Lida leaned heavily on the crutches she had been given.  She could almost feel the eyes of the palace doctor who had inspected the wound in her leg.  He had practically ordered her to report to the sickroom the moment the Emperor dismissed her, to have it cleaned.

“You shall call yourselves men of the Imperial Guard–” he glanced at Lida “–and any of you who are not presently members of the Guild of Swordsmen shall be entered upon the rolls.”

Lida heard applause from the spectators behind her and from the other victorious swordsmen.  Some of the women standing or seated on cushions on either side of the dais also clapped their hands.  Whether they applauded or not, the women around the throne were all staring at her, not at any of the male swordsmen.  While some regarded her with the same scorn Lida was used to from other women, others just seemed curious to see a woman swordsman, and a few seemed delighted by her.

As the official finished speaking, a boy in the same Imperial blue worn by all the servants came to the edge of the dais.  He knelt and kissed the floor, holding a parchment scroll above his head in one hand.  A robed official came to take the parchment, and as soon as it had left the boy’s hand, the boy kissed the floor again, and darted back towards the audience.  Lida didn’t see where he went.

The official ascended the dais to place the scroll in the Emperor’s hand.  The room was very quiet as the Emperor opened and read the scroll.

He read quickly, re-rolled it, and handed it back to the official.  Lida couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

He lifted his head, scanning the room.  “Those responsible for this message may approach the throne.  Lida Dareshna, remain here.  My new guardsmen are dismissed.”

The big swordsman Lida had fought in the next-to-last round nodded to her as he moved off with the others, and she nodded back.  She felt too anxious to smile.

She felt all the more anxious when she saw the faces and garb of the three men in silver-trimmed black who approached the dais at the Emperor’s request.  Officers of the Guild of Swordsmen.

#

“Come,” Merolliay said, taking a step towards the throne at the end of the Hall.

Filipe caught his elbow.  His grip was surprisingly strong.  “I wouldn’t draw attention to yourself right now.”

Merolliay shook his arm free.  “The Emperor invited me here.  If I didn’t want his attention on me, I shouldn’t have come.”

Saulius and Alzadin followed him across the Hall.  Filipe did not.

How much of this had the Emperor planned?  He must have known that the Guilds would try everything short of openly defying him to ensure that no woman won the Imperial Guard contest.  But did he know what the Libanians wanted, precedent for other women to join other Guilds, and a woman in the Imperial Guard whose true loyalty was to the Lion of the West?  Merolliay’s invitation, stamped with the Emperor’s own seal, suggested that he did.

If that were so, Filipe was right.  In fact, not only should Merolliay not be drawing attention to himself, he should be walking in the opposite direction, away from the throne and out the door.

But if Merolliay’s suspicion as to how the Emperor might want to test Lida’s loyalty was correct, it might be too late for that.

His only chance was to offer a better solution, one that assured the Emperor that Lida’s loyalty–and his–were to the Imperial Throne.  Not to Libanian schemes, nor to a title that had been meaningless a hundred years ago and was even more meaningless now.

He hoped Lida would forgive him.

#

“I am informed,” said the Emperor, “that the Guild has forbidden you to carry a sword.”

Lida glanced at the three Guild officers to her left, who had just risen from their obeisance.  All three gazed respectfully upwards at the Emperor, neither to the right nor to the left, but the one closest to her had his lip curled in the barest hint of a triumphantly smug grin.

“Yes, Sire,” Lida said.  She felt her dream slipping away again, just as she had gotten her fingers around it.  How could this be happening?  She had killed one of her own countrymen to enter the Emperor’s service, to prove that her loyalty was to the Emperor alone.

“And was the order to put aside your sword not signed also by my own Minister of Commerce?  A member of my Cabinet?”

“Yes, Sire,” Lida said.

“My Cabinet ministers are my hands and feet and mouth.  To act and go and speak when I cannot.  For me to countermand a decree of one of my Cabinet ministers, it would be as if I were countermanding my own authority.”

Was Lida in even worse trouble than she had imagined?  Her chance of winning back the right to wield her sword had seemed to be melting away, but if she had made the Emperor look bad….  Would she be beheaded?  Or worse?

For one frantic, furious moment, she considered trying to wrest a weapon from the Imperial Guardsman closest to her.  Even with her injured leg, maybe she could kill one of them before she was taken down.  But she dismissed the idea almost as soon as it entered her mind, and she tamped down her anger as if she were packing powder into a cannon.

“Sire,” she said.  “That wasn’t what I meant to do.  I only want to serve you.”  Close enough to the truth, she thought.

“It pleases me to hear this,” the Emperor said.  “But if I allow you to join the Guild of Swordsmen and carry a blade, I must overrule my own Minister of Commerce.”

From behind Lida, a familiar voice said, “Perhaps I may offer a solution.”

It was Merolliay.

Her heart began to race.

She didn’t dare turn to see Merolliay, but behind her, she heard two men get down on their knees and kiss the floor.

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed.  “Lion of the West.”

“I’ve never called myself that,” Merolliay said.  He was still standing, his voice nearly level with Lida’s ears.  Of course, he would not kneel to the Emperor.

“Indeed,” said the Emperor.  “I hear that you call yourself a swordsman, of late.  That you are the leader of a company of swordsmen that includes this young woman.”

“Our company has no leader,” Merolliay said.  Lida heard an odd quaver in his voice.  “But yes, Lida Dareshna and I are members of the same company.”

The Emperor leaned forward.  “I have heard that the bonds of loyalty within companies of swordsmen are strong.”  A note of excitement had entered his voice.  “Perhaps one final contest is required, to assure me that this young woman’s loyalty is undivided.”

Lida gasped.  The Emperor wanted her to fight her friends?  She looked back over her shoulder at Merolliay, before she could think not to.  His face was grim.

She opened her mouth to say that she wouldn’t do it, but Merolliay spoke first.

“I have a very different proposal for you, Your Majesty.  One that is almost guaranteed to solve several problems at once.  Will you hear it?”

The Emperor sat back in his throne.  His eyes glinted with amusement.  “I hear that my Libanian subjects are masters of the clever solution that appears to benefit those around them, and in fact benefits them most of all.”

