Saturday, September 27, 2008

O Sweet Flowery Roses is an award winner!

The Art of Definition, in conjunction with the open-minded, free spirited nature of poetry and communication inherently underlying the poetry blog community, has given us a TOTALLY SWEET AWARD! This is the Premio Arte Y Pico award we can really be proud of. Why? Because it's an award by a poet reading poetry who reads this site. This award represents the spirit of O Sweet Flowery Roses; it's a do-it-yourself way to insert oneself into the arts community, which is not a community of closed mindedness and social snobbery. Rather, this award places a reader and writer in the valued role of critic and respectable authoritarian, while also taking presumptive measures to place O Sweet Flowery Roses in the role of arts journal worthy of criticism. This is fun, excellent news. It means a lot to be a part of something creative like this, wherein critics are not necessarily highfalutin, scrutionous hawks high atop some pre-existing aerie of poetic tradition and legacy. A critic, just like a poet, artist, writer, et. al. can be anybody responding. Keep reading and please...keep submitting! We have some things coming up but more things wanted. If you are reading and haven't submitted...why not take a walk on the flowery side? Best, Russell Jaffe

Monday, September 15, 2008

Featured Poet: Paul Stevens

"Paul Stevens was born in UK but lives in Australia. He teaches English Literature, and has published verse and prose in a number of online journals, including Poemeleon, The Centrifugal Eye, CounterPunch, The New Formalist, Shattercolors, Sliptongue, WORM, Snakeskin, The Road Not Taken, Lighten Up, The Argotist, Southern Ocean Review, 14by14 and Contemporary Sonnet, as well as in print. In penance for his many sins he founded and edits The Chimaera Literary Miscellany and The Shit Creek Review. " ~~~ Dendrophilia Eye to eye tracks as the heliotrope, sunlight ripples ticklish on their skin; her touch on his touch, phototactic, sticks. They bathe in energy, their element: sky trickling liquid down bare branches, earth fingering upward through deep roots; buds and foliage spring from manic fingers, hands become the very fruit they reach for: sense, exactly, what sense apprehends. Engrafting difference of sex and soul - stock to scion, trunk to shaggy trunk - they have become a paragon of plants, all-sensitive, to sway, to sway, through tight circadian rhythms: light, then dark, then light. ~~~ Einar's feast The food a shining glory, shafted through by this fierce spear of light from where the roof gave way to nature or the work of men; a mess of offal strikingly arranged across the table in the greater hall; the drumsticks, sinews, torn spine of a fowl ; a tumbled horn, sour beer to drip and splash; a rended loaf; a disembowelled swine , garlands of sweetbreads, kidneys, livers, brains, with tripes and gizzards wound in artful skeins: steaming to charm the spiteful rafter gods who gaze down from their paradise of dust: slice by slice, a flesh feast of pain— and Halfdan, carved, blood-eagled, as the main. ~~~ 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? A walker faded down a misty path.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Featured Poet: C.B. Anderson

