Carcinogenic Poetry Print Anthology Vol. 2: 2011

Within the pages of the 2nd annual Carcinogenic Poetry print anthology you’ll find the entire 2011 collection of poetry from the free online blog, Carcinogenic Poetry. This year’s anthology includes over 90 poets from around the world. The writer’s herein are denizens of the indie writer’s world and have appeared in the journals and internet publications that map the underground realm; some are new poets, unknown and unread, but with promise their work graces our pages.

Carcinogenic Poetry originally opened on the internet in December 2009. Since then the website has been visited 1000’s of times, our top readership including countries like the United States, Ukraine, Germany, the United Kingdom, Russia, Canada, China, Australia, India and the Philippines, a reason why we sometimes encourage our contributors, “Come read, come get read.” We are very happy to have an international list of contributors, as well as an international reading audience.

The gems contained in the volume are many and include Pushcart Prize nominees, as well as, work previously published in other respective journals. So whether you follow the Carcinogenic Poetry blog on the Internet, or you are a first time reader, I hope you enjoy this contribution to the literary underground and as we, the reader and writer progress along the continuum of Carcinogenic Poetry. 288 pages.

Doug Draime - Four Poems

Writer’s Block


A self imposed spell
is broken.

The ceiling cracks like
walnuts.

Windows shake from
the shattered sound barrier.

Someone has set all
the pigeons free in Baltimore.

The dog laughs hysterically
at the lopsided, cross-eyed cat.

And reflected on the wall of my mind
are images of a 1930’s Hemingway,
and Celine, and the delicate

movement of Carson McCullers
feeling her way through a dark
and empty house.

Hesitations of creative movement
drowned in the sound of locomotion,
ancient whistles and bells

reverberating through my body
like new blood, or a train with golden
and endless tracks.




They Are Slaughtered Still


Older hookers on 44th Street
Still proclaim that he was just
A kinky, foul mouthed john
From the baby killing Pentagon
They laugh about him now
That his money is going to the
Escort services suggested to him
By a well known congressman
And the slaughter of babies still goes on

They are slaughtered still

As the prices of the call girls grows higher
Without a thought he fucks his girls, and kills
Those babies, his hand in the cookie jar in the kitchen
Of his mansion, his wife chattering on
About her tedious day talking to the PTA
One son is home from Princeton eating
Breakfast at the kitchen table, another
Son is just coming down the stairway
As the babies keep on being slaughtered

They are slaughtered still

As he prepares to go to bed that night
After a long day in the War Room at the Pentagon
He sees decomposing bodies in the mirror but
None of them appear to be his own, so he takes
Two sleeping pills, climbs into bed next his
Snoozing wife and falls fast to sleep like a baby

As the babies are slaughtered still




Banging The Cup Against The Bars


In this
senseless
conflict
the dream
of the
world
presents,
we are
all
prisoners
of
ourselves,
locked
away
in our own
calculated
nothing-
ness
making up
forms
that have
no
con-
tent
and which
can
never free
what never
was.




Poem For Myself


When I hit bottom I
find nothing but
absolute relief, when
truth nails me, like an
escape from a war zone.

Yet in part of my mind I
still battle with grim,
archaic melodies,
in the burning fires
of my ego’s
being laid waste.

The face I see in the mirror,
is just a thing,
like any thing, like a table, like
a cloud, like a memory,
like a daffodil, like the pen I
write this with.



Doug Draime's most recent books in print are Rock 'n Roll Jizz (Propaganda Press), and Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press). He has been a presence in the small press and literary underground since the late 1960's. Awarded PEN grants in 1987,1991 and 1992. Nominated for several Pushcart Prizes in last few years. He lives with his wife and family in the foothills of Oregon.

Gorakhnath Gangene - One Poem

Pebble

A pebble washed out of the sea
lay exposed in the sand and trees
The beach- goers throng
tread on the pebble all day long
Sunrays hitting her sharp
pebble’s missing the sea’s gentle lap
days come and evenings fall
pebble’s longings deep and strong
For she yearns to return into the sea
wanting it’s cooling pats
She loves the warmth of it
the showers she takes in its soothing breeze.
Stray dogs spray her
children toss and throw her
sometimes she’s buried under the motor car
or climbs the body of a tourist who sunbathes
She stares at the sea
makes plea after plea
hug me…. cuddle me
don’t inflict this insult and forsake me
The mighty sea heeded not pebble’s desperate calls
Pebble doesn’t give up at all
scores of years pass, all her shine gone
Pebble’s thirsty …. still lusty, awaiting her lover’s call.
She is now far…. so far off from the sea
sits in the water receiving a colourful fountain’s fall
for she beautifies an artificial water pond
in the shopping mall
Her tears are not seen in the pond water
shoppers say….look,
the pebble glitters
in the lights and water.




Gorakhnath Gangane works as an English Language Instructor at University of Jazan, Saudi Arabia. Gorakhnath has five of poems published in online poetry magazines and paperback form. Gorankhnath takes great interest in English Literature, especially the romantic poetry of William Wordsworth, Coleridge, John Keats, Lord Byron and Shelly.