“I have also heard this.”  Merolliay’s voice was grave.  “But I’ve lived in the Imperial City since I was hardly more than a child.  I may have lost that gift.”

The Emperor’s lips curled into a smile.  “Speak.”

“Your Majesty,” Merolliay said, “it appears that the root of all these problems lies in the fact that Lida Dareshna is a woman.  The rules of the Guild of Swordsmen–the rules of all Imperial Guilds–forbid the admission of women as members.  As our renowned Minister of Commerce is no doubt aware, allowing Lida to join the Guild of Swordsmen might set a dangerous precedent, encouraging women all across the Empire to petition for membership in all sorts of Guilds.  And yet, it seems to me that the solution is simple.”

The wry smile on the Emperor’s face deepened as Merolliay spoke.  Lida didn’t understand what he found so amusing.  Merolliay’s suggestion, that her example might encourage other women to try to join other Guilds, had never even occurred to her.

“What would this simple solution be?” the Emperor asked.

“Your Majesty,” Merolliay said.  “Forgive my ignorance if I am mistaken, but surely his Divine Majesty our Emperor, living avatar of the god Konendas, need only declare that Lida Dareshna is in fact a man, and it will be so.  He will then be eminently qualified to join the Guild of Swordsmen and enter your service as a member of the Imperial Guard, and I see no objection that your Imperial Minister of Commerce, or anyone else, might raise.”

The Emperor’s eyes glinted, and he chuckled briefly.  But the officers of the Guild of Swordsmen, to Lida’s left, were not so amused.

“Sire,” one protested, “this cannot–”

All amusement vanished from the Emperor’s face.  “You cannot be proposing that I lack the authority to make such a proclamation,” he said, his voice mild.

Lida glanced at the three furious Swordsmen’s Guild officers.  The one who had spoken was red-faced, and his mouth worked as if he were trying to formulate an answer that both he and the Emperor would find acceptable, and not discovering the words.  The other two were tight-lipped, staring straight ahead with expressionless faces.

“No, Sire,” the officer said at last.  “Of course not.”

“I thought not,” the Emperor said.  He lifted his eyes to Merolliay’s again.  “Your proposal interests me.  But perhaps you can explain how it provides reassurance on the question of loyalty.”

“If Lida Dareshna were a man,” Merolliay said, “he would be dependent on you for sustenance and support.”  The quaver in his voice was back.  “As I’m sure everyone at court knows, the will of the late Andraikos Dareshna left his estates and titles to his adopted daughter.  If Lida is a man, Andraikos Dareshna had no adopted daughter.”

Lida dared another look behind her, at Merolliay.  He was looking at the Emperor instead of at her.  But Saulius’s and Alzadin’s eyes were wide with shock.

“Dependence for sustenance and support does not guarantee loyalty,” the Emperor was saying.  Lida hardly heard him.  She’d wished so many times that she was a man, but it had been an idle, impossible wish, and now the gods must be laughing at her.  She could have what she wanted, a place in the Imperial Guard and the Guild of Swordsmen, but not as a woman.  And Helena Dareshna would have her inheritance.

“Nothing guarantees loyalty,” Merolliay said.  “Every other man who won a place in the Guard today has friends, or family, or lovers.  They can say that their loyalty is to you above all else, but it’s impossible to know until they’re tested.”

The Emperor was nodding.  “This is true.”  He turned his eyes to Lida.  “What do you say, Lida Dareshna?  Would you become a man to enter my service?  Would you give up your titles and estates?”

She felt that she had a thousand thoughts, and couldn’t settle on a single one.  What did it even mean, to become a man?  Some people said she might as well be one already, the way she lived and dressed.  She might have agreed; only she couldn’t stop thinking about the way some of the younger women around the dais had looked at her, a woman achieving something everyone had always told them only men could do.  She kept her eyes fixed on the Emperor, so she didn’t have to see if those women were disappointed in her.

“I never wanted the lands and titles, Sire.  The only thing I want that Andraikos Dareshna gave me is my sword.  The one the Guild took from me.”

“Is the sword still intact?” the Emperor asked the Guild man.

The man choked back an angry response to say, “Yes, Sire.”

“Then you will return it.”

After a moment, the man nodded.

The Emperor leaned forward.  “So?  Will you give up the sword and continue as Lady Dareshna?  Or will you live as a man, and serve me as a Swordsman of the Imperial Guard?  The choice is yours.”

It was a bad choice.  Give up everything she’d ever wanted, or deny that she was a woman and serve an Emperor who had considered making her fight Merolliay to prove her loyalty.  She hadn’t even thought that her example might encourage other women to demand the right to join Guilds; but it couldn’t, if she had to become a man to join hers.  For a moment, she was angry with Merolliay all over again.  For this, and for his coldness after what had happened the night of the Emperor’s birthday.  For not being able to accept her as both comrade and lover.  For having to rescue her.

But her anger lasted only a moment.  He wouldn’t have come forward and faced down the Emperor unless he cared about her, even if it wasn’t in the way she’d hoped for.  And he’d helped her win her place in the Imperial Guard.  Exactly what she had said she wanted.

Maybe all real choices were bad ones.

“I will serve you, Sire,” Lida said.  “No other man will serve you better.”

Welcome to our latest issue of Silver Blade poetry. We present an eclectic mix of literary speculative poetry. We encourage our poets to provide audio voice recordings, but this is optional.

In this issue, our Featured Poet is the celebrated, Jane Yolen, who some call the Hans Christian Andersen of America. A protracted interview reveals the ubiquity of poetry in even her prose.

You will also find fine poetry of the highly regarded poet and artist, Marge Simon. Her poignant piece is an example of some of the finest science fiction poetry out there.  A collaboration of Christine Valentine, Arthur Elser and myself treats you to a surreal and highly symbolic poem with religious subtext. Maude Larke haunting piece is a perfect follow-up. Shadows and dreamscapes in the works of F.J. Bergmann and K. Lou Combs is a good way to close the set. Their work continues the surrealism dominating this issue.

