#Howard Altmann

[jjaycore]

"The Bleached Field" by Howard Altmann (North American Review Vol. 306, No. 3 (Fall 2021))

#august #poetry #howard altmann #this journal was a source on wiki for my late night excursion into 1850s antislavery politics and checked a random issue #and yep this is going straight onto me blog thanks

[qudachuk]

A dead bird stumbled upon during a walk leads the poet on an inward journey confronting historical and biological cycles and the act of writing itselfA dead bird in the snow is not how I wishto begin this walk,...

[comporsilencios]

PALAVRAS

Temos saudade do que temos saudade.

Na idade adulta, saudade da infância.

Em Janeiro, saudade de Julho.

Na cidade, saudade do campo.

No deserto, pedimos nuvens.

Temos saudade do que temos saudade.

Diante de uma paisagem, saudade de outra.

Diante de uma memória, é outra quem fala.

Diante do desejo, outro suspira.

Diante da noite, outras noites se acendem.

Temos saudade do que temos saudade.

Quando passa, fica.

Quando sacia, cresce a fome.

Quando se enche, vaza.

Quando amadurece, não tem idade.

Temos saudade do que temos saudade.

À saudade que temos, anos.

A como a temos, segundos.

Para onde, sem tempo.

Porquê, a eternidade.

Temos saudade do que temos saudade.

E em toda a saudade, uma vida.

E em toda a vida, um desgosto.

E em todo o desgosto, uma história.

E em toda a história, palavras.

~ Howard Altmann

enquanto uma fina neve cai

trad. eugénia de vasconcellos

guerra & paz

2019

#howard altmann

[osabordopecado1]

A Barrar com Chocolate

Pega na tua tristeza e põe-na naquele frasco de doce vazio que guardas. Pega no teu esconderijo e adoça-o. Compra o jornal antes de te sentares. Lê os obituários depois de leres a banda desenhada. Come uma sopa que a tua mãe costumasse fazer. Toma uma bebida que o teu pai costumasse pedir. Imagina o mundo habitado por órfãos. Depois procura o homem que se senta sozinho e pergunta-lhe se podes pendurar o teu casaco ao lado do dele.

-- Howard Altmann

#howard altmann

[dunkelwort]

The Manhattan Review - Volume 19, no. 2

The Manhattan Review – Volume 19, no. 2

«The Manhattan Review», Philip Fried editor, vol. 19, n.2, 2020. In this issue: D. Nurkse, Philip Gross, Nicola Vulpe, John Burnside, Erich Fried, Jeanne Marie Beaumont, Christopher Bursk, Marc Kaminsky, Cheryl Moskowitz, Kate Farrell, John Greening, Penelope Shuttle, Claire Malroux, George Szirtes, Chris McCabe, Richard Hoffman, Carol Rumens, Rosalind Hudis, Menno Wigman, Howard Altmann,…

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#Anja Konig #Bibhu Padhi #Carol Rumens #Charles Wilkinson #Cheryl Moskowitz #Chris McCabe #Christopher Bursk #Claire Malroux #D. Nurkse #Erich Fried #federico federici #George Szirtes #Hal Sirowitz #Howard Altmann #Jeanne Marie Beaumont #john burnside #John Greening #Judith Wilkinson #Kate Farrell #Manhattan review #Marc Kaminsky #Menno Wigman #Nicola Vulpe #Penelope Shuttle #Philip Fried #Philip Gross #Richard Hoffman #Rosalind Hudis #Seán Street

[allyourprettywords]

“Budapest, 1944,” Howard Altmann

For my father

In the unswayable darkness a tree shivers at night. By the sweeping light of noon an old grip holds. At the shaking of the spirit a half moon touches ground.

Hand over hand, body over body wisdom never makes it home. Page after page, book after book bruised apples make the sauce. Mouth to water, glass to table truths get put down.

The ocean knows the sun goes only so deep. The melting of the snow freezes memory to that place. And a generation passing down colors colors the icicles of spring.

In memory of Elie Wiesel

#Howard Altmann #Elie Wiesel #poem #poetry #trauma

[justforbooks]

The Chess Player

They’ve left. They’ve all left. The pigeon feeders have left. The old men on the benches have left. The white-gloved ladies with the Great Danes have left. The lovers who thought about coming have left. The man in the three-piece suit has left. The man who was a three-piece band has left. The man on the milkcrate with the bible has left. Even the birds have left. Now the trees are thinking about leaving too. And the grass is trying to turn itself in. Of course the buses no longer pass. And the children no longer ask. The air wants to go and is in discussions. The clouds are trying to steer clear. The sky is reaching for its hands. Even the moon sees what’s going on. But the stars remain in the dark. As does the chess player. Who sits with all his pieces In position.

