The Wild Iris ISSUE1 – JULY 2012

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THE WILD IRIS

ISSUE ONE

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The Wild Iris literary arts magazine is dedicated to promoting creativity, in all its forms.

Through words. Through images. Through YOU.

To submit, visit wildirismagazine.blogspot.com.

Cover Art

Iris

Sasha De Limur

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MASTHEAD

Founder and Editor-in-Chief Alma Cerrato-Lopez

General Editor Mitchell Winter

Art/Visual Arts Chief Alfredo Hernandez

Photography Chief Krystal M. Lopez

Poetry Chief Jade M. Shaw

Prose Chiefs Anahit Manoukian

Monique Mun

Editors Kelsey Fogarty

Gabriela C. Lopez

Phuoc Nguyen

Sean Antonia Engelman

Sasha De Limur

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The Wild Iris Louis Gluck

At the end of my suffering there was a door. Hear me out: that which you call death I remember. Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface. It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth. Then it was over: that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs. You who do not remember Passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever

returns from oblivion returns

to find a voice: from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure seawater. Gluck, Louise. The Wild Iris. New York: HarperCollins, 1992. Print.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

IRIS by Sasha De Limur

Hello Little Lovely One by Kelsey Fogarty

Spider Web in a Strawberry Patch by Jade M. Shaw

Humour Photography by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Rescue by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Forget by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

New but the Same by Mitchell Winter

Song’s Call by Izzy Avila

Untitled by Charlie Quintero

Arnold and Lewis and Flesh and Faces by Jade M. Shaw

Summer Breeze by Izzy Avila

Hear Me by Erika Ruiz

Walking Through Skeleton Trees by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Forrest Fall by Izzy Avila

Bitter Roots by Alma Cerrato-Lopez

Architecture Love by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Park Summers by Jade M. Shaw

Sainthood by Mitchell Winter

Untitled by Diego Gutierrez

Fence Lizard by Jade M. Shaw

Something In My Mind by Alma Cerrato-Lopez

COVER ART

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Hello Little Lovely One

Kelsey Fogarty

Hello, little lovely one.

Hello, little broken one.

Today, if the sun shone brighter than your smile,

do you think it would be a good day?

Do you see the flowers?

Beautiful, like you wish you could be.

They’re so fragile.

Do you see the birds?

They fly higher than the eye could see,

even us—big, nasty human beings—look like ants to them.

Do you ever wish you could see what they see?

Do you ever wish you could be as free as them?

But is anyone free?

Dear little one, does this make you sad?

You shouldn’t be.

You should be happy.

There is so much around you.

Take a moment,

lie down in the grass,

let your fingers run through it,

rest your head,

close your eyes,

feel the sun,

breathe it in,

smell the air.

Do you hate it?

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Spider Web in a Strawberry Patch

Jade M. Shaw

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Humour Photography

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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Rescue

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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Forget

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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New but the Same

Mitchell Winter

Your music reminded me, as I drove down deserted avenues

in the brightest morning I could remember, of the risks—

the lives lived alongside no one, of the tired rapport between earth and sky,

of the rationed sunlight poured down the streets, of those times when you’re the only one around.

Bell towers collided with wet pavement,

the debris fogging lenses and mirrors, like an oncoming storm blocking signals,

codes pulsing through the air waves and tides of static flowing

from dish to eye, from plant to heart.

The drive was still and silent, save for the leaves hustling by

on fragile feet, and I kept my eyes on the road

leaving room for error, but none for judgment.

By now, the palm prints were showing up

on the frosted blue windows and in between the wiper blades, streaking and growing

until they were made to disappear by the warmth of the interior.

I left unceremoniously, leaving tire tracks

shallow in cold gravel, heading down the street in early winter to prepare for autumn.

The notes faded and fell from my hands; my ears resisted familiar sounds.

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His spirit wilts on arid roads

A journey he thinks long,

Promises by man’s own hands

Deceived by bitter song.

A melody entices him

Decadent its lure,

It vies for his affections

Making him more sure.

Convinced his life is meaningful

Pleasures sought in vain,

Numb to sounds which he once knew

The music hides the pain.

The deafening sound of silence

Grows louder in his ears,

He covers them with futile hands

He knows what he should hear.

The tempting song now drowning him

He gasps for life’s one cure,

The life he’s known has been a farce

He stands in sands unsure.

Still his heart, he listens now

A sound which he once knew,

Reminding him of who he was

Beckoning him anew.

Song’s Call

— Izzy Avila —

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Untitled

Charlie Quintero

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Arnold and Lewis and Flesh and Faces

Jade M. Shaw

C.S Lewis’ final novel, Till We Have Faces, is a retelling of the myth of Cupid and

Psyche. Ugly Orual loves her beautiful half-sister, Psyche; when Psyche is sent as a

sacrifice to please Cupid (the “beast”), she falls in love with him, even though she is

the only person who can see him. Till We Have Faces explores what it means to

have faith in what one cannot see, and to love whole-heartedly what you know to

be honest and right in your heart. The poet Craig Arnold’s Made Flesh is a

collection of poetry published in 2009 that explores the complexity of Greek

mythology in contemporary literature and representation.

