Publication Notice: Quail Bell Magazine features “Graceless Ravens Envy You”

I am honored tonight to share here that Quail Bell Magazine has kindly published a poem of mine, “Graceless Ravens Envy You.”  You can read it here:

“Graceless Ravens Envy You”

Quail Bell Magazine is a Richmond-based multimedia literature and arts journal “that explores the imaginary, the nostalgic, and the otherworldly through the highest quality creative and journalistic content.”   It really is a wonderful and unique online periodical, and I encourage you to check it out.

“Graceless Ravens Envy You” first appeared at Dead Snakes in 2015.

 

“Roanoke Summer Midnight,” by Eric Robert Nolan

“Roanoke Summer Midnight”

Its midnight moon is newly minted coin —
a white-hot silver obol
forged in burning phosphorus.
The crisping clouds around it blacken.

Its silhouetted mountains
are great blue gods at slumber
the faded-haze azure horizon’s
giants in the dim.

Those slopes have known a billion bones of hares
that raced upon them other midnights, then,
pausing, one by one,
drawing up their downy legs at last to final sleep.

Where the Shenandoahs’ driving
beryl falls to black,
aquamarine to onyx,
lay legions of hares — generations resting.
There are the hills where ivory
rabbits sleep among gods.

Ahead and under moonlight
the curving rural road obscures its end.
At right, an intersecting well-lit modern block
confuses the curling topography.
The fresh and symmetrical asphalt’s angle
mars the winding thoroughfare with order:
a ninety-degree anachronism.

That new and perfect subdivision
affronts the corner’s antebellum chimney,
broken down to stones and overrun in lavender
— its lilac colors driven plum by sunset.
That last century’s smokestack
was itself effrontery once
to the formless places where natives stayed
their only edifice the stars,
their only currency the blinding coin of moon.

Eyeing, then, the summits’ crowning cobalt
driving down in royal blue to coal,
I hope to one day take my rest
there, in the darkening indigo,
alongside giants,
among white rabbits in myriad easy stillness,

to pause myself at last and sleep beneath
what meadows stretch in cerulean dark,
where hares will race like moon-kissed silver,
or comets of darting pearl.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2017

 

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Photo credit: By Jessie Eastland (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

The Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine July 2017 Issue is here.

The July 2017 Issue of Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine arrived today; I’m honored to see a poem of mine appear again in this great indie lit publication.  My poem is entitled “An Altogether Different Slumber” and is on page 13.

You can purchase a paperback copy of the July Issue for just $3.24 (plus shipping) right here at Lulu.com.  Or, you can just download a free PDF copy here.

Thank you, Editor Samantha Rose!

 

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“Industrial Revolution,” by Eric Robert Nolan

“Industrial Revolution,” by Eric Robert Nolan

1.

Did Leonardo Da Vinci
Endlessly dream of machines?
Not his own baroque creations, those
Wood and wire winged artworks
That hung over his study:
Alate and ordered, latticed contraptions,
Each a suspended symmetry,
Gargoyles in geometry.

Did he dream of machines to come?
I picture him up late,
Poring over his own illustrations first, then
Ushered into Euclidean sleep
By soothing mathematics —
The soft and ordered blossoms of
His own woodwork designs
Were flower-petal angles in his brain.

Could he, asleep, have foreseen
The assembly line, Ford’s
Ant-like Model T production?
Did he have an artist’s abhorrence
For its linear, dull, and utilitarian order?
Was it a nightmare for him?

2.

How did farmers feel
In the Industrial Revolution?
Staid agrarian men, their disapproving eyes
On the newfangled factories
Lining the horizon.

A rising scent of sulfur announces an age —
The new ripe stink
Of an advancing century.

The lined and coal colored fortresses,
Of an impregnable era.
Were castles for the Barons
In a new, feudal America —
Only burning – their smoke
Seeding a virgin sky
Up from the wide black loins and the lined, cracked skin
Of a newly darkened Earth.
Did they resent or marvel at
The New Century’s soot Aesthetic –
The black castles of iron?
A lined and ordered Hell —
Souls among the smokestacks,
And bellies full of conflagrations?