The Chess Player was first published in 2005, in Who Collects the Days, Howard Altmann’s debut collection.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS

[queen--kenobi]

I absolutely loved your piece with Candyman and the poem-writing reader, could I ask for a continuation/sequel to that? Maybe where they actually meet?

Here you go! I hope this is what you’re looking for! It’s a little bit of fluff, a little bit of murder.

First Part

To the night I offered a flower

and the dark sky accepted it

like earth, bedding

for light.

To the desert I offered an apple

and the dunes received it

like a mouth, speaking 

for wind.

-Howard Altmann, Offerings

Your dreams are vivid, more vivid than they have ever been in your life. It almost feels like they made a switch, like black and white to technicolor or an old photo revitalized. Your daily life feels much the same way now. Something changed. You can’t tell exactly what did, but you know when it did. The night you left the poem by the mural of Candyman. Everything changed once you put your unspoken words onto concrete walls. 

You don’t feel like you’re alone anymore. In both the metaphorical and literal sense. 

A lot of it probably has to do with the silent acknowledgement of your offering. The painting that was left beside your coffee pot the next morning was beautiful. If you were honest, you honestly felt ethereal just looking at it. Whomever did it, and you had a fairly good idea of who it was, clearly took time and care with it. You had never felt so… Well, it felt funny to acknowledge, but in that moment, you never felt so loved. To feel that way from a painting confused you. How could something like that bring forth such emotion? Especially when you’ve never met the painter? Or at least, never met him in person?

You know the painter is there with you. It was almost impossible to miss. The infamous ghost, the urban legend, Candyman seemed to be with you wherever you went. You understood how it could have driven Helen Lyle crazy. She didn’t want the attention given to her, didn’t want to believe that myths could be real.

You do.

You quietly relish in the fact. At any given moment, he could decide to show himself to you, or you could call upon him. That kind of power feels heady. The knowledge that you could do what almost no one else in the world could do is just thrilling. It sends a shiver of delight down your spine anytime you think about it.

It takes a while for you to come down from the feeling. Eventually, you learn to hide it. People started questioning you, trying to pry into your life and see what it was that made you so happy. You didn’t want to tell them, didn’t want to share this secret with them. Besides, it was none of their business. And even if you wanted to tell them, what would you say? How could you say it without sounding crazy? 

You want to call upon him, you really do. But you don’t. You’re not entirely sure why you hesitate. Anxiety, maybe. You’re scared of his reaction. What if he decides to gut you, like the legend says? What if it was just a way to lure you in? All sorts of questions kept coming up, making you worry. So you never did. 

The day is dark and gloomy as you make your way back home. Your hands are in your pocket, head bent downward. It wasn’t raining yet, but it would. At any given moment, the sky would open up and the rain would swallow you whole. The thought was appealing. It had been a long, long day. Someone had joined the company recently, and he seemed hell bent on making your life miserable. He undermined everything you did and always tried to make you the villain. You could have lived with that, as unpleasant as it may have been, but it got worse. The reason he was doing this was because he had made a move on you. You had firmly, yet politely you thought, rejected him. 

His actions showed he wasn’t exactly a gracious person. 

He had threatened you today. Made it quite clear that if you didn’t accept his advances soon, you’d be out of job. Normally, something like that wouldn’t scare you, but this man had gotten so close to some of your higher-ups, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could pull it off. It didn’t help that you were the reliable one. The reliable one, as you had found out through experience, often got screwed once they decided to enforce boundaries. 

You stop for a moment on a corner. If you turned left down that road, you’d come across the mural that you had painted your poem on not too long ago. It seems like such a distant memory. You look, hesitating for just a second, but you decide against it. You had to go home, shore up your defenses in order to deal with what was coming your way. You move forward.

You stop, body going rigid.

Someone is calling your name. 

The voice is soft yet commanding. Dark undertones are laced under it, but something about it is ethereal. Almost as if it could belong to an angel. Certainly it couldn’t belong to a human. 

You hear your name again.

You don’t know why, but you can feel tears form at the corners of your eyes. The way this person says your name is so beautiful that it shakes you to your very core. You move, turn to face the road you were going to pass just seconds before. You don’t feel entirely in control of your body, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. Perhaps if it was under any other circumstances or because of any other being, you would, but you feel safe. Candyman wouldn’t hurt you. He had plenty of opportunities to do so before this point, so it would make no sense to do it now.