Craig’s collection drips with rich language that seems bottomless in its

measure of meaning. In particular, “Couple From Hell,” a modern retelling of Hades

and Persephone, struck me as a great comparison for C.S Lewis’ Till We Have Faces

because its language evokes a great connection to Lewis’ retelling of Orual and

Psyche. In Arnold’s poem, the lines “[At] Sundown you come to sit/ In the grass

beside the stream/ To tell each other stories” are a strong parallel to how Orual

and Psyche enjoy their time in nature together (12). In Till We Have Faces, Psyche

immerses herself in a dreamlike faith: “[L]ast night she had a dream/ Of three

bright boats in a harbor/ Wandering lively at the edge of sight” (12). “Bright boats”

expresses a sort of escape from reality, “the edge of sight.” The emphasis here is

on our internal desire to find the lines that trace where reality and fantasy collide.

Furthermore, this passage outlines Psyche’s desire for meaning and her almost

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closed-eyed faith in her decisions. However, this allows the reader to “imagine

what the world might open onto” (12). In this line, the language shifts completely,

becomes more cautious. Instead of using words like “dream,” “bright,” and “lively,”

Lewis does not use sensory language, leading the tone to resonate more harshly in

order to reflect on the dangers of a dream.

Moreover, this logical break is similar to the kind of calculative doubt that

defines Orual in Till We Have Faces. When Orual can’t see what Psyche sees in the

meadow, when she can’t see “what lies beyond the brink,” she turns to questioning

everything she is (12). As she self-questions the importance of “faces,” as a means

of self-identification, Orual introduces the idea of a shadow by veiling herself, thus

making herself invisible, or “un-seeable” to others. Arnold’s lines read, “What lies

beyond the brink/ Of your shadow-life past the river/ Behind the slim limbs of the

willows” (12). This summarizes the conflict in Till We Have Faces: The narrator asks

what one’s shadow-life (invisibility) actually is and wonders about faith once again,

though now the language is much darker than those “bright boats.” In addition,

“slim limbs of the willows” expresses that perhaps what we can see, hear and

touch, is “slim,” or malnourished, compared to what we cannot see, hear or touch.

Then, “You can’t permit each other even to think,” further complicating knowing

where exactly our loyalty lies: with one another, with faith, or with ourselves?

While all of this questioning of self and of faith rages on, “Into your talk the

stream insinuates its soft/ Forgetful laughter flowing you can’t imagine where”

reproduces C.S Lewis’ ending in Till We Have Faces. The river can be seen as a

metaphor for the “laugh[ing]” gods and the way they seem to thrive off of

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misfortune, and perhaps they do so on a more literal level if we were to say that

prayers are more expressed in times of hardship. The gods are intangible, the way

a running river’s water flows through fingers; it is a low hum of background sound

that never leaves our lives, the way a river courses through the woods, never

ceasing. We “can’t imagine where” rivers flow to, we can only imagine our lives as

they might be because our faith allows us to. We can’t touch love or hear it, not

really.

What is so intoxicating about Arnold’s passage is that even though the

language is immeasurably deep and the questions endless, the only things visible

are those “three bright boats in a harbor, wandering lively at the edge of sight”

(12). Do we want to know what we are so cautioned against knowing? Do we want

to understand what we cannot see? Why, because it is a love for the sense of

adventure? Or, is it faith? Maybe it is the desire to self-actualize. Yet, it might be

the need to escape. Or, to run away? Is it our senseless passion that leads us

toward those boats, and what is so meaningful about our ability to see someone’s

face? Arnold and Lewis both seem to be answering: “Does it matter?” Our lives are

composed of our adventures, our questions and our wanderings. Attempts to

explain these artifacts of humanity are attempts at unraveling the mystery that

makes life so unique and interpretable. Our attempts to explain these artifacts

don’t answer how we thrive alone, and this allows us to consider the ways in which

we relate to one another.

Arnold, Craig. Made Flesh. Port Townsend: Copper Canyon Press, 2008. Print. Lewis, C.S. Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold. Orlando: Harcourt, Inc., 1984. Print.

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Summer Breeze

Izzy Avila

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Hear Me

Erika Ruiz

It has become a host,

No longer I myself

Instead this thing that voices do

Like to call a home.

It is no longer my hand instead it now is ours,

It is no longer my pain

But the body's reaction to a hit.

The voice, the soul, that is the truest being,

And am I this or am I that?

Is this my soul or am I the body?