To the later observers of old photographs,
The blackening symmetry
At ninety-degree angles might
Resemble the rise of circuits.
Can you imagine farmers
Having prescient dreams?
What would one have thought, all tucked under
A homespun quilt at dark
Resenting advancing fortunes?
Might even one, once, in his antipathy
Have predicted, asleep,
The microchip’s square face?

I know no etymology
For the word, “Revolution.”
Is its root “revolt?”
To rise up against?
Or “revolve,” as in a circle?
“Revolve” as in “return?”

3.

Could Edison or Tesla
Have envisioned television – its great glass eye
Like Homer’s Cyclops,
Dull and full of vulgar visions,
Its mood made capricious
With changing channels?

We ought to pluck it out, or, at least,
Turn away at dinner.
We should cling to the books of our childhoods
Like the bellies of great sheep.
But we are not as sly
As Odysseus.

4.

During the old Cold War
In my 1980’s childhood
My father said he believed
Machines could prevent The End.

The Communist Revolution,
The Bolshevik revolt,
Had made its rising Bear
America’s enemy, in
A Nuclear Exchange, but Reagan
Marshaled forth our own machines in greater numbers.

I feared them —
The ICBM’s —
As a boy I imagined them
Rising in the sky in perfect symmetry
To make the new, black backcloth
Of the Atomic Age.

At the age of 13
I wrote a poem describing
Their blossoming explosions.
In my childhood dreams
Their interlocking contrails
Looked like lattice work
Or angled flower petals.
In nightmares they are prescient
The warheads already know
The name of every child turned to soot.

My father, however, envisioned
Devices on all our wrists
Connecting us all – we’d know
That distant Russian farmers
Were no Politburo.
Finally realizing
That we were all the same
We’d be reluctant to push
The Button.
Before the 90’s advent
Of The Internet
Was this a kind of prescience?
My father was a poet too.
Today, in his absence,
After I write this
I’ll share it with Eugene, my friend,
In Russia.

5.

My mother’s best machine
Is a tablet on her lap
Looking ironically like
Half the Christian commandments.
She asks me how I am.
I lie and say I’m fine.
In my heart, I am a farmer
Tucked under a quilt.
Circuits rise in the East;
In the West,
Missiles rise and arc at dusk.

My own machine
(with which I write this now)
Is full of distant visions:
The new and chic and sinful interests —
Zooey Deschanel and Richard Dawkins,
The New Girl and the erudite Briton,
Lust and apostasy in Windows.
Someday will there be
Prescient machines?
(Now, about the present, they’re omniscient.)

My favorite TV program
Shows monotheistic machines,
And an embittered robot
Has a nuclear suitcase.
The hunted warn one another,
“The Cylons look like us now.”
Elsewhere, seen
By my machine
An internet flame war
Turns NUCLEAR.
A nationalistic ugliness ensues
Stoked along the coals of the global circuitry.
My screen is the glass face
Of a monster hurling stones.
Maybe this, instead, is Homer’s Cyclops.

My laptop “hibernates”
When left alone too long
Once I imagined it dreaming
Of a better owner.

So unlike Da Vinci’s,
The asymmetric gargoyle
Of our own uncertain future
Hangs over our heads.
With a Sword of Damocles.
Its lopsided face
And lack of proper geometry
Is still our own design.

6.

I’m almost 41 and miss the girl I love.
She had a Revolution — rising in her cheeks
Flush red when
I tickled her tummy in public
That time in Virginia Beach.
Hailing from The South, we’d joke
She was a “farmer’s daughter.”
In her last words to me, she said
She couldn’t know the future.
(She isn’t prescient, after all.)
“A lot needs to happen.”
And now I need to be
Industrious.
When people ask me what I dream
I say that I do not.
Besides, I’d rather not.
Not when the red flush rises yet again in her high white cheeks
Like twin sudden gardens full of roses.

