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Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc 

Sarajevo & Bugojno, 
               Bosnia and Herzegovina        
        

MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI...
WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES
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Heather Thomas, Kutztown, Pennsylvania, USA

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photo by Ian Forester
Heather Thomas of Reading, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., is the author of six poetry books, including Blue Ruby (FootHills Publishing, 2008), Resurrection Papers (Chax Press, 2003; 2011), and Practicing Amnesia (Singing Horse Press, 2000).  Her poems have been translated into Spanish and Lithuanian.  Sometimes under the name H.T. Harrison, her work has been published in 35 journals and anthologies, including the Wallace Stevens Journal; American Letters and Commentary; Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania; Cardinal Points, part of the Russian press Stovset project; and Only the Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsunami.  

She has given 200 readings in the U.S., Argentina, Ireland, and Russia.  Her work has been recognized by the Academy of American Poets, the Gertrude Stein Awards in Innovative American Poetry, and the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.  

Critics have called her poems “brilliant, hard-edged, and technically accomplished.”  Poet Alice Notley wrote that Blue Ruby is “a beauty, composed by a fearlessly compassionate intelligence. . . Thomas joins a growing band who can’t help but unite the personal and political.  She demonstrates that the ‘pearl-of- great-price’ is anyone, anywhere, self or other one.  The poems hurt but have a carved, lit-up surface, red and blue and many other colors.” 

Resurrection Papers, reissued in 2011, was translated into Spanish by Argentine poet Patricia Díaz Bialet and published in a bilingual edition in Buenos Aires.  Critic Graciela Maturo described it as “a construction of a poetics that makes the poem into a door to the marvelous-real.” 

Five poems from Practicing Amnesia were translated into Lithuanian by Tautvyda Marcinkeviciute and published by VAGA, Vilnius, in the volume Poezijos Pavasaris, edited by Vladas Braziumas and Eugenijus Alisanka.

Writing in the Rain Taxi Review of Books, Patrick Pritchett said of Practicing Amnesia, “Thomas is able to shift registers between the personal and the public; under the scrutiny of her gaze, the distance separating them narrows.  The history of her parents and grandparents—counterpointed here with family photos—becomes the history not only of our era, but a moving account of the struggle to rescue presence from continual loss.” 

Cynthia Hogue, writing in HOW2, an online journal of women’s poetry and scholarship, wrote, “This is a cultural and familial history that practicing amnesia has marked, a distancing technique to survive suffering. . . that both memorializes a history of loss and redeems it.”

Thomas was born in New York and grew up in Berks County, Pennsylvania, where she was Poet Laureate from 2008-10.  She holds master and doctoral degrees from Temple University, Philadelphia.  She is a professor of English at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania.  Her literary essays have been published in Approaches to Teaching H.D.’s Poetry and Prose (MLA, 2011), The Writer’s Chronicle, The Emily Dickinson Journal, and We Who ‘Love To Be Astonished’: Experimental Feminist Poetics and Performance Art (University of Alabama Press).

Website: http://faculty.kutztown.edu/hthomas



VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33, 
Orebić, Croatia
http://villaamira.weebly.com/

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Heather Thomas in Sarajevo, BiH, 2012.
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Heather Thomas in Sarajevo, BiH, 2012.

                      Eksperiment života

Vjerujući da može omeđiti vlastiti ponos i pod paževe noge baciti ostatke sanjajućih namjera, poezija Heather Thomas nas kraljevski hrani. Ne ostacima vec viđenih deminutiva, onomatopeja, parafraza, poređenja i metafora, već izuzetno pitkih eksperimentalnih vizija sopstvene osobnosti. 

Naglašenost suosjećanja sa drugima ovdje nije margaritas ante portas čuđenja, već conditio sine qua non znanja.

Poetskog, toplog i iskrenog. Čak i kada nas hrani ostacima. Svoje duše. Neposredne, inspirativne i, nadasve, upozoravajuće lucidne.

Životne.


Riječ urednika


Sabahudin Hadžialić
12.2.2012.
                               Experiment of life

Believing that she can delimit her own pride and under the pages foot throw the remains of the dreaming intentions, Heather Thomas is giving us royal food. Not already seen remains of diminutives, onomatopoeias, paraphrases, comparisons and metaphors, but very potable experimental visions of her own personality.

Highlighting the empathy with others here is not Margaritas ante portas wonder, but a conditio sine qua non of knowledge.

Of poetic, cordial and candid. Even when we have been fed by the debris. Of her souls. Spontaneous, inspiring and, above all, with lucid warning.