Here is the line-up:

Jane Yolen (New York, NY)

“Beauty, Beast, Bride”

“Fahrenheit”

“The Trees Commit”

Marge Simon (Ocala, FL)

“Alien Interrogation”

Christine Valentine (Birney, MT), Arthur Elser (Denver, CO), and John C. Mannone* (Niota, TN)

“A Murder of Crows”

Maude Larke (Dijon, France)

“Viper’s Brood”

F.J. Bergmann (Poynette, WI)

“Penumbra”

K. Lou Combs (Hayward, California)

“Butterflies and Dreamers”

Jane Yolen: An Introduction of our Featured Poet

This issue’s Featured Poet is the celebrated poet and writer, Jane Yolen. She has books, poems, and stories that have won many awards. They include the Caldecott Medal, two Nebula Awards, the Rhysling, an Asimov’s Magazine Reader’s Poll award, World Fantasy Award, a National Book Award nomination, three Mythopoeic Fantasy Awards, the Golden Kite Award, the Skylark Award, Jewish Book Award, two Christopher Medals, the Association of Jewish Libraries Award, the Charlotte Award, the Garden State Award, the Golden Sower Award, and others. Jane Yolen has also been distinguished with several honorary doctorates. (See http://janeyolen.com/awards/for more details.)

We would learn from her website that she started writing poetry in the first grade; a delightful reminiscence. She has a fascinating biography. But for a summary of her literary bio, I copied what was written in a recent publication, Pirene’s Fountain (Beverage Anthology, Winter 2012), http://pirenesfountain.com/poetry/yolen.html:

“Jane Yolen has over 300 published books, including about 70 books of poetry, all but six of which are for children. Her poetry books include: THE RADIATION SONNETS (Algonquin) AMONG ANGELS (with Nancy Willard for Harcourt Brace), THINGS TO SAY TO A DEAD MAN (HolyCow! Press) and the upcoming EKATERINISLAV: A Family’s Journey to America (HolyCow! Press), THE LAST SELCHIE CHILD (A Midsummer Night’s Press), and SPEAKING IN PEARLS (Papavera Press, a limited edition fine art press.)”

Dr. Jane Yolen

JCM: Thank you, Dr. Yolen, for doing this interview. We, at Silver Blade, are delighted.

Not too long ago I remember writing the letter inviting you, and how my finger quivered while poised on the send button. In it I said how we “met;” i.e., sharing pages of some of the same journals I had the privilege of being in, such as Conclave: A Journal of Character and Pirene’s Fountain.*) I was wowed by your more than 300 publications (http://janeyolen.com/works/category/alphabetical/) and by the distinction given to you as the Hans Christian Andersen of America, among others. Can you share a little back-story about this?

* By the way, I love your work there, especially, “Durak with Tea: A Prose Poem.” (See the link in the introduction.)

JY: Thank you for having me visit here. The original Hans Christian Andersen comment appeared (I think) in a Newsweek review way back in the ‘60’s or ‘70’s when I was writing a lot of original/art fairy tales, books such as THE GIRL WHO CRIED FLOWERS and THE HUNDREDTH DOVE.

JCM: Indeed, your fantasy writing is rich. Some are modern-day adaptations of the Brothers Grimm and other fairy tale tellers. For example, your derivative poems on “Beauty and the Beast” speak to issues that transcend the original folklore themes and perhaps touch on the role of women in modern society. Fables are really parables (even the Greek language supports that translation) — stories with a moral or ethical lesson often with an element of the fantastic. (I too am drawn to write poems like that, which explore some aspect of the human condition and of family values (e.g., “Affective Disenchantment,” Enchanted Conversation, May 2010, a contest-winning poem: http://www.enchantedconvo.com/search/label/John%20C.%20Mannone). Here is a link to your “Beauty and the Beast: An Anniversary” (Faery Flag, published by Orchard Books, 1989): http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/cofbbann.html. And one of your poems in this issue, in fact, deals with similar themes (“Beauty, Beast, Bride”). Can you tell us about that poem, the inspiration behind it, and anything else that might be helpful to those of us who would like to write poetry inspired by fairy tales?

JY:I wrote the poem “Beauty and the Beast: An Anniversary” as an anniversary present for my husband, who with his shaggy beard had aspects of Beast—both the fierce mien and the gentle heart. And also because we were such desperate souls—he a West Virginia (ex-Catholic) scientist and I a New York (Jewish) poet—who nevertheless had a storybook marriage. Over the years I have written a lot of fairy tale poetry. In fact this poem is being reprinted in GRUMBLES FROM THE FOREST, a collection of mostly new children’s poems that Rebecca Kai Dotlich and I wrote inspired by classic fairy tales. It is out later this year.

JCM: My trip to the local public library in hopes of finding some of your adult poetry wasn’t as successful as I had hoped (I live near a very small town with limited resources), but the trip yielded many children and young adult books — picture books, novellas, novels. I checked out eleven of them: “Sister Light, Sister Dark” ((1989, Nebula Award finalist), “Jason and the Gorgon’s Blood,” “Simple Gifts: The Story of the Shakers,” “Mirror, Mirror,” “Here There Be Witches,” “A Sending of Dragons,” “Prince Across the Water,” “The Sultan’s Perfect Tree,” “Bird Watch,” “O Jerusalem” and “Hark: A Christmas Sampler”

I wish I had carefully read them all, but I did notice a ubiquity of poetry sifted into the prose. First, I have a general question about this. Your biography indicates your first passion is poetry and that you started writing in the first grade. Share with us how poetry ends up in your stories. Is it by serendipity or by calculation, or perhaps a mixture of the two?

JY: I am incapable of NOT infusing my fiction (and sometimes even nonfiction) with poetry. Even where it seems an odd additive, I put it there.

JCM: As note above, you have poetry in your prose. For example, In “Here There Be Witches,” little poems are scattered about, such as “Witch’s Cat”: I am…companion, shadow/I am…whisper/I am…message. I cannot help but notice the parallel construction. The Torah and, in particular, Wisdom literature (e.g., Book of Psalms or Proverbs) has that kind of construction typifying Hebrew poetry (http://www.ovrlnd.com/Teaching/Hebrew_Poetry.html). “Witch’s Cat” almost seems to have synthetic parallelism. I think this is a powerful poetic device. Was this a conscious construction?

