Tag Archives: Rat’s Ass Review

Sonnet: Daniel Kemper, ‘We Talked’

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Why the mumbled answers, often feeling
weary, staring out the window: bitter,
wistful, dreamy, harried — always reeling,
not engaging, letting out a titter,
mocking laughs or strange and distant crying?
But eventually she says it’s cancer,
not affairs, not me – then we were trying,
talking even if there was no answer.
But I would have those awful times again:
I whispered her to sleep and once she slept
I stroked her scalp and tucked her sheets, and then
I ran off to the shower and I wept.
We talked. We really talked though it was draining,
as one, about the time that was remaining.

*****

Daniel Kemper writes: “This poem is utterly imagination, perhaps of the “O my prophetic soul” variety. Alexandra (that’s her name) and I were out of contact at the time, but it would have been right as she came down with cancer, if I have my timeline right. It’s a multi-meter sonnet of the kind I thought probably the easiest to which I could introduce people. It starts off in trochaic meter and changes to iambic at the volta. This design choice was to have descending meter for the down mood, and when looking at the bright spot, change to ascending meter. The couplet unifies them via iambic meter plus feminine endings, hopefully that accented the coming together of the two at the end, even if unconsciously.”

‘We Talked’ was originally published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Daniel Kemper, a former tournament-winning wrestler, black belt in traditional Shotokan karate, and infantryman has earned a BA in English, an MCSE (Systems Engineering), an MBA, and an MA in English and had works accepted for publication at more than a dozen magazines, including a pushcart nomination. He’s been an invited presenter at PAMLA 2024 and presided over the Poetics Panel in 2025 and has been the feature poet at several Sacramento venues.

Photo: “Sick Day” by RLHyde is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.


 

Sonnet: Beth Houston, ‘September’

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When spring’s ghost joins me on the deck to watch
Gilt city lights click on across the bay,
Some downtown maid squeaks windows, wipes the splotch
Between us. Here, this quiet view. Soft clay
And pungent eucalyptus, thick with rain,
Exude their essence. Summer’s gloom unwinds,
A pane has shattered, and each rampant cane
Of luscious juicy blackberries reminds
My grief entwining August’s humid air.
A wedge of geese pries open autumn, herds
Fat purple clouds toward dusk above the glare
Of distant offices. Your murdered words
Of love on voicemail echo you were dead
Before you put that bullet through your head.

*****

Beth Houston writes: “Regarding the sonnet: This is one poem I’d prefer to let the reader chew on without me explaining anything. It does have some tricky time aspects…”

She adds: “I have announced the submission period for the next anthology on the Rhizome Press website. Included are updated guidelines and new emails for submissions and general mail (no longer gmail). Folks will have plenty of time to submit. I just hope I don’t get an avalanche at the last minute. But better loads of poems than not getting them. I’m eager for people to let their poet friends know. I’d love to get LOTS of submissions.

‘September’ was first published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Beth Houston (www.bethhouston.com) has taught writing (mostly creative writing) at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida and has worked as a writer and editor. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She writes free verse and formal poetry, mostly sonnets, and has published a novel, two nonfiction books, and six poetry books (out of print). She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies via one of her indie presses, Rhizome Press (www.rhizomepress.com).

Photo: “Formation” by Nature_Freak is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

D.A. Hosek, ‘Chicago Sonnet 26’

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 Ain’t no one gon’ choose to live in no tent
Inna park with the trash and the dirt and the cold,
But you fresh outta jail ain’t got one damn cent
And every single place you go you told,
 
“This ain’t no place for you we got children here,
Folks with jobs, responsibility and you—and you—
Some broke, broke-down ex-con. You wanna be near
These straight folk with your criminal life? Who

Would ever stand for such a thing?” So I got
Myself a tent, don’t ask how or where,
Claimed me a patch of grass with this whole lot.
Now I gotta leave cause the straight folk get scared.
 
Spent all day looking for a place, started at dawn,
The city came by and took my shit while I was gone.

*****

D.A. Hosek writes: “The Chicago Sonnets sequence is a planned sequence of fifty sonnets, one for each Aldermanic Ward of the city. This is a rare bit of reported poetry in that I went out and talked briefly to one of the people in a homeless encampment (not the one that’s in the poem though) wondering how he ended up living in a tent on the streets. Then, after discovering that I’d already written a sonnet for the ward that his encampment was in, I had to find a different encampment in a different ward and learned about the city destroying a camp in Humboldt Park and that provided the last pieces of the poem.”