Of life.

Editor's word


Sabahudin Hadzialic
12.2.2012.

The Poet 
                        
Room to room, words
amputate from memory
so she stuffs herself with sound,

the mirror spinning
smaller and smaller,
then bigger as fiction

in the name of protection,
crowned with a helmet,
sealed with a coat of arms.

Everyone is eating roast beef
and trifle, the room strained
to its laughing corners.

No one notices her crawl out
from under the table,
rise through the chandelier,

second-story floorboards, glass, plaster
hurt, but pain is an awakening,
feet first on a muddy bank.

You can’t wash once
in the same river.
The water’s already in her

ears tilting with vertigo
though her brain does know
she can drown or learn to think

unsealed, unhelmeted
she can see the freshets
in their constantly changing flow.


Topaz

To build the bridge
would require cutting into
the broken wall

ingathering the skin

the topaz woman

fire-hardened, clinging to midnight
roamed the unspeakable halls


(in the next room Alice had died

the week before)

we would never be finished
no matter how old our bodies

(my unremembering mother
calls me to the place
I will have to go


that she has never named,

as if we are tethered together,
or by locating a point 


and filling my lungs

I can leap mountain to cloud
and not crash  


into snow

finding her, as it turns out,
not there at all


but home saying how stupid

to stay out in the cold)

a cardinal singing on the locust branch
churi, churi

scratches under one wing
flies away

the branch stained
scarlet at the tip

gossamer and intimate
tortuosity of an artery

as the topaz woman
careful and clear

forged from mica
and tourmaline

rebuilds the bridge
I cross over



Third Eye


My life is each inclusion: feather, fracture,
fissure locked inside the eye,
          
iris streaked by every virus,
this is how the diamond grows:

carbon under heat and pressure,
heat and pressure millions of years,

earth’s mantle pushing
magma into crystal. Try to visualize  
                                                                                   
co-valent bonding, stresses, cracks,
root-like feathers, scars and abrasions

we can’t outrun.  Steps with breath
count each inclusion,

facets invisible millions of years.
Try to visualize a diamond lattice:

see the green flash above Afghan boys
gathering mountain firewood,

the incendiary light,
the iris streaked by every virus

flew high up, and in a second round, 
hovered over us and started shooting

carbon under heat and pressure  
high in mountains outside Nanglam,

Pech Valley, Kunar Province,
scars and abrasions we can’t outrun  

forward operations, the base named Blessing.
Hemad hit by shrapnel in his side

hidden by branches that saved his life
locked inside the eye

because the weather was cold
sons sent for firewood

mothers picking up their sons in parts
steps with breath count each inclusion

visualize the error in the handoff
how much longer

the boys misidentified as insurgents
who had attackedthe Blessing

scars and abrasions we can’t outrun
iris in the strongest terms

regrettably the boys misidentified
visualize the we are deeply sorry

the death, death to America
the error in the handoff

sorry in the strongest terms
death in the strongest terms

transform the ignorance or wrongdoing
in my being, visualize mothers, fathers, boys

the ignorance or wrongdoing in my being
how much longer
                                                                      
explosion, bodies, war after war
how much longer

spectrum of a wisdom beyond
picking up our sons in parts

their sons our sons,
their daughters our daughters

spectrum of a wisdom beyond



Living in the House of Wallace Stevens

                                   323 N. Fifth Street, Reading, Pennsylvania

 
It’s a quick climb to the second-floor apartment.
Her legs were shorter then. Opening the door,
she falls into the Wedgewood jar of the living room,

a blue world whose patterned white figures
freeze in their dance. Two steps up
to her parents’ bedroom their turbulence

knocks the wind out of her as she watches.
I turn and walk as if leaving a stage
Wallace Stevens descended in lonely purple air

to find himself more truly and strange,
the walls sliced open by words, so she covers her ears.
The air roars as a plane takes off,

rifling the books on shelves, tearing up
the lives on paper, rewriting history as snow
blowing in the same bare place between mind and sky,

between thought and day and night. This is why
the poet is always in the sun, pointing her finger
at the moon, meeting his shadow in a book.

I’m walking room to room, hearing
echo clamber through summer dark.
Sunburst through drawn shades ignites the edges.