Daniel is standing in the shadow of a building. He’s on the edge of a shadow, so you can see him and make him out fairly well. He looks better than in some of the portraits you’ve seen of him. A long, dark coat made of expensive fur hangs off of his shoulders. Most of his body is hidden by the coat, but his hands… One is fine, but the other is a grisly stump with a wicked hook attached. It makes bile rise up in your throat. How could someone do something so brutal to another person? And seeing it in person made you understand just how awful it could be.

He says your name again.

“Daniel.” You breathe in return.

He moves towards you then with an amazing amount of grace. He moves like a wild cat would when stalking prey. Your eyelids flutter, and you find that you’re having a hard time keeping them open.

“I thought you might have forgotten me.” His baritone voice sends vibrations throughout your entire being, lighting every nerve with pleasant fire. You shake your head. You can’t seem to form words, to speak. He gives you a small smile, and you feel as if you could melt in that moment. 

“You did something for me. I have never received such a grand gesture.” He’s almost beside you now. His hand reaches up and gently, he touches your face. He hesitates before he makes contact, almost as if he’s making sure that you’re okay with it. Something in your eyes must tell him you are. The back of his fingers slide against your cheek, and you find yourself leaning into the touch. He watches you raptly. 

“People have come from all over to look at the mural.” His voice is soft. “Your words have created a larger flock, something I didn’t think possible.” He pauses and lets out an amused noise. “You created your own legend without my help. People wonder who could have written such sweet words for a murderous legend.” His hand stop, fingers lightly resting against your cheek and close to your mouth. The look in his eyes is intense, almost worshipful. You find that you want him to look at you like that all the time. 

“I shall help yours in return.” He breathes out. He’s looking at your lips, and you want to kiss him, you do, but you can’t mo-

The world goes black.

When you wake up, you’re lying on the floor. You can see your sofa and sit up to move, but you stop. Something doesn’t feel right. Your clothes are soaked and warm, sticking unpleasantly to your skin. You roll onto your side. The rug is covered with dark red stains. You knew what it was from the feeling on your skin, but to get visual confirmation of the substance being blood makes you want to hurl. A noise catches your attention. Your tv flickers to life. It’s going to a new channel. You frown slightly.

“Again, if anyone has any tips or hints that could catch this man’s murderer, please call the hotline.” You can’t pay attention to the number the reporter says. All you can see is the picture of the coworker bent on making your life miserable on-screen. 

Your phone buzzes. You don’t have to look at it to know that your coworkers are texting each other, making sure everyone is okay. You close your eyes. What do you say? How do you answer it?

First thing’s first. Slowly, hesitantly, you stand, trying not to get blood on anything else. Take a shower. Get the blood out of the carpet, text your coworkers to tell them you’re fine, and get cleaned up in case the police show up to talk to you.

You had no intention of making the mistakes Helen Lyle did.

#Requests #Candyman x reader #slasher x reader #!!!!!! thank you so much!!!! #tbh that was one piece I really liked writing! #I couldn't help flowery language in this one :p #seemed appropriate

[ukdamo]

Budapest 1944

Howard Altmann - in memory of Elie Wiesel

In the unswayable darkness a tree shivers at night. By the sweeping light of noon an old grip holds. At the shaking of the spirit a half moon touches ground.

Hand over hand, body over body wisdom never makes it home. Page after page, book after book bruised apples make the sauce. Mouth to water, glass to table truths get put down.

The ocean knows the sun goes only so deep. The melting of the snow freezes memory to that place. And a generation passing down colors colors the icicles of spring.

#poetry #howard altmann #elie wiesel #budapest #WWII #war #memorial

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Apertures --Howard Altmann

Old and blind and in love with light, he’d reach for the hands of writers to guide him back to the landscape, once the subject of his photo- graphs. Often he’d see just how hard it was to render it right, and would feel free of such burdens. A last cloud on a lake he’d let carry him into night. Breaking sounds of autumn he’d leave a pond to compose, rustling the stream of images. The panicked flight of the hunted he’d let the dry grasses capture, their golden yield his release. Even in the crimson cusp of an evening he’d wedge himself, curling into a ball without twilight ever sinking him. The man swam with the fog and its very touch of resolve. Further than any writer his shadows lapped up the sand. All this in the ebb and flow of a ninth decade by the tide, an inlet mapped by its egress to the sky. And when moonlight would come to wash his window, a heavy tome floating lost worlds on his lap, often his other hand would read the apertures of old cameras, an author’s intent the subject of his alignments. But when the milky skies would dip the hand of a writer in the milky seas, to the light- house he’d ascend, dreaming of being a writer who was blind, tracing a horizon.

