Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Introductions, Issue 18, Main Features, Poetry

Introduction to Silver Blade Poetry Issue 18

 

Welcome to Issue 18. Though there is no Featured Poet in this issue, we still bring a full complement of speculative poems written by six excellent poets, as well as by your poetry editor. We are proud to publish so many established voices in this issue (and we often publish new and emergent ones alongside them). As usual, the poems are ordered according to content and mood, rather than by contributor names.

The opening poem, “The Music of the Stars” by Bruce Boston, is the winner in the 2013 Maryland Regional Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention (see Balticon 47, http://www.balticon.org/) poetry contest. It is a pensive psalm-like homage to the stars. The wonderful chant of that poem sets us up for another invocation, of sorts. “A Prayer on Ganymede” by John Grey, is layered with textures of irony and satire.

There are many ways in which mankind can examine himself. In “Eye for an Eye,” Laura Madeline Wiseman does it through the eyes of Martians. Her pieces are often humorous, but in this case, it is sobering and poignant. (Recently accepted for publication, both of Wiseman’s Martian poems will be available in her chapbook, Stranger Still, and in her full-length book American Galactic.)

Astronomy-related poetry is much more than poetic descriptions of heavenly objects, or the simple wonderment of “Who’s out there?” and of imagined encounters; nor are the sun, the moon, the planets and the stars, also, mere backdrops or clichéd mood settings, though all of these things are worth exploring. Rather, more often in a successful literary poem, astronomy might provide metaphors for the human condition, as we might see in Wiseman’s poem and others, including Dawnell Harrison’s poem, “A Wintry Fever.” It is short, but piercing.

Though we had a wonderful transitioning piece, the contributor could not be contacted, so I will act as the bridge. “Alien Ants Invade the Waffle House” by John C. Mannone, has a little humor as the title might suggest, but there is a serious subtext in this narrative flash poem.

The final two poems are imbued with fantastical elements accented with spiritual tones. “The Elixir” by Sandy Hiortdahl, is a narrative poem in a fine storytelling tradition. (Incidentally, her doctoral dissertation was on Gardner’s Grendel as a reinvention of Beowulf; she even learned Anglo Saxon so she could do it right). And “Milk Witch” by John Zaharick, another narrative poem, which is infused with unusual images, surprises, and literary depth, closes the selection.

Please enjoy this collection of poems (that straddle many aspects of literary speculative poetry), the complementing images, and mp3 voice recordings (when available).

Sincerely,
John C. Mannone
Poetry Editor

 

The Line-up

 

1 Bruce Boston The Music of the Stars (reprint)
2 John Grey A Prayer on Ganymede
3 Laura Madeline Wiseman Eye for an Eye
4 Dawnell Harrison A Wintry Fever
5 John C. Mannone Alien Ants Invade the Waffle House
6 Sandy Hiortdahl The Elixir
7 John Zaharick Milk Witch

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

The Music of the Stars


The music of the stars is
so very faint it is drowned
by the sounds of the city,

the steady drone of traffic,
the whine of sirens wailing
through day and night,

the clamor of crowds and
the hubbub of the media.
The music of the stars is

so very faint it is lost
in the static of the rain,
the timbres of the wind

batting against the trees,
in the rhythm of waves
consuming the shore.

The music of the stars is
so very faint, yet there
remain those of a certain

mind and heart who listen
hard enough to hear it,
never completely sure

what kind of music it is,
yet convinced it is the
one they must dance to.

 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

A Prayer on Ganymede

 

Save my crew members:
first mate, engineer,
science officer, navigator,
even the lousy cook.
Save them from the red wind
and the insidious foliage
with its thorns like claws.
Save them from the horned beast
and the devil with seven eyes
and the sky that rains fire.
Save them from cracks
in their helmets,
rips in their suits,
and spears in their guts.
Save the rookies
who’ve never before been
on a planet where
they couldn’t breathe the air.
Save the veterans
of many a perilous journey
into these forbidding netherworlds.
And, if you’ve time,
even save me,
though I’ve done enough
for ten lives,
been in more hazardous positions
than I’ve had hot Cerulean women.
And, when you’re done
bailing out my ragtag troop,
come with us,
save yourself.
This place can then go back
to being godforsaken.
 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

Eye for an Eye


 

Sheldon Art Museum, Lincoln, Nebraska

The sculpture of a head on the stairs
creeps out the Martians. They can’t tell

its gender. One whispers, The slashes
at crown and throat suggest maleness.

The furrowed brow, the x-ed out eyes,
the lack of body makes them worry.

They ask, What crime is punishable by head-loss?
Where’s the axe? The hooded man in black?