D. A. Hosek’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hanging Loose, Big Score Lit, Dodging the Rain, After Hours, Rat’s Ass Review (including this sonnet) and elsewhere. He earned his MFA from the University of Tampa. He lives and writes in Oak Park, IL and spends his days as an insignificant cog in the machinery of corporate America.  https://dahosek.com @dahosek.bsky.social 

Photo: “IMG_2971a” by Elvert Barnes is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Joe Crocker, ‘Stick and Twist’

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The more that you dislike the way I am,
the less I worry what it is you like.
I let go the way that you don’t like
the rattled heart of me, the way I am.
 
Perhaps we’re going through a sticky patch.
The patch that stuck us down long years ago
is not as sticky now. But even so,
its tar has held us close enough to catch.
 
It covers up the cracks and hides the shabby
seams we couldn’t mend. We still pretend
to rub along regardless. In the end,
perhaps we are just averagely unhappy.
 
The way we blister love and twist its scar.
We sort of stick it out. And peel apart.

*****

Joe Crocker writes: “I wrote this poem a year or two ago as an expression of frustration and sadness about the slow decline of a long marriage. The title is  an allusion to the UK card game Pontoon (Blackjack in the States?) where you can either hold your cards (stick) or ask the dealer for another (twist). It’s written from the perspective of one person in two voices. The italic lines are pained and self-pitying and the middle stanzas are him trying to figure out what has happened.”

‘Stick and Twist’ was originally published in the current Rat’s Ass Review.

Joe Crocker has a 25 yds breast-stroke certificate, several Scouting badges and “O” level Epistemology. He has won prizes – bubble bath mostly, a bottle of Baileys once. His poems squat in obscure corners of the internet. He doesn’t have a pamphlet or a website but if you Google his name and add “poetry” you’ll find most of his published work (as well as links to a deceased Sheffield rock singer.) He gets by with little help from friends.

Photo: “Playing Pontoon with tiny cracker cards” by Rain Rabbit is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Wine Cellar’

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Down in the cobwebbed cellars of the mind
fabulous wines you don’t dare drink are stored,
each carrying a price you can’t afford;
so you pass by, deliberately blind.
Upstairs a loved one, dreamier than a vision,
displays each quality your soul desires –
or is a mere projection from the fires
the building’s furnace stokes with soft derision.
Your passions aren’t alive, alight, upstairs:
your love a mere projection of the schemes
the animated house evolves. Your dreams
live in your basement, though you’re unawares.
Though Bacchus urge you to uncork that wine,
the world would find it filthy, not divine.

*****

What I like about Rat’s Ass Review is that the editor will acknowledge and deal with the darker sides of being human… Not horror stories which are mostly pretty simplistic; but poems about the darkness built into all social animals. RAR is a rare journal: full spectrum, light and dark. This sonnet is in the current issue; thanks, Roderick Bates!

Photo: “Wine barrels in an old cellar” by Ivan Radic is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Atavistic’

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Just past the new development’s array,
beyond the parking lot, the flowers, the fence,
the land becomes uneven, falls away
into an area of no pretence,
abandoned cars, some rocks, some weeds, a bog.
Here are drawn children and eccentrics both,
searching for wild flowers, or a snake, a frog,
to nature lurking in the undergrowth,
beyond the ordered asphalt, lineal law;
drawn by our lower brain of hunter, ape,
where food is found or killed and eaten raw,
life is survival, and sex may mean rape.
Bricks, debris, rubble, condoms, empty beer…
yet, strangely, life-long loves have started here.

*****

I subscribe to the Nietzschean view of humans as a rope stretched over an abyss, animal on the one side, posthuman on the other. I think the ape is very alive within us, as is the drive to reach beyond ourselves to something vastly greater.

This sonnet was originally published in Rat’s Ass Review (thanks, Roderick Bates) but I’ve modified one line here to match the photo I found for illustration.

Photo: “Vacant Lot” by Curtis Gregory Perry is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

RHL, ‘If Astrology Were Real’

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If astrology were real, you’d expect
it would be an unremarkable aspect
of daily life for someone to select–
to fall in love, fully connect–
with two people with the same birthday;
for victims of mass events (tornados, cities wrecked)
to share a sun-sign or unlucky day;
for astrology to be so useful that respect
for horoscopes would drive a business power play,
and with no reason to suspect
insider information when bets proved correct;
and that some other nonsense disarray
would have to be invented to display
for children, lovers, dreamers, to collect–
for old folks suffering neglect–
for young ones on the make, unchecked–
for trash TV and media to infect–
and for the rest of us to naturally reject.