And I endlessly dream of machines.
I dream that I am one.
My face is the same, except
A bright-hot piston heart
Replaces soft aorta,
Hardened steel instead of red tissue,
And my mind
Is a reliable hard drive
Holding balanced equations.
This would be easier.
I want a world of heuristics.
Algorithms instead
Of red flush memories.

I want a Revolution.
I want the world to change.
If I see my Love again,
I will hold flowers
And angle in for a kiss.

“My heart is a machine now,” I’ll tell her.
I’ll brightly peel back
The soft, pale imperfect flesh and say,
“I’m stronger. Look, I’ve changed.
“Look at my heart. Look.
“See the steel here.
“Feel these steel angles, these veins are now only
“Piano-wire lattice work,
“Taut and tightly strung.
“Feel how the hardened symmetry
“Forms a perfect circuit.
“My heart is a bird-machine –
“It has Da Vinci’s wings.
“My heart is a latticed contraption.
“My heart for you is NUCLEAR.
“My heart is a prescient machine that sees our future.”
“My heart beats
“Its new and hardened life
“At angles.”
Her fingertips will be as soft
As flower petals.

I want a Revolution.
I want the world to change.
But if I meet my Love again
Will her eyes return to me?
Revolt?
Or turn away?

[Dedicated to Robert J. Nolan]

Originally printed in Dead Snakes:  http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2013/11/eric-robert-nolan-poem.html

© Eric Robert Nolan 2013

 

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Photo credit: By Ivan2010 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Publication notice: Eric Robert Nolan to be featured via the “Poems-For-All” project.

I’m honored today to share some terrific news — four samples of my writing will be featured via Richard Hansen’s unique “Poems-For-All” project in California.  As the video below shows, Mr. Hansen produces miniature “books” of poetry that are about the size of business cards.  They can then be distributed randomly.

Here’s the description on the Facebook page for Poems-For-All: “They’re scattered around town — on buses, trains, cabs, in restrooms, bars, left along with the tip; stuffed into a stranger’s back pocket. Whatever. Wherever. Small poems in small booklets half the size of a business card. To be taken by the handful and scattered like seeds by those who want to see poetry grow in a barren cultural landscape.”

The poems selected were “Consciousness Haiku” and the first stanza of “Confession.”  (Mr. Hansen suggested it worked fine as a standalone poem.)  “Confession” first appeared at Dead Beats Literary Blog in 2013, and was then featured last year by Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine.

In addition, Mr. Hansen selected my 100-word horror story, “There in the Bags,” as well as my entries for the popular online Six-Word-Sci-Fi Story Challenge.  (He also publishes micro-fiction in the “little book” format.)

This is such a cool, unique project, and I’m grateful to be able to participate.

For more information on Poems-For-All, check out the video below.  Or you can visit the blog for the project here: https://poems-for-all.com/.

 

Publication notice: Poetry Pacific to feature three of my poems.

I received some great news this afternoon — the editors at Poetry Pacific have kindly agreed to publish three of my poems in the e-zine’s next biannual issue.

The poems selected were “This Windy Morning,” which appeared Friday here at the blog; “Redbud Leaves,” which appeared last summer; and “Delaware Sheets,” which was published in 2013 by Every Day Poets.   Poetry Pacific’s autumn issue will be released on November 5.

Poetry Pacific endeavors to publish and promote the best contemporary poetry in English it can find, and its emphasis is on shorter poetry.  Its Editor-In-Chief is nine-time Pushcart-nominee Yuan Changming.

“An Altogether Different Slumber,” by Eric Robert Nolan

An Altogether Different Slumber

I dream in ones and zeros,
in an ease of dormancy,
within the midnight dim.

Language confounds me at dawn –
I wake with ideology,
convictions trailing my lips, trailing
from my mouth’s corner
like a line of blood on the sheets.

The window’s dialectic light
falls across concepts.
In a non-nocturnal, notion-laden, altogether
different slumber,
all the stinging abstract
words are nightmares.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2017

 

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Photo credit: By User:Dschwen (Own work) [CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons