A Toast to My Body
Here’s to this old suit of clothes,
sodden booze sponge, heavy house
of ill repute. Three cheers
for this aging carcass hung with meat:
fat giblets and muscle ropes,
spacious brainpan and addled homunculus.
Bravo for the bony framework, blood network,
relentless busywork of organs and cells:
the pump engine, the corpuscle abacus—
that sensible valentine of muscle and gristle.
Let’s hear it for the commodious belly,
its endless appetites and mindless devouring,
the dumb and driven animal of me.
Caution
One can falter
descending the stairs—
nude or otherwise.
One can be awk-
ward, be conquered,
despair.
One can fall. One can
risk it all, then
regain
balustrades of balance,
palisades of pain.
One can hear
thoughts arise
from the base of the mind.
One can malign
or praise.
Living Color
Because you have more rods or cones than I,
somewhere over a stranger rainbow, might
a teal and cyan skunk waddle across a maroon lawn,
while your eerie cerise eyes are closed in sleep?
Worse, in some future universe, will my new be old
to you, and my white-hot your bone-cold?
My Last Failure
At Forest Park, a nurse
brings meds in pudding,
wields a pressure cuff
amid the blather of TVs.
Now that Mom doesn’t know
me, I think she might love me.
I don’t forget the set of her mouth
when I displeased her—
her eyes’ gray flash.
I remember her poised
to strike at my first failure.
Like the scraped plates
of poverty, I am empty.
Like a scorpion, I am barbed.
Nursing
Mom thinks I’m her sister.
Of course I am. These days,
I’ll be anyone she needs.
Her lunch tray's abandoned—
bread drying to shells,
yellowed mashed potatoes.
Let us sit and read
Good Housekeeping, or watch
The Waltons on TV, while
she spoons vanilla pudding
into her hairbrush, intent
as if she were diapering a baby.
Bionote
G. F. Boyer earned an MFA from the University of Washington. She is a retired teacher and editor of poetry and fiction. Her 2018 book, Missile Hymnal Amulet, is available from Amazon via FutureCycle Press:
https://www.amazon.com/Missile-Hymnal-Amulet-G-Boyer/dp/1942371632/ref=as_li_ss_tl?keywords=futurecycle+press&qid=1538508945&s=Books&sr=1-5&ref=sr_1_5&linkCode=sl1&tag=futur07a-20&linkId=b203a36d3b5f3a909a8a7e044b1f368b&language=en_US
Monday, 11 November 2019
3 Poems by Patricia Robertson
FOX SAYS
nothing. Knows better. Watches the dog and me,
licking her paws.
Keeps her own counsel. Lives inside snow, inside forest,
inside darkening sky.
Pities us, tied together like captives. That lighted cage
from which we emerged
blinds the stars. What do we navigate by? Baffled,
we must stumble and grope.
Listen, fox says with her taut body. Smell. Notice
silence and not-silence. Quiver and leaf.
Somewhere inside you a warm furred body
is waiting to get out.
ACCOUNTING
That each word can be sold. Each fox. Each blade of grass
as soon as a price is decided on.
Is a fox worth more than a word? It depends
on whether it’s the last fox.
The longest words are the cheapest.
Stone tastes better in the mouth than infinity.
Our shrewd neighbour bought all the words for blue.
Since then the sky has changed colour.
Open the gridded air with the can opener.
Lift out each heart.
What we didn’t notice has vanished.
The shape of a baby’s earlobe. Snow at sunset.
POEM ON AN IMAGINARY PAINTING
In the corner a star
from which the painting unravels:
the woman who sits on a blue chair,
the man who kneels at the foot of a ladder,
the dog at a window, gazing out.
Released from the brush, they must have something to tell us,
having come all that way.
Bionote
Patricia Robertson’s third short fiction collection, Hour of the Crab, is forthcoming from Goose Lane in 2020. She won the international Aesthetica Creative Writing Award for Poetry in 2018.
nothing. Knows better. Watches the dog and me,
licking her paws.
Keeps her own counsel. Lives inside snow, inside forest,
inside darkening sky.
Pities us, tied together like captives. That lighted cage
from which we emerged
blinds the stars. What do we navigate by? Baffled,
we must stumble and grope.
Listen, fox says with her taut body. Smell. Notice
silence and not-silence. Quiver and leaf.
Somewhere inside you a warm furred body
is waiting to get out.
ACCOUNTING
That each word can be sold. Each fox. Each blade of grass
as soon as a price is decided on.
Is a fox worth more than a word? It depends
on whether it’s the last fox.
The longest words are the cheapest.
