John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

September 12, 2013

Well, this is my first blog entry since February, but that is not to say that I have not been involved in poetry; quite the contrary, in fact. The most recent and exciting news is that my second full-length volume of poems, Dispelling The Indigo Dream, will be released shortly by Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island, New York. The release will be followed by readings and appearances in the Gulf South region this fall and in the New York City area in general and Long Island in particular. I will post a link for the purchase of my new book as soon as possible, and your support would be greatly appreciated.

Next, I have had a number of poems accepted and/or published since my last post. My poem Dummy appeared this summer in The Minetta Review, the undergraduate literary journal of New York University. My poem In Quietude, which appeared in an earlier post, was published this summer in Lilly Press/River Poets Journal's Tales From the Matriarchal Zone anthology. My poem The Woods Grow Silent will appear soon in Snake Nation Press' Gulf Stream Poems anthology, and my poems Triple Negative and Nightmare appeared recently in The Ampersand Review.

I also published a paper in this year's edition of Cantos, the literary review of Missouri Baptist University. The paper was titled "So You Want To Be A Poet?" and was a primer for beginning and developing poets on how to write, submit, and publish poems. I was also invited in March by Dr. Michael Alleman of The Louisiana Review to give a reading of my poems at Cafe Mosaic in Eunice, Louisiana, which was a lot of fun.Video was shot of the reading, and I'm trying to get a link to it, which  I hope to post soon.

Finally, I have completed and published print volume one of my Big River Poetry Review, of which I am very proud. The print volume is 185 pages of outstanding contemporary poetry, and includes every poem we published on-line in the Review between its inception in late May 2012 and the end of December 2012. Please support the Review by purchasing a copy or two (it makes a great gift!)on-line at http://www.lulu.com/shop/john-lambremont/big-river-poetry-review-volume-1/paperback/product-21126941.html. Here are some pictures of the launch party we had for the Review at Teppanyaki Restaurant in Baton Rouge on August 24:

Now for some poems. This first was nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2009 by A Hudson View of Manhattan, NYC, after being rejected by several other journals. Special thanks go to editor Victoria Valentine for her vote of confidence in that regard.

SUBURB IN RONDO

                1.

Sperm with no song,

sea plum trumpet,

now can you play?

Just one of those magic moments

you can never get back.

“Fire is the power in this patrol;

here return your bricks to home,

in travel and in stone.”

I’m adapting to not adapting.

Woo me with passion, Mary Diamond,

I want it after the dirt.

                2.

“Of course I can’t tell

what this snap-out is made of,

but seeds sink into the loam

and lurk.” 

I see them in my mind

at the ten mark line;

I’m sawdusting into the floor

below.

   

My eyes want to be

a pair of hands that touch.

Let’s try to war, it’s called

a plot of goo.

                                                                                    

                 3.

                                                                                                                                             

“Naturalism and diversity, is that correct?”

Pantomime flea stick tick dip?

The old cash register empty,

nothing that some money couldn’t fix;

I’m a four-wheel chair on a five-wheel ramp.

“Want some smiley, some cerviche?

I head shake, pensive in noodle soup.

Can I get some kind of bread,

just some kind of bread with this:

“That’s no kid, that’s a midget in spywear."

                4.

“You’re putting that in your navel?”

Oh, it’s filling in nicely, I think.

Master of the breakfast table,

you can feel the fire in my stove.

The sausage is not in the sink.

We’re staying down at the Cure-O apartments;

we need someone to re-mail these units.

“Ah, now I’m getting light-blinded;

I’m going to have to blink.”

We’ll check into

the gaudy pass-out truck,

assuming it’s bawdy enough.

I might try the sticky round-up

and the parents’ meeting,  

to see if that will oppose,

as opposed to rope.                                                                                                                                                    

                5.

“Now we go a-quarter hole digging,

nineteen holes, breast implant enhancement.”

I see your view over the pushman leggings,

and it was short.

I will be pursued by your Rondo, even though

while I may move faster,

he will pursue faster also.

I will know the fullness of the river

when I feel the cool nest of the springs.

But the high tides of July

abound about the nineteenth,

encircle my gull cries,

as I might become extinct,

a last night’s sojourn

as the moon turns full.

One thing I preach as a poet, editor, and commentator is to never give up on a poem you truly believe in, keep polishing it and re-submitting it until it finds its way into the right editor's hands. That was the with Suburb In Rondo; it was rejected at least five times before it was accepted. 

This next poem is the last in the series of three poems I had published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:

THE JACCEBA USURPER

In the darkness between
the setting of the large moon
and the rising of the small one,
he slips into the women's chamber,
idly, without thinking.
His brother's wife sleeps separate
from the women lined on pallets.
She has assumed the waiting position
in the ritual rope bed,
half kneeling, half crouching,
arms extended, hands on the supports.

