​What Shall I Not Do To Forget

And when you are silent
On the other end of glass
I bleed my hands
To touch
What we left unfinished.

Does it feel then
Strange and alien to walk under  another sky
Does it feel then easy
Not to think of me
Or in another country  you call yours
Is it full of spring
That you forget my summer?

​



​No Country To Own

What will people do
Who have no city to call their own
Whose houses were four corners they turned
When life took them.
What will such people do
Who long to grow roots
But who stumble when they see faces
Trying to recollect
Each face from a dead memory
Memory that was not born, naturally.
What would such people do
Who want to know what it is
To dwell under the same sky
The same sunrises and sunsets
A meal on the wooden table
There forever to take
And the evenings
A circle around the tea cup
What would they not do to swing their hands
In the alleys ways
Knowing for sure
The next corner they must turn?

​DUI
 
Driving at breakneck speed,
color blind at the stoplights.
Dyslexic and semi-literate,
stupefied by the traffic signs.
Stereo conveniently amplified,
drowning all city sounds.
 
She professed love or hate
naked, at the top of her lungs –
King James Version.
 
Maybe I preferred it with
deuterocanonicals,
Today’s English Version.
 




The Desperation of My Brethren
 
is palpable:
the wall
in front
when I stand
and above
when I lie
on my back,
touching
the tip
of my nose.
It’s also
the wall
behind
that
props me
on my feet,
and the floor
I lie on.
And I am
sandwiched
between one
on my left
and the other
on my right;
they pinch
my shoulders.
My brethren
feel mine
the same way.
 
Altogether
we are
blister packed
and
expire.

​At the Esso Station

The service island lights were without pity.
Everything that was, that might have been
was in them. And the gentle snow
we brushed from the windshield, and the hood.
 
I would have liked
that all things had ended then.
A drunk in a pickup – ice-slip! missing the bend,
taking us with him
 
through the display glass, 
the racks of 10W30, STP, blue antifreeze,
through the pyramids of Red Bull and Coke, the chip aisle,
on through the men’s magazines, their calendars,
souped up Dodges and Mustangs, old Camaros,
 
into the coffee machine, the mop
propped up beside the restroom door,
the cinder-block wall.
 
I would have liked that. That pickup truck.
Or the next.
 
We tapped the icy wipers, blew on our aching fingers.
The truck eased silently around that bend,
faded into the swirling night.




​
​Bio: Nicola Vulpe considers poetry an unfortunate habit, which he has supported by working as a computer programmer, university professor, senior manager in hi-tech, and technical writer. He studied at the University of Ottawa, and the Sorbonne, where he completed a doctorate in philosophy. He has published two books of poetry: When the Mongols Return and Blue Tile, and a novella, The Extraordinary Event of Pia H., who turned to admire a chicken on the Plaza Mayor. He has also edited Sealed in Struggle, an anthology of Canadian poetry about the Spanish Civil War, and written articles on subjects as diverse as the Epic of Gilgamesh and Norman Bethune. He likes to think that “The People with No Friends”, an article he published about the Kurds at the start of the First Gulf War (Bush Sr.), helped save some lives.


-----------------------------------
Image - Jonathan Kennedy - 
​www.flickr.com/photos/theghostsofgiants/4329306424/
creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

