RAVENSONG

RAVENSONG 4

Issue 1

Featured Artists:

  • Heidi Anne | Nienna
  • Andrea Young
  • Edwin Vasquez
  • Andrew Winn

 

Is this Neptune’s shanty, the song of the sea, chanted from such a distance the World Tree is just a faint smoke on the air, a color in the sky? There is a relic here, under our feet, and we can feel our cells dance to the tune it plays. And our feet stand on the cosmic rim. Beneath us the whole of the universe spins. Look down. Look down and you will know. Look down.

 


Neinna

Heidi Anne is a writer of tiny poems on Instagram under the pen name Nienna. You can find her on Instagram @niennawrites

 


Andrea Young

Andrea Young (Andrea V) has created head waves when she began showcasing her unique take on visual art via graphic design and illustration around 2005. Andrea’s visual expressions on the female form delight and inspire sub culture and mainstream fans globally. Andrea has been an art professional and showing her art locally in the Los Angeles area and nationally for almost 20 years. Her art, modeling and photography have graced magazine pages and covers nationally and internationally.

After becoming very ill in 2017 Andrea has come back to visual arts to help her continue to heal by exploring “rebuilding and acceptance” as the main themes of her art. See more at AndreaVphoto.com

 


The Temptation of St. Anthony of the Desert

       by Edwin Vasquez


Restless river zig-zagging like a poisonous desert snake

mirroring a non-existent, pale blueish color

from the grey hue of the restless sky.

On the right, in the forefront, St. Anthony stands in a catatonic state

behind a hollow tree trunk that resembles an empty cave where demons play,

his hand with painted nails holds the trunk — perhaps for dear life.

His forehead partially reflects the shadow from the twisted, carved cross,

accenting his sad and somber, melancholic face;

he resembles an animal in distress,

the saffron tunic replaced with a

tight costume – toxic green – accentuating his features,

yet he is not man nor woman,

he is animal, haunted by his own desires and demons.

The joke is on them:

the Bishop and King, the centaur and satyr, the jokers and demons;

they, in disgust, look away from him, who they want to scare —

he, who lost himself in the desert of his soul.

 

Edwin Vasquez

A prolific, multifaceted artist, who has developed a unique visual language, Edwin Vasquez, offers the Antelope Valley a breath of fresh air with his photography and vibrant mixed-media work. Using mostly recycled materials (including toys, wood panels and chains), Vasquez is able to communicate his ideas, inspirations and frustrations. Vasquez’s work is fearless in its social commentary, using rich forms and colors to provoke passionate responses to his ideas around the environment, waste and human nature. Also, he is a photojournalist, published author, and videographer.

Edwin Vasquez, born in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala in 1964.

 


Roots 

by Andrew Winn


Here we are

at a coffee shop,

a circular table,

with two chairs seated around it.

Surrounded.

By some welcoming mats and the chit-chat of chattering voices.

Like I said,

Surrounded.

By the workers of art

the busiest of bees

& all the things

of all

The light

reels in from behind

and from the left.

Surrounding.

It’s warm, like a blanket over the back.

A bucket in the corner ahead fills with dirty dishes

unaware the magazines on the shelf beneath it

sit, wait, wish,

if only its pages were being flipped.

the collections of life lived

to be continued,

caged words like caged birds

Should they share?

What could they share?

Why wouldn’t they share?

The door opens.

The front of the counter checkers between orange, white, silver, grey, reddish brown, and black tiles, and all the while

the register rings.

Or maybe it sings.

“This is a place

where I don’t

feel alone.

This is a place

where I feel

at home.”

Now

this particular table

is not particularly unique

in any particular way,

but it did as a matter of fact choose us without making any kind of

particular sound.

See, we were drawn in like a magnet is to steel,

why?

I can’t particularly explain,

but here we sit with

roots and oak stains and birthmarks and fingerprints.

Each particular table has its own particular ones, you know.

See, they declare its age but never will they ever say it aloud

and well this particular table happens to be, well,

particularly proud.

So we’re left to imagine the life experienced here.

The names of all the particular people it’s met,

the particular secrets it’s kept,

the words it’s heard that stole its breath.

The kind of moments we live

and all too easily forget.

Traced in the base of this particular table,

This is the present,

Sincerely yours.

In the sunshine

these may appear to be just tables and chairs but

they’re so much more…

the weight they carry is never truly relieved it’s safe to believe, I mean, they hold it all,

just like

these particular walls.

Now these particular walls,

they hold

the projectionist – a heart with a polaroid camera

capturing the perfect angle.

They keep

the magician on a voyage with an animated tripod & a painted tune

safe.

They play

the stories of our lives & how they intertwine

as if no one is watching.

And if there is a God,

And if God captured that light

I’d swear God did it just

right

Looking in,

through the windows,

you from behind your windows,

me from behind my windows,

these particular windows

they line the front of the shop.

They’re high, somewhat wide, and separated into individual panes as if though these particular windows they were made for this particular kind of day.

They rise above and stop where the roof begins, displaying all of us nomads safe within.

The different shapes and sizes and various disguises, I mean good Lord,

the windows’ wonderful surprises!

And when I turn to look outside

I see

familiar grounds filled with

dream works

& planetary disruption

organized chaos

& all the other lost souls

wandering along purgatory’s path

and whether we’re headed towards heaven or hell

I couldn’t tell

but I know deep within my heart we’re all angels who fell apart,

we’re all

one step

& a moment away

from taking flight.

And suddenly,

I see this place

my home

my roots

for the very first time

all over again

older than I remember

and I realize

through my eyes

despite my lives

this,

this is where it all begins

all over again

in this particular scene

filled with particular tables and particular chairs and particular windows

occupied by poets, dreamers, caring couples, solo yolo’s,

each of us are immersed in our own particular scene,

unaware of the particular extras in between

as the movie’s reel continually feeds a moving screen.

And it’s in this particular coffee shop

that feels particularly

like home,

on a white blank page

where a caged bird

& some caged words

don’t feel so

alone.

 


RAVENSONG 4

About RAVENSONG:

RAVENSONG is a short-run arts publication sponsored by Sagebrush Cafe that looks to help artists and thinkers get their voices heard and get eyes on their work.

We’re headquartered in Quartz Hill, California in the southern reaches of the Mojave Desert. And there are many artistic voices in our community. We’d like to celebrate that fact. But RAVENSONG is not drawing a closed geographic line here.

We’re looking to for more voices, from near and far. If you have a story, a poem, a photo, an essay, a photo essay, a collage, a photo collage, a painting or a philosophical short play, please send it our way. We’d love to take a look at help others see it as well.


Submission guidelines:

  • Send work to coffee@sagebrush-cafe.com
  • Current Theme: Putting Down Roots and/or Finding Your Roots
  • Deadline for upcoming issues: April 20, 2019

 

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