Tuesday, 16 March 2010


Not the infamous album by Fleetwood Mac. No, instead these are rumors associated with an editor running amok in Joshua Tree, Big Sur and Palm Springs, CA. I am, without a doubt, still here and still reading. Please do blast all the conspiracy talk and revel in the truth.

I left for a two week vacation mid February, believing with all my heart and soul that I was going to replenish my heart and soul. I dutifully left a "vacation setting" on all my correspondence:

"Sydney Nash will be "out of the office" from February 10 through March 1. If your inquiry requires immediate attention, please contact Mike French directly via the "contact" information at the View From Here"

I returned home March 10.
In my real life, when I'm not reading poetry and networking for The View From Here, I am a Life Coach, a spiritual columnist and something of a pretty decent psychic. Sadly, my foresight was sincerely lacking when I packed my suitcases and headed off to the airport a month ago. In my own defense, I generally avoid questions such as, "Who will die while I'm on vacation?" when I head out of town.

Thus, what began as a nice get away trip ended as a very traumatic and expensive journey in to the center of my family. My oldest cousin decided to trip the light fantastique while I was visiting. He did not have a wife or children and his parents had passed some years ago. That left my incapable and very frail mother or her incapable and very frail sister to make decisions.

Enter in the only relatively (pun intended) sane person left to handle details. The man left behind a business and two homes without a Will. By the way, please don't die in the State of California on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday. The Coroners office is not open. Budget cuts, yanno?

In any case, travel was rescheduled, a funeral was arranged, attorneys hired, grumpy priests reckoned with and more. It was an oddessy of great patience, much telephone wrangling, a lot of "hurry up and wait" incidents; I am no longer an innocent when dealing with the art of death on this side of the coffin.

Arriving home to a multitude of additional worries including a mountain of email, work to be done, clients to be contacted and schedules to be reorganized all over again left me needing a vacation, from my vacation.

The result of this mess did not allow me to update and inform our poetically inclined readers of our most excellent February Issue and March did come in like a Lion. I am hoping it retreats like a lamb. But not one of those lambs from a Tim Burtonesque sort of romp. No no no -- we want peace.

ALL THAT BEING SAID - - however belated, our February Poets are an outstanding crew of intellect, humor and more including a most intriguing, thought provoking piece I could not say no to by the eloquent Jamie Robles; inspired by a piece of jewelry viewed at The British Museum which you will find just below our February Line Up Here:
  • Franz K. Baskett
    "Getting Started Outside Barstow" & "Between My First Sleep And My Second"
  • Carlos Hiraldo
    "Stiletto on the Still Earth"
  • Paul Handley
    "Marrow of Breath"
  • Christopher Woods

  • All of this goodness can be found in our print version. Feel free to purchase an individual issue or a subscription by following the tags at the top of the page.

    Now, as promised, "Gold Body Chain for a Small Woman" by Jaime Robles.

    “Have mercy and pity on me and let me rest my heart in you.”
    --translated from French and incised in a twisted gold brooch, 14c.(Scottish National Museum)


    Cross my heart. Place the long X of woven chain
    across the clavicle's horizontal bones: four-petalled; an ornament
    marks the junction with stones--front and back, roped:
    such discs serve as calculations of the heart's orbit.
    In the midst of tumult a man's voice curves--
    carves lines of gold--across the body's turfs

    seam settling over the seized heart

    as an amulet amethyst and garnet

    resplendent pearls passed into dust


    Can the earth have corners? Bisected twice in perpendicular,
    long loops collapsed into the rectangular--.
    Her breast a globe hung from the shoulder's
    cross, pressing flat against the cage of the lover's
    chest. A cloven circle. Stealthy in its advance, the heart passes
    through gates, buries itself beneath the earth, unlooses
    the foreign. Her arms flow upward--a gold cord remakes
    their embrace--his arms sketch the lower legs of the X,
    across her back, fixed. Each feels the arc of other between
    them and the open line of severance.

    three threaded thick seeming and

    four fingered into a fulcrum each

    strand strung from a single terminal


    The bird rushes into the window. It does not see
    the glass but believes its flight forward will be unimpaired, free--
    pursuing the mirage of sky on the utter surface, branches of trees,
    image smeared flat, highlighted and darkened, strangely:
    the flyer's reflection veers outward, hurtles head on.
    Shifts in blue cloud its small eye, miniscule evidence
    skims the black iris. The flyer plunges in.


    His voice follows as precisely as a finger the chain
    that paths under her arms, bright like a coin among many,
    more than a thousand: edges of silver clipped, the gold
    pliable, fluid. Her face, a linen coffer opened like a fold.
    Surely something dreadful must have happened
    for no one returned--the treasure left, never retrieved.

    loop-in-loop links of gold

    ends turned toward the center

    fused fracture filleted into the prior

    Picture Credit to Andrew Mason on Flicker for "screaming hand" in banner above.