of an octopus: an archite|x|ual awareness of words by Diane Sahms

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A groundbreaking journey into the living architecture of language….

What Others Say:

The poems here know they are being looked at. They look back. They behave as experiments on the border between physics and lyric, where hue is both property and proposition. Typography becomes topography becomes choreography, the book rehearses its own body. The philosophical center lies near “—L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E Game,” where a single word is dismantled for parts till what remains is a question of measure itself: how one counts what touches them, and how the instrument changes the sum. To read is to feel the small economies of attention by which perception pays for meaning. The book trusts the reader to hold a scene to reveal its interval, the exact space between reach and grasp, through poems that are lucid devices for perceiving, but also tender, and their tenderness comes from the work they make the eye do and from the permission they grant the mind—to stand inside a form until the form begins to think back.

—Daniel Carden Nemo, Editor-in-Chief of Amsterdam Review.

A groundbreaking journey into the living architecture of language,  —of  an octopus: an archite|x|ual awareness of words invites readers to witness poetry as a conscious, self-aware art form. Diane Sahms blends visual form, color, and text into an innovative poetic landscape where each poem becomes a vibrant, breathing entity—aware of itself and the reader.

From color-infused wordscapes to concrete and conceptual poetry, Sahms explores the intersections of music, art, philosophy, and human emotion, crafting a shared space of poetic consciousness. Each page is a visual and linguistic experiment, where words shape themselves like sculptures, dance like music, or dissolve into abstract imagery.

This collection challenges traditional boundaries, offering an immersive experience that awakens the senses and redefines what poetry can be—a kaleidoscopic dialogue between reader and poem, alive with possibility and meaning.

—Michael Hathaway, Publisher, Chiron Review

 

You can find the book here: https://www.carbonationpress.com/catalog-2/019-octopus

For review copies contact: Greg Bem at Carbonation Press –

carbonationp@gmail.com

Or Diane Sahms at: diane.guarnieri@yahoo.com

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Last Call ….

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And So This is Winter….. Submit Your Poems

So, this is winter in all of its beauty, of snow-covered streets, hills and valleys. Of living objects becoming ice sculptures, of sun and sun glint, of majestic gray clouds and clear star filled skies. It is winter in all of its beauty and of course the darkness of early morning and arrival of night in the afternoon. In this time of governmental chaos let us look onto nature, the beauty and ugliness of its arrival displayed in all our lives. It is in the upturns and downturns of nature we find hope and even in the darkness, the beauty of the earth and all that surrounds us.

Send three to five poems with, a short 3rd person bio for consideration of publication in our newest online, North of Oxford’s – And So This is Winter… Anthology.

Send to sahmsguarnieriandreutter@gmail.com no later than January 30th for consideration of publication. We look forward to hearing from you.

Poem Talk 214- Tom Devaney

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PoemTalk episode 214 is now out!carview.php?tsp=

Ernest Hilbert, Guy D’Annolfo, and Larry Robin joined Al Filreis in the Wexler Studio of the Kelly Writers House to talk about three poems from Thomas Devaney’s Getting to Philadelphia (Hanging Loose Press, 2019): “The Blue Stoop,” “Oregon Avenue,” and “A Week in the Childhood of W.C. Fields.”

Here’s the link to the audio and program notes:

https://jacket2.org/podcasts/game-always-poemtalk-214

Remembering….

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I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality… I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.