JY: I was an English major in college, and studied a good deal of poetry and poetic forms. I minored in religion. I expect a lot of it rubbed off. I rarely think about the forms I am writing until after the fact. But I do read everything aloud because poetry has two faces, one on the page, one in the mouth/ear.

JCM: “The Sultan’s Perfect Tree” is delightfully illustrated, and a lovely story—one about a tree in the middle of the garden immediately captured my attention, especially with the possible religious subtext. And the moral is perfect—the idea that perfection comes with change/growth. I love it. So, in your early tears of writing books like this, do you write the story first, and then have it illustrated, or do you find an illustrator first who would be willing to illustrate a story to be written? Do you have any advice for us who want to have their poetry book illustrated?

JY: The editor and art director find the illustrator after they have accepted my mss. I do have consultation, but I can never demand or insist on an artist. Just have to persuade if I can and if I have a huge objection.

JCM: I also noted your poetry in “A Sending of Dragons”: Muscle and bone/And claws and teeth/Fire above and/Fewmets beneath. Is it hard to write about dragons these days? It seems that would be an inescapable trope in fantasy poetry, yet could be a hard sell. But maybe not. I know that when I teach younger kids about science and astronomy, dinosaurs and meteors are humongous hits. Maybe dinosaurs (and dragons) are still in vogue if deftly handled. Can you address the dragon issue, or more generally, how the modern poet might handle icons of the genre, yet write literary poetry for the adult? This question comes at the heel of some criticism I have recently heard about science fiction poetry in Amazing Stories. I imagine that criticism might extend to all of speculative poetry. Perhaps you can couch your answer in this context:

http://amazingstoriesmag.com/2013/02/why-science-fiction-poetry-is-embarrassingly-bad/

JY: Fewmets! Put most literary or even semi-literary poetry up against Emily Dickinson and it will seem embarrassingly bad. As for writing poems about dragons, you can write them as real creatures or as metaphor. Why should they (or even winky little daisy flowers which are harder to write good poems about) be ruled off the poet’s easel? A great poet can make poetry out of a simple walk with a dog, a morning weeding the garden, a startling encounter with a snake, or a sister-in-law living “a hedge away” as Dickinson did. Or write good poetry using that too-often-used muse of bad poets as well as good—love. Shakespeare leaned on that one over and over and over again.

JCM: The poem mentioned in the previous question is a perfect segue to rhyming poetry. In a recent discussion about rhyming poetry I had with fellow poets, I wondered about the power of rhyming poetry for children. Rhyming poetry lends itself to the adventurous spirit; the lighter shades of dark; and the funny, if not silly, all because of the innocence of youth. Of course, rhyming is a memory aid, too. But I worry that exposure to poetry goes from this light kind of verse to something that’s not as accessible when they are in their teens (viz. Spenser’s “The Faerie Queene”). Do you think more serious notes about poetry should be introduced in those formative secondary school years so that the kids don’t grow up thinking that poetry is either silly rhyme or something that is “not meant to be understood”? And in answering this, I am curious if you think that well-crafted speculative poetry might be a means to bridge the gap to this appreciation.

JY: Um—what makes you think that there is only rhymed poetry for children? In children’s books, even if you only read mine—you will find as many non-rhymed as rhymed poems. Some are in form (sonnets, haiku, tanka’s, etc.) and some are in so-called free verse. But yes, there are—alas—teachers who think that children can only deal with light verse, rhymed forms. That is patently untrue.

JCM: Many others have interviewed you, like Writers Write — The Internet Writers Journal, “A Conversation With Jane Yolen” by Claire E. White (June 2002) where you bring up many good points, http://www.writerswrite.com/journal/jun02/yolen.htm. And the interview by Stephen Wilson reveals another side of you. This and other interviews have stimulated some of the questions I have. One of the things that impress me is what you said about blurring of lines between poetry and prose in a Raymond Thompson interview when you said,

Poetry, it seems to me, is finding that still point, or that turning point, of emotion. Many, many moments in the whole Arthurian canon have those wonderful points of emotion where you can start a poem. You can focus upon that particular moment, and not try to write a long, 400-page poem. Taking a point where landscape and character touch together is always fascinating to do. When I write I don’t really make a distinction between my poems and my prose. I began as a poet, and so when I’m writing prose, my prose is normally extended poetry. I have to fight sometimes very hard to go back and say, wait a minute, this is prose. I need to do character, I need to do plot, I need to do all those things that you’re supposed to do in prose.

http://www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/intrvws/yolen.htm

Can you comment on how poetry has helped your prose and how prose has helped your poetry?

JY: I have been writing both for so many years—this is actually the 50^th year of my first book publication, though I had journalism pieces and poetry published even earlier—that the two forms blur their edges. So I write prose poems and poetic prose with equal abandon. Where my poetry really has helped my prose is in the writing of picture books which, like poetry, needs to be lyric, short, pithy, metaphoric, and where every word counts.

JCM: In another interview by Mike Allen back in November 2005 you said,

I think I was a poet from the moment I could speak. Certainly from the moment I could write. I did both poetry (rhymes, jingles) and lyrics to songs I made up. In fact, when I graduated from college, I had two plans: to be a journalist in order to have a job and a poet in order to have a soul. (http://www.strangehorizons.com/2005/20051114/yolen-int-a.shtml).

I appreciate that sentiment, and that conviction. I have read that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Pablo Neruda both knew they wanted to be famous poets when they were quite young, 15 and 13, resp. I understand what it means to be driven from an early age. You mentioned earlier that you wrote poetry in the first grade. Can you tell us more about that experience (especially stuff that you might not have told too many others)?

JY: It was lousy, end-rhyme driven, and about what you would expect for a first grader. But by the next year, I was writing song lyrics and had gotten a grasp of actual line scansion as well as better rhyme patterns. I keep getting better and, for a long while, became a fast and facile versifier. Now I have to work hard not to be beguiled by my facility.

JCM: I’ve read that your typical writing day involves “gathering” input from walks — simply observing the world around you with all your senses—and writing “something, anything.” When you sit down to write those impressions and to create poetry (and stories), do you play classical music (or any other kind of music in general)? (I ask about classical music specifically because Walt Disney’s cartoons (and others) that I grew up with were richly embellished with that kind of music. It seems natural to me to listen to (or hear in my head) the music of Franz Liszt while thinking fantasy, at least in the revision process, but I suspect also that many writers have different views on this.)

