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-Jake Farrow

In the meantime, we thought we’d tide you over with one of our favorite poems of all time — the heart-breakingly beautiful “Birches” by Robert Frost. Enjoy.

Birches

WHEN I see birches bend to left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches;
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

-Robert Frost

While I‘ve enjoyed your ever-carefree presence on my desk since January 2006, sadly, it has come time to end our yearlong tryst. I know I should first apologize for leaving on vacation and forgetting to call a sitter, but now that you have shriveled and turned yellow I find my appeal for you dwindling. I tried nursing you back to health with a hearty does of H2O, hoping you’d don those green smiles yet again. But, you’ve chosen to be difficult, and I am really not in the mood to placate to you dogmatic nature. I’m not saying I did it on purpose, but maybe if you had not been so cold and straight with me – if you’d curled you vines and made a little effort – we wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

I know it is difficult and you want to point fingers, but let’s not forget that entire month you leaked muddy water onto my data reports. Or the time you moved to Melissa’s desk for a “cleaning day” and came back brighter and greener than ever, like you had actually enjoyed it. You thought I didn’t notice, but I did. And, let me tell you, jealousy is an ugly companion. Not that I want to sit here and play the blame game. Rather let’s part with the happy memories we shared: the air conditioner battles, the endless staring contests, the late night vodka binges. We were two of a kind, Bamboo. True bosom buddies. And, as a true friend, I’m not gonna lie – this is going to be a hard transition for both of us. Don’t let the miniature Ficus that appeared on the filing cabinet this morning fool you, no one can really take your place. It’s just something pretty to fill the void. Pretty and full of life…but I digress. After all, love isn’t everything. I guess now we really do know how Ike and Tina felt after they disbanded.

I will always think of you fondly, blocking away the harsh and cruel times we struggled through. I hope you will be able to do the same. There is no need for tears or “Thank Yous,” though in retrospect it might have been nice to hear your soft voice flattering me once in a while. I guess the carbon dioxide my lungs provided was enough to keep you going and it never struck that I have needs too. Alas, just like all my past relationships, I’m blinded to the warning signs when they are given. It’s a little disappointing to realize so late in the game, but I’ll be okay. I’ve made peace with our past. Bygones be bygones, right?

So, Bamboo old pal, enjoy your trip to the outdoors. I am sure it will not take long to make new friends and find a spot to rest peacefully with the other kindling branches. If you feel like it, drop me a line from time to time – just nothing too soon as wounds remain fresh. Let’s both make a conscious effort to heal and lead full lives knowing that the time we’ve spent together will be cherished (yes, even the three weeks I had to be treated for the rash you gave me after soaking in that organic plant food Melissa passed on to you). Those were good times, huh? It might be silly, but I can’t help imagining that years from now we’ll be laughing over these very moments, drinking coffee and sharing a morning muffin like no time has passed at all. Until then, live long and love.

Your endearing, yet poorly appreciated caretaker,
Me

-Amy Pocha

___________

- Ever notice how everything baby tastes better? Baby carrots, baby corn, veal…
- I wonder how baby-baby tastes?

__________

- …So when the pacifier fell out I just let the dog lick it and stuck it back in. I mean it eats it’s own shit all the time and they say dogs mouths are cleaner than humans, right?
- Sounds about right.
____________

- Did you see that all these mothers are getting their children sick and not knowing it?
- What do you mean?
- It was on the news, something about strollers being recalled and yarn hats causing skin rashes. Problem is no one seems to know about it.
- Wow, if I were a mom I’d get home and check that out, like, as soon as possible.
- Yeah, I know. How guilty would you feel if your kid was dying and you were just out, like, taking a walk?
___________

- He asked me last night why he was adopted.
- Well that was bound to happen, what did you tell him?
- The therapist said we should tell the truth, so…
- …
- Then he asked me what the definition of sex slave is…I told him he’ll learn soon enough.