Stone tastes better in the mouth than infinity.
Our shrewd neighbour bought all the words for blue.
Since then the sky has changed colour.
Open the gridded air with the can opener.
Lift out each heart.
What we didn’t notice has vanished.
The shape of a baby’s earlobe. Snow at sunset.
POEM ON AN IMAGINARY PAINTING
In the corner a star
from which the painting unravels:
the woman who sits on a blue chair,
the man who kneels at the foot of a ladder,
the dog at a window, gazing out.
Released from the brush, they must have something to tell us,
having come all that way.
Bionote
Patricia Robertson’s third short fiction collection, Hour of the Crab, is forthcoming from Goose Lane in 2020. She won the international Aesthetica Creative Writing Award for Poetry in 2018.
2 Poems by Amelia Walker
A recipe for teardrops
As a child, I wanted
a recipe for teardrops
because I liked their taste
and how they could wash so much
away
As I grew, I discovered
the recipe lurked in countless places
and had many variations,
each with its own unique tang.
I swallowed so many
they made me sick
like cheap liquor, and yet
in moments I still thirst
for their salt,
the sweetness they throw
in relief
Game
Why is it, the older I grow,
the less certain I feel
of all that I am meant, by now,
to be, and know?
Only one certain thing:
when you touch my arm
like that, and smile, I hope
we are both playing the same game
by the same rules, and even
if it is all make believe, let's stay
beneath these sheets a little longer,
keep dreaming, keep believing
in these shadow shapes
of shifting limbs
and creasing skins
Bionote:
Amelia Walker is a South Australian writer. She has published four poetry collections, most recently Dreamday, and currently lectures at the University of South Australia.
As a child, I wanted
a recipe for teardrops
because I liked their taste
and how they could wash so much
away
As I grew, I discovered
the recipe lurked in countless places
and had many variations,
each with its own unique tang.
I swallowed so many
they made me sick
like cheap liquor, and yet
in moments I still thirst
for their salt,
the sweetness they throw
in relief
Game
Why is it, the older I grow,
the less certain I feel
of all that I am meant, by now,
to be, and know?
Only one certain thing:
when you touch my arm
like that, and smile, I hope
we are both playing the same game
by the same rules, and even
if it is all make believe, let's stay
beneath these sheets a little longer,
keep dreaming, keep believing
in these shadow shapes
of shifting limbs
and creasing skins
Bionote:
Amelia Walker is a South Australian writer. She has published four poetry collections, most recently Dreamday, and currently lectures at the University of South Australia.
5 Poems by Catfish McDaris
Degas
Eight years after it reported stolen an
impressionist painting by Edgar Degas
was found by French customs officers
It was discovered inside a suitcase in
Marne-la-Vallee on a bus, none of the
passengers claimed it, the painting
Depicts a scene from Mozart’s opera,
Don Giovanni, called Les Choristes,
The Chorus Singers, it was shadowed
With grays, yellows, ochres, red caps
a man with an upraised sword, dancing
beautiful ladies, Paris’ Musee d’Orsay
were delighted to recover the masterpiece.
Leonardo da Vinci’s Honeymoon
The virgin
canvas lies
beneath me
in blinding
white ready
for love
It sighs
in anticipation
trembling
awaiting
my thrust
Our Mona
Lisa soon
to be
exposed
for the
curious.
The Secret to Life is Keep Sucking Air Until You Can’t
I’ve been playing the piano hard
It’s bleeding all over the floor
There are cracks in the ceiling
All the clocks in the galaxy have stopped
Your love is a giant termite
Turning my wooden leg into sawdust
Bring me a hummingbird, pretty mama
We’ll ditch all your granny panties.
The Fizz Is a Fading Bruise
I’m confiscating your
love tonight, we’ll feel
no sorrows for the to-
morrows, they may never
arrive dead or alive and
we’ll saddle our palominos
and disappear into the co-
balt lapis lazuli sunset.
Paris
Painted hyacinth and saffron with
brushstrokes of scarlet sulfur
peacocks in a raspberry sky,
green sleeping ducks by the
cattail forest and melodic stream
Rainbow cutthroat trout leaping
for the gnat hatch, fat frogs burping,
loons and cranes on stilts hunting
Vincent thought about the dancer
at the Crazy Horse and how she’d
asked him to steal a Van Gogh,
he painted her one instead.
Bionote
Catfish McDaris won the Thelonius Monk Award in 2015. He’s been active in the small press world for 25 years. He’s recently been translated into Spanish, Italian, French, Polish, Swedish, Arabic, Bengali, Mandarin, Yoruba, Tagalog, Italian, and Esperanto.
