Subscriptions Current Issue Previous Issues The Forum What Readers Say Submit About Us Contact Us Staff Opinions Support Us Copyrights & Permissions detail of untitled - Lakota Sandoe	The Winter Cover Crazy Jane--Richard Dadd See past CRR covers in the slide show below! If you think you would like to submit or subscribe but want to first read what other readers and writers think about the CRR please click here.	A letter to subscribers, supporters and friends: Dear Subscribers, Supporters and Friends, Though I’ve spent time thinking about this letter , I’ve been slow to sit down and put my thoughts on paper. I believed that the Cold River Review would have at least one more issue. Greg Mortenson (Three Cups of Tea) emailed me that he would be able to do an interview when he arrived back from Afghanistan. However the machinery has suddenly seemed to have lost its momentum. I am uncertain that we can maintain the level of quality we have strived for. The sails luff. On the back cover of our first issue we wrote, “Kindling a small fire—half the time gathering wood. When a small flame comes forth the night pulls back. Letters, poems, essays, journalistic, jawboning, and graphic adventuring, are wood for the fire we’re building here.” For us, and hopefully for you, it has been a gratifying experience. We have enjoyed talking to our interviewees ; reading the poems, articles, and books and have relished the graphic challenge of putting each issue together. Thank you for being a participant in this project. I am sorry for any disappointment our ceasing may cause. If you are owed issues you can use the enclosed card or contact me directly for a refund. We will continue in our pursuit of a greater voice for the arts and for a larger field of possible artistic expression in more lives. Please stay in touch through our web site, and our email, Curve of the Slope Productions and our incubating council of arts. William Sandoe Editor The Cold River Review Art is the great searchlight that illumina ytes the future. --Terence McKenna gypsies Victim of Society- George Grosz Art © Estate of George Grosz/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY Flambeaux -Peter Simoneaux The mud does not burn the river runs away in the night. The bank does not move. The water stays in its appointed place and is large and Brown and eats the levee grain by grain. The streets are dark and settle inch by inch. The night is brown and does not move. The music is dark and vanishes around the corners. People are in the doors and the windows and are changed second by second. The moon is in the sky and stays in its appointed place. The river flows toward the gulf minute by minute. The people are drunk on the river and fill the streets. The air is small and changes breath by breath. The dawn stays in its appointed place. The minutes are thick and vanish around the corners. The maskers are dark and settle inch by inch. The moon runs away in the night. The blood stays within the veins. The music is dark and flows toward the heart second by second. The wind blows warm within the brain and is transformed tissue by tissue. The night is red. The people are thick and disappear around the corners. The river carries the maskers away minute by minute.
CRR SRING EVENT! Photos! Bread & Puppet at The Transparent Spectacle Hampshire College Red Barn To the page click on it
A Window with a View Give a gift that says something

The Second Coming William Butler Yeats TURNING and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?	Interview with Dennis Kucinich “War in not inevitable. Peace is inevitable but it’s going to take work.” Go to the interview
From the Spring 06 Issue T: A culture can evolve no faster than its language evolves. Language actually defines the frontier of the knowable. I take the language issue very seriously. I see us as being imprisoned within the limitations of our language. You can’t plan social strategy that you can’t talk about. You can’t build a work of art that you can’t describe somehow. So the goal is always to push language to its outermost limits and then beyond that. Wittgenstein said that “the appetition of language was for the unspeakable”. Not to be content with it or to contemplate it, but to take the unspeakable and speak it and thereby extend the frontiers of language. From the Fall 06 Issue Jules Laforgue lived fast for only 27 years. As a major influence for American poets such as T.S. Elliot, Ezra Pound, and Hart Crane, LaForgue took his own ethnographic tack by challenging the French language through the use of coarse colloquialism, startling rhymes, and pungent, mostly ironic neologisms. His poetry traverses the centuries and his vision captures the dream. (KTM) CARNIVAL NIGHT Paris steps on the gas. The clock rings like bells On the hour. Sing! Dance! Life is short, All is vain -- and up there, see, the moon dreams As cold as the time when man didn’t exist. Ah! What banal fate! In a flash and then it’s gone, We delude infinity by Truth, by Love; We go until the earth in its tower Splits through the clouds without a trace. Awaken to the echo of all these cries, these tears, These fanfares of conceit we ‘name’ History: Babylon , Memphis, Benones, Thebes, Rome -- Ruins that the wind scatters with flowers, today. And me, how many days are left for me to live? I beat the earth, and cry and tremble In front of golden centuries that never slept In this nothingness without heart -- of which not one God can bring! And here, in the peaceful night, I listen, A step resounds, a melancholy song, and a beast of labor, Dead drunk, returns from the festival Retiring at random to some squalid heap. Oh! Life is too sad, incredibly sad! I’ve always sobbed for the Festivals down here: “Vanity, vanity, all isn’t vanity!” Then I think: but where are the psalmist’s ashes? Jules Laforgue Translation c. 1975 by Kate Tarlow Morgan	Perspective When we approached Red Tail hawks migrating dralas drifting over stony hills long enough in fact that myth seems to issue from crack, crevass, and cave rewriting histories strangers abandoning relics, war and armaments along the roads we no longer used Two Shaddhus in Uttra-Kashi

girlandphone

The Winter Cover
Crazy Jane--Richard Dadd

If you think you would like to submit or subscribe but want to first read what other readers and writers think about the CRR please
click here.

