Author Topic: The Cenacle | 100 | June 2017 *Just Released*  (Read 645 times)

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The Cenacle | 100 | June 2017 *Just Released*
« on: September 04, 2017, 06:43:52 PM »
The Cenacle | 100 | June 2017
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Hello everyone,

Finally, here is Cenacle | 100 | June 2017! It took 22 years in all to reach this issue, & then all summer to get its distribution under way. That said, it's a really good issue & worth its wait. Just look and see.

Samples of the issue’s contents are below to entice you. The Cenacle is, of course, like always, free to read online or to download.

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
To all of you who've shared 100 issues of this periodical with me, I say: you've bettered my life, you've salved my heart, you've helped to make me the Artist I've wished to be.

Feedback on Cenacle 99:
[Nathan D. Horowitz]
Tamara Miles’ poem “The Giving-Artist”: the narrator speaks to a woman (I think) caring for her dying husband (I think), finding that caring is an art. This is shown through crisp details like the narrator twisting a lock of his hair between her fingers, a makeover: “You sculpt a day from each tentative morning.” Giving an injection becomes needlepoint. The poem is poignant, like the needle; it gives hope, in the face of despair, that even dying can be limned by kindness, craft,
imagination, art.

Poetry by Patrick Gene Frank:
Fiona our PTSD cat
now sleeping peacefully beside me
a break in her misery

Notes from New England by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
The following is a version of some of the events that occurred to me back in 1997, the year I first tried LSD. I’ve recently dived into many of my old notebooks, trying to dig into daylight again who I was back then. Let old pages reveal anew. How my path has shifted, & shifted again & again, because of my experiences that year. I was near 34 years old when my psychedelic adventures began, on April 5, 1997.

Poetry by Tamara Miles:
Wow, he said, you have two
exactly matching compressions
on your vocal cords. Hmm,
he continued, I guess
you’re right, I guess
this is just the way
you were born.

Prose by Jimmy Heffernan:
For example, you could be at a good party and observe that all of the partygoers are behaving according to a rhythm that is somehow common to everyone there, yet is normally beneath the surface. Everyone is him- or herself, but there is a current guiding everyone’s behaviors, and all are in some kind of active union.

Poetry by Colin James:
Mistakes were made, hats employed,
then discarded, like transgressive brilliantine.
Hair Command immediately banned any comb,
brush that is not essential to our work.

Hartley’s Righteous Rants by David Hartley:
Oh, LSD, ol’ chum. They hate you and fear you. They use weapons and torture and all manner of warfare against you. The War on Drugs is all about you. You’re the drug in sex, drugs, & rock ’n’ roll. You’re that thing, that indefinable force, that substance so powerful and threatening to the mainstream world that a war on innocent civilians, indeed even on their own families, must be waged ad infinitum.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
these words:
we are versions of the same thing
let’s help each other

Bags End Book #6: The Grand Scheme of Liberation!, Grand Finally [fiction] by Algernon Beagle:
The good thing about this long story I have been telling is that I know it has a happy ending. I will say this now because I have decided that some stories have parts in their middle that are more important than their ending, & this is one. Sure, things changed between the start & the end, but I must tell all the story till then & not miss any of it until it’s told & over.

Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
Writing a poem
when the mountain
isn’t moving
is the art.

Travel Journal by Nathan D. Horowitz:
It occurs to you that European pagans used to believe in gods because they were running higher levels of dimethyltryptamine than moderns do. The molecule in yagé that lets people see visions is also produced by the human brain. Archaic mythology must’ve been produced by internal chemical effects that attuned people to the wavelengths of reality at which gods are

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
First moon in five months
full outside my window
at the Martinsburg Correctional Center
where I’ve just arrived six hours
from my former jail home.

Prose by Charlie Beyer:
Now the days of winter dark. The shuffling around with red holes oozing. The knowing that the life of the past is evaporated, but longing for the normalcy of a girlfriend. Though a gastrointestinal cripple, I become manic to come up with a girlfriend. In the popular cyberspace haunts of the lonely hearts, I slash through like a machete in the jungle. Using the pictures of my summery healthy days, and the words of a partially disinterested and disenfranchised poet, it is not long before I have ten conversations going.

Poetry by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
My dreams numb of picture, word, advice.
Neither waking nor sleeping. Stand,
stagger, stand. To my desk, its pile high
of old books. Dusty, useless. Then a look
at my vials & flasks of herbs & powders.
Sleepless, I sort through them, sniff
a little, taste a little. Begin to mix
them together, eyes half shut, focusing
on our task, this coming Island,
coming Gate, coming Cave, coming Beast.

Classic Cenacle Prose by Mark Bergeron:
Graham Wilkins was a satirist born in Northumberland, England, in 1721, of nonconformist parents. Wilkins’ work was heralded as the excellence of style in the days of Oliver Goldsmith, and fell into obscurity toward the end of the Victorian era. Wilkins’ novel, House of Suffolk, written in 1763, may have influenced Washington Irving’s sanguine treatment of English rural life in his Bracebridge Hall.

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
You surrendered that
sexy swagger way too soon.
One small squeak of a bedspring
and you were gone.

Prose by Aldous Huxley:
Systematic reasoning is something we could not, as a species or as individuals, possibly do without. But neither, if we are to remain sane, can we possibly do without direct perception, the more unsystematic the better, of the inner and outer worlds into which we have been born. This given reality is an infinite which passes all understanding and yet admits of being directly and in some sort totally apprehended. It is a transcendence belonging to another order than the human, and yet it may be present to us as a felt immanence, an experienced participation. To be enlightened is to be aware, always, of total reality in its immanent otherness—to be aware of it and yet to remain in a condition to survive as an animal, to think and feel as a human being, to resort whenever expedient to systematic reasoning. Our goal is to discover that we have always been where we ought to be.

Poetry by Joe Coleman
These dreary hours between two and four a.m.
are the realm of King Despair

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
OK, I’ve done this before. It’s like I’m enacting one of my many smaller stories. In it, I am a poor, ragged golfer who lives in the Pensionne in the Village & once a week goes with his golf bag & his White Bunny friend up those distant grey hills to the White Woods beyond, & enacts a kind of golfing ritual which it’s believed keeps this Island from experiencing something dreadful.

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« Last Edit: November 21, 2017, 04:12:55 PM by cenacle »