No longer do I know

And it baffles me to understand

That outside lies this world,

A realm that humans do not know.

For I have been there and opened the door

To a world of only chaos.

Where hundreds of unclaimed voices and souls

Scream and run around

Wishing to be heard.

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Walking Through Skeleton Trees

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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Forrest Fall

Izzy Avila

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Bitter Roots

Alma Cerrato-Lopez

I.

You can borrow cups of sugar from me

I can keep watch on your property while you are out

I have tallied your public outbursts

They outnumber my new few lovers

What goes out finds its way back in

Finds hiding places and stays around

Clings to us when we are distracted

By thoughts of taking ourselves a step further

II.

It grows and expands and invades

So you can store yours in the basement

And I will keep mine in the attic

Let the cold and the heat do away with it

Let the outside do what we cannot from the inside

If I am dragged under by you

Wring me back to this room

If you are crushed under the weight of my ceiling

Punish me by rising from the cold floor

Nothing else will satisfy the craving

III.

We can share our beds with each other

We can eat off each other’s plates

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You can help me sweep the mess out of the garage

I can teach you how to make roses bloom

If you let me see you in summer, not just in winter

You always leave the lights on

And you are never in, never there to answer the door

I wonder how far out you will travel

To reach me and clean me up

Leave me the way I was when you met me

IV.

They who taught us how to do this

Are putting us to test, no multiple choice

It’s all up to us

Those times that are pushed to the back of our minds are coming back

Just when we were getting good at this

You said right and I did right

I said wrong and you sought to fix

So when did our words trespass

Our hugs reveal too much

And when did we decide we should not take each other seriously?

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Architecture Love

Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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Park Summers

Jade M. Shaw

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Sainthood

Mitchell Winter

I have prepared the funeral pyre, it is standing in the courtyard of my mind— flexed on neurons, splintering synapses with shards of oak and cedar torn limb from limb by tongues of steel whetted in a swathe of February fog. I have swaddled the remains in distant thoughts— my fears and memories, rolled into a simple package containing not much more than the effort you gave or the care you showed when the empire was drawn thin by invading mercenaries. I was wise enough to guard the entrance— the gates you gave no second thought, the walls that lacked strength, the soldiers that lacked courage and color. I remained beside my commanding officer fighting for a nation of illusion, a nation crafted from the waters of a pipe dream, knowing that when the sound of shells subsided, I would be standing in a field alone with gravity descending fast and ash raining from the sky. I scanned the battlefield, searching for your eyes among the wild heat of corpses that lay scattered. I found your body— A freshly cut pear, cleaved from throat to breast. Narrowed blood moving slowly throughout the channels to your heart, the valves of which were open allowing the night to run through them. You breathed breath faintly, sputtering words through rose-colored teeth.

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Even angels meet a fragile end. When I walked into the courtyard, I placed you at the foot of the branches, moving hair away to kiss your forehead before flames engulfed your body. Soon, your flesh yielded to starlight, supernovae peeked through skin, the visible spectrum extruded through pores, sinew warped by solar wind, muscle torn by celestial fire. I stood nearby as the pyre burned, my lips and mind swimming in anesthesia, my forehead bathed in sweat, my hands cracked riverbeds of dryness. I have shattered the panels of war that hung in the cathedral of my mind. I have beautified your name; the first saint in my covenant between the masses. You left my mind bearing witness to terrors; I left you bearing witness to beauty— the beauty of ashes rushing skyward, of embers losing life. I left you witnessing the beauty of solitude.

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Untitled

Diego Gutierrez

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Fence Lizard

Jade M. Shaw

I stepped over and then stepped back

To bend at the knees and look closer

At the lizard with a torn tail and closed eyes

So (like anyone) I prodded his belly and

His tiny raptor fingers flexed out and

One tiny eye peeked open to make sure

I was not my dog (who I assumed was

The culprit in his handicap) and suddenly

I was eight again in my backyard pinching

His belly gently to set him on my palm and then

Giving him a quick kiss for all the memories

Then I strode across my backyard to the wall

That was too high for dogs to reach and

I set him on top where the sun is perfect

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Something In My Mind

Alma Cerrato-Lopez

There is something in my mind. Something I do not want to talk about. Wait. That

is not true, otherwise, I would not have started this. Maybe it is fear. Fear is what

keeps the lips shut. Not fear of the words, or of their power. Fear of their

consequence. There is a lot of fear, actually. And anger. There is anger, too. Where

there is fear, there is anger. Anger underlies your fear: you have to be angry that

your fear is keeping you under. Maybe that is just me. I doubt it, because I have a

few self-conscious friends and when they talk about their self-consciousness they

end the rant with a grunt of dissatisfaction. Their eyebrows furrow, and their lips

purse. But anger is a good thing. It is the first push out the door, the first element

of freedom.