They’re sure the body will reveal something—
wrists bound by rope or a tongue sliced out

to be set aside and buried elsewhere.
One knocks on the head. The art peals—

an empty hollow sound, a void of dead air.
Maybe, one Martian says, it was bad thoughts.
 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

A Wintry Fever

 

I feel the chill of winter
In the white marrow of my bones –

A wintry fever.
The cold winds steer through ice

Like an ax to wood.
I lay on the bed,

My pallor as bleached as death –
No respite from the long, wide

Cold of the night.
Love’s run dry but the moon
Cradles me like a great white Madonna.
 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

Alien Ants Invade the Waffle House


 

They walk upright, seven feet tall, not counting the antennae,
and pack a laser weapon fused to their purple shell-skin.
They seem to be protected with a force field that our bullets
cannot penetrate. Many major cities have fallen.
The voice on the radio also says they are coming our way.

It’s around midnight, there are eight of us in the diner. I say to them,

This aint no Armageddon; there is no savior here
but for ourselves. We can run and get gunned down
or we can die lying on the floor behind those doors
or under these stools, quivering in our nightmares.
Or we can die standing for our freedom.

It’s just another monster. We make our stand here.

I’ll fetch the stuff we’ll need from the pick-up truck—
malathion, that or-gan-o-phos-phate–in-sec-ti-cide.
It says right chere on the label that it mucks up
their nervous system. Folks, let’s make ‘em nervous.

Frank, get all the bags of grits stored in the back.
Sally, you’re a single mom experienced with deadbeat
bugs, and sweet talk. When they come through that door,
don’t nobody go screaming. Let them take us hostage
lest they’d be forced to kill us. Let’s not do that.

Sally nods as she draws her last breath
from a menthol cigarette, flicks the finished butt,
and grinds the nicotine-rich nub into the asphalt.
I stare at her shoes arcing the ground, pressing.
I remember a few days ago stomping out a fire
ant hive, grinding their formic acid carcasses
into Texas dirt, the sweet alkaline dirt.

We feel the high-pitched static in the air
as the giant ants approach the diner. We sit still
as they march inside. Sally, behind the counter, extends
the trays full of sugar and powdered grits for a swell
meal laced with malathion, just to make sure.
Ants can’t smell malathion.

She smiles her hospitality smile at the leader,
says, Here’s a little extra sugar just for you.
Of course, they can’t understand a word, but like
the sugar, their mandibles raking granules into
their crablike faces. Still smiling, she mumbles
in her almost forgotten Harlem accent, You sho’ is ugly!
But no mo’ uglier than that throw-up face of fear.

Outside, the Waffle House sign flickers its yellow
into the tall night, and its light buzzes in the still air.
Moths always flitter to the light.
And other insects, too.
 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

The Elixir


 

The boy moves fast, young pup,
to whom play and war are same:
too soon he’ll know.
The woman beside him is no kin,
save the blood connection to this rock,
to this tribe of warriors and herdsmen,
males and females of both, who have
huddled beside the rock since before
they knew how to speak.
He has been chosen by the elders
to face the Grendel-heir, to “be”
the bear-boy triumphant, or—
the bloodied sacrifice to whom
poems and songs, perhaps whole
religions (depending on the death),
will weave memory fables.
The woman breathes deeply, for there’s
springtime in the honey-gladdened air,
the mossy smell of thunderstorms to send
winter away, to bring warmth to the rock,
whether this boy sees those days or not.
The vial in her pocket contains a liquid of life,
hawthorn berries, salamander liver, iron filings
from the forge of his people, long-hoarded
hair strands from the dead Queen, all minced
and prayed upon during the new moon,
beside the den of wolf pups, as is written.
Only the woman and her sisters know:
without it, the boy likely dies, though
with it, all the stars in heaven like his chances.
In death, he’d be the curly-haired boy-man
whose future was traded for their own (as
the elders well-know), but if he lives and slays
the Grendel, many time paths shift, the world
breathes a new destiny: the rock becomes new.
“Come,” she says, and draws it out.
 

Published by Associate Editor on . This item is listed in Issue 18, Poetry

Milk Witch


 

When hearth light licks
the black milk, the liquid
turns to sky–stars
in a shallow bowl,
showing weather, blight,
cities old or unborn.
To see ahead, I sense
the patterns underlying lives.

These secret furrows have driven
me to the edge of the woods
as have the farmers
who shun, and yet keep me
close, wanting what I know,
but afraid of their own thirst.
They avert their eyes when I barter,
but slink to my door for visions.

Brave boys with iron knives
or elders concerned about the crop,
all cringe at the bleating
from the stable. The poag
are the source of their fortunes,
and yet they treat my animals
like monsters. But all creatures
can be crafted to serve a purpose,
raised for wool, strength,
or the most potent milk.

I am sent to a field,
guarded by stones and chalk.
The village knows mint or mushroom
can distort the senses,
and fears any pasture grazed
by my poag will sour their herds.
But it is only milk
that lifts the veils.

And as animals are bred,
men believe their fates
are fashioned by gods,
by the clay people on their altars.
They stand in my house,
asking of love, conquest, omens.
Each cares only for what befalls
him and his own. I see more:
the shapes of their deities,
the cultivators of history.

When I was young, Father took
a paper pot from the loft
and tossed it in the fire.
It burst, spilling shiny wings.
I taste the milk and the air
splits like that nest.
The world is built
on a secret foundation,
crawling with wasps.