A letter to subscribers, supporters and friends:

Dear Subscribers, Supporters and Friends,
Though I’ve spent time thinking about this letter , I’ve been slow to sit down and put my thoughts on paper.

I believed that the Cold River Review would have at least one more issue. Greg Mortenson (Three Cups of Tea) emailed me that he would be able to do an interview when he arrived back from Afghanistan. However the machinery has suddenly seemed to have lost its momentum. I am uncertain that we can maintain the level of quality we have strived for. The sails luff.

On the back cover of our first issue we wrote, “Kindling a small fire—half the time gathering wood. When a small flame comes forth the night pulls back. Letters, poems, essays, journalistic, jawboning, and graphic adventuring, are wood for the fire we’re building here.”

For us, and hopefully for you, it has been a gratifying experience. We have enjoyed talking to our interviewees ; reading the poems, articles, and books and have relished the graphic challenge of putting each issue together.

Thank you for being a participant in this project. I am sorry for any disappointment our ceasing may cause. If you are owed issues you can use the enclosed card or contact me directly for a refund.

We will continue in our pursuit of a greater voice for the arts and for a larger field of possible artistic expression in more lives. Please stay in touch through our web site, and our email, Curve of the Slope Productions and our incubating council of arts.

William Sandoe

Editor

The Cold River Review

Art is the great searchlight that illumina ytes the future.

--Terence McKenna

gypsies

Victim of Society- George Grosz
Art © Estate of George Grosz/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY

Flambeaux

-Peter Simoneaux

The mud does not burn the river
runs away in the night. The bank does not move.
The water stays in its appointed place and is large
and Brown and eats the levee grain by grain.
The streets are dark and settle inch by inch.

The night is brown and does not move.
The music is dark and vanishes around the corners.
People are in the doors and the windows and are changed
second by second. The moon is in the sky and stays in its
appointed place. The river flows toward the gulf
minute by minute.

The people are drunk on the river and fill the streets.
The air is small and changes breath by breath.
The dawn stays in its appointed place.
The minutes are thick and vanish around the corners.
The maskers are dark and settle inch by inch.
The moon runs away in the night.

The blood stays within the veins.
The music is dark and flows toward the heart second
by second. The wind blows warm within the brain
and is transformed tissue by tissue. The night is red.
The people are thick and disappear around the corners.
The river carries the maskers away minute by minute.

CRR SRING EVENT!

Photos!

Bread & Puppet at The Transparent Spectacle

Hampshire College Red Barn

To the page

click on it

A Window with a View

Give a gift that says something

The Second Coming
William Butler Yeats

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Interview with Dennis Kucinich

“War in not inevitable. Peace is inevitable but it’s going to take work.”
Go to the interview

From the Spring 06 Issue

T: A culture can evolve no faster than its language evolves. Language actually defines the frontier of the knowable. I take the language issue very seriously. I see us as being imprisoned within the limitations of our language. You can’t plan social strategy that you can’t talk about. You can’t build a work of art that you can’t describe somehow. So the goal is always to push language to its outermost limits and then beyond that. Wittgenstein said that “the appetition of language was for the unspeakable”. Not to be content with it or to contemplate it, but to take the unspeakable and speak it and thereby extend the frontiers of language.

From the Fall 06 Issue

Jules Laforgue lived fast for only 27 years. As a major influence for American poets such as T.S. Elliot, Ezra Pound, and Hart Crane, LaForgue took his own ethnographic tack by challenging the French language through the use of coarse colloquialism, startling rhymes, and pungent, mostly ironic neologisms. His poetry traverses the centuries and his vision captures the dream. (KTM)

CARNIVAL NIGHT

Paris steps on the gas.
The clock rings like bells On the hour.
Sing! Dance! Life is short,
All is vain -- and up there, see, the moon dreams
As cold as the time when man didn’t exist.
Ah! What banal fate! In a flash and then it’s gone,
We delude infinity by Truth, by Love;
We go until the earth in its tower Splits through the clouds without a trace. Awaken to the echo of all these cries, these tears,
These fanfares of conceit we ‘name’
History: Babylon , Memphis, Benones,
Thebes, Rome -- Ruins that the wind scatters with flowers, today.
And me, how many days are left for me to live?
I beat the earth, and cry and tremble
In front of golden centuries that never slept
In this nothingness without heart -- of which not one
God can bring! And here, in the peaceful night,
I listen, A step resounds, a melancholy song, and a beast of labor,
Dead drunk, returns from the festival
Retiring at random to some squalid heap.
Oh! Life is too sad, incredibly sad!
I’ve always sobbed for the Festivals down here:
“Vanity, vanity, all isn’t vanity!” Then I think:
but where are the psalmist’s ashes?

Jules Laforgue Translation c. 1975 by Kate Tarlow Morgan

cathedral

Perspective

When
we approached
Red Tail hawks migrating
dralas drifting
over stony hills
long enough in fact
that myth seems to issue
from crack, crevass,
and cave
rewriting histories
strangers abandoning relics,
war and armaments
along the roads we no longer
used

haddhus in Uttra Kashi
Two Shaddhus in Uttra-Kashi

symbol