​BAIT
 

The room is spinning. My head is pounding. I can’t see.
          My hands are shaking already. The bed is sweaty, the sheets clinging to me like damp hands. My stomach heaves and I retch onto the floor. My throat burns and my eyes stream hot tears. I can smell stale drink and smoke off myself and cringe at the reek of my own body.
          Zack groans and kicks me. I fall out of bed, my palms and shins scraping against the rough carpet. More cuts. It doesn’t matter.
         I get up and stagger to the wardrobe, dragging out one of Zack’s t-shirts. I tug it over my head and shuffle, zombie-like, into the living room. Em is sprawled on the sofa, half-dressed, her eyes fluttering and her mouth open. I waken her brusquely and scowl at her as she stares blearily up at me.
          “Move.”
           Em gets off the sofa, grumbling. The room’s a mess. There are sticky rings on the coffee table from our drinks, and the ashtray’s full of butts. The kitchen boards are covered in three days’ worth of takeaway boxes and there are dirty dishes everywhere. There’s a distinct smell of vomit coming from the bathroom. I decide I don’t care about any of it. I slump down on the couch and start to roll a joint. My hands shake so badly I drop it. “Shit.” I scrape the green off the coffee table and pack it in again. It’ll do.
         I fumble for the lighter in my pocket. Light up, breathe in, deep, deep, good. My head swims nicely. It still pounds like drums are banging in my brain, but the high helps.
            Em brings coffee, hot, black, strong. It burns going down. Drink, drag, drink, drag. My mouth and insides are on fire, but in a good way. I feel alert and sleepy at the same time, not properly alive yet. I close my eyes and take another deep draw on the joint as Em begins to roll one of her own. She knows I’m not going to share.
           Zack comes out of the bedroom. His long hair is dishevelled, like a blond bird’s nest, and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s thrown on his old, ragged bathrobe and tied it loosely around his waist, and his feet shuffle in dirty socks. He looks like shit.           
         “Did you start without me?” he demands. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, and his eyebrows are knitted together in a frown. I duck my head apologetically.
            “Sorry.” I offer him the spliff but he shakes his head disdainfully. He goes to the cabinet and brings the wooden box with him, the one with the old band stickers on it. Slipknot, Sum 41, old-school screamer music that always gives me a headache. He drops down onto the sofa beside me and pulls out a little bag of white powder. He cuts it into straight, snowy lines on the coffee table and snorts it up.
            My turn. Anticipation tingles in me, like an itch that needs scratched. Snort, snort, like glass in my throat, like ants in my brain, it stings deliciously. Swallow, bitter taste, then the lightbulb. Ah, I can see, I’m alive.
           Em’s turn. Her eyes go wide and dark, like black holes. She looks like a shitfaced rabbit. It makes me laugh, my throat burning with a sharp, uncontrollable cackle. Zack slaps my leg irritably.
             “Shut up. You sound like a fucking maniac.”
            He grabs the back of my neck and pulls my head down to his lap. I get it over with quickly, he’s done in two minutes. I spit into my empty coffee mug.
               “Go shower,” he tells me sharply. “You’re going out today.”
            The water is hot, hot, burning. My skin turns lobster red, it feels like I’m standing under a lava flow. It’s the only way I feel clean anymore. I dress casually; jeans, hoodie, boots. I scrape my hair back into a ponytail and push sunglasses on to hide the purple rings under my eyes.
                “Take those bloody shades off,” Zack growls, “and put on make-up. I want you to look good, not like a fucking tramp.”
               I do, and change my hoodie for a low-cut tank top. The bruises on my arms have faded to a greenish yellow. They’re not too obvious, so I don’t worry about it. I take my hair down again -- it needs dyed, badly; there are a good six inches of brown root fading into the blonde -- and slick on mascara. My cheeks are hollow and sunken, so I add some blush. Better. Zack nods his approval and I slope out of the flat, trying to ignore the niggling jealousy as I see him beckoning Em to the bedroom.
                I’m the bait. I get the girls for Zack, and he pays me in drugs and lets me crash with him. I’m lucky I have him. I’m lucky I’m not on the street, that I have a bed to sleep in and food to eat, when I can face it. Without Zack, I’d be dead in a gutter somewhere.
             I walk through town, vodka and a few joints in my handbag. I swig from a bottle of Lucozade and suck hard on a cigarette, pretending it’s a joint and imagining the beautiful, head-cloudy feeling. Soon. I reach the shopping centre and hang about the food court. I get a burger and eat it one-handed, texting Zack pictures of girls.
              After an hour, he gives me a target. Two of them. They only look about thirteen. No sweat. I stroll over to them, hitching my confident smile to my face, and bend over, catching the eye of one of them; she’s a real baby-face, with big blue doll eyes and blonde hair. Zack will like her. He loves the innocent ones.
            It works as it always does. A sly grin, an offer of a drink in the park, and the girls are like mice to my pied piper. They practically frolic after me as I lead them away from the food court, and I can see their excited looks at each other out of the corner of my eye.
          Of course, all little girls are warned to watch out for strangers. To not go off with a strange man, to never get a lift with someone, to not drink anything they haven’t seen being poured. But they never think another girl could trick them. Girls stick together, girls look out for each other, girls are trustworthy.
            I’m not that kind of girl. Not anymore. When I was younger, I was as sweet and innocent as the little blonde who now sits on a bench swigging vodka straight from the bottle. But not now.
            I used to be a good girl, hanging out at the mall with my friends and thinking black eyeliner was rebellious. But then I met Zack. He was very different then. He was eighteen, and the hottest looking boy I had ever seen. He had a cheeky smile and deep brown eyes like pools of melted chocolate. He wore edgy clothes and smoked rollies, and I thought he was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe someone so cool would want anything to do with me, and when he paid me attention I was so flattered I would have done anything for him.
             I’ve been with him two years now. He has Em, too, but he tells me I’m his favorite. He treats me better than her; I sleep in the bed with him, and she has to make do with the couch. I always get first drag on the spliff, or first swig of the bottle, and he lets me leave the house. He trusts me with bringing back girls for him, because I always get the ones he likes.
               These girls are easy prey. I could tell just by looking at them that they were dying for a good time. I plaster my grin on my face again and draw out a joint, waving it around temptingly.
              “Anyone want a little puff?” I ask, blazing it up and inhaling deeply. The swirly light-headedness floods me like purest joy, and I pass it to the blonde girl. She takes it, eying it dubiously, and takes an experimental puff. Of course, she coughs and splutters and her eyes water, but she perseveres, taking two or three shallow drags before handing it on.
             Soon we’re all nicely stoned, and I propose heading back to my place for a little party. The girls share a look and I pretend to look in my bag as they agree, then we all troop out of the park and down the road.
            It’s starting to get dark, and I suggest that they text their mums and tell them they’ll be out late. They look scared, until I say, “You should each say you’re going to the other’s house for a sleepover. I used to do that with my mum all the time, and I never got caught.” Their faces brighten and they set to texting. I send a quick one to Zack to tell him we’re on our way.
