Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Pushcart Prize Nominations

SCR+II is pleased to nominate these poems for this year's Pushcart Prize. They were selected for nomination by all the editors from those published in SCR+II throughout 2007:

Mike Alexander 'Convert'

Rachel Bunting 'Exhumation'

Rose Kelleher 'Mortimer'

Danielle Lapidoth 'The Fight'

Dave McClure 'The Pessimistic Ballade of Arbitrary Behaviour'

Rick Mullin 'Shrine to Satan'

Congratulations to these poets, whose achievement is all the more impressive when measured against the outstanding work of the many other poets who have voyaged up the proverbial Creek in the leaky and paddleless canoe.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Arriving Back Home

Friday, November 23, 2007

Best of Net from Up Shit Creek

We have nominated the following poems for the Sundress The Best of the Net 2007. To qualify, the poems must have been first published or appeared on the web between July 1, 2006 and June 30, 2007, so those eligible came from SCR+II during that period. All of the editors were involved in picking these nominations.

'Mortimer' by Rose Kelleher

'The Fight' by Danielle Lapidoth

'The Pessimistic Ballade of Arbitrary Behaviour' by
David McClure

'To the Dean' by Tim Murphy

'Is About:' by Wendy Videlock

'The House at Crowholes' by Tony Williams

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Around the bend

Monday, November 19, 2007

Winter Migration

Saturday, November 17, 2007

The Misty Path

A walker faded down a misty path.
At dawn I left White Emperor City.
The pack-ice cracked, the weather turned to steel.
I met a traveller from an antique land.

I met a pilgrim in the jungle steam,
beneath the canopy of jewelled birds
where syrup-songs dripped guano cool as bells.
Death watches me from the towers of Córdoba.

As my soul bent towards the East, I met
a lady in the meads, who made sweet moan.
I've seen the starry archipelagos;
the beast that bears me plods dully on.

In Southwark, at the Tabard as I lay,
a friend showed me the way to Hell or Heaven:
her locks were yellow gold, her looks were free.
I met three witches on the heath near Forres.

There's a killer nel cammin di nostra vita:

his mind is squirming; countless roads diverge.
I heard twa corbies making mane; I met
a wanderer on Ilkley Moor baht 'at:
I have no way, and therefore want no eyes.

Twice, gloriously, across the Achéron,
I met a pieman, going to the fair,
a man upon the stairs who wasn't there,
and he hath led me through the watery maze.

I walked into Charleroi, to the Green Inn,
and met myself returning to myself:
hence is it, that I'm carried to the west,
late surfer on the last wave to shore.

As I came over Windy Gap, I rode
the King's Highway, Baby, wandered lonely
as a cloud to where there ain't no snow.
Who is it who can tell me where I am?

—Chevalier du Fleuve-Merdique

Don't Take the Back Road

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


Sunday, November 11, 2007

Atop the Tor

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Carry On

Monday, November 05, 2007

The Journey in My Head: Sonnet XXVII

Weary with toyle,I haſt me to my bed ,
The deare repoſe for lims with trauail tired,
But then begins a iourny in my head
To worke my mind,when boddies work's expired.
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zelous pilgrimage to thee,
And keepe my drooping eye-lids open wide,
Looking on darknes which the blind doe ſee.
Saue that my ſoules imaginary ſight
Preſents their ſhaddoe to my ſightles view,
Which like a iewell ( hunge in gaſtly night )
Makes blacke night beautious,and her old face new.
      Loe thus by day my lims,by night my mind,
      For thee,and for my ſelfe,noe quiet finde.


Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
      Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
      For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.