Smell of burning metal may be an overlooked pot
but no one has cooked in this kitchen for years.
She crosses the floor and is flooded

with sun streaming through windows
over North Sixth Street rooftops.
I sit on a folding chair and feel the unraveling

again in my veins. It’s always like this
for the child not knowing what to do,
how to live, then the light

graces her like a hand, fills her
all the way down the fire escape
to her sandbox, then back up the iron stairs,

drawn by radio music to paintbox,
brush, paper Mother gave her,
the glass of water, the Chordettes singing,

she paints twelve shades of yellow
across the page, big blue sun, small ruby bird.
I enter the flower shining.

The page shines all night, a flashlight under covers.
She takes the brush, moves my hand across the page,
still in her pajamas, the light keeps shining.

My hand keeps moving wayward names
to see what won’t go away. Her hand keeps moving
far back all those rooms I came through. She writes this.
 


From RESURRECTION PAPERS

 
Late News from Neversink

Couple marries then takes plunge
thirty-four wildfires burn unattended
teens torch stolen cars for kicks
that toxic mix defining moments
mother perfects her amnesia 
daughter regrets her performance:
I went into a black booth, 
they gave me 
some lines, and I read them
that toxic mix of guns, drugs
a million panicked animals,
blood senses race in the odd
present tense the news employs
in Sarajevo bombs slam a cemetery
killing eight mourners, anarchy
thumps in the chest with that
girl who used a train to be with angels
daughter signs for milk, water, gasoline,
that toxic mix defining moments
cracks even  gravity can't fill:
I’m one of you, and being one of you
is being and knowing what I am and know
she eats noodles from a jar
inhales the bliss of absence
floats on fire, water, air obsessed
with alchemy and distance
watches TV, certain she’s in  
paradise, tested every minute.



Picture
In the Undifferentiated Country of Shadows

Would you like to dance? I’ve a book illustrating the stance.  

In the first picture, her hand covers her mouth because the photographer likes the look.  Years later, she does this unconsciously when she has something to say.  In Russia, every tombstone has a picture of the dead. 


Would you say your image contains or ruptures you?
Nuclear bombs line the seabed and a man walks the moon.  Her child’s image emerges from a wave of sound.  She thinks all that mourning was a form of anger or the way the brain’s biochemistry can make you sad. 


Which memory is being yourself and which another? 

She writes a procession of evocative captions:  The child pouring water into the birdbath wears an olive-green dress trimmed in velvet. The dress has a pattern of small black scrolls.  


When were the days that belief made words reach the dead?
Shadows leap the gully, creek, median strip. That endless darkened hallway.  In the thinning light of the garden, arborvitae make feathery sentinels.  

Grandmother has taught her perfect enunciation.  As the water turns milky, she steps on stick legs into the bath. By evening she is covered with soft gray feathers and makes a mournful sound.

Six hawks cruise over the river.  The first three vanish on a rooftop hidden in trees.  Others soar on wind above the rapids, wings tilting and balancing to ride the currents, dark bodies spread to light at the pale tips, dipping into the bare March thicket.  

Seeing ourselves from outer space, we are the alien. 



We Do Not Change to Disappear



In the space between image and desire, she is a ring dove, a fish iridescent and slippery, with sharp gills.  She stands in cold air on a mountain face.  When she steps forward, the face drops away.

She leaps around the floating debris of her life:  bones of every fish she ever ate, empty wine bottles, bills and papers flying, used pens, orange peels, cake crumbs, sweaters ballooning without a body, candy wrappers, the floating pages of books, photos of dead relatives, those hats and scarves without the heads and necks inside.

She arrives inside the transparent grape where she first met the mother and the grandmothers, the way Craig put each one of the fish he caught inside the mouth of the one caught before.  He was catching dozens of fish, stuffing one inside the other until the first was stretched so wide and round it was a world.   

Standing in the hull of a small boat on a glassy lake, he was using nature as a metaphor, even though they were no longer situated in nature.  He said she was in the boat with him, and he was just so sorry she wasn’t catching anything.  She knew she was somewhere else.  In the darkroom developing an image.  In a lightbath, on the edge of waves. 


Thought #510,99:  Doctor of Philosophy

Impossible not to lie, couldn’t tell you, couldn’t find your 

ear to dark wood, carpet’s floral swirl, emotional field, out of fear I lied to burn or maybe to erect a theater of desire after desire the audience invisible from stage and velvet drapes you can choose any lie as the shawl women wore to keep their heads, afraid of small lettings, labyrinthine, stripped from history and love you went bareheaded onto the perfect surface I performed language on a banister under the dome though it was the blind leading the blind I knew to smile at lies in the name of protection I was raised that way I raised my knowledge as a question when you come right down to it, another way entirely to foil the thief who robbed me
                       there’s no way to rise, the air pulls apart
                       imprint of our hands together.

