a stranger tells of helen
story by brentley frazer
published 23 september 2008
 
the self expressed | volume 1 number 11
 
"Stories are living and dynamic. Stories exist to be exchanged. They are the currency of Human Growth." -Jean Houston
 
published since April 2007 | The Self Expressed is a collection of creative texts.
 
 

TBA publishing partner Brentley Frazer (eMailWeb siteMySpace page) is an artist who lives in Melbourne, Australia. His literary work has appeared in a slew of reputable periodicals, journals, and anthologies. Brentley’s first major collection of poems and microtexts, A Dark Samadhi (PC Press), was released to wide critical plaudits in early 2003. His paintings have been exhibited in several group and solo exhibitions since 1995.


In 2001, the multifaceted Aussie, while still a resident of Brisbane, founded Retort Magazine, an electronic journal dedicated to the publication and presentation of new, innovative and experimental art and text. Retort features both fiction and non-fiction on a semi-regular itinerary and has published some of the world's best known artists and writers as well as having continued to offer a platform for emerging writers and artists.


Brentley also writes freelance for several online and print publications. His interviews/reviews of artists and writers have been published by Pixel Surgeon Magazine, Antipoda Magazine, and Cordite Magazine, among others.

 
 

Natalie Behring (Web site; eMail) is a photojournalist with over 10 years experience covering China and the rest of the world. A Chinese-speaker, she has won awards in numerous competitions such as the NAPP and the Atlanta Seminar of Journalism. (all rights reserved)

 
 
 

 
 
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A stranger in a doorway waiting,
his obvious involvement in the cruelties of life evident,
lent me a cigarette, coughed gently and said:


"I left her, my Helen, in the Troy of my bare rented room.
Was so lonely on the bus today that I cried.
Through the window, steamed by breathing,
upon which I had written: 'Give me an urban mercy from the
tongue of a silver trumpet, o all ye heartless!'
I saw, sitting like Buddha on a war monument,
a smiling child plucking a pigeon.
Son, there are thunders in a thousand parts of me
and I am living in dread of the rain. Or another way to
explain this would be: there are winged amphibious creatures
sculpting tears urns in the pale amphitheater of my heart.
And when there is nothing left, various scraps of marble,
the devils lexicon, dried fruit, nerves entwined in a fitful ballet—
only then will I allow myself to love again."

 

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