JY: I need silence. I am very musical and listening to music as I write seriously changes what I am trying to do, so much so that I begin to write FOR the music rather than the music of the poem in my head.

JCM: After I was unsuccessful at the library, I drove to Chattanooga’s Barnes & Noble to hopefully get your collection, The Radiation Sonnets, but that had to be ordered and I couldn’t wait. However, I did find on the shelf, and promptly bought it, The Devil’s Arithmetic (1989, National Jewish Book Award), a gripping novella about the Holocaust. Below in the appendix, I rendered my impressions on poetic content. It is not exhaustive, just a small sampling. I think this exemplifies the poetry/prose thing mentioned earlier. Please add anything you like to the “review” of your book, its poetry, etc.

(You have another on the same theme, Briar Rose (1992, Mythopoeic Fantasy Award for Adult Literature, Nebula Award finalist), but I haven’t seen that one yet.)

JY: It’s not a novella, but an actual children’s novel which—Harry Potter notwithstanding—tend to be shorter than adult novels.

JCM: Can you share your opinion about electronic publishing, especially since there seems to be an ease of color illustrations without the printing expense?

JY: Just dipping my toes in e-pubbing so don’t have much to say about it, except that I would NEVER publish anything that hadn’t gone through an editor’s capable hands.

JCM: Your seven rules for writers are listed as:

1. Write every day
2. Write what interests you
3. Write for the child inside of you (or the adult, if you are writing adult books)
4. Write with honest emotion
5. Be careful of being facile
6. Be wary of preaching
7. Be prepared for serendipity

This is all excellent advice. But I am particularly struck with item 3. Tell us more about this child inside you, inside us. (There is more advice here: http://janeyolen.com/for-writers/)

JY: We all have the child we were still inside. Some of us can access that child with more ease than others. It is the access we have to work at, not the child.

JCM: Do you have any advice on how poets & writers can best be sensitive to feminist views in modern speculative poetry, especially in developing heroic female characters and/or not falling into patronizing traps, or worse.

JY: Hmmm, I don’t understand the problem. Either you are a female and so don’t need to give it any thought, or you are male and need to give it a lot of thought. Or you could just go out into the woods with Bly and beat of a drum.

JCM: There are so many other things I would like to ask you about, and there is no easy way to ask some of those questions. In dealing with grief, loss in particular, how does writing about it help transcend the horrible feelings? In particular, what do you think it is about poetry that helps us with deal with loss? I am reminded of your own loss, and of your writing The Radiation Sonnets. I know writing can be therapeutic, but I haven’t quite figured out why yet. Perhaps you have some thoughts you’d like to share.

JY: For me, the daily writing of poetry during my husband’s first illness and last one helped me understand what I was feeling, helped me focus my subconscious mind while the conscious one did all the necessary daily tasks. It kept me sane in an insane time of my life. It kept me in touch with the beauty in the horror, the DNA of memory and love.

JCM: Would you like to tell us about your newest projects, especially the poetry? And please take the time to discuss anything you would like.

JY: I am running a poem-a-day, a book-a-month subscriber series. I send out to the 150+ people who have signed up a daily new poem of mine with the understanding that they are getting something raw and hardly revised. In exchange, they promise that at month’s end they will either buy a book of mine or borrow one from the library. Some of the poems have found their way into magazines and journals, into collections and anthologies, though the majority will never be published anywhere. I have been writing a poem a day for two years and this year I decided to open the process to subscribers. In fact, the three poems published here–“Beauty, Beast, Bride”, “Fahrenheit” , and “The Trees Commit”—were all part of the poem-a-year.

As far as poetry volumes coming out, I am working on a new book of adult political poetry for HolyCow! Press, and a handbound book of fantasy poetry, limited edition of 50, Syllables of Pearl, will be out this year. Children’s poetry coming up: Grumbles from the Forest followed by Grumbles from the Town (nursery rhymes), Wee Rhymes is out next month, and next year (possibly) Thunder Underground.

JCM: Finally, I would like to wish you a Happy Birthday. I hope your enormous creativity continued success continues to bless many readers. I know I have been. (And good luck with the Rhysling Poetry Award—you won it in 1993. As the 2013 Rhysling Chair, I saw the nomination of your work.)

JY: Thanks. I always worry about awards, much as I love getting them. Awards have to be dusted, and one of them (the Skylark) actually set my good coat on fire.

JCM: Thank you so much, Jane. It has been a pleasure!

Appendix: My Poetic Impressions of “The Devil’s Arithmetic” (Puffin Boots, 1990, ISBN 0-14-2401099)

What an intense work. It is no wonder why it has won the National Jewish Book Award. The story is centered on a 13-year old Jewish girl, Hannah, who is embarrassed and bored when she is “forced” to listen to her family, especially her grandparents, aunts and uncles celebrate religious tradition and talk about the Holocaust. In the story, Passover and Easter falls on the same day and the novella begins with Hannah’s complaining:

“I’m tired of remembering,” Hannah said to her mother as she climbed into the car. She was flushed with April sun and her mouth felt sticky from jelly beans and Easter candy.” (p. 3, Chapter 1)

“Her stomach felt heavy, as if the argument lay there like unleavened bread.” (p. 5, Chapter 1)

Now, one might wonder what is it that I am doing with this, especially since it might sound like the beginning of a book review? That is, what does this have to do with a poetry feature? Well, I think this book serves as an excellent example of the influence of poetry on prose. The story has a plethora of poetic expression that intensifies the narrative by making the beautiful and the horrific real to the reader, not to mention the excellent rhythm. There is foreshadowing that comes along with the description the setting, not to mention the effective setting of mood. These are hallmarks of a great poet writing prose.