 

Thought #115,051:  Snow

She is falling backward through a narrow channel, a force pulling her from behind.  Her arms and legs reach out to me, her champagne dress billows, a  golden mushroom, strands of dark hair piled on her head pull fast away.  Transfixed, I watch her lightning fingers.  She cries out, "My Beautiful Life!" Then, more faintly, "my beautiful life," until words stream beyond her fingers and the echo fades.  Snow streams silvery toward me the way high beams throw flakes in your face.  Hands and feet first, she begins to come apart, limbs, torso, and finally, her head until falling at the speed of light she becomes snow hurtling everywhere.  I am afraid.  At last I stop complaining.  This too will be finished soon.  Then the fear disappears.  I fall away looking at the place I come from, my arms and legs.

 
Waking Up Is Erasing the Roads

Now the smell of raw earth, cookfire, damp fur of dogs carried on wind.  The water undulates high on muddy banks, translucent as quartz or buds.  Embryonic branches bend and rise, hiding bitter roots.  Beginning again and again with a small thing, furious turns.  I hold my notes and step forward, breathing.  I let go of the notes and they swirl in air, paper and sound together, as leaves are.  Agash in geology’s stacked floor where my uncertain feet break through to another level.   I hold out empty arms.  Error, love me.

We rise in the firefly night. There’s a spring of our ink on the same page.  When we walk, trees blow down behind us so we can’t go back.  Only arrival in that wild land.  

Rain drums the mossy shed roof:  March fourth.  Brood of chalky bones, sycamore dawn. Mulberry limbs akimbo.  Street slicked into streams.  Nothing alive is static or escapes disturbance of the will to silence.  History is still loss.   River roils brown with branches and debris, decades of powdery sediment dredged and churning.  Nothing to be but wet.



From BLUE RUBY 


Cleave


for Catherine

Seduced by hunger, displaced.
Black trees difficult to part, divide.


Ice, the hardness it gives to mine

driven and aimless, to mine as in descent.

When pleasure carries layers
of disaster with a cutting blow,

and water and wind fill caverns,
you climb out torn, beholder,

hunter’s sound in your throat
split by withholding,

you must be torn, clinging
to a basket set afloat, torn

clinging as skin cleaves to bone.



The Being Ground

Breath gathers firm the old pages
white spines, row of books in a foreign
language you try to love

the questions like locked rooms
windows framed blue
beyond irritable reaching

A letter is mind but you return
bodily to the scarcity of love
tune to correction in the secret

hollows of fingers and toes 
your mouth passing through
the wound the flower you know

On the being ground
unharnessed from memory we hold
each other, not collapsing

into the future, but careful
as an act of silence
allows itself to be read.

 

Blue Ruby 2

A flame swallower entered
the burning glass
sucking flame among shards

tossed into the family
improvised, explosive, blue
flame of untapped feeling

the voice that wished
burning the prison of red glass
my father drank from

the day ended in blue earth
red sky I walked river side
across the blue peninsula

not easier to fail
the voice that wished
the preformed image, the voice

not true though I stared   
and stared, a ruby feeling
printed on my brain

as it had always wished
a ruby feeling fell across the blue 
as though a furnace blasting ore

immunity, I lost you
naming names, a voice
as if my mother and father

as if I knew what they wished
as if they did not lie in my heart
together like stones

unafraid my radiance
poured forth, the searing
healed my scars

in that burning, in that breaking
what must be broken
the blue ruby forms

from blood when it touches the air
from the body when it is born.

 
Evening at Seal Cove
   
What face do you bring
to this ceremony
row upon row
of abandoned smokesheds
phantom dogs bark
behind herring clapboard
slip the trap of buried wire
midair over water
a murder of crows cajoles
bewildered gull on Red Point Road
to gnaw yesterday’s gull entrails
slicing this razor tide
driftwood from Zanzibar
braid of  hair coiled inside
sea roses, you’d find pearls.

Grand Manan, 2005

 
The Paper Boat

When mother said she was never
lonely  

got things done

the stones in her daughter’s throat
softened

gravelly    blue

the daughter liked to fold
paper  

to draw birds

wanted to steal
oyster ferns from the park

a friend let her dig
from the riverbank

she carried them  
an open boat

her hands   wings

the ferns   sails
though blue  

she planted in her garden

scaled down     
muddy   again

to the lapping edge
set off downstream

a paper boat
folded and lit

she was born   to carry 


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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara. 
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić

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