Eight years after it reported stolen an
impressionist painting by Edgar Degas
was found by French customs officers
It was discovered inside a suitcase in
Marne-la-Vallee on a bus, none of the
passengers claimed it, the painting
Depicts a scene from Mozart’s opera,
Don Giovanni, called Les Choristes,
The Chorus Singers, it was shadowed
With grays, yellows, ochres, red caps
a man with an upraised sword, dancing
beautiful ladies, Paris’ Musee d’Orsay
were delighted to recover the masterpiece.
Leonardo da Vinci’s Honeymoon
The virgin
canvas lies
beneath me
in blinding
white ready
for love
It sighs
in anticipation
trembling
awaiting
my thrust
Our Mona
Lisa soon
to be
exposed
for the
curious.
The Secret to Life is Keep Sucking Air Until You Can’t
I’ve been playing the piano hard
It’s bleeding all over the floor
There are cracks in the ceiling
All the clocks in the galaxy have stopped
Your love is a giant termite
Turning my wooden leg into sawdust
Bring me a hummingbird, pretty mama
We’ll ditch all your granny panties.
The Fizz Is a Fading Bruise
I’m confiscating your
love tonight, we’ll feel
no sorrows for the to-
morrows, they may never
arrive dead or alive and
we’ll saddle our palominos
and disappear into the co-
balt lapis lazuli sunset.
Paris
Painted hyacinth and saffron with
brushstrokes of scarlet sulfur
peacocks in a raspberry sky,
green sleeping ducks by the
cattail forest and melodic stream
Rainbow cutthroat trout leaping
for the gnat hatch, fat frogs burping,
loons and cranes on stilts hunting
Vincent thought about the dancer
at the Crazy Horse and how she’d
asked him to steal a Van Gogh,
he painted her one instead.
Bionote
Catfish McDaris won the Thelonius Monk Award in 2015. He’s been active in the small press world for 25 years. He’s recently been translated into Spanish, Italian, French, Polish, Swedish, Arabic, Bengali, Mandarin, Yoruba, Tagalog, Italian, and Esperanto.
2 Poems by Kevin Cowdall
The Spectral Wolf
Like a spectre in the shadows,
it glides between the trees
on rapid padded paws;
breath curling like a strand
of early morning mist
on the freezing winter air.
The forest holds its breath.
It has roamed far from its lair,
driven on by growing hunger,
straying ever further afield and
foraging longer in search of prey.
Now it halts to scent the breeze,
raises its head, and rends a howl.
The forest holds its breath.
The Skittish Seahorse (Tanka)
It is the oddest
of Nature’s menagerie;
a nervous chess-piece
riding the currents of its
Natural Inclinations.
Bionote
Kevin Cowdall was born in Liverpool, England. He has had over 200 poems published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK and across Europe, Australia, India, Canada, and the USA, and broadcast on BBC Radio. He has previously released three collections; ‘The Reflective Image’, ‘Monochrome Leaves’ and ‘A Walk in the Park’. His 2016 retrospective collection, ‘Assorted Bric-a-brac’ (bringing together the best from these collections with a selection of more recent poems), has had excellent reviews and is available in paperback and as an e-book on Amazon. Kevin’s novella, ‘Paper Gods and Iron Men’, is also available in paperback and as an e-book on Amazon.
Like a spectre in the shadows,
it glides between the trees
on rapid padded paws;
breath curling like a strand
of early morning mist
on the freezing winter air.
The forest holds its breath.
It has roamed far from its lair,
driven on by growing hunger,
straying ever further afield and
foraging longer in search of prey.
Now it halts to scent the breeze,
raises its head, and rends a howl.
The forest holds its breath.
The Skittish Seahorse (Tanka)
It is the oddest
of Nature’s menagerie;
a nervous chess-piece
riding the currents of its
Natural Inclinations.
Bionote
Kevin Cowdall was born in Liverpool, England. He has had over 200 poems published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK and across Europe, Australia, India, Canada, and the USA, and broadcast on BBC Radio. He has previously released three collections; ‘The Reflective Image’, ‘Monochrome Leaves’ and ‘A Walk in the Park’. His 2016 retrospective collection, ‘Assorted Bric-a-brac’ (bringing together the best from these collections with a selection of more recent poems), has had excellent reviews and is available in paperback and as an e-book on Amazon. Kevin’s novella, ‘Paper Gods and Iron Men’, is also available in paperback and as an e-book on Amazon.
1 Poem by Wendy Gist
Sweetness
Radiant pomegranate
busted open on a limb:
A dove ducks in,
plucks a pip, in sun’s ray--
Beak bleeds
the hot gem:
Divinely humid.