There are so many poetic swaths in the book, that I only captured a few to demonstrate power of poetry in prose. In fact, the opening two sentences above not only grab your attention, but they are quite poetic. A little later in the chapter, notice the effective use of poetic devices:

“Across the screen marched old photos of Nazi concentration camp victims, corpses stacked like cordwood, and dead-eyed survivors.” (p.8, Chapter 2)

“Aunt Eva lit the holiday candles, broad hands encircling the light, her plain face with its deep-set coffee-colored eyes took on a kind of beauty” (p. 11, Chapter 2)

Note the music in the words; and their fluidity.

“A full moon was squeezed between two of the project’s apartment buildings” (p. 13, Chapter 3)

Contrast this with the end of the chapter:

“The moon hung ripely between two heavy gray clouds.” (p. 20, Chapter 3)

The projects could certainly be a reference to imprisonment—sociologically and economically—but foreshadows the concentration camps; and the gray clouds to the clouds of smoke there from the incineration of humans that were executed. I think it is no coincidence that the reference to the full moon is repeated. Not only because it is a haunting image, but also because it is the Passover moon with its subliminal reference to the “angel of death.” (It is ironic that the sadistic doctor, Josef Mengele, at Auschwitz was known as the “angel of death.”)

It is in this chapter during the Seder where the transition occurs. There is the expectation that the prophet, Elijah, might come from the past as the door is opened to let him. Ironically, Hannah finds herself transported transforms from modern day New Rochelle as she walks through the opened door to 1942 Poland. Magical realism propels this story into the past, to where Hannah, now Chaya, will be taken to a concentration camp.

A little later in the story, the reference to the sky, “a thin strand of light spun out along the horizon” (p. 32, Chapter 5), reminds me of what is written — that Elijah disappeared in a fiery whirlwind into the sky.

Notice the unusual word play in the following two sentences:

“Hannah pulled a smile across her face in greeting.” (p. 46, Chapter 6)

“The forest was now boiling with people…” (p. 57, Chapter 8)

But it wasn’t until the first third of the book had gone by that the harsh reality of what had happened to the Jews in WWII was starting to play out. When the Nazi army trucks are first mentioned (p. 61, Chapter 8), I found myself “holding my breath” for the rest of the book. But by the end of Chapter 11, my tears welled behind the dams of my eyes, which finally broke before the last chapter:

“Though she’d already gotten used to the pervasive camp smell, a cloudy musk that seemed to hang over everything, a mix of sweat and fear and sickness and the ever-present smoke that stained the sky, the smell in the midden* was worse. She closed her eyes, and lowered herself into the garbage, the baby clutched in her arms.” (p. 123, Chapter 15)

*Midden was a garbage dump where the children in the camps would hide to escape from prematurely being “chosen” (selected for execution).

The book title, “The Devil’s Arithmetic,” first appears in chapter 16, but is better explained in chapter 17 (p. 146). I am haunted by the images in this book. I highly recommend it — for its honesty, its poetic beauty, and its horrific reality that should never be forgotten.

I learned that The Devil’s Arithmetic was made into a 1999 TV movie. It stared Kirsten Dunst as Hannah Stern and costars Brittany Murphy, Louise Fletcher and Mimi Rogers. Dustin Hoffman introduced the film but is uncredited and served as an executive producer with Mimi Rogers.

©2012 The Drawing Board

“Where one burns books, one will eventually burn people.”
— Heinrich Heine

Long before Bradbury warned us,
we knew that burning books
can consume us all.
I had a book torched once,
a conflagration on the steps
of the K.C. Board of Education.
Taken from the library, my book
was set on a hibachi, match lit.

My words  browned and writhed on the page,
sentences screamed, paragraphs begged for life.
Far away on the East Coast of America
I felt the heat of it burning my cheeks.

“Many people, other than the authors, contribute
to the making of a book. . .It is not customary
to acknowledge the trees themselves, though
their commitment is total.”
—Richard Forsyth and Roy Rada, Machine Learning

 
Even before they know what’s coming,
the trees commit to the axe.
That first stroke is agony, but afterwards routine.
They groan as they fall,  shaking with fear;
trees are great actors,  great dancers, too.
Once on the ground, their commitment is total.
Stripped of bark, they feel the tickle of wind
on the pith, soft as squirrel’s fur.
They do not care if the next step
is coffee table, lazy Susan, jewelry box.
The smarter ones, but the old growth crew,
hold out for books, magazines, journals.
They want their  stories told between the lines,
that one chance for immortality
a fine lure for any writer, any tree.

Longsword

Lida suspected that her fourth match was not going to be won as easily as her first three.  She had the bad luck to have been paired against the big man she had hidden behind out on the plaza, the tallest and heaviest swordsman in the entire competition.

The whistle blew.  All around the two of them steel rang on steel as the other pairs of swordsmen clashed.  But Lida didn’t move.  Neither did her opponent.

Watching him, Lida shifted more weight onto the balls of her feet.  Breathing evenly, she channelled all her nervous energy into the center of her body, riding the wild horse rather than trying to subdue it.  She could do this.  She had beaten three other swordsmen today.  Most of the men she had fought since meeting Andraikos Dareshna had been taller and stronger than she was.

The man glanced to his left, looking surprised.  Lida glanced in the same direction, as she knew she was supposed to, and then danced out of the way when he rushed her.

She lunged at him but jumped back when she saw he was going to intercept her.  Nothing in the contest rules had said that contestants’ swords needed to be evenly matched, and the big man brandished a sword that would have taken Alzadin, the strongest of the Three Gallant Rogues, both hands to swing.  Lida’s sword was slender and light, a weapon more for slashing and thrusting than for hacking.  She didn’t want to take the chance that it would shatter if she caught her opponent’s sword on it, or that her arm would give way under the force behind his blow.

They danced.  He was fast for his size but Lida was faster.  Each time he attacked she was gone:  behind him, too far to the left, too far to the right.  Around them, the other contests came to an end as one man after another bled his opponent.  One went down with his sword hand sheared off; another two crumpled to the floor with slit throats.  Servants swooped in to carry away the fallen and swab away the blood.  Lida was aware of all this but only in a corner of her mind.