              He’s done the usual sweep of the flat. It looks quite good; he must have had Em help, because there’s a candle burning in the middle of the coffee table and the carpet’s been hoovered. There’s a six of beer on the kitchen board, and the coke box is sitting, ready to go, on the side table.
             “Zack!” I call, and I can hear how wasted my own voice sounds. Zack and Em come out of the bedroom; Em’s dark hair is ruffled and her shirt’s on inside out. I feel a stab of jealousy and shoot an evil look at her. She cowers and scuttles into the bathroom.
I introduce Zack to the girls. They giggle drunkenly and accept the beers he offers them, sitting squashed on the couch as he spreads out in the armchair. I put music on the iPod, one of Zack’s bands to put him in a good mood. I light up another spliff, but Zack takes it off me and smokes it himself. I go and lift a beer from the kitchen instead. I’d much rather have more vodka, but we drank it all in the park so I have to make do.
               The night goes as they always do. We get the girls stupid drunk, spaced-out high, and Zack works his magic. The girls are like putty in his hands, hanging on his every word. He’s charming when there’s something to be gained. When they’re so besotted with him it’s all they can do not to drool, he takes the blonde one by the hand and leads her into the bedroom. Em turns up the music and we start to dance with the other one, distracting her. Not that she needs it. She’s so blazed she can barely stand. I don’t think she’s even noticed her friend isn’t in the room anymore.
               She starts to fade. Her eyes droop; her words are so garbled I can’t understand a word she’s saying. She sits down on the sofa and passes out in a second. Em and I look at each other, turn down the music, and put a blanket over her.
              I hear Zack calling for me from the bedroom. When I go in, I see the blonde girl lying on the floor, her skirt around her waist, fast asleep. I bend and tug the hem down to cover her.
              “Bring Em and come here,” Zack says. I glance down at the girl again as I go. Her eyes are fluttering, her pink lip gloss is smeared over her face, and a purple bruise is starting to bloom on her upper arm. The guilt, which usually doesn’t hit me until the morning, starts to creep in, but I push it away.
                 Em and I go back into the bedroom and do what Zack wants. He always likes us together after these kinds of parties; the little ones turn him on so much he’s always ready to go again once they’re out cold. When he’s finished he lights a joint and we share it, passing between us and filling the room with smoke.
              When I wake up, light is streaming from a gap in the curtains straight onto my face. It’s like being stabbed in the brain. I groan and roll over. Em’s arm is thrown over me, and her hand gropes my boob in her sleep. I slap her away and get up, my head whirling, my stomach protesting. I run to the bathroom to vomit, stepping over the blonde girl who is still unconscious on the floor.
             I make coffee and sit down beside the dark-haired girl, who’s curled in a ball on the couch. She’s snoring softly, and the even, rhythmic sound is oddly soothing. I roll a spliff and smoke it leisurely. Zack will be in a good mood this morning; I don’t need to worry about using his stash without him.
                After a while, I hear Em and Zack in the bedroom. Em’s watched too much porn; she makes silly squealing noises that I guess are meant to sound like she’s enjoying herself. It makes me think of a piglet, and I suppress a giggle even as jealousy bubbles irrationally in my belly. I don’t enjoy sex with Zack, but I’d rather he did it with me than with Em. As I listen to them, their noises interspersed with the banging of the headboard against the wall, I think that Zack usually sounds more enthusiastic when he’s with me. I know what he likes, I let him do whatever he wants, and I never complain.
              Once they finish, Zack comes into the living room. His good mood is plain on his face. He sits down beside me and puts an arm around me, drawing me close and pressing his stubbly face against mine. I kiss him, letting him stick his tongue in my mouth, resisting the urge to pull away from his hot, stale breath.
                  “You did well yesterday, Jodie,” he says. “What reward would you like?”
A smile comes to my face; I can’t help it. I must have really pleased him, to get a reward. But I know what to say. I lean in close to him; drop my hand to his crotch.
               “I think you know what I’d like,” I purr, and I watch his pupils dilate. He licks his lips, reaches for the coke box. He cuts four lines and we snort them up; he’s ready in a moment and we do it on the sofa, the dark-haired girl still snoring beside us.
               We sit side by side, his hand gripping my thigh possessively, sharing a joint. The smoke coils lazily around us and I watch the swirling tendrils dazedly. After a while I notice a strange sound, coming from what seems like miles away. A feeble, bubbling, choking sound.
               Zack’s on his feet in an instant. I follow a second later, going towards the noise, and I realise it’s the blonde girl. She’s vomited all over herself; it’s dripping down her cheeks, over her chin and down her neck. And she’s choking on it.
            “Quick!” I gasp, suddenly completely, painfully sober. I throw myself on the floor beside her and haul her onto her side. “Zack!” I screech, thumping her back to try to clear her throat, “Do something! Call an ambulance!”
                 Zack doesn’t move. He’s shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says quietly, his voice shaking. “I can’t.”
               “What do you mean, you can’t?” I demand. I’m wiping the sick from the girl’s face, trying to clear her mouth, but still she gags. She’s bright red now, but her eyes are shut; she’s still unconscious. “Zack, she’s choking! She’ll die if we don’t get help!”
              Still he shakes his head, and I can’t believe he’s just standing there. I turn to Em and her face is a mask of horror. She gets up and bolts from the bedroom. I hear her gagging as she runs.
             The girl’s making terrible gurgling sounds. Her hands and feet are jerking, and I thump her on the back again, praying that she’ll cough and clear her throat and breathe.
               “Please,” I gasp, but soon there’s no sound at all, and her body goes limp and still. “Oh my god, Zack, she’s dead.” My voice is empty, I’m numb with shock, she’s dead, she’s dead, oh god, she’s dead. I look up at Zack, and his face is white and sick looking. He backs away to drop onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.
                 My hands are covered in blood and vomit. The girl -- I don’t even remember her name, -- is lying on her side, her golden hair a tangled mess around her quickly paling face, her skirt still hitched up around her thighs. I cradle her head in my lap, terrible, sickening guilt tearing at my belly like a wolf’s claws. She’s dead, and it’s all my fault. I’m the bait, I brought her here.
                 Sirens. I hear sirens in the distance, and I know Em must have called for help. I glance up at Zack, and he shakes his head. No point in running. I sit, rocking the girl like a baby, and wait.
              Zack has never worried about being caught. He thinks he’s untouchable. The police have called round to the flat a few times for different reasons, but Zack’s never been charged with anything, even when Em and I both had black eyes and bruises, and once Em was passed out drunk in the bathroom. You’d think the police would have taken one look at us and arrested Zack on the spot, but they don’t care about girls like Em and me. We’re troublemakers, sluts, care-home rejects. Adults pretend not to notice us. But I know that this time, we’ll be noticed. And it won’t be good.

