We think of certain experiences with foreboding and dread. Yet a truly harrowing experience surpasses distress. There can be exhilaration–of momentum, of transformation–and if one is lucky enough to survive, of escape.
~Bram Shay, Editor
It’s an old story–the child who goes away and the one who stays, the bargain struck and the bond between them and the promises, spoken and unspoken, that must be kept. What does the prodigal one find if she returns? What sacrifices were asked of the one who stayed?
~Bram Shay, Editor
Posted in Poetry, tagged american politics, aviation, booze, coldness, crimes, current-events, elections, fuckers, jail, literature, midwest, pea coats, poems, poetry, politics, teachers, transportation, underage, writing on November 9, 2012| Leave a Comment »
The American electoral process is a lot like poetry: it’s an amazing, empowering process that fills one with euphoria and hope, and then it’s over.
But seriously folks. I just want to apologize to all you that follow gloomcupboard.com and its poetry section for not getting a poetry issue to you for October. As some of you might know, I am a full-time college student and I had midterms the past couple of weeks. That’s over with now. Once again, sorry.
In the following issue we have poems penned by some that, by this time tomorrow morning, might very well be behind bars.
Born into this world
By Diane Webster
I never asked to be born.
I was comfortable floating
along with my lifeline
of food and oxygen and blood.
Warm, not a care in my world
except to kick my boundaries
until I fell inside a whirlpool
sucked into cold, bright, noisy
foreign world where I cried
my demands whether met or not
always needing help
knowing I would be kicked out
of this world too for a world
I never asked to be born to. (more…)
In this issue we have poems from highly-educated individuals that waste their time writing poems, by and large for free.
But, hey, I aint hatin’.
On a serious note. I wish I would have received some Sept. 11, 1973 poems on the late President Salvador Allende of Chile and the US/CIA-backed coup d’état. Every year there seems to be an ideological struggle to bring awareness to this crime, which remains by far uncovered by mainstream media. Even before Sept. 11, 2001.
Irrespective of this, below you will find poems on adolescent arrogance, North Englander Bukowskians and your standard literary sadomasochists.
Poetry Editors, Gloom Cupboard
When I was Younger
By Saleem Patterson
When I was a young man I fought against things I didn’t understand
Being a not so young, young man I fight less and understand more
I now know that a fight starts in the mind not in the bottle
That loneliness is just a feeling not a death sentence
I know that women will always hurt you if you let them
Family is just a word that can be attached to anyone
I know the sweetness of a fine whiskey when you have nothing else
I know that there is always something else
I know the sting of love lost
The relief of a woman’s touch when all she wants is you
sometimes it doesn’t matter what you know
cuz the feeling is just that much stronger
Posted in Poetry, tagged African National Congress, Charles Harper Webb, literature, Los Angeles, Luis Rivas, New Delhi, poetry, poetry editors, San Francisco State University, University of Iowa Press on July 31, 2012| 2 Comments »
I have the ability to read poetry from all corners of the world, Africa, India, and weird ass places like Florida and forgotten northern towns of California. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. As much as I complain about it, it’s truly a gift that I am allowed this.
The following issue has some really strong poems that, by themselves, stand alone as great pieces of testimonial art; but together they paint an amazing worldly portrait, as most of the poetry issues do–if, by chance, you haven’t noticed.
Poets are everywhere, fortunately or unfortunately. Now, the true task of the poet is to paint the truth (motherfucker shoulda been a painter then, huh?!) in such a way that its nakedness startles us; its rawness disgusts or offends; its remarkable accuracy enrages us; and if that doesn’t work, the poet should lie to us so well that we, in turn, applaud his or her malicious and honed skills.
won’t someone think of the janitors
By Leeroy Berlin
i can only imagine that joe wasn’t pleased
about how it went down
i know that was his favourite picture of
himself with that tranny hooker
off the five
he had framed on the walls
not a bad looking girl
i think they might be related (more…)