He sees she is sleeping lightly,
her lashes flutter slightly,
and he wonders why his brother
has not taken her;
two days have passed
since their vows were exchanged,
and she is a handsome woman,
beamy, roomy, and able.
He had wanted her for himself,
but she had favored his brother,
said the village chief,
and he could not understand this,
as he and his brother were identicals.
He sensed the presence of politics,
since his brother was a sitwa in training,
soon to be pressed into service
to the Sajan.

He stands above her, longing,
then pulls a small stool over
to the head of the bed.
Standing on it, he sees an opening
between her arms and chest
big enough for his slim frame.
He steps gently over the supports,
and slides slowly beneath her,
then realizes immediately
he is trapped.

She feels him pressed against her, and stirs.
A pleasant hum escapes her
as she embraces him,
and he buries his face
between her heavy breasts
in case the dark
does not allay detection.
Every part of him is petrified,
including his maleness.
She pulls aside her bed robe
and loosens his loincloth,
lowering herself onto him.
She moves slowly on top of him,
kissing his long neck
to muffle her moans.

He hears a sound above them,
and looks up in the soft light
of the rising second moon
to see the face of the elder vesper,
who watches without expression.
Again he hides in the bosom
of his brother's wife, until
he hears the vesper clear her throat
quietly and leave the chamber.

His brother's wife has not noticed,
so deep is her passion,
and he is soon astonished
by the quickness and force
of his climax. She removes herself,
and lays back on the bed
in the rapture of the moonlight,
her turrine at full brim.

In the early morning,
he enters the meal chamber,
and sees his brother's wife
smiling and making love eyes
at his brother, who ignores her
as he dines with his fellows.
At the head table, seated
between the chief and the elder vesper
is the Sajan himself.
The Sajan has a smile for the villagers,
but peers at him intently,
no laughter in his eyes.

And finally, to close this session, here's the next installment in my series about The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, the diminutive alien despot of a far-away planet:

    A BIG MISSIVE

    Grand Poo-Bah next heard

    from the Poo Pledgeslature,

    and they were not pleasant,

    but harsh in their nature;

    

    the Grand Poo-Bah grinned

    at a list of his sins,

    a war so deplored, and

    most Boo-pahs now gored;

   

    a Flea Market panic,

    and the Ant Market frantic,

    with nobody spending their

    Poo-Bahlese yin;

    His personal excesses so justly exposed,

    the IV Sambuca, the hose up his nose,

    plus games with Boo-Pahinees

    dressed in pink hose.

    Grand Poo-Bah then summoned

    the whole Pledgeslature;

    he begged for forgiveness,

    his winces convincing,

   

    he said his behavior

    was Holy Poo Nature:

    “Oh, well! What the hell;

     Dispatch all the Pledgeslators  

     straight to Hell!”

That's all for now. I'll try not to let seven months slip by before my next post.

My best, and yours in poetry,

John Lambremont, Sr.

John Lambremont. Sr. - Poet

   February 8, 2013

   Here we are on the eve of both Chinese New Year and Mardi Gras, and it is somewhat unusual that both fall so close this year. As a lifetime native of south Louisiana, I've always enjoyed Mardi Gras for its parades, pageantry, and revelry. Most towns and cities have celebrations, and the small-town Mardi Gras celebrations are more family-oriented and laid-back than is the festive frenzy of Carnival in New Orleans.

   Chinese New Year has become part of my life as the result of my 32-year marriage to my lovely wife, Nhu-y, as she and her family are Vietnamese and Buddhists. The Vietnamese celebrate Tet every year for three days, and it is the most important day of their year. Here is an acrostic poem I wrote for the occasion a few years back, when Chinese New Year fell on February 14th, Valentine's Day. This is the first public appearance of this poem.

DOUBLE HOLIDAY (an acrostic) 

Hearts and flowers aren't the only things today, my dears,
Always seems there is more than to what the eye appears;
Prayers are due to ancestors that went before us here,
Peaceful thoughts for them in grace, try to hold back the tears;
Yes, it is the time that comes one time this time of year.

Char the pig on open coals and savor the best slice,
Have a piece with skin attached, the flavor's very nice;
Itsies run around and wave red money envelopes,
New bills folded for good luck are carefully enclosed;

Elders sit on lawn chairs and exchange their fondest hopes,
Sisters watch the gambling games, and teach the kids the ropes,
Everyone is happy, as this holiday's the most.

Now the sun is setting, and I slip out for a smoke;
Evening is beautiful, although it is still cold;
Wishing I could wait here for the rising moon of gold.

Yelps are coming from the house as fireworks begin,
Even longer strings of poppers than I've ever seen;
All are cheering as we chase the bad spirits away,
Really, it's the best way to enjoy this joyful day.

   It has been quite an experience being the "foreigner" in an immigrant family, and has prompted a lot of poems from me. Here's another, which appeared in my first book, Whiskey, Whimsy, & Rhymes (2009), which is available at Amazon.com and most major bookstore websites. This poem was one of the first I wrote when my muse re-descended in 2008:

TEMPLE AT SUNSET

Lady Buddha rises,
alabaster gleaming
over coi lake reflecting
embers of a dying sun.