Dr. A. V. Koshy - Two Poems

Exile on (a) Side Street

I am not that exile
the Stones sang of
or one of the great dissenters who had to flee
to save his life
like Nabokov or the others
of that ilk from Russia or Germany
or more recently
like Rushdie or the Chinese
or all kinds of others from various countries
or one of the proud writers
who later became great
in their self-imposed
desertion
of religion, country, sometimes language
and even family
in silence, cunning
or like Beckett
or Eliot or Pound et al;
that whole irksome great writing love-hate mod lot.
I'm just the wandering-
should I say Jew?-
minstrel or bard,
alba, serenade and nocturne
all I can do...

I'm just an exile
on (a) side street
listening to the organ grinder playing his tune
while that male monkey wearing that girl's dress sneers
and I weep, lost; in some strange- sounding lane

Your breasts are the fairest ones, my love
My sweat turns to blood over here, my love
Away from you and the distant home's hearth
For gold for you and our children, three
And the fire to burn brighter, "gash gold" saffron
Gold made from turning these "thistles" to wealth
Yes, I have learned "alchemy," my love
And this is my "tagelied" for beautiful you...*

*For you, Anu




Dirty Picture, Dirty Poem

1. When you took your life
did you foresee
this travesty?
Do they know how Silk
is made by/from its worm?

2. And you
Knowledge Boy*
showing your 'teacherly' tits
for all to view,
do you foresee?

3. Psstt!!
Dirty pictures
of both of you
in Delhi's
undergound scree**
glazed snapshots, post(playing)cards
to be handled, shop-worn
later soiled, and torn
and tossed apart
into the garbage bin
stained, and used
repeatedly.

Then
incinerated
carelessly.


*Vidya Balan
**Palika Bazaar/New Delhi



Dr A.V. Koshy is presently Assistant Professor in English Language and Literature in Jazan University, Faculty of Arts (Girls), English Department. He has published a book, research publications, articles and several poems. He is crazy about Jesus, his family, poetry,art, literature, autism, chat, gadgets, the internet, teaching and music in more or less that order.

Dane Karnick - One Poem

Minimal Art

The least amount
of harm painted
between us
where your line
touches my circle
a junction
allowing space
for confusion
to arc over
isolated streaks
in their attempts
to brush away
the dimensions
of our canvass.



Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives in Seattle. His poetry has recently appeared in RED OCHRE LiT, Montucky Review, Curbside Quotidian and Orion headless. Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.

Roger Singer - Two Poems

Yellowed Curtains

Night sheets,
the black swan wings of darkness,
cover city skies
with the ending of day.

Corners absorb sleepy air. Stones and
dirt lay quiet, undisturbed.
Sidewalks breathe without feet.
A taxi idles at the curb, the driver
with eyes closed, a paper coffee cup,
grinds out the minutes
of boredom.

Voices from the second floor,
behind curtains, yellowed from rain,
splash out shadows of arms and heads,
walking, turning, speaking with
their hands.

A light rouge breeze lifts the edges
of collars and hair without hats.
Doors lock. Villains and victims
settle down.
The sea of night spreads its tide.



Studio

Brown circles with peeling paint
mark the ceiling in the studio where cords
and wires drip like warm frosting
against paint spattered walls.
Frames gather in stoic square herds,
some ornate while others are dull;
Excuses waiting for brilliance.

Two overhead fans force down the unused air
from a stagnant heaven onto
canvases draped over easels and drawings,
covering the unknown of colors and figures
and landscapes without trees and mountains
gazing onto nothing.

The canvases are the skin of the studio,
the wrapping paper of birthdays, the surprises
of hope yet revealed.



Roger Singer began writing poetry when he was in the military many years ago. He resides in New York.

Jack T. Marlowe - One Poem

The Hot and Cold of it

my heart:
an abandoned
cigarette butt
sputtering on
the sidewalk in
mid-winter, its
lonely embers
anticipating
the kiss of
some charitable
snowflake, her
approach
welcomed by
a puff of smoke
rising to her
curiously
soothing touch
despite --
or maybe
because of --
the certainty
of a future
extinguished



Jack T. Marlowe is a gentleman rogue from Dallas, TX. A writer of poetry and fiction and a veteran of the open mic, his work has appeared in numerous zines, online and in print. Jack is also the editor of Gutter Eloquence Magazine.

Dr. Yogesh Sharma - Two Poems

Death -A New Beginning

O! Death don’t scare your children,
One may doubt the existence of god,
But can’t doubt your reality,
Omnipresent death is always with me,
But I don’t fear the mightiest of all.

There is a mysterious door,
But where are the keys, nobody knows;
Looking impatiently and praying to God,
Life keeps on moving and without stop,
Age keeps on running and no retreat.

The Day of Judgment is pre destined,
And re-incarnation, accordingly,
Death should be embraced with a sense of fulfillment,
All the powers under the sun can be tamed,
Only one shot of your wild love can sleep all eternally.

O! Mysterious death, lift me in your wings, swiftly,
I want to give my farewell hug to my darling,
And see my creator face to face and say,
“Here comes one who spared no wrong,
Waste not your tears; he was a patriot, not a secular sinner.



Enlightened Soul

Enlightened soul,
Empowers a man with inner beauty.
A man with inner beauty,
Vibrates a house with harmony.
A harmonious house,
Brings order in a nation.
A nation with order,
Spreads peace in the world.
And a peaceful world,
Gives energy to the people.
And people with energy,
Have liberated self.
Liberated self,
Enlighten souls.



Dr.Yogesh Sharma is a teacher, poet, writer, columnist and NCC officer. His poems and articles are widely published in journals, newspapers and anthologies in India and abroad.