___________

- Jimmy asked when Daddy’s coming back.
- Again?
- He’s unrelenting.
- I mean, really. You need to put a cork in that. It’s not healthy.
- I know. I tried to explain.
- Sometimes it’s not easy to realize someone is gone for good.
- He even wanted to take a box of stuff to the police and have one of those bloodhound dogs sniff it out.
- Ohh…that’s precious.
- I just don’t understand what part of “Mommy’s gun can’t be seen by cops” he doesn’t get?
- Some kids just can’t grasp death. Even when they see it with their own eyes.
- I’ll keep trying.

-Amy Pocha

Their email:

Subject Line: Say What?

(We would never give their address away, but we will say it had “Marcel Proust” in it)

You’re not looking for submissions. You’re looking for contributions. Charity. Freebees. For quality work from professional writers which work you don’t have to pay for. I mean, let’s at least get the vocabulary correct and what you’re really seeking accurate when you post such an ad on the paying gigs/jobs section of craigslist. I mean, don’t insult our intelligence totally!

Our (final) Retort:

Dear Marcel Proust,

Call it what you want, but bottom line, we’re trying to promote writing in the world. We figure the more, the better. We’re sorry you feel the need to attack such an innocuous website whose sole purpose is to support art. Have a great day!

-The Noun

Their Retort to Our Retort:

Don’t make excuses and quit whining and acting like a victim. Just do the right thing. That’s called morality. Morality precedes anyone’s notion of charity and art for art’s stake. Just change the word to contributor/contribution, etc. And don’t be misleading and callow about it. Then lots and lots of professional writers will have a great day!

Moi

Dang.

I tried to tuck away in a corner between L’Occitane and Barney’s Co-Op. The thought of anyone seeing me — nevermind anyone I knew — was unsettling to say the least.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. She was sobbing too now.

“It’s okay,” I got out.

What I didn’t tell her was that my tears weren’t necessarily for her future absence, but for the simple fact that my life was slowly unraveling, one aspect at a time. I was in between jobs, which is to say I was jobless. My boyfriend had just embarked on a three and a half month tour with his band. And I had rear-ended a Saab not but two days ago. Even though she went “back east” every summer, Jane had been the one constant in the shit storm that was my existence.

“I’ve been planning on going back some day, and now feels like the right time.”

Right time? I thought. Jane had a boyfriend. Of six months. How could that be the right time? I was confused by her decision and jealous of her brazenness. I could never do something that bold. At that point in time, the only thing I was capable of doing was clutching my cell phone, willing it to vibrate from my boyfriend’s dialing.

So now not only was I crying at the sham that was my life, but the gross imbalance of my and Jane’s decision making skills. When did I turn into this person I thought? When did I turn into a person who asks herself, When did I turn into this person?

I cut the conversation short, unable to hear anymore. Her decisiveness and “got get ‘er” attitude was only amplifying the paralysis I had grown accustomed to, but still wasn’t used to. The retail therapy that was originally my afternoon intent only made me nauseous now. The stores seemed bigger, more menacing, and the same for the people.

By the time I got into my car the tears drying on my cheeks represented sadness drying into rage. I whipped down Fairfax Avenue swerving in and out of traffic, glaring at drivers as if they themselves had convinced Jane to move. I was so mad at the Universe. Why did it hate me so fucking much? He or she or whatever demonic entity it was, was either testing me for prophet-dom or wanted me to just off myself. I felt like twirling around a suburban lawn screaming, “What are you waiting for, huh?!” like Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer.” But that would be moronic.

I took out my cell phone to call my boyfriend, but then thought better of it. What if he didn’t answer? Then I’d be mad at him for not being there for me in my time of need and this would become all his fault. Or worse, what if he did and was in the middle of something fun (like usual)? Loud music and screaming was the customary cacophony when he was on the other end of the receiver. So I did what I always did -I called my mom.

“Hi, Nic,” she said. She was getting tired of the complaint-fests that had become my phone calls. And who could blame her? Everyday it was something new.

