About Steven M. Sloan
Prof. Steven M. Sloan is a scholar, teacher, and poet who has been widely anthologized, as well as widely published in poetry magazines, journals, and newspapers. He is a graduate of the University Of Wisconsin – Whitewater (where he was a member of the Editorial Board for its poetry publication:
The Muse), and is also a graduate of the University Of Wisconsin – Madison. he has done many different jobs including college prof., factory worker, swimming instructor & lifeguard, as well as working in cancer research. He is the author of Multiple books or pamphlets of poetry & remains committed to the art. The editor of Columbia Publications has said of him that he is, “a talented poet” whose work, “touches upon many topics and emotions,” and that, “his imagery is characteristically spectacular, as well as thought evoking (Lana M. Wegeng, Editor).” Dana Minor, Editor of the poetry journal: Sublime Odyssey, has said that, “Sloan has a definite capacity for ringing phrases.” Ester Cameron, Editor of The Deronda Review, & The Neovictorian, has said that at their best his lyrics, “have almost a 17th century quality, like Lovelace, Herrick, or Suckling.” He currently lives in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
Rejoice with me in little things Which lend a richness by their sight, And celebrate the transient In pleasures sweet, howe’er so slight, For there is time still left to you Before the fell eternal night, So use your senses actively While sentience lends them its light, Since beauty in its natal seat Must pass unvalued in its flight Where golden stems of summer wheat Have thriven out of human sight. Yes, beauty lies in knowing eyes, And once they’ve … Read on…
Black candles Made from slaughtered infants’ fat Grace the points of a pentagram Writ large in virgins’ blood; They light-up occult inscriptions And the twisted face That mouths their sounds In the eldritch exclamations Of spells that had lain dead For who knows how many years ‘Til this purposeless & empty fool Had flailed about & struck upon An evil path to tread In a spate of catastrophic luck; He cast about & struck upon The dark & narrow way … Read on…
Fear & shivers wrack my frame Every year about this time, When dour thoughts afflict my mind, And heart, and so my gentle rhyme. Most everything is dying here, For fall has come to close the year. Summer diversions & summer-time games Distract us until summer’s gone, When all feel older, for we see Another winter’s coming on. And fruits of life are taken in Which came of purity or sin. this time of harvest, and of death, Presents reminders … Read on…
Or Sally-Port For Slaughter? The Cold War was over And gates for peace swung wide, Counter to things innate, — Bursts of religious hate, — That now well-up inside To produce fresh slaughter.
Characters Of Lead Some people, to be politic, Keep heavy words inside their head. But, the full weight of such a word Won’t dissipate when it’s not said. Too, the lighter words they pick Will seem as though they each have shed Their meaning, since they will be heard To name the famished as well-fed, Or call dead-soil a flowering bed, Instead of what all plainly see. So, don’t set light lies in truth’s stead As there’s a cost you … Read on…
Nothing exists outside of me For all the world’s my fantasy — Thus, “reality” is but a lark In which I’ve set my fancy free To fill this void & endless dark With worlds that have no words for cark, Or care, or woe, or misery. And yet, at times, these dreams turn sour, Commuting with nightmarish power To stain themselves most bloodily . . . Which sets this stalwart soul to cower — Though what else could these visions … Read on…
Enigma A flash of lightning In the darkest night May seem like nothing More than vivid light, For this frequent sight To some may seem trite; But over water Such flashes of light Fill me with ardor To free fancy’s might In symbolic flight — The better to spite Those narrow of mind, Whose thoughts are too tight And heavily rimed To be recondite At the common sight Of black lakes and light. To me, a white flash Reveals the … Read on…
Sour To My Taste When lingering over my past’s cup Of deep draughts to partake, The quaffing of old sorrows Brought changes with self-hate. But, “what ifs” and “might have beens,” Life’s pities and mistakes, Are for some a pleasant world To view and contemplate. Such believe there’s no free-will: Man as tool of fate – A conceit designed to quell their souls’ Anguish and heartache. Hence, “what ifs” and “might have beens,” The pities and mistakes, Become for them … Read on…
(AKA: Regarding Historical Fiction) . . Our FictionAbout the heavens,Hollow is thy game.Our thraldom’s come,Thy work’s been done, The world’s enslaved by superstition. Give us this day our daily dread, And allow our caloric excesses As we suppress those Who’d warn others against us. And lead us not into reflection But deliver free-thought to peril As imprimaturs lend awesome Power to a story By reprinting it for ever & ever. Ahem.
While searching for truth You seize and open An entire series Of ever smaller Cubes and containers, Like Chinese boxes Each holding the next. You find inside each A cherished premise Inevitably Exposed as a canard. Each premise subsumes A more basic one In a direct line To the ultimate Disillusionment. Finally you stand Before the smallest box And the greatest “truth.” Only opened upon Your arrival at life’s Last second— There you contemplate End or beginnings, And you just … Read on…