Higher than an elm,
her face in silhouette,
her smile is all mystery.

Chanting from the temple,
our ceremony done,
another underway;

Our vegetarian repast
passed among us,
satisfying,
but missing Grandma and Grandpa.

I am the foreigner here,
once shunned, later to become
Uncle John (you know,
the American one).

A monk clangs a bell
to signal the sun has sunk.

The Lady is nearly dark now,
but ever presiding
over these holy grounds.

I slip away to
peruse her majesty,
and in a golden glow,
to myself I say:

'Mom' and 'Dad,'
I took your daughter away,
but that choice was yours.
Thanks for learning to forgive,
for treating your daughter's lover
like a son or a brother;
in return I gave to thee
beloved grandchildren, three.

   As far as recent news goes, since my last post, I have had several poems accepted for publication. My poem "Passages" has been accepted for the 2013 issue of the Indian River Review, the literature review of Indian River State College in Fort Pierce, Florida. "Enmity" and "Now Hear This" were accepted for the 2013 issue of The Mayo Review of Texas A&M University-Commerce. Local Gems Poetry Press of Long Island is compiling an anthology titled Retail Woes, which will be released shortly, and which will include my acrostic poem "Quality People Wanted" and my short poem "The Finding." My poems "Still Waiting" and "A Big Land" were picked up by Lost Tower Publications of the U.K. for their upcoming Hope Springs A Turtle anthology; and lastly, "Upon Discovering Your Own Corpse" will appear in Diogen Pro-Culture Magazine of Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, late this month. I still have three full-length collections under submission, so please continue to wish me luck.

   This Asian-influenced poem appeared in the fall 2012 issue of San Pedro River Review. Special thanks to co-editors Jeffrey Alfier and Tobi Cogswell.

THE SENTINELS

Two tiny dog lions preside

over my back door, harbingers

of menace to patio invaders, 

refugees of a trailer park yard sale,

burnished brick plastic now blistered 

by years of burning summer sun

and misery-wet winters,

slowly bleached near-bone white,

more than teeth exposed.

They are unremarkable replicas

of their hand-carved hallowed ancestors

seen still in moving depictions of temples,

pagodas, and shrines of Laos or Burma

or my dear bride's Ancien Hue,

set in stone repose at the front gates,

large unarmed guards meant to prevent 

the evil spirits of passing millenia

from entering.

One toils under climbing impatiens,

half-buried in a dead ant-bed,

awaiting their inevitable return.

The other is my smoking buddy,

but tonight his grimace is fixed

on a place somewhere beyond me;

he glares through me soundlessly,

his pug face snarling in ill- 

concealed contempt. I turn quickly

to see what he sees: the fireflies

gathered in late unseasonal swarm.

   Next, we have the second in my trilogy of poems published in Romania in Nazar Look's Extraterrestrial Life anthology:

IN THE AFTERMATH 

(from Dali’s Three Young Surrealist Women Holding 

   in Their Arms the Skins of an Orchestra – 1936)         

The bed of the Ulinary is desiccate,
devoid of its black tar flow now drying
in pools atop the surrounding bluffs
and outcrops of boulders and rocks,
a danger still to children and small animals.
The newer moon, so near in orbit
to cause the cataclysmic uprising,
reflects light so brightly that the night
is negated and the stars darkened.

Three Jacceba women, chosen
muses of the Citadel of Ancient Discovery,
are in search of exhibits swept away
by the dark toxic tide, their heads covered
to preserve their hair hues, but breasts bared
to absorb the beneficial moon
radiation, said to be lactary.

Two hold wooden torture instruments
thought to be from the Era of Insanity,
but the amalgahyde of the flood fluids
has rendered both pieces rubbery, while
the alloy sound weapon has brittled,
and will disintegrate when touched.

The third waves to the Sajan’s sitwas
waiting on a nearby ridge, a signal
for them to lower the ropes and nets
from their pulleys.

   Finally, here is installment four in my series about the misadventures of The Holy Grand Poo-Bah, a diminutive despot from a far-away planet:

A BIG INSPECTION

Grand Poo-Bah still high

on his fat fluffalump,

swaying unsteadily,

already drunk,

inspecting the Boo-pahs

and the Poo ammo dumps;

and then as he lifed

his small Poo-Bah ass,

the great beast’s weight shifted

and shattered his flask.

Poo-Bah’s thigh glass-tattered,

and minding the matter,

he slid down the trunk 

and landed with a grunt.

Bleeding profusely,

his stomach in quease,

he heard one young Boo-pah

just cackling with glee.

They grabbed the offender,

and he went to his knees,

no longer laughing

as he begged apologies.

“It’s all right, my son;

I, too, was once young.”

Then Poo-Bah dispatched him

with a blasting Poo gun.

“Oh, well! What the hell,

I’ve got other sons

from where that one came from.”

   That's all for now. Thanks for reading and for your comments. Don't forget to check out our poetry review, Big River Poetry Review, at bigriverpoetry.com.

Happy Tet 2013!

John Lambremont, Sr.

2/8/2013