I regaled the saga of Jane and Mystery Move while she listened intently.

“Mmm-hmm… Right… Really?…” could be heard if you were in the room with her. She offered a few suggests and some advice, but we both knew there wasn’t anything that could be said that would make me feel better. I hung up, knowing my next phone call to her was probably a few hours away.

When I got home I sat on my couch with my cell phone on the coffee table in front of me. Plastic vibrated loudest on glass, so if I happened to look away for a moment I would still know if my boyfriend was calling me. Or less importantly, a job.

I walked over to Jane’s room and stood in the doorway. The impersonalness of her stuff had become so familiar to me. Even though we had lived there five years it was as if she never unpacked. The only thing on the wall was a small mirror. Her comforter and sheets were mismatched. There were even boxes on the floor filled with old Newsweeks and US News and World Reports, which are weekly magazines so there were a lot. Had she been plotting this all along?

I walked directly across the hall to my room, which inhabited foofy drapes, an Anthropologie duvet and pictures ad nauseum. It was a comic juxtaposition, our rooms. If someone broke into our house, he or she would surely think I was the happier roommate. I picked up a small Buddha figurine that sat on my dresser and thought about the day I bought it. The only reason I stumbled upon it was because my sister and I had just finished an hour long footslog in search of an Italian ice place I had once gone to. After we found it we shuffled aimlessly around SoHo eating cherry and chocolate frozen treats in silence. And even though the chunks of cherries were sweet and plump and whole, it still wasn’t as good as I had remembered. But it was perfect.

Then, like a buckshot, the idea of getting my own place seemed intriguing, exciting even. I had been living in a defacto one bedroom for quite sometime, and although I wasn’t happy per se, I was still… here. Perhaps a change of environment would revitalize me, mix it up a bit. I quickly decorated my imaginary apartment in my head. There were flowers on the windowsill, giving sort of a Parisian flair. And finally, I painted my walls blue. I was an independent woman and the world could suck it!

But, like most sentiments, it was fleeting.

Feeling crappy again, but like I had done something productive, I walked back into the living room to man my post next to the coffee table. I picked up my phone and realized that for the first time in months, I had a missed call.

-Nicole Fabian

Dog-wagged tails, downstairs,
at the coffee house, and in sensationalist photojournalism
are no different than touchscreen starlets
or a boy in a crowd
with a head full of empathogens
and crossword thoughts
like the self affirmations
of the brainchild, lovechild
of a sad genius
in the auburn hills of Spain.

A road flies by, with neck risked games
and now-stale music, neglected caramels
and defeated companions, their belt crossed faces
But an aura of such beauty
that the sunset cliché approaches, but falls short of
like hand grenades and atom bombs.

-Spencer Mandel

when we broke into a forest clearing and took a long look goodbye

this Tuesday we have a nice new appointment at the bank  

the bank had all

the money we had needed

to answer the case presented unto us

that was all we needed we had no payments

for the longest time

and it came to our attention that we were

to ourselves at any rate

on our own  

we found this out in a manner of speaking

when we wrote down this note  

and all of a sudden there was like some birds do

a downpouring onto the lagoon  

and all the birds sang and cawed and croaked

on the surface and dove down for the fish

with a lot of clatter and fuss of feathers

that was the downpouring of them

and we went then into the forest again  

mind of an escapist

Ruminations on deep incalculable feats

Shadowy webs upon a face of naivety

The plight of continents

exposed to veiled unity

Tasks to imagine

no thought of destinations

Describe without thinking

land held underwater

Fields of vision caught with lesions

that adhere to false senses

Organize avenues of confusion

into parallel aisles

A street map locked in a fireproof box

The ultimate guide to spells of red passion

This liquid is meant to cool skin

as if to say abandon fortunes lost

Embark on travels of light

fastening aims to the sky

In waves unpronounced to kept time

-Adam Russell

-Jill Gray