Not a sound of what is to come.
Bionote
Wendy Gist’s poetry, fiction and essays have been featured or are forthcoming in Amsterdam Quarterly, Empty Mirror Arts and Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak, Fourth River, Grey Sparrow Journal, New Plains Review, Rio Grande Review, RipRap, Soundings Review, St. Austin Review, The Lake (UK), and many other fine journals. Gist co-edits Red Savina Review. She’s the author of the chapbook “Moods of the Dream Fog” from Finishing Line Press. Gist is a Pushcart Prize nominee and semifinalist for Best Small Fictions 2017. She Co-Edits Red Savina Review Journal.
Radiant pomegranate
busted open on a limb:
A dove ducks in,
plucks a pip, in sun’s ray--
Beak bleeds
the hot gem:
Divinely humid.
Not a sound of what is to come.
Bionote
Wendy Gist’s poetry, fiction and essays have been featured or are forthcoming in Amsterdam Quarterly, Empty Mirror Arts and Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak, Fourth River, Grey Sparrow Journal, New Plains Review, Rio Grande Review, RipRap, Soundings Review, St. Austin Review, The Lake (UK), and many other fine journals. Gist co-edits Red Savina Review. She’s the author of the chapbook “Moods of the Dream Fog” from Finishing Line Press. Gist is a Pushcart Prize nominee and semifinalist for Best Small Fictions 2017. She Co-Edits Red Savina Review Journal.
1 Poem by Alan Britt
BANANA REPUBLIC
Flax seed, one worthy of Jupiter’s
carpenter blue light.
Nickel coin, hole drilled thru copper skull.
Dehydrated verbs & adjectives like
onions dying to be caramelized.
Groundhog bloodies its teeth
against 14 gauge galvanized steel,
blueberry blue, positive there
is no afterlife.
Nonprofit, the latest ruse, Fidel posing
as cottonmouth along the Intracoastal,
Ft. Myers, nestled between the overthrow
of Guatemala circa Eisenhower & circa
who gives a flying fuck, circa who gives
one, anyway?
Bionote
Preferring to "lean and loafe at his ease," Alan Britt is troubled by the corruption and ambivalence that permeates the Great Experiment, so politically speaking he has started the Commonsense Party, which ironically to some sounds radical. He believes the US should stop invading other countries to relieve them of their natural resources including tin, copper, bananas, diamonds, and oil, also that it’s time to eliminate corporate entitlements and reduce military spending in order to properly educate its citizenry, thereby reducing crime and strengthening the populace in the manner that the Constitution envisioned. He is quite fond of animals both wild and domestic and supports prosecuting animal abusers. As a member of PETA, he is disgusted by factory farming and decorative fur. A graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars he now teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
Flax seed, one worthy of Jupiter’s
carpenter blue light.
Nickel coin, hole drilled thru copper skull.
Dehydrated verbs & adjectives like
onions dying to be caramelized.
Groundhog bloodies its teeth
against 14 gauge galvanized steel,
blueberry blue, positive there
is no afterlife.
Nonprofit, the latest ruse, Fidel posing
as cottonmouth along the Intracoastal,
Ft. Myers, nestled between the overthrow
of Guatemala circa Eisenhower & circa
who gives a flying fuck, circa who gives
one, anyway?
Bionote
Preferring to "lean and loafe at his ease," Alan Britt is troubled by the corruption and ambivalence that permeates the Great Experiment, so politically speaking he has started the Commonsense Party, which ironically to some sounds radical. He believes the US should stop invading other countries to relieve them of their natural resources including tin, copper, bananas, diamonds, and oil, also that it’s time to eliminate corporate entitlements and reduce military spending in order to properly educate its citizenry, thereby reducing crime and strengthening the populace in the manner that the Constitution envisioned. He is quite fond of animals both wild and domestic and supports prosecuting animal abusers. As a member of PETA, he is disgusted by factory farming and decorative fur. A graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars he now teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
1 Poem by g emil reutter
Of Consequence
And so it is
we find ourselves
in this place
unexpected.
Controlled tic of the clock
unwavering in its pursuit
of the next minute, hour
day, month, year.
Yet, in this era
of speed of communication
we slow it down
each tic of the clock
of consequence
Savour each drop of rain
every fallen leaf
each blush of flower
every bird stopover
Relish each touch of hand
every brush of flesh of lip
each word exchanged
every unruffled second
Bionote
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. Nine collections of his poetry and fiction have been published. A Matter of Time is forthcoming in 2019 from Concrete Meat Press. He is the Book Review Editor at North of Oxford. https://gereutter.wordpress.com/about/
And so it is
we find ourselves
in this place
unexpected.