#Today's Poem #Howard Altmann

[bla-attitude]

Sou o rapaz que regressa à mesma prostituta no mesmo país estrangeiro; sou esse homem. Sou o rapaz que foge da mesma verdade com a mesma máscara; sou esse homem. Sou o rapaz que pede o mesmo amor à mesma mulher; sou esse homem. Sou o rapaz que esvazia a mesma massa de água com a sua mesma massa de reflexões; sou esse homem. Sou o rapaz que entra nos mesmos quartos com as mesmas janelas. E o que dorme na mesma cama à mesma luz; sou esse homem, sou esse homem. Sou o rapaz que deixa atrás de si o mesmo eco com diferentes vozes; sou esse rapaz, sou esse rapaz.

Howard Altmann

[boulevardlitmag]

Announcing the fall 2017 issue of Boulevard!

In Boulevard No. 97, Joyce Carol Oates illustrates the struggles of abortions in 1987; Albert Goldbarth on Claude Monet, death, breath, and much more; Colin Fleming dives into the fates of grown-up maverick child detectives; B. J. Hollars examines the psychology of Oppenheimer; and Christine Spillson discusses the last public hanging in America and struggles with her family connection.

And our fall symposium on campus protests with essays by Jim Craig, Megan Giddings, Ena Selimovic, Andrew Weinstein, and Robert Zaller. Plus, the 2016 Short Fiction Contest for Emerging Writers winning entry, Anastasia Selby’s “Certain Fires,” on fighting wildfires in California and the sexual tensions of mixed-gender crews.

Much more! Fiction and essays by Bipin Aurora, Gonzalo Baeza, Daniel M. Mendoza, and Robert Zaller. Poetry by Dilruba Ahmed, Howard Altmann, Angela Ball, Benjamin S. Grossberg, James Lineberger, Owen McLeod, Jenny Molberg, Mary Morris, Richard Newman, Hannah Louis Poston, Katherine Robinson, Natalie Scenters-Zapico, Joanna Solfrian, Mark Wagenaar, and Jane O. Wayne. And, finally, dynamic cover art by Tony Philippou.

Get your very own copy! Or a digital subscription!

Check out the table of contents.

We’re about to open for submissions on Oct. 1, so you might want to peruse the guidelines.

But we’re open for the fiction contest right now.

Thanks for reading and following!

#literary magazines #fiction #poetry #nonfiction #essays #Joyce Carol Oates #albert goldbarth

[libromundoes]

Poema de la semana: El jugador de ajedrez de Howard Altmann | Libros

El jugador de ajedrez

Se fueron. Todos se fueron. Los comederos de palomas se han ido. Los viejos en los bancos se han ido. Las damas con guantes blancos con los grandes daneses se han ido. Los amantes que pensaban que iban a venir se han ido. El hombre del traje de tres piezas se ha ido. El hombre que era un grupo de tres músicos se fue. El hombre en la caja de leche con la Biblia se ha ido. Incluso los pájaros se han ido. Ahora los árboles están pensando en irse también. Y la hierba está tratando de rendirse. Por supuesto, los autobuses ya no pasan. Y los niños ya no preguntan. El aire quiere irse y está en discusión. Las nubes están tratando de alejarse. El cielo llega a sus manos. Incluso la luna ve lo que está pasando. Pero las estrellas permanecen en la oscuridad. Al igual que el jugador de ajedrez. Quien se sienta con todas sus piezas En posición.

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Howard Altmann publicó sus poemas seleccionados, Consulta uma Fina Neve Cai / / Como un Luz Nieve Guardia Caída, el año pasado, una edición bilingüe portugués / inglés con traducciones de la poeta portuguesa Eugénia de Vasconcellos. El jugador de ajedrez aparece allí y se publicó por primera vez en 2005, en Who Collects the Days, la primera colección de Altmann.