// Dogs of Delaware County // 

I hear distant dogs obeying the command of the midnight hour
I hear spring peepers and the highway with too many cars and not enough people
Every sedan carries a lone passenger, an imaginary backseat driver, and an empty seat where a lover once sat
The seat belts don't work and the headlights are too bright
I'm tired a new kind of tired
There are buildings and bombs and everything else is useless
Falling by the wayside and empty handed
I am branch on ground
Broken and bruised and rotten
No insides just hot air balloon hell and impedance
She's nothing and she knows it
I think she's everything in the whole entire world
She's the world to me
She's bigger than everything and I can't stand it
I can't seem to be anything at all in her presence
Unless she says I'm something
But she never says enough
And there I go
A cold blooded mule walking down the road alone and unemployed
There I go
Off to the auction
Off to my future with nothing to show for it
Just rotten eggs and bad memories
Dirty mattresses and worn out bathrobes
Toothbrushes and second-hand pajamas
Short of breath and dead-end kisses
I've been walking forever in these shoes
I'm a shoemaker's nightmare
I'm everything without her and even less when I'm with her
She's not mine but I'm hers
She's a thousand miles tall and here I am being nothing but a cobblestone
One in a million
Letting the world walk all over me
At least she's among those idiots
Pure in heart and taller than the pine trees they've been cutting down for firewood and for fun