*****

My English mother was a great practitioner of astrology; my Danish father was a thorough sceptic. In the 1950s he was going to take a trip across the Atlantic by sea, and asked her to do a forecast of the voyage. She went off and studied the stars, and came back and said that everything looked fine. (What else could she say?) Unfortunately the ship went on the rocks at Bermuda and everyone was taken off in lifeboats. When my father later questioned her forecast, her explanation (as he reported it) was that “Venus was in the Dragon’s Tail and kiss my arse.”

I studied astrology (along with lots of other religious and spiritual systems) in my 20s, but ended up agreeing with my father; hatha yoga is the only practice I’ve retained from those days.

This poem has just been published in Rat’s Ass Review – a good place for snarky poetry. Thanks, Roderick Bates!

Photo: “Automata on the famous astrological clock” by Curious Expeditions is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Weekend read: James B. Nicola, ‘Pair of Kings’

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All Clark Gable had to do
was sit where Hattie sat
the night she won her Oscar®. He
might not’ve thought of that:
but how the angels would have chimed
and cheered the noble cause
of basic decency, and broken
out in wild applause.
 
Benny Goodman would not sleep
where his Brothers could not stay.
He paved the American way before
it was the American Way.
For the color of music’s the color of God:
the color of his quartet!
So I hold no truck with movie stars,
but I play the clarinet.

*****

James B. Nicola writes: “Hattie McDaniel was the first American woman of African ancestry to win an acting Oscar. It was for Gone with the Wind, Best Picture of 1939, which starred Clark Gable, the #1 movie star at the time, known as the ‘King of Hollywood’. McDaniel was not allowed to sit with her fellow nominees. Her acceptance speech, nonetheless, overflowed with grace and gratitude.

“Benny Goodman, clarinet player and band leader, was so popular he was known as the ‘King of Swing’. His quartet included two players of African ancestry. When on tour, Goodman, true to his name, only booked overnight accommodations that accommodated all four of his players. The film The Green Book gave us a good look at these hotel policies in America. It won the Oscar for Best Picture of 2018.”

James B. Nicola’s poetry has appeared internationally in Acumen, erbacce, Cannon’s  Mouth, Recusant, Snakeskin, The South, Orbis, and Poetry Wales (UK);  Innisfree and  Interpreter’s House (Ireland); Poetry Salzburg (Austria), mgversion2>datura (France);  Gradiva (Italy); EgoPHobia (Romania); the Istanbul Review (Turkey); Sand and The Transnational (Germany), in the latter of which his work appears in German translation;  Harvests of the New Millennium (India); Kathmandu Tribune (Nepal); and Samjoko (Korea). His eight full-length collections (2014-2023) include most recently Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists, and Natural Tendencies. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience won a Choice magazine award.

‘Pair of Kings’ has just been published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Photo: “jazz ill Benny Goodman 1955” by janwillemsen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
 

Short poem: RHL, ‘Tease’

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I feel good that you want it;
you know it’s under there;
it makes me feel important
but I don’t like your stare.

I wear enough to hide it
though all around is bare;
it’s treasure, ’cos you want it;
who you are, I don’t care.

*****

This poem was first published in Rat’s Ass Review (as are many politically incorrect poems), Fall/Winter 2024 – thanks, Roderick Bates!

Photo: “Lustful model teasing on a boat in a bikini.” by @yakobusan Jakob Montrasio is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Neanderthals’

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Watch how the status of the poor
Neanderthals will rise
when we admit we thank them for
red hair, white skin, blue eyes.

*****

“All non-Africans today may have a roughly equal proportion of Neanderthal DNA, but some of the most visible physical traits appear to have been inherited especially by modern Europeans, and northern Europeans in particular. Here is a list of traits that distinguished Neanderthals from Homo sapiens, but that you could also have inherited if you are of European or Western Eurasian descent.

  • Rufosity : i.e. having red hair, or brown hair with red pigments, or natural freckles.
  • Fair skin, hair and eyes : Neanderthals are believed to have had blue or green eyes, as well as fair skin and light hair. Having spent 300,000 years in northern latitudes, five times longer than Homo sapiens, it is only natural that Neanderthals should have developed these adaptive traits first.”

I skipped 11 traits to get to these two. If you want the whole list, they’re at https://www.eupedia.com/europe/neanderthal_facts_and_myths.shtml

I’m just amused, of course, by the chance to label famously red-white-and-blue flag-waving countries as Neanderthals: the US, UK, France, Netherlands, and Russia… (as well as many other less historically aggressive countries around the world).

This poem was first published in Rat’s Ass Review (as are many politically incorrect poems), Fall/Winter 2024 – thanks, Roderick Bates!

Image: ChatGPT from RHL prompt