Controlled tic of the clock
unwavering in its pursuit
of the next minute, hour
day, month, year.
Yet, in this era
of speed of communication
we slow it down
each tic of the clock
of consequence
Savour each drop of rain
every fallen leaf
each blush of flower
every bird stopover
Relish each touch of hand
every brush of flesh of lip
each word exchanged
every unruffled second
Bionote
g emil reutter is a writer of poems and stories. Nine collections of his poetry and fiction have been published. A Matter of Time is forthcoming in 2019 from Concrete Meat Press. He is the Book Review Editor at North of Oxford. https://gereutter.wordpress.com/about/
5 Photos by Peter Victor
Bionote
Peter Victor is a Poet & Photographer living and working on the Downeast coast of Maine.
1 Poem by Donald E. Gasperson
Some Memories
.
while some memories
remain familiar
I am quiet
simple as a pebble
and a pond
enough
encircled
by a tumbledown wood
like pick-up sticks
practicing alchemy
with a congress of salamander
and their tender mortality
but accept as expected
the serious good
of serendipity
I gather my life
clearly seeking
a curious god
.
while some memories
remain familiar
I am quiet
simple as a pebble
and a pond
enough
encircled
by a tumbledown wood
like pick-up sticks
practicing alchemy
with a congress of salamander
and their tender mortality
but accept as expected
the serious good
of serendipity
I gather my life
clearly seeking
a curious god
2 Poems by Frank Iosue
Litany For An Enlightened Dejection
Though you have digested all your deepest secrets,
and the stars have feigned
regalia for your anonymity.
Though each elation has emancipated yet another
metaphor, and everything's the matter.
Though you have shed the fewest possible tears
and have been always grateful, silently,
that others suffered more
than you might have or ought.
Though someone whispered, more than once,
what must be done, and you did
exactly as he pleases.
Though your mother may have loved you best
but could not love you better.
Though you heard so many church bells ring,
but discovered the path
of prayer went only everywhere
your blood was running.
Though the boats of summer kept on undulating
effortlessly underneath you when
they could just as easily have sunk.
Though the next step you took led in some
intoxicating new direction eerily
similar to the last.
Though every day you ate as if you wanted to,
but found that you grew
hungry out of habit.
Though the dream has yet to arrive
that will not save you.
Though you have admirably, and without fanfare,
conquered every piece of space
you have ever occupied,
and are to be
congratulated on the triumph
that has been your existence.
When you walk into the earth and finally drown,
your loneliness will free you
from your prosperity.
The Quarry
A bridge between
two points on the ends
of the earth. A path
for the mind to traverse.
Here
to there.
Over the abyss
of the surface of water,
white and unreflective.
It is not
about loneliness.
It is just another place
for solitude
to reside.
Bionote
Frank Iosue was born in Los Angeles, California in 1951. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from California State University, Los Angeles and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing / Poetry from the University of Iowa. In November of 2017, he published his collected poems: The Au Revoir Of An Enormous Us, through Wheatmark Press. His poems have appeared in numerous publications. He has been a featured reader, and has conducted reading groups, and writing workshops, at venues throughout Southern Arizona. He lives near Tucson, Arizona.
Though you have digested all your deepest secrets,
and the stars have feigned
regalia for your anonymity.
Though each elation has emancipated yet another
metaphor, and everything's the matter.
Though you have shed the fewest possible tears
and have been always grateful, silently,
that others suffered more
than you might have or ought.
Though someone whispered, more than once,
what must be done, and you did
exactly as he pleases.
Though your mother may have loved you best
but could not love you better.
Though you heard so many church bells ring,
but discovered the path
of prayer went only everywhere
your blood was running.
Though the boats of summer kept on undulating
effortlessly underneath you when
they could just as easily have sunk.
Though the next step you took led in some
intoxicating new direction eerily
similar to the last.
Though every day you ate as if you wanted to,
but found that you grew
hungry out of habit.
Though the dream has yet to arrive
that will not save you.
Though you have admirably, and without fanfare,
conquered every piece of space
you have ever occupied,
and are to be
congratulated on the triumph
that has been your existence.
When you walk into the earth and finally drown,
your loneliness will free you
from your prosperity.
The Quarry
A bridge between
two points on the ends
of the earth. A path
for the mind to traverse.
Here
to there.
Over the abyss
of the surface of water,
white and unreflective.
It is not
about loneliness.