// Vermont Arthouse Hellish Afterparty // 


Oh the angst of my aching back with stacked up winter sweaters
You sit cross-legged on the floor behind sofa you found on the street outside your ex-best friends house
There's your blanket and blouse all tangled like tangerines in a sunlit dream in Bahama billionaire private villa suite 
All secrets keeping themselves
And then here I am, arm in hand and head in cloudy portrait on back wall billows smoky silhouettes

Oh spirit writing goddess swiftly riding across universal paths of ecstasy in imaginary dreamlike alleyway conversations
Mutual friends with strangers and boulder Colorado Buddhist temple terra plane blues 
God bless this fucked up place with her holy shops and heroin epidemics ignoring holy war tranquility center for arts and narcissism 

All poets a little gay working at corner cafe riverside ritual township in backward historical district delight upon my arrival at the end of an affair had with New England territorial parties that go all damn night with hands up and letting go and letting go again 
Oh I love them all 
I miss them 
All the people
With their faces
Eyes lips hair hats music guitar abilities dreams and talk of blues and banquets for Jesus and witch doctor aphorism 
Spiritual healers making out with me in melancholy mutual agreements dancing on mattresses above head with period blood stained panties and a heart full of confetti phantasies 






// Farewell to Folly // 


I breath in heavy like a bulldozer up against a pile of gravel 
The season is spring but it might as well be summer 
I keep expecting the leaves to be up and running by the time I walk outside but alas most of the trees are still naked and their bark still tattooed and shrunken like an old bartender in a Scottish wool sweater. 

When sad one rarely feels anything in particular
Seems like staring at a creek or something would do me good
I've been to two rivers today, a pond, three lakes, and four waterfalls. 
All of them kept going without noticing me
I was hoping the waves would take me with them
Wash me away to someplace special 
Maybe a carnival or a circus or a wedding or a funeral 
Anywhere but here
I looked upon the grass eagerly
Expecting it to grow in my gaze
I watched the faded brown leaves that looked like shredded cardboard boxes flow freely across the damp field
I didn't answer my phone
I couldn't be bothered
Didn't want to talk to her
I knew she didn't have any good news and my heart was much too heavy for anything serious
I wished she knew this
I couldn't help but notice my disappointment in her 
Didn't she know who I was and how I was feeling? 
Why didn't she get in the car, come over, and hold me until the birds stopped chirping for the night? 
Why didn't she know I was two hundred miles away from goodness? 
Why didn't she see my narrow eyes and my tired back?
I didn't understand it all
I was astounded 
She could move mountains if she wanted, couldn't she read my mind too?
Surely it can't be too difficult. 
I'm an open book and she's a genius.
What else can you ask for?

The wind whistled a flat tune against the grey brown hills. 
I sat in unsolicited solitude anticipating something of a foreign era 
Future or past I couldn't tell
I knew today didn't have much for me anymore 
I decided to end it with her 
She was up in Nashville all the time anyway and didn't like to take the bus
I'd send her the seashell sculpture I picked out for her while on tour in Texas and send her my last thoughts and close the book. End the chapter mid sentence without even 





// River Gurl // 


Like a dog in a kennel I want what I cannot have 
And so I want you more than ever
Want you like a story book wants to begin again
Need you now on Lake Superior looking across the shimmering spring haze
Want you to take it off and swim 
Swim with me in deep water blue
Want you
Like in autumn 
Want you in the cold water on hot day 
Listening to the birds sing blues ballads about murder & love 

Want my finger to run a marathon across your back
Round your pelvis 
Up your spine 
Across the street 
Over the bridge 
Down to the water
Inside you 

I want you now 
Holding you against me
Around your waste 
I want my fingers down your throat 
Take it off
Nothing between you and me
Just skin
And your little lips and your worn in fingertips
Cause you build houses
Like a real woman
You garden 
You work hard
You drink too much 
You avoid your father
You're a good listener 
You call me at two AM on the dot
You have bad reception 
You invite me over
I don't cum 
You give up on me and move on and I miss you 
I wreck your house and sleep in your bathtub 
I miss you more than ever
I want you to drive over and let me buy you lunch and watch you take off your pants on the shoreline 
Let the sun make your hair look like a forest fire
Throw pine branches to your dog 
Make him go away so I can kiss you good enough 
Eat you out in the promised land breeze 
Want you now 
Now that you don't want me anymore
Only want you when I'm lonely
And when you're walking away
Pull you back and take you from behind 
Make you moan like the melting mountains 
After the thaw 
Make you take me home and cook me up something vegan
Watch you dive in the lake while I tread water
You're much braver than I am you know 
You're older than I am and know more
You care a lot 
I care too 
I'm not good at showing it
I'm the guy who offers to clear the dishes once the tables empty
I don't mean to be late to the party 
Only I walk slowly and carefully 
I don't like tripping 
I don't like people 
I love them and that's enough 
All you need to know is if our paths do cross again 
I'll be more honest 
I'll say I want to see you but I want to go slow 
I'll say I care about you but I can't go to Colorado 
I'll tell you you're beautiful 
I'll tell you you're beautiful 
And say you're the prettiest tree in the forest and that's enough 
I'll shut up and won't feel the urge to say more if I don't feel like it
Won't try filling in the blank
Won't tell myself you want more of me than I can possibly obtain 
Won't say anything 
I'll say less and mean more
I'll tell you you're fucking beautiful 