Their pace quickened.  Usually when fighting a much larger opponent, Lida would simply duck away from each attack until the other wore himself out and started making mistakes. Or until he got so angry at being unable to best a woman that he rushed her in a blind rage.  But this swordsman was better than that.  He was big, but not fat, and Lida suspected that he might last as long as she would.  If she didn’t do something decisive she was going to lose.  Even if she survived, her life as a swordsman would be over.  The Guild of Swordsmen would never let her retire quietly to the southern reaches of the Empire with her sword now that she had so openly defied them.  What was left?  Relying on men to take care of her like Helena Dareshna did?

Lida skipped away several paces well out of reach.  Her opponent relaxed, waiting for her to come back.

With her left hand she plucked the knife hidden in her left boot and threw.

It stuck in the man’s left shoulder.

There was a moment of stunned silence from the audience, followed by rapid, hushed murmuring.  Lida glanced over at Merolliay, Saulius, and Alzadin, who were still talking with the bearded Libanian man.  They looked as shocked as anyone else.

The man Lida had wounded didn’t say a word.  He plucked the knife out, ignoring the sudden rush of blood, and tossed it to her hilt first.  She caught it.

On the dais at the end of the room, the Emperor rose to his feet as a shroud of silence fell over the room.  He raised his right hand.

A blue-robed man at the Emperor’s side called out in a loud voice, “The contestants shall approach the Divine Throne!”

Lida and her opponent gave their weapons over into the outstretched hands of attendants before approaching the Emperor.  Lida wasn’t sure what to do when they got to the dais at the end of the room, but her opponent started to get down on his knees, so she did the same, and she also copied him as he leaned forward and rested his forearms and forehead on the floor.  The floor was cold against her skin, and she could feel the grit of dirt.

“Rise,” a voice said.  Was the voice tinged with amusement?

Lida and her opponent straightened and returned to their feet, and when Lida saw that the big man dared to lift his eyes to meet the Emperor’s, she did so as well.

The Emperor was amused.  “How many more knives have you hidden upon your person, Lida Dareshna?” he asked, once more speaking to her directly without using the blue-robed official standing next to him as an intermediary.

And he knew her name.  “None, Sire,” Lida replied.

“And will the victors of this contest be entered into the Guild of Swordsmen, or the Guild of Knife-Throwers?”

“The Guild of Swordsmen, Sire.”  Her heart thudded in her chest.  She kept her hands at her side.  If any of the Emperor’s guards thought she might have lied about other hidden knives, she was dead.  She already might be.

“And so?”

She took a deep breath.  “Sire, the rules stated that combatants might use the weapon of their choice.”

The Emperor did not immediately answer.  Lida looked down at her boots, not daring to continue meeting his eyes.

At last he said, “When you compete in the final round–” a fierce joy rose in Lida’s heart, so bright that it seemed to sing, “–the weapon of your choice will be the sword and only the sword.”

Lida exhaled deeply.  “Yes, Sire.”

“There are three places available in the final round for swordsmen who did not win their matches but fought well,” the Emperor said.  “Both of you shall fight in the last round, and not against each other.  I leave it to each of you to decide who won this match.”

Lida spared a glance for the big swordsman standing next to her.  His attention was fixed on the Emperor’s face with none left for her.  It occurred to her that in all the times she had encountered the big man that day, she had not once heard or seen him speak.  She wondered if he was dumb, or even deaf, and what had brought him to try for a place in the Imperial Guard.  She suddenly found herself feeling pleased by his renewed chance of success, a feeling that surprised her, since she didn’t even know him.

“You may go,” the Emperor said.

With Lida once again following the other swordsman’s lead, both of them bowed deeply from the waist, then slowly backed away until they were beyond the circle of Imperial Guardsmen surrounding the raised throne.

Although he didn’t smile, the swordsman gave Lida a very slight bow as they left the Hall together. And maybe she was imagining it, but it seemed like a nod of respect such as one of considerable skill might give to an equal.

She returned the bow.

#

“What if this contest was never something the Guild of Swordsmen wanted?” Merolliay suggested as they watched Lida and her much larger opponent leave the Hall of Mirrors together.  “What if it was the Emperor’s idea?”

“I don’t remember the exact words,” Saulius said.  “But don’t the contest rules actually say that it was the Emperor’s idea?”

“All sorts of documents claim to have been the Emperor’s idea,” Filipe growled.  “It never means anything.”

“If it was the Emperor’s idea,” Merolliay said, “that might explain the wording of the announcement.  ‘Anyone’, ‘any entrant’–never ‘any man’.  Never even ‘any swordsman’.”  He glanced at each of the other three men in turn.  “I think the Emperor wants Lida to win.”

Saulius dared a quick glance over his shoulder at the Emperor on his throne.  They had all heard the Emperor’s words to Lida, the amusement in his voice as he brushed aside any notion that she had cheated.

“Why?” Saulius asked.  “Just because it’s exotic to have a woman in the Imperial Guard?”

Merolliay was about to respond that an opportunity to flaunt the exotic tended to be sufficient reason for an Emperor to do anything.  But, before he had the chance, Alzadin tugged at his sleeve and said, “Look!”

The urgency in his voice was enough to grab Filipe’s and Saulius’s attention as well as Merolliay’s, whether they understood Alzadin’s language or not.  They all looked in the direction Alzadin had pointed, towards the Hall entrance.

Three black-and-silver clad men stood against the far wall, near the entrance.  Officers of the Guild of Swordsmen.

“Well,” Filipe said.  “I wonder if the Emperor invited them too.”

#

The whistle sounded.  Lida and her final opponent circled one another, taking slow, measured steps.

By some cruel chance, the swordsman she had to fight to the death was a young Thousand Lakes man, no more than four or five years older than she was.  The same age as one of her older brothers, one of the ones who had gone to war against the Empire and never come back.  It wasn’t her brother, of course, it wasn’t anyone she recognized, but she knew she was still betraying her homeland.

Her opponent attacked.  She caught three blows in rapid succession on the guard of her sword.  He backed away again.

Hadn’t she already betrayed her homeland?  Hadn’t she lived, since coming to the Imperial City two years ago, as if she loved the Empire better?

She slashed at her opponent’s legs.  He caught her blade up and tried to carry his into her side on the return.  She danced away.

The words he had murmured to her as they walked to the contest hall together still felt like a sword in her gut.  “If you kill me, at least I know that one of my countrymen will be able to take revenge on the Emperor for what he did to our homeland.”  Spoken in their own language, so that no one else would understand.