It is just another place
for solitude
to reside.
Bionote
Frank Iosue was born in Los Angeles, California in 1951. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from California State University, Los Angeles and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing / Poetry from the University of Iowa. In November of 2017, he published his collected poems: The Au Revoir Of An Enormous Us, through Wheatmark Press. His poems have appeared in numerous publications. He has been a featured reader, and has conducted reading groups, and writing workshops, at venues throughout Southern Arizona. He lives near Tucson, Arizona.
2 Poems by Marsha de la O
Invisibility Cloak
I’ve been trying to plumb the deep.
I’ve been trying to disappear. Call me
purple. Call desire a tangled skein.
Say it lives in every tentacle. Do you care
much for the lonely, alone in the sea?
Glass squid dive a thousand meters, light
down on the edge of light. The idea is
simple: attention must be paid to chasm-
dwellers, we all need chaos or a fellow
shade the same nebulous shape. Which
is to say, I’d like to slide under your cape.
You, with your leaky fiber optics, you
with your smidge of sun, I want to be
the violet that melds into your night
The afterlife of flames
After fire blackens the earth,
after a scarf of smoke presses
against the wound, the embryo
inside its sack, ripe and resting
in a chemical sleep, there’s
no need to abide any longer,
no need for the abode, the
hut, the hull, the home, only
translation is required to un-
coil a long-limbed seed, a pip
braiding itself into a child
the color of sunset, four petals,
naked stem, one bloom arching
her narrow body over harm.
Bionote
Marsha de la O's new book, Every Ravening Thing, came out in Spring 2019 from the University of Pittsburgh Press. Antidote for Night won the Isabella Gardner Award and was published in 2015 by BOA Editions. Her first book, Black Hope, won the New Issues Press Prize and was published by New Issues Press.
I’ve been trying to plumb the deep.
I’ve been trying to disappear. Call me
purple. Call desire a tangled skein.
Say it lives in every tentacle. Do you care
much for the lonely, alone in the sea?
Glass squid dive a thousand meters, light
down on the edge of light. The idea is
simple: attention must be paid to chasm-
dwellers, we all need chaos or a fellow
shade the same nebulous shape. Which
is to say, I’d like to slide under your cape.
You, with your leaky fiber optics, you
with your smidge of sun, I want to be
the violet that melds into your night
The afterlife of flames
After fire blackens the earth,
after a scarf of smoke presses
against the wound, the embryo
inside its sack, ripe and resting
in a chemical sleep, there’s
no need to abide any longer,
no need for the abode, the
hut, the hull, the home, only
translation is required to un-
coil a long-limbed seed, a pip
braiding itself into a child
the color of sunset, four petals,
naked stem, one bloom arching
her narrow body over harm.
Bionote
Marsha de la O's new book, Every Ravening Thing, came out in Spring 2019 from the University of Pittsburgh Press. Antidote for Night won the Isabella Gardner Award and was published in 2015 by BOA Editions. Her first book, Black Hope, won the New Issues Press Prize and was published by New Issues Press.
2 Poems by David Faunt LeRoy
"Carvings"
Tears that well, but cannot fall
From branches hang rain-pearls
Donned in moonlight capes
Anticipation palpable
Culpable
One side of a coin
We toss too willingly
Into the air
What could sprout
From cheek-trenches
Nighttime-drenches
A beautiful thing to behold
The carvings of tears and rain
"Distended Herd"
Left unto my own devices
I devour till my demise
I envy nature so decisive
Choosing what lives and dies
The earth doesn't grieve
For the young lost beast
As it is made the lion's feast
Oh, how desperately I cling
To my emaciated faults
Bionote
David lives in Spokane, WA with his wife and two dogs. He enjoys their company greatly.
Tears that well, but cannot fall
From branches hang rain-pearls
Donned in moonlight capes
Anticipation palpable
Culpable
One side of a coin
We toss too willingly
Into the air
What could sprout
From cheek-trenches
Nighttime-drenches
A beautiful thing to behold
The carvings of tears and rain
"Distended Herd"
Left unto my own devices
I devour till my demise
I envy nature so decisive
Choosing what lives and dies
The earth doesn't grieve
For the young lost beast
As it is made the lion's feast
Oh, how desperately I cling
To my emaciated faults
Bionote
David lives in Spokane, WA with his wife and two dogs. He enjoys their company greatly.
2 Poems & 5 Photos by Fabrice Poussin
Chest of all riches
Vagabond on unwritten paths
He saunters heavy leaden.
Facing high blizzards in rags
He might be an errant ghost.