I'll be myself and you'll respect that 
I'll go home sometimes 
I'll be alone a lot 
I'll be with you on good evenings 
I'll be yours sometimes
I'll be mine all the time
You'll be mine too 
I'll be your friend and not send you this letter now
Make sure it gets lost in the mail
Won't meddle in your new life
Will let you move on and respect you for it

Won't buy you a drink tonight 
​

           Photography by Angel Ceballos 


                      "Clear the way, I'm coming through, no matter what you say. I've got work to be doing, if you're not here to help, go find some other life to ruin."  Thus begins Hoop's latest album, Memories Are Now, moving from scorched earth to more hospitable soil and back into the burn of the ground. Hoop asks only big questions with her music, with a world at war with itself, while slowly sorting through a bevy of handed down beliefs. In The Coming, Jesca sings, "I wake up to the most spirit-rattling scare. As I'm losing my religion, layer by layer 'Cause it's triggering all of the tripwires. And the traps and the snares. It's that old device called fear." Maybe not the belief so much as what we do with the belief, take what you need, leave the rest, but let everyone in, perhaps more into the heart than any actual place. Musically, the album strives to strip away the layers, leaving only the necessities of the creation so that “It's still covered in embryonic fluid," as Hoop says. Ever since the release of 2007's Kismet, the world has gained a songwriter who pounds the earth with her fists for songs that rise up to meet her in the air. Like centuries old cathedral bells ringing out when you least expect them, Hoop's music sends shivers up your spine, not because it's invasive but because it's inviting. Hungry for answers and ever travelling the path towards where they may or may not lie. Memories Are Now finds its strength anchored from within. “I've lived enough life, I've earned my stripes. That's my knife in the ground, this is mine." Jesca brings into the world an album whose stakes are high, and if we're up to the task perhaps we might join in on the journey, endlessly asking questions that we may never find the answers to but nevertheless pound the earth for. 


AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way?

Jesca: I was told at the very start of my musical career, by someone I trust, to expect what I want to come to me. Just expect it. I set out with those words resounding. I did not, over time, find them to be sound advice. They set me up for a fair dose of " WTF'S" when the opposite of what I wanted.... happened. Very early on I hit some considerable road blocks. 

​Though I had a fortunate introduction into the music industry, what I found beyond the door was less generous. I really had to hold my own and keep my nose to the grind stone, reinforce my bootstraps and rely on loyal comrades to keep going. I have managed to maintain a working career in music for 10 years, producing, manufacturing and releasing records independently and it has not been easy. This year I felt greater ease and reward in my work and I have enjoyed that very much. Music has carried me all over the world. It will continue to do so if I continue to work and for that I am very grateful. I am glad it is has not come easy because it means that i have earned my success's. "My daddy didn't buy em for me" kind of thing. It is important to remain humble and earnest in the work as we navigate through the industry. To create music for a living is a great privilege. There is nothing owed to any of us and a sense of entitlement is not a good look on anyone. Nobody needs rock n roll brats hanging about. 

AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? 

Jesca: My mother and father raised us as a musical family. With 5 children you have your own choir see. I learned to harmonize at a very early age. I know my parents got a lot of joy out of teaching us and seeing our abilities blossom so early on. It was a lot of fun. I recall eventually hearing Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush and that changed the game for me, along with Four Track Demos by PJ Harvey. I had been listening to the likes of Joni Mitchell and Paul Simon all my childhood, which is a credit to my father, and from them I gained my sense of "song". Kate and PJ were mind expanding discoveries that came later and these two artists had the most impact on opening my horizons for songwriting and the voice as an instrument and channel for self expression. 

AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? 