Obviamente, es anterior a la pandemia de Covid-19 por varios años. Al mismo tiempo, el poema puede iluminarse y ser iluminado por los acontecimientos actuales. También se conecta a una experiencia humana antigua y universal: la decoloración diaria de la luz en el crepúsculo, cuando el estado de ánimo puede deslizarse hacia la melancolía y la incertidumbre. El vacío amortiguado que desciende sobre el parque en el poema es casi naturalista al principio, pero el movimiento generalizado de deserción pronto recibe un presentimiento por la repetición. Es como si todas las edades y todas las especies hubieran aceptado silenciosamente emigrar.

The Chess Players es una película escrita y dirigida por Satyajit Ray en 1977, basada en el cuento del mismo nombre de Munshi Premchand. Dos nobles nobles del ajedrez, Mir y Mirza, están tan obsesionados con su juego que se niegan a notar la agitación de las incursiones británicas que están burbujeando a su alrededor, sin mencionar la desintegración de sus matrimonios A pesar de estos desastres, el toque de Ray en la película es ligero, al igual que el de Altmann en el poema. Las imágenes que evocan sus declaraciones son a veces surrealistas y a veces presentadas de manera fantasiosa. Pueden retroiluminarse con un juego de palabras ("Los amantes que pensaron en venir se han ido") o nos topamos con una decepción levemente cómica ("El hombre del traje de tres piezas se ha ido. / L & # 39; el hombre que era un grupo de tres piezas se ha ido "). La frase" El cielo se extiende "es particularmente efectiva. Quizás las "manecillas" sugieren un reloj y el deseo del cielo de aprovechar el tiempo y hacer que se mueva más rápido. O las manos pueden ser potencialmente las manos monstruosas de un asesino. Nada terrible está sucediendo realmente en el primer plano del poema, pero el nivel de amenaza aumenta a medida que la luna se vuelve inusualmente aguda, las estrellas inusualmente ignorantes y oscuras.

El ritmo se ralentiza al final del poema, con paradas completas que insisten en una pausa dolorosa para pensar al final de las líneas: "Pero las estrellas permanecen en la oscuridad". / Al igual que el jugador de ajedrez. / Quien se sienta con todas sus piezas. / En posición ".

Es solo ahora que aprendemos que no hay ningún juego en progreso: de hecho, el jugador no tiene un oponente visible. La figura solitaria se sienta intacta en el tablero en la oscuridad. Esto plantea la cuestión de si el tema oculto del poema es la guerra. En un sitio de jugadores de guerra, aprendí que "el nombre" ajedrez "se deriva del sánscrito chaturanga que se puede traducir como "cuatro armas", en referencia a las cuatro divisiones del ejército indio: elefantes, caballería, tanques e infantería. En este sentido, el ajedrez es un juego de guerra que simula lo que ahora llamaríamos las operaciones de armas combinadas del mundo antiguo.

¿Quizás deberíamos abandonar por completo la imagen de un tablero de ajedrez al aire libre? El único "jugador" puede planificar movimientos de una naturaleza más desesperada, movimientos que podrían incluir el asesinato de un líder o presionar el "botón nuclear". Puede que se haya vuelto loco y atrapado en un fermento de planes fantásticos demasiado complejos y enredados para ser realizados. Las piezas, cualesquiera que sean, están "en su lugar" pero, afortunadamente quizás, nunca progresarán.

Entonces, al leer el poema ahora, también podríamos recordar un callejón sin salida de estadísticas, estrategias y modelos. Anteriormente, nos dijeron alegremente: "Por supuesto, los autobuses ya no pasan. / Y los niños ya no preguntan. La ligereza del tono y los patrones retóricos, y el débil tropiezo de la rima final ("pasar" y "pedir"), parecen mostrar los efectos de un colapso sin esfuerzo de la curiosidad intelectual y un acción física animada ¿Quizás todos los "jugadores" en el parque son piezas obedientes movidas alrededor de un tablero o tomadas y esparcidas en un juego maestro? Quizás incluso el jugador de ajedrez sea un peón.

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#Ultimas noticias #ajedrez #Altmann #Howard #jugador #libros #Poema #semana

[forgottenbones]

#poems #chess #war #an undefined sense of dread #impending doom #silence #stillness

[badgirlnila]

Poem of the week: The Chess Player by Howard Altmann by Carol Rumens via Books | The Guardian https://ift.tt/2z6l8ju

#IFTTT #NewsBlur

[asesferas]

Sons (Howard Altmann / trad. Eugenia de Vasconcelos) Um homem pode ler um poema para escrever um poema. Pode fazer amor para encontrar o amor. Pode subir uma montanha para ir além da sombra. Pode esquecer-se de anos para recuperar um só dia.