BUK 100 – Thank you


Books ready to fly! You can order the well-made piece here: http://newington.blue/ , DM them at press@newington.blue

What a delight to learn a poem of mine, written in the spirit of Saint Bukowski, b. August 16, 1920, was selected for a chapbook celebrating his 100th birthday! My first international submission acceptance. Indeed an honor. A copy is flying closer towards my mailbox as I post this update.
These are beautiful, limited edition, small press collector books that you can still order–get your copy today! Contact Newington Blue Press, East London, today! (Apx. £25)

“Newington Blue Press was born in 2020 – when due to the Covid–19 virus and pandemia the centenary Festival on the occasion of what would have been the 100th birthday of Bukowski – to be held in Germany – had to be cancelled. Originally planned as a small, humble replacement only, our anthology of tributes, testimonials, and unpublished works – lived up to it’s second volume so far and is to be continued.

Downing Street chirps in a word.

The writer’s call-out & mission statement for BUK 100:
“We have gathered writers, scholars, and graphic artists/photographers from all around the globe in order to celebrate the man Bukowski on the very occasion. Our contributors range from contemporary witnesses/friends of Bukowski – still alive, to emulating artists working in his tradition, scholars who work for or gaining degrees/doctorates on Bukowski to congenial artists esp. in the performing arts who are occopied with the phenomenon of the «poet laureate of skid row» for years. Everybody is free to greet Charles Bukowski in his or her specific way, style and individuality, be it an essay – a photograph or poetry. We would warmly welcome you to take part in our little endeavour, which explicitely aims to blow borders of nations and thus assembles contributions from artists from all continents.”

Hank and a Ham Sandwich

P.S.
Perhaps you and a writer you know say, “I need to give this some air.” Reading a work in progress at an open mic or to a group of other writers can help form the piece. In 2018 I read my Charles Bukowski-inspired poem “Christopher Titus Save Me.” based on the Bukowski poem “The Twelve Hour Night”. It is one of my longest poems, yet written from the heart -or should I say the wrenched heart- about working as an overnight deep cleaner at a Casino. I had no words to describe the experience and Bukowski helped me find those words. But, the poem needed air, it needed to be tested.

In my town, we have a monthly open mic at the local indie book store, Village Books. The night I signed up for a 5-minute read, a new artist was in the crowd drawing, um, portraits… of each reader. Bob Zaslow–thank you. Bob included in his portrait lines from “Christopher Titus Save Me”.


Listen to Poetry Club Talks…Charles Bukowski, that I hosted.
I share the how & whys of what the 2002 book
What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire did for me.
https://poetryclub.podbean.com/e/poetry-clubtalkscharles-bukowski/

Monday is the first day of SPRING! The sun is coming through my window. I watched it as it arched around the buildings, right-sided shadows slowly making their way left. The Christmas Cactus takin’ it all in.
No meme this morning. just this photo.
-Hope you are well, healthy, happy, fed, sheltered, loved and giving love…and CREATING,
Shannon

Short Story: Wolf and Girl

You never know where a great idea for a story will come from.  To me the definition of a “great story” is one you can’t stop writing.  A world that awakens every time a finger tip hits a key, because you yourself love it!  

The story below is a snip from a writing warm up I started one morning, based on a dream I had.  Meant to only be 1-2 pages long, I have decided to expand it into a short story.  My original goal for the exercise was to add place and time to the events.  All stories have to have a world where they wiggle and run.  This is a “Great Story” and I can’t stop writing…  
Wolf and Girl

1364, the Black Forest of Germany and fairy tales, where witches hollered out spells to the sky, and blood sucking creatures, that feed on our dead less than fifteen years prior were born.  The Black Death brought the wolves down out of the forest and into the fringe boundaries of our little town where the dead were burned and buried.   Hungry wolves found dead bodies an easy meal.  Dead mothers, brothers, sisters dragged off, bones licked clean before a priest could speak a prayer.  Great hunters, immune to the plague, rose up, in honor of the dead.  These hunters were paid in wolf pelts, God’s blessing for returning the dead and free beers at the pub.  Hunting parties killed many wolves, none more than my father. 
Mother died in the plague.  Father said my birth weakened her.  Her heart was stronger than most, yet it was not her heart she gave me, but her eyes.  As I grew, I resembled her, which only angered my father more.  The memory of his dead love standing before him every day was like a cut that never healed.  Father’s fame of being the regions “champion hunter” died and ran off with the packs that left in search of new grounds.  Father is now a shell, angry, empty, and full of fermented drink and hate.  Hate towards me, hate towards God. 
When the wolf packs left, my beatings began.  They became more frequent after my hair darkened months later.  Black like the night, it draped over my features, keeping me hidden from him, when I escaped into the woods.  The woods were the last place I should hide from a “champion hunter” who, it was said “could track the wind itself through the thickest brush.”   Yet father let me hide.  He let me run.   His threats would race out the door, as sharp as his ax, chasing me up into the mountains, until my silhouette was hidden from site.  Always he stopped only four trees deep into the forest before resting up against an old pine.  The screams were like a wolf’s howl, words slurred by beer and grief, “Come home!   You can’t hide from me!  I am Reinhardt the greatest hunter!”   I ran until I all I could hear was the sound of the waterfall that never stops, and then I ran some more.

One day while picking berries I found a spot, high in the wood, where an old giant had been cut down.  It made for a nice table, bed and chair; a home for my imagination. In the day I would pretend this was my home, a happy place, full of peace and prosperity.  I was a princess married to a prince and our children were beautiful.   At night, if the sky was clear, moon light would find that tree stump through the dense crowd of conifers for a brief hour, “magic hour” I called it.  When father was at his worst and I knew there was hell to pay, I escaped to my magic place waiting for the beer to leave his blood.   
Last Night
There was a wedding in town.  Everyone in the village was invited and beer flowed like the river Danube.  Father drank more than ever that night.  Free beer goes down easy.  Tonight was my chance!
I raced home ahead of Father to pack, raced in the dark up the quickest trail to the cabin; stars guiding me.  The moon was still low in the sky.  It would be above the trees in a hour lighting my way away from here.  Tonight, the night of the full moon, would be the last night I would spend in the home I was born in.  I knew he would kill me, before forgiving God.  I packed, for a future unknown, I packed for my life.
~~*****~~