Jesca: I never used to write down my songs. I would muse them up on long walks to and from school and I would commit them to memory as I romped along. Songwriting was a way to pass the time. My first song was about my two best friends Julie and Kendra. It was very sweet, whimsical and long and I'm sure an editor could have made 3 songs out of the one. That was a time of great curiosity and discovery for me as I was just realizing that I had these abilities and spent all of my free time in my imagination, traversing the realm of song. 

AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, mentors/teachers etc?

Jesca: I would say, Kate Bush, Paul Simon Joni Mitchell and Nina Simone. They are masters in my eyes.  I want to keep storytelling and the craft of songwriting alive. I aim to ever grow in my ability to connect emotionally with the listener through a musical story. 

AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak?  

Jesca: I know I have a worthy idea if the melody and poetry start to evoke a certain feeling. If i expand the musical narrative to drive the feeling, the feeling will soon form images and those images will form a story. That story will transport us, all guided by sound. 

AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? 

Jesca: Music is a healing art. It may not always be used that way, but it is regardless. I often times write in a sort of explicit style and I do that as a sort of service to the listener. I feel the more we communicate the more we connect. The more we connect we realize we are not, in ANYTHING we may go through, alone. 

AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? 

Jesca: Straight out of high school, no longer living at home, free as a bird, taking LSD up at the lake house and having 3 day jam sessions with my friends was pretty awesome... I gotta say. Pure unadulterated drug addled fun !! 

Other than that, more recently I sincerely enjoyed writing, recording and performing with Sam Beam aka Iron and Wine. We made a record called Love Letter For Fire. It was so fun to share the writing and to sing duets. My favorite thing to do is sing harmonies and with Sam, I was doing what I feel I do best. 

AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell?  

Jesca: It depends on whats going on in the world. I am obsessed with religion and war and you will find threads of these themes drawing regularly through my tapestries. I am also confounded by oppression, this utterly fucked system we find ourselves in which functions only if oppression is at work. This is has been fueling my writing lately... . 

AHC: Do you regret that our current trend is often to digest/purchase music in pieces, rather than being consumed as a thematic whole? Is the ordering of songs, linear wise, and told as a sequenced story, a large part of how you put together your musical work?

Jesca: Without the complete work, there is no Story. Without the Story, there is no Legend. Sit at her foot. Listen in awe, fill up to the brim and in return, leave your heroine offerings. 

AHC: Do you have any words of advice for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? 

Jesca: Doubt is a valuable ingredient in any worthwhile endeavour. It causes you to examine yourself and bring yourself to task. Doubt is something to kneel before, take into account and respectfully move past. Do not fear doubt for "every doubt is just a trigger proving strength".

AHC: Could you talk about your new album, Memories are Now? What went into putting together and creating this new cycle of songs? What is the muse, the center of this album for you? 

Jesca: Communication is at the heart, as it often is with my songs. In each song, I am addressing a certain person or persons or entity for that matter and I'm basically telling them what's up. They are confrontational, all of them. I didn't realize I was doing that as I was writing them and I didn't realize they share confrontation in common. It was not my intention to write a bunch of protest songs, but I'm quite pleased in the end. The world could use a good protest song, or a 1001 right now. 


Visit  www.jescahoop.com/

Afternoon Call

Listen, just in case,
              In case what?

In case there should be, in case tragedy
                        What kind?

In case volcano, in case earthquake, in case fire
        Where? When?

In case market, in case earth, in case
                                               In case Trump?

He cuts her short, switches off his iphone, puts down his
Coffee cup, gets up from his long held position
And leaves his voice echoing at the other end
               In case asynodia, she murmurs, in case

​




​… Needs a Smile

So it invented flowers
To bloom in every season, and

Rivers to irrigate the dry fields
Beyond the barren banks




Bio: Yuan Changming, nine-time Pushcart and one-time Best of Net nominee, published monographs on translation before moving out of China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver; credits include Best Canadian Poetry, Cincinnati Review, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1289 others across 39 countries.

Photography by Axel Kowollik


                   "You are in so much pain, I did not inflict it, I cannot take it away" Stephanie Forryan sings in Helpless, a song that says so much in the simplest, most purest of ways. Forryan talks us through how letting the moment inspire us, creatively, bends its branches into our daily life as well, "Let the way you feel right now inform and change the choices you make as you sing and play" Stephanie writes, and "as you get better at doing that with music you also get better at doing that in life."


AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way?
 
Stephanie: Again and again, music teaches me the importance of being present in the now. The best way to capture a song: Let the moment inspire you. The best way to perform: Let the way you feel right now inform and change the choices you make as you sing and play. As I get better at doing that with music I also get better at doing that in life. 

AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them?
 