How could she explain that she was both a Thousand Lakes girl, and a woman of the Empire?  When it had taken so long for her to realize it herself?

She looked at his head and cut at his side.  Blocked.  Every boy in the lake country knew that trick.

She flew at him, her sword flashing.  Blocked.  Blocked.  Blocked.

Then the point of her blade pierced his right shoulder.  He gasped, and stumbled away.  She jerked free and slashed for his throat.

He struck the flat away with his palm.

A sting burst in her right thigh.

She drew her lips back from her teeth.  She pushed herself forward, letting the narrow sword slice deeper into the outside of her leg.  In his moment of unguarded surprise, she cut off his sword hand.

Blood sprayed from the stump.  Lida sprang forward off her good leg, sliced a deep cut across his belly, then drove her sword into his heart.

#

Saulius threw back his head in a wordless Kavanian victory yell.  The liquid in his cup went flying behind him, narrowly missing Filipe.  Alzadin, laughing, punched the Kavanian’s free arm.

Merolliay couldn’t help but smile, though he worried about the wound Lida had taken.  She was still on her feet, but leaning heavily on two physician’s assistants while the physician inspected her leg.

Victors with less serious wounds were moving out of the rope-delineated competition floor, as palace servants in deep blue livery approached with stretchers to carry off the dead and dying.  None of the champions looked particularly happy, and most looked back at the dead men they had left behind, some shaking their heads.  Even Lida, who had never shown regret over a kill as long as he had known her, seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the tall blond man lying in the pool of blood she had spilled.

Few of the spectators shared the grimness of the competitors.  As Merolliay glanced around the room, he saw groups of courtiers talking animatedly, a few miming moves they no doubt remembered from their favorite matches.

He shook his head.  Members of the Guild of Swordsmen were often paid by wealthy patrons to fight one another for the entertainment of the patrons’ guests.  Occasionally, a swordsman was killed in one of these matches, sometimes deliberately laid down by an opponent with a grudge, sometimes dying later of his injuries.  But matches to the death were illegal, and anyone participating in one was subject to immediate expulsion from the Guild.  Of course, this match was an exception, because the Emperor was the law, and the contest rules had stated that any victorious swordsman not presently a Guild member would be admitted to the Guild.  Still.  Illegal did not mean non-existent, and if the Emperor’s contest were to set off a fashion for death matches….

“What are you so gloomy about?” Filipe asked him, catching the attention of both Saulius and Alzadin.  “Your girl won.  She’s in.  Assuming the Emperor isn’t playing some colossal trick on us all.”

“Yes,” Merolliay said.  “Assuming that.”

Issue 17 is my second as Silver Blade’s short fiction editor. I’m proud to be part of the staff and appreciate the opportunity to read the pieces authors submit to us, including those that we deem not quite ready for publication.

When a story fails, it is usually obvious to most readers, and the problems not hard to discern. The bones and devices are laid bare. What of success?

What we now term “speculative fiction” is the stuff of which myth and legend were made. Even in these days where all the world is mapped by satellite, and every process of nature intricately scrutinized, tales of the unreal seem to exert as much power on the modern mind as the ancient. Of the Top 100 box office hits of all time worldwide, according to filmsite.org, almost every film in the top twenty is science fiction or fantasy. Why?

It wasn’t until the latter part of the 20th Century that technology allowed the creation of spectacular imagery that previously only could be described in stories and realized in the imaginations of readers. Spectacle has always exerted a fascination on humankind, but I think there is more to it.

In The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales, the psychologist Bruno Bettelheim wrote, “The child intuitively comprehends that although these stories are unreal, they are not untrue …”

Bettelheim’s 1976 book advanced a theory of child development since discredited by professionals in that field. Yet his words still have relevance to an unintended audience: the creators of tales. When a work of fiction, which is by definition unreal, captures that truth, it succeeds.

Bettelheim also wrote, “The unrealistic nature of these tales (which narrowminded rationalists object to) is an important device, because it makes obvious that the fairy tales’ concern is not useful information about the external world, but the inner process taking place in an individual.”

The meaning of courage, love and sacrifice remain the same in distant future worlds and villages in the time of the Druids. In our world too, though we are often too close to see it. Stories provide that lens, enrich our experience by sweeping away if only for a time the deluge of mundane details that surround us.

I hope you enjoy this, our first edition of the New Year.

We place the chair in the white room
It is a plain chair, made of wood.
The floor is bare cement, stained.

The human is dragged into the room.
We place him upright in the chair,
securing him with chains.

Beethoven’s Third Symphony begins,
telescoping diverse functions that occur
in rapid succession, a clash of discords.

A window appears beside him, revealing
a rainbow above a lush green forest.
Fey creatures emerge from the trees.
They have huge eyes and fragile yellow wings
that beat so rapidly they blur.
They hover at the window.

The human writhes in his bonds,
begins to cry. We shutter the window;
abruptly silence Beethoven.
We unchain him, help him to the door.

Beyond the door another window.
An alluring woman dances behind the glass.
Forest creatures swirl around her,
their bites leave angry welts on her arms and legs.
She never stops dancing to brush them off.

My assistant asks if we should take
the human to another room for further
observation, but I shake my head.

I remove the beautiful linen handkerchief
from the holster at my hip.
Ever so gently, I wipe away his tears.

A flock of crows
gather in a tree.
Some unknown force
drives more crows in
one by one.

The crows flock
until the churchyard trees fill
as maples with black leaves.
Now, no cats can be seen.
Sparrows and robins
too are grounded.
Crows stay silent.

A priest hurries
along the footpath, his habit
flapping in the winter wind,
eyes tearing up,
he steps on snow-covered ice:
falls,
rolls,
lies still.

One crow glides down,
lands softly a few yards
from the priest, his face to the ground
Hops closer,
then flaps to land
on him.
It caws
three times.

The flock flies down as one
to encircle the black-robed priest.
Clamorous caws filling the stiff air
reach an apex of shrieks,
then all take silent flight.

Darkness descends
and from the sidewalk,
a lone crow flies away—
dangling from its beak,
a crucifix.