On a journey begun within deep darkness
In search of stars he holds a sacred light
within a chest sized for a grandest myth.
Haggard beneath the weight of a thousand
Dreams broken under the yoke of fears
A step yet ahead he dares not raise a gaze.
Another horizon has come to meet the gait
Of this traveler in search of a common destiny.
Another sun will set this eve against the silhouette
So strange and a heaving breast will sigh once more.
There lies his hope gently awaiting
the soft kiss Upon a virgin brow.
The cask is heavy with the treasures amassed and
will be opened at last at the feet of the muse
Offering of a life’s quest to honor its precious source.
Touching to a shiver
The invisible wand makes a spark in the realm
giving life to a satin inch so long in slumber.
It is a task for the tireless magician
a promise he made on the sacred day
to warm the dying soul.
Sadness is conquered at the gentle approach
of a single intent stated in warm silence.
A granite memory awakens to a new dawn
under the silky cloth of a grand new life
limbs softly bend in a subtle giggle.
He writes another word upon the parchment
for the story to begin again and her sorrow
to melt away in the heat of eternal sunshine.
Bionote
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
Vagabond on unwritten paths
He saunters heavy leaden.
Facing high blizzards in rags
He might be an errant ghost.
On a journey begun within deep darkness
In search of stars he holds a sacred light
within a chest sized for a grandest myth.
Haggard beneath the weight of a thousand
Dreams broken under the yoke of fears
A step yet ahead he dares not raise a gaze.
Another horizon has come to meet the gait
Of this traveler in search of a common destiny.
Another sun will set this eve against the silhouette
So strange and a heaving breast will sigh once more.
There lies his hope gently awaiting
the soft kiss Upon a virgin brow.
The cask is heavy with the treasures amassed and
will be opened at last at the feet of the muse
Offering of a life’s quest to honor its precious source.
Touching to a shiver
The invisible wand makes a spark in the realm
giving life to a satin inch so long in slumber.
It is a task for the tireless magician
a promise he made on the sacred day
to warm the dying soul.
Sadness is conquered at the gentle approach
of a single intent stated in warm silence.
A granite memory awakens to a new dawn
under the silky cloth of a grand new life
limbs softly bend in a subtle giggle.
He writes another word upon the parchment
for the story to begin again and her sorrow
to melt away in the heat of eternal sunshine.
 |
| Paradox |
 |
| Hope |
 |
| Last Year |
 |
| Emergence of Life |
 |
| Her Reality |
Bionote
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
3 Poems by Geoffrey Himes
THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR, PART ONE
I can forgive her,
but can I forgive myself?
After all, I didn’t make her choices,
but I did make mine.
I run the beads of my mistakes
through my pale fingers,
but I keep losing count.
Was that twenty-five or twenty-six?
She wore a black-lace mask
to the New Year's Eve ball
in the stone house on the hill
surrounded by deep snow.
We were open to a second chance.
We were willing to forget the past.
We were wanting to dance.
We were waiting for the music to begin.
But the musicians got lost.
The electricity went out.
The candles burned down,
and we drifted into different lives.
THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR, PART TWO
By February, we weren’t speaking,
left to guess at each other's feelings.
Our eyes were red and watery.
The doctor said flu, but we knew better.
Should we try to jump-start the old car,
which had betrayed us so often?
Or should we write, “Thanks for everything,”
as a final, brutal farewell?
True to our indecisive selves,
We had done both: push and pull,
sleeping with each other's acquaintances,
weeping in each other's arms.
Greenmount Avenue was buried in snow.
I put on knee-high rubber boots and stepped high,
determined to reach Twenty-Fifth Street
before the chicken soup in my belly turned cold.
TRAILS
We climbed the beehive mountain
built of green bricks, blue mortar.
The trail twisted its measuring line
along cliffs, across streams
till our heads finally poked
above the chai tea mist
into the lemon light.
How far we could see
past the softened valley
to the boxy cities beyond.
Oh, how joyful it was
to once be young.
Oh, how terrible it is
to now be old,
our hearts too broken,
too blocked up with salts,
to take to the trail again.
Bionote
Geoffrey Himes’s poetry has been published by December, the Delaware Poetry Review, Salt Lick, the Baltimore City Paper, the Loch Raven Review and other publications. He has co-written songs with Si Kahn, Walter Egan, Pete Kennedy, Billy Kemp, Fred Koller and others. He has written about popular music and theater for the Washington Post, New York Times, Rolling Stone, Smithsonian, Paste, Downbeat and others since 1977. His book on Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the U.S.A.,” was published in 2005.
I can forgive her,
but can I forgive myself?
