April 15, 2013
The Ides of March Journal

April 15, 1924: 

Roadway wanderlust 

gets a new direction: maps 

by Rand McNally.

Featured in this Issue, culled from 11 possible submissions: 

Zann Carter: 

    ---"Genevieve Habert Discovers Le Bateau is Hung Upside-Down"

Linda Crate: 

    ---"Danae"

Jeanne DeLarm-Neri: 

    ---"Athena and Theseus May Have Met" 

Liz Hartnett:

    ---"Pulling the Wool"

Doug Polk 

    ---"A Mob in Egypt" 

    ---"Van Gogh"  

**

"Genevieve Habert Discovers Le Bateau is Hung Upside-Down" 

---By Zann Carter 

For 47 days in 1961 in the museum of Modern Art, 

Le Bateau, a 1953 paper-cut by the elderly Henri Matisse hung 

upside down. 

Genevieve Habert, a New York stockbroker originally 

from France, visited the exhibit three times 

and became convinced of it. 

'Because," she said, "Matisse would never 

put the main, more complex motif on the bottom 

and the lesser motif on top." 

She informed a guard who said all the experts 

were home for the weekend and didn't bother 

to take a message. 

But Genevieve, a more complex motif, contacted the New York Times 

who contacted MOMA's art director who ordered 

a proper rehanging.

** 

"Danae" 

---Linda Crate

He broke into my house, my only 

solace; rained down in gold and 

took the form of my husband-- 

for this they took me and threw 

me to the sea; they only remember 

my son Perseus, the hero, but they 

forget me; let my memories yellow 

like my bones lost to the sea-- 

I know they call it adultery, but 

how could I be blamed for what the 

king of the gods decided to do to me?  

I cannot help but think that this is 

unfair judgement, something that 

ought not have been brought forth 

upon me, in a dance of autumn leaves. 

**

 "Athena and Theseus May Have Met"

---Jeanne DeLarm-Neri

Thank the curating gods, 

the title plaque names them, 

their heads missing from cracked 

frozen fragmented frieze. 

We modern docents wondered. 

Athena's tough marble garlands 

drape her square hollowed waist: 

the site of ancient hardware. 

Bon Voyage to Theseus' torso 

wedged to the wall with one killer bicep. 

They extend what's left of limbs, 

reach to tap nubs, 

exchange an airy message. 

The code erodes, 

atom by unrequited atom.

**

"Pulling the Wool" 

---Liz Hartnett 

Irish raiders flew across the waves 

in curraghs of animal hides; 

Keen eyes in the keening gale, 

claiming the offspring of Britain, 

bearing away thousands, 

including Patrick, who tended sheep 

and pondered divinity 

on the lonely slopes of Antrim, 

perhaps arriving at faith through 

lack of any alternative hope.

Extremity requires monolithic allies, 

or at least a less temporal master 

with a different sort of sheep. 

**

"A Mob in Egypt" 

--Doug Polk 

Our turn, 

the mobs say, 

America dying, 

Europe dead, 

get out of the way, 

our time in the sun, 

has only begun, 

the faith is ours, 

as is strength of will, 

let us walk in the sun, 

as the storm clouds build, 

and the Egyptian army plans. 

** 

" Van Gogh" 

--Doug Polk 

The soul arches on the canvas, 

blood red, 

or deep ocean blue, 

each and every brush stroke, 

a scab, 

scratched free, 

until nothing left, 

inside.

**

 

 

December 15, 2012 
The Ides of March Journal 

December 21, 2012.  

Midnight came and went. 

The ghosts of Cichen Itza 

still laugh at our fear. 

In this issue, culled from six eligible poems: 

Art Baker 

    ---"A Mayan Christmas"

Liz Hatrnett 

    ---"Not So Fast"

Phillip Larrea 

    ---"Taxing Times--The Legend of Lady Godiva"  

***

"A Mayan Christmas" 

---Art Baker 

My brother buys boxes of batteries. 

Candles, too. 

And he's got shelves full of dry food, 

enough for a zoo. 

He says the end is coming, 

and the Mayans won't take him. 

He's stocked his basement larder, 

and he's got guns to the brim.  

I asked him: "What if nothing happens?" 

"What if it's all just a bunch nonsense?" 

He said: "Then I'm already set 

for five years worth of Christmas presents."

***

"Not So Fast" 

---Liz Hartnett

How did you come to this? 

Your head on a stake, 

with years to ponder your predicament 

from the rooftop. 

Missing your cozy crypt in Westminster.  

Lord Protector of Great Britain, 

Star of the Puritan Elect, 

Oliver Cromwell, man of God. 

The part you played in the King's execution 

never sat well. 

You governed to the hilt: loyalists massacred, 

churches burned around the ears of poor Irish. 

A colorful rule, a peaceful death in bed.  

But after, 

their stubborn resentment could not let you rest. 

***

"Taxing Times--The Legend of Lady Godiva" 

---Phillip Larrea 

Godiva 

wearing naught 

but hirsute. 

After-tax 

net assets. 

Now its worse.

God I've a 

mind to ride. 

Horse repo'd.  

**

New Publication Months: April, August, and December only.

The beauty of running a small journal by myself is that I set my own deadlines, no one else drinks my coffee, and I create my own rules.

However, when "life" (as a graduate student, I possess no real life...just "life") comes into conflict with some of those rules, something has to give. And since I value my "life" over my rules, they're going to take a wee bit of a thrashing.

Not too much, though.

Effective immediately, The Ides of March will no longer be a monthly publication. To save my sanity as I work my way through other various projects and callings (that "life" thing again), The Ides will now only become a thrice-a-year publication. April, August, and December will be the only months to see new issues of The Ides; the other months get to relax and take it easy. 

Sorry for any inconvenience, frowny faces, or sub-breath grumbles. 

Next issue: December, 2012!

Volume II. Issue III.

August 16, 2012
The Ides of March

August 15, 1965: 

John, Paul, George, Ringo.  

Shea Stadium, Queens, New York. 

Beatlemania!

In this issue, culled from four eligible poems:

Liz Hartnett: 

    ---"American Gothic"

Jenna Kelly: 

    ---"Jack the Ripper

**

"American Gothic"
---Liz Hartnett

Conflict surely reigned in this skull.
Enslaved; wedged
between privilege and privation; a part of neither.
Grandison Harris spent 60 years
at Georgia's Medical College.
Kept them well supplied.
The Resurrection Man. Feared by the powerless,
sitting vigil over their dying and newly buried.
He drew specimens from their coffins
from a hole hacked in the lid,
replacing earth and flowers to leave no wound.
Stealing the last scrap of the thoroughly used,
in service of the users. Wink and look the other way,
it's only the colored cemetery, the potter's field.
For science. Rest in peace, Grandison.

**

"Jack the Ripper"
---Jenna Kelly

Click click on cobble stone
corset strings are tangled
Click click on cobble stone
now her body's mangled
Scratch of ink pen on a note
a riddle that the killer wrote
To leave the town in shallowed whisper
they never did catch Jack the Ripper.  

**

Volume II. Issue II.

July 15, 2012 
The Ides of March Journal 

July 15, 1741: 

Aleksei Chirikov runs into Alaska. 

Europeans become acquainted 

with the Haida and moose jerky.

Featured in this issue, culled from thirteen possible entries: 

Harold Bosstick:
    ---"The Hounds of Acteon"
Melissa Dickson
    ---"Medusa Writes Her Epitaph"
    ---"Perseus Regales the Throng with a Blustery Tale"
Clinton Van Inman
    ---"Diana"
Sophia G. Starmack:
    ---"Savonarola's Dream"
Katie Lynn Weldon
    ---"Joanna of Castile Marries Prince Phillip"
Bill Wolak:
    ---"The Viking Raid"

**

"The Hounds of Acteon"
---Harold Bosstick

It bounds
                     leaping
                                        forward


away


from our ravaging
teeth.

We see our goal              ahead of us


It                                     eludes                            us.


But we close
in on the fear--
soaked prize
ready to clasp teeth
around its nubile
neck.

**

"Medusa Writes Her Epitaph"
---Melissa Dickson

You have to know I loved you all. None
came before me but I loved him.  None
perished at my gaze but at his own reflected.
For this, I wept. For this, I let dreams keep
me while Perseus, clumsy, dumb, arrogant,
a child I could love, stumbled half-blind
to my dark bed and found me, still, eyes
closed ever against him. What monument
he made of me, did not my soul contain.

**

"Perseus Regales the Throng with a Blustery Tale"
---Melissa Dickson

I was Stealth, capitol S, proper noun.
She never heard me coming.
I could have slaughtered all three
without opening my eyes.
I had radical resources, mad swag,
a skullcap that made me invisible.
I was smoke on a sterling platter,
in my fist, a snake-headed cunt
to wager the rest of my life on.

**

"Diana"
---Clinton Van Inman

Go drag your white skull beyond blind seas
That tumble dazed to your mono-eyed magic.
Go tell Neptune when the night is through.
Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning.
But you can't catch me with those veiled half smiles.
Your borrowed brilliance exposes you.
I know too well your darker side.
Go charm some other star struck rhapsodist.

**

"Savonarola's Dream"
---Sophia G. Starmack

Savonarola had a troublesome nose
through which came rushing all the rot of Italy.

Every time his knees knocked together,
a Volcano started up inside--

The year 1500 was approaching.
Every time Savonarola lifted his arms

the wonderful stink of Doomsday
streamed up and rattled under his black hood.

It was only after his Bonfires that Savonarola
learned the truth about Vanity.

Composing his Confession with the one hand
the executioners had spared, he saw it--

the hole where the Evil had been
still whistled. The ashes stank of red. 

**

"Joanna of Castile Marries Prince Phillip"
---Katie Lynn Weldon

The people of the court called her La Loca.
Some nights, they said, there is no rest--
her wailing consumes the country like pork,
smoked slowly over a stake like turning over in her sleep.
Her king, Phillip the Handsome, is gone out to sea somewhere.
Her howling is of sea-storms and sirens,
and all day she kneels in the cathedral, fingering the rosary
he gave her until its beads are worn smooth with prayer.
She should have never married someone whose title
uses the word "Handsome." A Handsome man will not stay.
Any village woman could have told her that.

**

"The Viking Raid"
---Bill Wolak

When the Vikings discovered
that the monastery's nuns
had all cut off their ears, lips and noses
to render themselves repulsive
in order to avoid being raped,
they cursed the waste
of such exquisite,
untouched flesh
and murdered them all
out of frustration.

**

Volume II. Issue I.

June 15, 2012 
The Ides of March Journal

Presently recorded, traced back to ages away 
preserved behind glass, buried neath sand 
once a commonplace relic 
now revolutions and turmoil replace.
**
 poem and photo by 
Eleanor Bennett

Featured in this issue, culled from eight eligible submissions: 

Bryce Ansla: 

    ---"Coming Home" 

Anthony Cappo: 

    ---"Theodoric's Lament" 

    ---"Portella della Ginestra" 

Carter Hayfield 

    ---"Pluto 2006"

**

 "Coming Home" 

--Bryce Ansla 

Afghan sand has dulled my dogtags for two years. 

Two years of recon in the dark, chasing

opium lords through dunes and danger. 

I shot five men muling drugs 

through the desert; they would have killed

me if I hadn't. 

I was finally sent home to my wife, my life. 

I dream of bullets in the desert. 

On a streetcorner where I live, 

three men were arrested 

for selling heroin.  

The desert found me.

**

"Theodoric's Lament" 

---Anthony Cappo 

These pompous fucks with their extinguished 

empire snotting their noses at me. Barbarian, 

they say, though my language now sings 

in the court of their land. I learned their tricks 

in the East and now their Western cousins kneel 

at my boot. Barbarian. I build churches, palaces, 

hire their artists but still the pursed smirk, 

the stifled giggle. Not to my face, but I hear them. 

But what to do? Hack every one of them? Crucify, 

as they would? No, they're of use so I'll suffer 

their slights...most of them. But these fops drink 

the dregs of history. No more legions to enforce their Pax. 

The forest is dark out there, believe me. Wilder eyes 

lie in wait, with tongues that char mosaic and marble.  

**

"Portella della Ginestra" 

---Anthony Cappo 

When the assassins came I laid in the prickly 

pears, bougainvillea shielding my eyes, 

the cries of children shaming the air. 

They shot from the hills and on horseback, 

May Day raid of cops and bandits. Il Duce gone, 

but goose steps march on. Lords enforcing 

vassal domains. When the firing ended, 

eleven slain; I remained to tend the wounded. 

What's happened to my Sicily--envy of Athens, 

bread basket for Caesars, sonnet's cradle, 

jewel of Normans and Holy Roman Emperors? 

The Barbarians are back--mafia scorpions, sleeping 

in the walls of state, engorged, paid to strike, 

and bleed the life of all who till in peace. 

**

"Pluto 2006" 

---Carter Hayfield

Pluto was meanly flung 

from its planetary rung, 

given a different home

like you'd throw a dog a bone. 

Now just a planet minor, 

he spends his days with Quaor, 

Orcus and Sedna.  

Tough break, little fella.  

 

Volume I. Issue XII

May 15, 2012 
The Ides of March Journal 

May 15, 1928: 

Mickey Mouse, famous 

Disney icon, makes his film 

debut in "Plane Crazy."

Featured in this issue, culled from eight eligible submissions:

Zann Carter
    ---"Demeter's Grief"
Mike Miller
    ---"Shabbatai Tzvi, at Dulcigno"
Bill Wolak
    ---(poem removed at author's request)
    ---"Ancient Egyptian Skin Care"

**

"Demeter's Grief"
---Zann Carter

Every mother who loses a beloved child
knows the call to wander the land
in demented searching,
to become an old woman overnight
dragging the raveling threads of her old life,
knows the urge to vanish in disguise,
knows the withering loss
visible on bare hilltops, all color leached
from the dry, cracked earth,
knows the urge to make another's child
immortal.

**

"Shabbatai Tzvi, at Dulcigno"
---Mike Miller

I tarry in the morning
and I tarry afternoon
I tarry on the Sabbath day
and every monthly moon

I tarry, tarry, tarry
to a terrible degree
and it's scary, though I tarry,
there are some who wait for me.

**

"Ancient Egyptian Skin Care"
---Bill Wolak

Ancient Egyptian women protected their skin
from the damaging effects of the sun whenever possible
with fragrant oils, perfumed unguents, soothing massages,
mud facials, and frequent spice and mineral baths.
And they experimented with many exotic remedies to cleanse
their pores, soften the luminous texture of their exquisitely
depilated bodies, and tone and tighten the muscles
of neck, jaw, brow, and belly. The most rejuvenating treatment
recommended unanimously by all physicians up and down the Nile
for silkening the skin the preserving a youthful complexion
was also the most expensive--soaking in a tub full of fresh semen.