"C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Fingers once stained with soil and weed sap now bear traces of ink. In the past five years over two hundred of his poems have been published in dozens of print and online journals, including 14 by 14, Innisfree, Lucid Rhythms, The Raintown Review, Harp-Strings, Nassau Review, Hidden Oak and Shit Creek Review. "
Time Slips Honey
One rose sniff down a dreary lane, embalmed
in butter. Wonder if you'll feel the same
when heavy-laden treasure ships becalmed
tomorrow founder off the proper name
of your employer. Sand is not a type
of footing only found on paper; it's
geography ground fine, a lemon ripe
for picking from the many little bits
of history we remember: citrus dreams
encumbered with an extra load of twine
and paper clips. The world is as it seems,
and all the errors it contains are mine.
The two of us should congregate more often,
before the natal cradle comes a coffin.
I Stand Around
And Time, imperious magistrate
of all that is,
Oppresses subjects he seems to hate --
advantage: his.
Morphing wordage he's been known to phuk
with is fodder
For logophagic legions that truck
someone's daughter
To the entrance of a slaughterhouse
where the charnel
Conventions of blood-letting will douse
the proud carnal
Conflagrations everyone's worried
about. And I
Look back to the past I thought buried
beneath the sky
And find it wanting, but not without
veins of merit
That my own offspring someday, no doubt,
will inherit.
There stood Ruth, aloof.
I struggled to uncover her untruth,
but could discover none.
She didn't seem to mind when I approached her,
and needed little coaching when I touched
her beating heart and made her part
of every dream I'd ever played
inside the chamber of my head.
The lead had turned to gold,
to amber, raven, ruby, pink
and other colors (had I paused to think)
no spectral palette's broad enough to hold.
toeknuckles touching tooth
roof of southward searching
mouth unbuckled froth
she roared a blinding
un-uncled hard landing
finding, finding, finding...
I mumbled out a bit of witless babble,
and then she told me that she had to travel,
today -- her plane was leaving in an hour.
And that was that: So long, I'm scratchin' gravel.
It bothered me, the way she hurried off,
but nothing like the days and weeks and months
until I learned to laugh again, to scoff
at my unraveling, to swallow lunch.
The Christmas after, I was hoping for
a miracle -- another rising star
to dawn into my life, a future wife
perhaps -- before my faith had lapsed too far.
Was ever there a god who walked this earth?
I heard some knocking, stuffed my empty stockings
and shuffled through the hall and to the door.
I opened it and nearly hit the roof!
There stood Ruth, the living proof.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Featured Poet: Ken Pobo

"About me: Tangerines, cats, “She’s Got The Time” by The Poor, salmon-colored balsam, the 80s garage band revival, Ingmar B, fantasy: Marc Bolan and I in the cramped back seat of a planet, rain with attitude."


The director calls me to the set. I’m

Dorothy—a tough acting job

for a fifty-four year old man.

It’s the scene where the twister’s

dashing up fast and I can’t open

the storm cellar door. John McCain

walks up behind me and opens it,

says I’d look better in a suit. I say

he’d look better in a dress.

Auntie Em’s head pops up

and says, A fuckin’ storm’s

biting your asses—get in here.

Okay. John says he prefers

war pictures. Well, we all

take roles we don’t like,

right? Uncle Henry smokes pot.

Toto barks I want to be a poodle.

“You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

will be dubbed into

the soundtrack. Cut. We go

to our dressing rooms. The director

enters mine and blows me

twice. He’s nice. But demanding.

I’m going to be a star! Kansas

will wiggle its ruby ass

and I’ll come running—

there’s no place like home.


Look, you prick, either I get to be on your show

or I’ll leave you.

Go ahead, leave.

Slam. Door closes.



You say I’ll kill you

if you don’t like “Puppet Man”

by the 5th Dimension. I say:

Do your worst. You do.

Your worst. I’m dead.

Close-up on the body

being wheeled out

on the 10 p.m. report.

A news personality asks

a neighbor: Are you

upset? No, the neighbor,

Mr. Felch, says. You get

a suspended sentence.

The Judge thinks I made you

do it. He did the same thing

to his wife who baldly claimed

she disliked “Crystal

Blue Persuasion.” I hear

well in my coffin. The scuttlebutt

is that you’ve found

another lover. You dance

and dance to the 5D. But I wait.

You haven’t asked him yet about

“Things I’d Like To Say”

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Featured Poet: Benjamin Nardolilli

"Benjamin Nardolilli is a twenty three year old writer currently living in New York City. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, and Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Poems Niederngasse, The Delmarva Review, Clockwise Cat, Sheroes Rag, Literary Fever, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at" A Prayer Submission Re: Your Prayer, Thank you for thinking of me, I see that you have really Done your research! Unfortunately The market for this is cluttered With a million other suppositions, The gift you sent, is appreciated, But ultimately I am going To have to pass on this prayer, It just doesn’t fit with the scope I am trying to erect, of course You could try one of the subsidiaries, As this is just one deities’ position. Scent The heavy air one wears Around himself, And the invisible halo she weaves, These stink, But the scent of a hundred thousand Cries out and must be christened Perfume. Floss The toothless gain nothing, Day to day, they strive And fail to conquer, They build empires Of paper teeth, flammable incisors, Molars made of tissue, They can scare, But never occupy, They’re blown away Before they can stay.