Posted on December 30, 2011 by marc
(photo: Jeff Davis)
Our dear friend, Carol Novack, writer, poet, editor and luminary publisher of the alternative and edgy Mad Hatters' Review, MadHat Press and the MadHat Arts Foundation, passed away peacefully last night at 8.55 pm in the Elizabeth Hospice in Hendersonville (nr. Asheville ), North Carolina .
We shall miss you deeply old soul, old friend.
Mad Hatters' Issue 11 from 2009, featured one of Carol's own poems, “Comic Yellow Fragmentos.” It seems most appropriate to publish it again here.
Comic Yellow Fragmentos
Using my yellow tail
In Venice and Stockholm,
To flee from the yellow flu,
I yield at a yellow spot
We've all gotta go
I have composed many yellow pages and purple prose,
Don't worry, I will yell low
Just close your eyes
In the coming weeks, we will be featuring tributes to Carol from many of her contemporaries, collaborators and closest friends. Please feel free to send us your queries or works for consideration to email@example.com.
Acting Publisher and Editor-in-Chief
and on behalf of Mad Hatters everywhere…
15 Responses to CAROL NOVACK – In Memoriam 1948 – 2011
Ginger Hamilton Caudill says:
December 30, 2011 at 7:35 pm
First, let me say “Oh my God! Now we must do math captchas?!?!?”
Next, I will attempt to write a memorial for Carol and send it in later. I am sorry she is gone.
Finally, I love the piece you posted. Perfect.
JP Reese says:
December 30, 2011 at 8:22 pm
Thank you for posting Carol's poem here, Marc. She was a true original, and we are all a bit less for her loss.
December 31, 2011 at 12:43 am
We miss you, dear Carol.
You had biggest heart.
Your door was always open and welcoming to friends and family.
Your whimsical apartment was always filled with fun and laughter and witty conversation.
You were an Intellectual and never shied away from a good debate nor did you back down from championing the rights of those less fortunate and those marginalized by the social structure.
You fervently prized Democratic ideals and had a genuine respect for humankind.
Above all, you are an Angel and your spirit and kindness endures in the lives of those you have touched.
We miss you very much, dear Carol.
Kate Juliff says:
December 31, 2011 at 4:23 am
I don't have a poem or words to say. But thinking of Carol. who died in 2011, as did my brother, here is my brother's poem.
jason irwin says:
December 31, 2011 at 3:14 pm
very sorry to hear that.
Larry Strattner says:
December 31, 2011 at 8:14 pm
When I first became enamored with flash fiction Carol encouraged me on fictionaut. I remember her fondly. Not always of the same mind, I suspected we were of the same heart. I envied her focus and relentless pursuit of art. She will, no doubt, change for the better whatever realm she now occupies. I will miss her.
Robert Vaughan says:
December 31, 2011 at 9:31 pm
You are always with me, with us, your generous gifts far too precious to contain. No, these are to share, and I will turn to your work again, and again. And…again. For this, I can only give to you my own generous praise and words in return.
Girija Tropp says:
January 1, 2012 at 12:17 am
She was a woman who lived her life and her life fully. I was going to say my only regret was that I did not touch base with her this year and then I realized that, on a whim, as I passed through NY in May 2011 on my way to Europe I said to my husband — that's where my friend Carol lives — I stayed with her when I first came to NY, maybe 6 years now — the year after she published my work in the Mad Hatter — she was an amazingly generous host — we walked all the way down 6th Ave from Greenwich Village to Central Park and dropped into MOMA on the way and my legs flagged in MOMA but hers didn't — we rang the bell and strangely she answered — she was always on her way somewhere — and when we walked in — I introduced my husband and looked at the boxes — she was leaving that day to go to Asheville.
I am sad I will not see her this year! I thought she would live forever — and she is — sitting and chatting to me right now, a glass of vodka in her hands, a cigarette, a new piece of writing she would like feedback on….
Tantra Bensko says:
January 1, 2012 at 6:57 pm
Thank you for this memorial. I've been amazed how much I've cried with love, so often, daily for the last couple weeks since learning about her illness. I knew Carol first through publishing my work in Mad Hatters, and as she asked me to be Art Director, for years working very closely with her doing that until my health wouldn't allow it any more, and then, as a friend afterwards. I got to spend time with her in person, which I'm glad for.
I began tuning into her, long distance, whether telepathy or imagination, during the process of her demise, and plan to keep talking to her as she continues on in what I think of as the afterlife (whether telepathy or imagination…..). I wonder if she will continue to snark.
John Edwards says:
January 4, 2012 at 1:51 am
I met Carol only a few times in the late 70s, when she lived in Sydney (I had recently returned from London ) and when she subsequently paid us a visit from NYC (early 80s?). She was however the kind of person who one does not forget. A warm and generous spirit. We will miss her.
rich haber says:
January 6, 2012 at 12:18 am
there are so few geniuses, now one less. bad art, God, you sadistic idiot! rather be mad than sad right now. global warming and all the chocolate in the world cannot dispell the cold and darkness i feel. carol always challenged me to create more, plumb the depths, never rest on my laurels. i shall continue to do so and i'll know, c. i'll know.