Stephanie: The moment I first heard Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" was like taking my first breath. I didn't really know what a musician was; I just knew that whatever it was those guys were doing, I had to do it too.
 
AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? 
 
Stephanie: About five minutes after hearing "Sound of Silence", I asked my mother if I could borrow her guitar so I could learn how to play it. She gave me a book with tabs, taught me how to read them, and I literally played until my fingers bled. I spent every spare moment I had playing that guitar. Then I heard that there would be an open mic night at my school and I really wanted to perform. The only problem: I couldn't really play yet - my fingers couldn't move fast enough to change chords quickly. I signed up anyway and by the time the open mic night rolled around, I figured out that if I wrote my own song with chords I could already play, then I'd be ok. That was when I realized how much easier it was for me to write a song than to learn one. I don't think that realization was very good for my learning curve on the guitar, but it jump-started my creativity and started me on the path I'm on now.

AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc.? 
 
Stephanie: The things that teach me the most are the ones that surprise me. Like Anna Meredith's "HandsFree," where orchestra members play music with their bodies instead of their instruments. Or when Francesco Taskayali's made his Wintergatan Marble Machine to make music with marbles. Songwriters like Tori Amos with "The Waitress" or Imogen Heap with "Bad Body Double" used unexpected glimpses into relatable moments and quirky perspectives to teach me that there are no rules. Steve Reich's "Proverb" taught me how to paint with nothing but sound. And Beck's "Loser" was a great lesson in how to write effortless stream-of-consciousness lyrics. 

AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? 
 
Stephanie: When I work on the first draft of a song, I don't record or write down any music. If I can still remember it the next day, then it's worth working on. It's so much fun to wake up the next day and discover that it's still there, waiting. 

6) Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener?
 
Stephanie: Music is a connection to something bigger. When I'm writing or performing a song, I feel like I'm channeling something that resonates with who I am and with that bigger something at the same time.
 
 AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road?
 
Stephanie: Much of my childhood was spent on Cape Cod, near a seaside town named Chatham. A local big band played at the bandstand every Friday night all summer long. My family would often stroll through town, munching on penny candy, and end our walk at the village green to listen to the band play as the sun set.  Those moments captured everything that's great about being a kid.
 
 AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell?
 
Stephanie: My songs tend to stay at a more intimate, personal level but personal stories are a microcosm of the world - they make up the culture we live in, and that culture writes the script for our politics and world events. So yes, I set out to write songs about where the world is - I just do it at a quantum level.

AHC: Do you have any words of advice for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process?
 
Stephanie: If you're doubting yourself: Get a job you hate. It will drive you to do what you love. Because you will spend every moment at that job dreaming of what you'd rather be doing. Then make music and remember that old job any time you think about giving up; it's great motivation.
 
 AHC: Do you have any new projects you'd like to mention?
 
Stephanie: Right now I am working on "The Living Album Project" - an album that grows and changes because it shares the whole creative process. I post songs at their earliest stages and then update them as I go so that people can hear how songs grow and change. Then my online audience will help me choose the final song selection for the album at the end of 2017. You can watch and listen to the process at my homepage stephanieforryan.com and on social media.


stephanieforryan.bandcamp.com/

A Convict On A Mule
 
A bald man with an accordion
Witched me on
A back road that was
Lit by moonlight
 
He stepped out of
Nowhere wearing
A Prussian officer’s
Uniform
 
The air smelled like
A loaf of fresh
Bread
 
He looked like
A joyless man
But he danced
As he played
 
I was conflicted
Like a crocus blooming
Through the snow
 
The handgun tucked
Between my belt
And the small of my back
Warmed to the heat
Of my skin
 
His tune was beautiful
Incandescent like cobwebs
Painted ghost white
By dew and moonlight
 
That tune got stuck
In my head
Like the names of
Lovers long gone
 
It followed me home
And hung on for
Weeks, months
A full year
 
What I did with
The handgun
Is not really
Part of the story
 
The music
Would have
Stopped
Eventually
Anyway
 




Starvation
 
Death keeps no food
In the ice box but there are
Pear trees behind his barn
 
Anyone who stops to
Beg a meal is invited
To pick his fruit
 
Eat it and your time
Aint long
 
The earth and sky both
Empty their graves
Exchanging what is prayed for
With what has been lost
 
There isn’t another farm
In walking distance
The only thing that’s clear
Is the choice
 
Starvation is the
Dry chuckle of an old man
Sitting on the porch
In a creaking swing




Bio: Mark S. Borczon is a writer living in Erie, Pa. He used to publish widely in the small press. When not writing he takes care of students in wheel chairs at Edinboro University of Pa's office for students with disabilities. He has three daughters who he loves dearly.