author

cleaning house

Bits, of lint and hair
clutter carpet unswept
since last year Some places are easier
to clean, but only
after getting really dirty So much like minds and spirits
not bedrooms and livingrooms.

dusty stacks of books

Dust ladden air thich
swirls like galaxies
in sunrays speckling walls
stacks of books
covered in drifts of dust
waiting for a rag
then a moving to some
overladden shelf
where several thousand more
stand ranked.

day forgotten question

watching clouds small gray fleeing east
shadows fly brief moments Seeing relief for a minute or two
then July sun yellow-ivory bright hot
returns stinging flesh Driving
thin skined people in doors
where shadows sit thick hiding dust and lint Being awake wondering when quiet will ease
afternoon spent digging through books
looking for a forgotten question
whose answer isn’t remembered either In pale twilight where dust gathers
every surface covered in books and papers
seeing a unending job
maybe a break and a nap will help.

everything off

a weak day
brings traffic noise
and hot wind
sucking any energy away
leaving me
sitting quiet
dark room
everything off
shades closed

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