Deborah Monroe says:
April 2, 2012 at 7:44 pm
Carol and I lived together during our college days, and have been together on and off since. She was an intensely self-centered woman – quite a rariety in those days of men-worship – and incredibly annoying! But talented and whimsical and one often wanted to catch at least a glimpse of what she was up to. As it happened, the more she looked into her own center, the more that center flowered into a reflection of us all.
Stefanie Bennett says:
April 11, 2012 at 7:18 am
Am sitting here reading an early 1970s poem'Fairy Tale Feast' published in Khasmik
Posted on December 21, 2011
With radical flattening
[[we've reached carrying capacity
with something leprous
A tonal limitation
[[ceilinged in brazen peril
but at what cost will the floor rise in agreement of disengagement imbibing existence
A shared ideal intensifies
Calvin Pennix lives with his wife and daughter in Mission Viejo, CA where he is completing his MFA and MA in English at Chapman University . He is currently an instructor at Everest College , where he teaches Composition, Literature and Algebra. Calvin's first book of poetry was recently released by Argotist Books. He currently has work appearing in UCity Review, A Few Lines Magazine, Unlikely 2.0 and Counterexample Poetics .
Posted on December 19, 2011
He waited for her in the theatre seats; her theatre company opted for Capote's Southern nostalgia this season instead of ghosts and Dickens. It made him yearn for astral visitations that might point out the exact moments of his failures, the origin of emptiness. Behind the curtain, maybe she whispered to the guest actor, a joke maybe, about Santa answering her letters, and they'd emerge from their dressing rooms with him no longer in the seats, perhaps having been turned into a snowman or maybe just poof! and gone. Santa wrinkled his nose, like Samantha from Bewitched, to make his magic, and he pictured the two of them, her and the guest actor, wrinkling their noses, making their wishes.
He did a silly thing then. He got up and climbed up onto the stage. He thought of a transformational moment to get into character: when he raced after her in that Chicago snowstorm, slipping, falling into her. The Valentine's Day Massacre she called it, he a myth then, like the uniqueness of snowflakes. Then, front-stage, he looked out at the world as Scrooge on Christmas morning, and the giggles from the dressing rooms were carolers and wonder glistened everywhere, as if it had always been there, waiting.
Randall Brown teaches at and directs Rosemont College 's MFA in Creative Writing Program. He has been published widely, both online and in print, and blogs regularly at FlashFiction.Net. He is also the founder and managing editor of Matter Press and its Journal of Compressed Creative Arts.
Posted on December 14, 2011
Everywhere he went, he thought, or rather, he thought he thought he
Work from philip kobylarz has appeared or is forthcoming in Connecticut Review, The Iconoclast, Visions International, New American Writing, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Salzburg Review and Best American Poetry. His book, Rues, is forthcoming from Blue Light Press of San Francisco .
Posted on December 8, 2011
Beyond This Skin
These thin breasts each a grief:
Loose Idea of Bypassing Winter
Writing of mortality on a blind edge
Born Stirling, Scotland in 1966, Gillian Prew studied Philosophy at the University of Glasgow from 1984 to 1988. On graduation she failed to see the need for a ‘career' and so worked mostly in the service sector before moving to the Isle of Lewis to have her two children. In 1997 she experienced a few black years before breaking free and now lives happily with her children, her partner and a spoiled cat. She is the author of two recent chapbooks, DISCONNECTIONS (erbacce-press) and In the Broken Things (Virgogray Press). A previous book, the idea of wings, is also available via Amazon. Her poems have been published widely online and in print. Follow Gillian on her blog, proud spots and solitudes.
One Response to Two poems by Gillian Prew
Posted on December 7, 2011
25th October, Twenty-Eleven
A first class stamp should be sufficient for missive to reach recipient. Refunds will be
Which ancestors' portraits remain on your walls?
Whining penetrates focus, poses health risks, slows down the connection.
Have to give credit where credit is due, mister. You sure play the sourest notes.
Take it from one who is still whistling Forqueray.
Distress follows lack of back cover— as in, you ain't got mine.
Briefly — and memorably — at best, a nameless presence, at worst, another pervert.
Certain legacies weigh you down; unsolicited memorabilia hits inbox, defiles an account.
You failed to predict his sheer volatility, quality of rage, blind fury, destructiveness.
One toad dies, another replaces it.
Glass-fronted boxes are cleaned by the management,
Now all of your wishes are free of charge.
Lakey Comess, born U S A in 1948, has lived in Israel , South Africa and the Orkney Islands in Scotland and now lives in Glasgow . She has contributed to Versal, Big Bridge, Gulf Stream, Milk, Hutt, Hamilton Stone Review and other publications, sometimes under the name Lakey Teasdale. Lakey lives here: 55° 51' 56.3” N 4°15' 26” W