Martin Luther King Jr. – Nobel Peace Prize Laureate

Three Poems by J.R. Solonche
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Them Old Old-Fashioned Facist Blues
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
My country’s goin’ down, right down, down the tubes.
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, it’s the same old old-fashioned fascist blues
from my hurtin’ head right down, down to my shoes.
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Oh, I’ve got them, old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Everyday, everyday there’s worse and worse news.
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, it’s the same old old-fashioned fascist blues.
They’re goin’ for folks of color, soon the Jews.
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, it’s them same old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Shit, they’re even eyin’ the National Zoo.
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Then after them – hear me now! – it’ll be youse.
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Oh, I’ve got them old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Yeah, it’s the same old old-fashioned fascist blues.
Oh, Lawd, Lawd, what the hell are we gonna do?
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Cemetery
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Every time I pass the old
family cemetery, I want
to pull over, get out and
walk around for a moment.
I never do, for there’s nothing
to see, really. Just names
and dates, of which some
are still legible, most barely
so, and a few weathered
to nothing. The fact that
it’s still here is enough.
I’ll continue to pass by, and
I’ll continue to respect them
by leaving them in peace,
the peace that is all they want,
that is all we ever really want.
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Hemingway’s House, Key West
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They wanted the tour they said
to be “a positive experience.”
So they don’t say how he died,
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the muzzle of the shotgun
in his mouth, his brains all over
the walls of the house in Ketchum.
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The cats are descended from his.
They are everywhere.
Many have six toes.
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One night he got drunk, brought home
a urinal from Sloppy Joe’s
and made a water trough for them.
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The best part is the studio.
That it isn’t in the house.
That it’s in the guesthouse where he’d go
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to write The Green Hills
of Africa and A Farewell to Arms
and For Whom the Bell Tolls,
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standing there beneath
the glass-eyed gaze of the antelope,
the eraser of the pencil in his teeth.
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Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.
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Two Poems by Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu
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Bald Plate
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With hands lifted, waist twisting (twerking)
I acknowledged that I live
Standing like an iroko tree
From the spites, calumny of owl’s eyes
Even children throw stones at unripe mangoes
Debris are matched upon, stamped
Ugly faces are chased, exploited
Unwanted babies receive chunk of inheritance
Rickety trucks are bidding to the policeman’s gain
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Old uniforms are frequently worn
Old wines the favourites of elders
Mint notes are squeezed, rumpled
Life started at forty
the former years underpinned by gorges and dudes
lonely paths are the strange ways to discovery
the dark clouds were dispersed
fountains were blocked
thunder invoked as lightning flashed
paralysis visited the disputation
cardiac arrest slumped the athlete
a phone call crippled the proud merchant
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we own the land, they say
at burials and cultural festivals
their bravest masked with the face of cruelty
under the inspiration of oracles
walks like the betrayed Julius Caesar
I live because I did not drink from their copious appeal
I survived because I did not eat
Even when I stooped like a hungry lion
Though they whetted my appetite
With my longings enticed, urges flashed
Words did not drool from my mouth
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With their covered breast, I could see the nipples
From the legs on a shawl, the thighs were obvious
She came with a spell to sap my riches
Crossing the highway without qualms
Like small lizards to kowtow me
All their web of deceit, came upon their bald pate.
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Family Plan
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Our house was big, bigger than castle
The rooms were larger than life
It could contain all of us but we did not co-exist
When our parents turned to dust,
brothers and sisters spoke out of the dust
their imagination like drops of water, covered bottom of the sea
like a small child eager to please
I cleaned myself from the dust, looking up
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doors were ajar, chains were hanged
their plot came like a whirlwind from the south
their behaviour like pain from scandal and scoundrels
our state also had the pain
from a man who pounded the destiny of her sons and daughters
inside a wooden mortar with a thick short pestle
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the man followed the conspiracy of outcasts
and revelers, crushing the glory of rising stars
both of us stood in the path with the hedge of thorns
I did not self-flagellate nor invoke our ancestors
But our state called on her forbears
Who hold the title of an eye for eye
They hosted a siege, forts on the way of that man
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I refused to build a lonely house
nor center my eye on one goal – revenge
bunk of my life was issued out before the rising of the sun
I abandoned Ostrich
I ate the fruits of my tongue – silence
I chose not to drink hemlock nor the liquid hell
Neither to be consoled by monkeys
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I did not turn into an Octopus nor algae on the banks of river
I became as transparent as hydrochloric acid
So that no one could finish me
Yet I returned clean as the Lotus flower, as precious as gold.
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Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu is an upcoming Nigerian creative writer. He started as a young man aspiring to become a Catholic priest which made him study Philosophy in a major seminary. He later got a provisional admission in 2008 to study Literature-in-English at OAU Ile-Ife. He is driven and inspired by a sacred ‘Muse’. He was shortlisted for 2025 Annual Bridgette James Poetry Competition. He is a contributor to Muktar Aliyu Art Residency. His works has appeared or is forthcoming in Flora Fiction, Yellow Seed, Dawn Project, De colonial Passage, and Ojuju magazine.
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Two Poems by Susan L. Pollet
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History On Repeat
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Fortresses and moats, body armor,
weaponry from spears and guns
to bombs, chemicals and drones,
we have seen it all from earliest times
While it changes form the paintings
and sculptures show us angry faces,
death and destruction, innocents harmed
No different in the photographs from
current wars around the world as the
suffering never ends for each generation
Perhaps if humans were better cowards
we would have less of all of it so that
we would not have to remember the
horrible sacrifices made with families
torn apart and communities decimated
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There is no wall high enough or
moat deep enough to prevent
aggressors from aggressing since
that is the human condition,
the way of man
We are killers
Destroy or be destroyed is the mantra
What do we have left when the dust settles
More of it later with all of the hate
filling our lungs and spewed out
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There is no end to it and each beginning
is a chance to get it all wrong again
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Close-Up
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No microscope needed to see
the subtle transformations
close-up as the world becomes
even meaner and the divides
grow wider and the number of
have-nots goes up while the
billionaires get fatter and fatter
and the women and children lose
position and autonomy and
the non-white skinned lose faith
and the immigrants hide and tremble
and the different are targeted and reviled
.
No magnifying glass needed to see
that the resistance must grow as in a
petri dish and be released into the world
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Susan L. Pollet is a published author of books in multiple genres and a fine artist who is a member of the Arts Student’s League in New York City.  Susan’s poetry and art have been published in multiple literary publications and in on-line shows. www.susanpollet.com
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Netherworld by David Comfort
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NETHERWORLD
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With bloodless lips, mother sips wine from a broken flute.
In headdress embroidered with birds and bouquets,
she’s dressed for the going-away party.
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After burning,
she serves her orphans honey-bush tea,
then leads us beneath the ocean where
residents rise from blue vents
their limbs translucent.
Like leaded crystal.
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In rainbow reefs, we unearth their ancient skulls.
Their wide eyes peer into the molten caverns
of the deep which breathe and sing.
Like conch shells.
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Pulling their cracked white crowns over our shaved heads,
we sojourn to the everglade,
draped with paired fronds –
birthing pods.
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Mother shows us
how our bone faces must be broken,
forming snouts
like heaven’s wild watchdogs.
on the leashes of angels.
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His verse appears in the American Journal of Poetry. My short fiction appears in Evergreen Review, Cortland Review, 3AM magazine, Morning News, and Eclectica; my essays in Pleiades, The Montreal Review, Stanford Arts Review, Juked, Free Inquiry, and UK’s The Philosopher. He is the author of popular nonfiction titles from Simon and Schuster, Citadel/Kensington and Writer’s Digest Books.
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