Are you shaking your head at me? Why do you think I am wrong? Listen,

okay, when you are afraid of something you become angry at yourself for being

afraid, and this anger, it grows and gives you strength, it helps you find the stage.

Then you just let it all out—screw reactions, screw criticism, screw appraisal, screw

support. Anger is positive energy. It can be, if you nurture it for your self-worth. I

think that is what is in my mind lately. A question, really, about how to keep

walking away from that door. About how to help this need in me. I need to find a

crowd and push to the center to tell them. Tell them that I….

Sometimes words do not carry enough meaning to convey the essence of

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my emotion or the root of my thought; sometimes the words I need to express

myself have yet to be invented. I really ‘cannot find the right words,’ though I have

been looking for them. Believe me. Still, that is not a valid excuse. Shakespeare

went about and introduced letters to each other, he got them to dance and

become friends; he created many a word that way. And then he gave them many a

meaning. I doubt he intended these words to be used by his audiences or by his

fellow members of society. My theory is that he played with the alphabet for his

own purpose. My theory is that I, too, have the right to make up my own collection

of words, give them whatever meanings I desire, and pronounce them whichever

way I deem appropriate. No hypothesis, no data, no correlation, no controlled

experiment will convince me that I ought to force my tongue to only make the

sounds approved by outsiders to my research. No law, no threat, no war, no

majority, no putdown will convince me that I must swallow the key and rust along

with it.

What is your problem? Seeing you shake your head is making me feel tired.

Exhausted. Bored. How about opening your mind a little more? I would give you a

razor so you could cut open your head, let new ideas try to go in that way, but you

would probably get offended and tell me that I am being ridiculous. Is that a jab? Is

that a lift? Well. That depends on how you and I define ‘ridiculous.’ You probably

mean that I am being stupid, unrealistic. However, you could also be saying that I

am funny, that I have a sense of humor. You say one thing and, say, I understand it

slightly different than from what you intended, well, that is that: now we must

argue about two different things at the same time. About your insult-slash-

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compliment to my ego. And about my hit-back to your insult-slash-

acknowledgement to your flattery. Talk about an empathy gap. That is the problem

with people, I think. No, I know. I’m fairly certain about this one. Your experiences

are completely different from mine. One-hundred percent different. No similarity

at all. Even those few times we were together when the phone rang, when the

microwave beeped, signaling our burritos were ready, when the clouds fell apart

and watered our shoulders, even then, we interpreted those moments so

differently. There is no one to blame, then, because in each other’s understanding

lies some distortion. Gaps that we fall into, where we then fight each other

effortlessly when what we should do is use our palms, shoulders and feet as

support to climb out and close that gap.

When we come at the always foreseeable impasse, we sigh and decide to

wait until the wind gets tired of playing with our hair. We try to talk things through;

we still wear each other’s clothes without permission; we go through each other’s

mail; we walk to school together; we call each other names; and we laugh at

ourselves. We go about our own ways but bump shoulders gently when we walk

past each other: a reminder that yes, I am mad at you right now but I do not hate

you. Those words, even they can be misunderstood when spoken aloud. Nobody

has one singular definition or perspective on any one thing. We think we do, but

we do not. To you funny could be seeing someone fall down the stairs, hearing that

a drunk woman bit her dog and he returned the favor and now she is at the

hospital. To me funny might be seeing a dog chase his own tail, seeing my two-

year-old brother dancing to Lady Gaga.

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There are days when words tumble out of my mouth and make no sense. I

stand by the window and the wind brings the smell of food, a barbecue, from the

distance and in attempt to announce this, say: I smood instead of I smell food. Of

course my audience is going to laugh, good-naturedly. And when you and your

friends are in the cafeteria, looking around for a table, and you spot one near and

think: Let’s sit there! and you turn to your friends, smiling, and ask: Do you guys

want to shit there? Expect the laughs, albeit this time they might be with and at

you. You are mortified, you want to die, which I assume is really your way of saying

that you are slightly angry at yourself for having misspoken. As if it is your fault. Or

anyone else’s. You do not want to say anything else for fear of saying something

more humiliating that will consequently reward you with more audience laughter,

if not disapproving glances for your diction, so for the next couple of minutes, if

there is anything you want to add to the conversation, you rehearse it in your mind

a couple of times before deciding on the safest bet. And that is the problem.

When you embarrass yourself, if you are asked to be honest only to be

called insensitive or rude for being so, or casted out of a group for contradicting

their norm, laugh at them for not being masters in the art of humility, for hiding

from other’s thoughts, and for oppressing themselves. I know that no matter the

encouragement to take fear and anger by the throat and to sing your stories to

them, you cannot eradicate them completely. There is always some fear lingering

inside. And a few drops of unconscious anger swimming around. These inverted

mirrors are in my mind, too. Still: I try.

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Thank you, for submitting and for reading.

wildirismagazine.blogspot.com

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