After all, I didn’t make her choices,
but I did make mine.
I run the beads of my mistakes
through my pale fingers,
but I keep losing count.
Was that twenty-five or twenty-six?
She wore a black-lace mask
to the New Year's Eve ball
in the stone house on the hill
surrounded by deep snow.
We were open to a second chance.
We were willing to forget the past.
We were wanting to dance.
We were waiting for the music to begin.
But the musicians got lost.
The electricity went out.
The candles burned down,
and we drifted into different lives.
THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR, PART TWO
By February, we weren’t speaking,
left to guess at each other's feelings.
Our eyes were red and watery.
The doctor said flu, but we knew better.
Should we try to jump-start the old car,
which had betrayed us so often?
Or should we write, “Thanks for everything,”
as a final, brutal farewell?
True to our indecisive selves,
We had done both: push and pull,
sleeping with each other's acquaintances,
weeping in each other's arms.
Greenmount Avenue was buried in snow.
I put on knee-high rubber boots and stepped high,
determined to reach Twenty-Fifth Street
before the chicken soup in my belly turned cold.
TRAILS
We climbed the beehive mountain
built of green bricks, blue mortar.
The trail twisted its measuring line
along cliffs, across streams
till our heads finally poked
above the chai tea mist
into the lemon light.
How far we could see
past the softened valley
to the boxy cities beyond.
Oh, how joyful it was
to once be young.
Oh, how terrible it is
to now be old,
our hearts too broken,
too blocked up with salts,
to take to the trail again.
Bionote
Geoffrey Himes’s poetry has been published by December, the Delaware Poetry Review, Salt Lick, the Baltimore City Paper, the Loch Raven Review and other publications. He has co-written songs with Si Kahn, Walter Egan, Pete Kennedy, Billy Kemp, Fred Koller and others. He has written about popular music and theater for the Washington Post, New York Times, Rolling Stone, Smithsonian, Paste, Downbeat and others since 1977. His book on Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the U.S.A.,” was published in 2005.
1 Poem by Maja Trochimczyk
After the Crossing
Imagine Lethe, the river of forgetfulness
just behind you. Its foamy waves,
curling in darkness. You made it.
You did not forget. The Great White
Desert let you pass. It sighed heavily, unwilling.
You are here. Standing under the canopy
of stars in liquid amber sky. Your toes
sink into the carpet of evening grass,
the luxury of ermine smoothness.
You are sheltered by monumental trees,
weighing the ages with cosmic precision.
They remind you of the beak of the toucan,
its multi-colored feathers shining in the mist.
The path’s unveiled — birds led you
all the way. You made it. You are here.
You remember. The verdant softness
beckons you to lie down, watch
the rainbow flight of the toucans,
the unfurling wings of dawn’s
bright swans.
I’m glad you came. I’m glad we made it.
We are here. We did not forget.
/published in Maja Trochimczyk "Into Light: Poems and Incantations" (Moonrise Press 2016)
Bionote
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK, Ph.D., is a Polish American poet, music historian, photographer, and author of seven books on music, most recently Górecki in Context: Essays on Music (2017) and Frédéric Chopin: A Research and Information Guide (2015). Trochimczyk’s eight poetry volumes include three anthologies, Chopin with Cherries (2010), Meditations on Divine Names (2011), and Grateful Conversations (2018) as well as Rose Always, Miriam’s Iris, Into Light, and two prize-winning books based on Polish experiences of WWII: Slicing the Bread (2014) and The Rainy Bread (2016). A former Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga, she is the founder of Moonrise Press, Board Secretary of the Polish American Historical Association, President of Helena Modjeska Art and Culture Club, and Senior Director of Planning and Development at Phoenix House California. Hundreds of her poems, articles and book chapters appeared in English, Polish, and other languages. She read papers at over 80 international conferences and received many awards from Polish, Canadian, and American institutions, such as the American Council of Learned Societies, Polish Ministry of Culture, PAHA, McGill University, and the University of Southern California. trochimczyk.net
Imagine Lethe, the river of forgetfulness
just behind you. Its foamy waves,
curling in darkness. You made it.
You did not forget. The Great White
Desert let you pass. It sighed heavily, unwilling.
You are here. Standing under the canopy
of stars in liquid amber sky. Your toes
sink into the carpet of evening grass,
the luxury of ermine smoothness.
You are sheltered by monumental trees,
weighing the ages with cosmic precision.
They remind you of the beak of the toucan,
its multi-colored feathers shining in the mist.
The path’s unveiled — birds led you
all the way. You made it. You are here.
You remember. The verdant softness
beckons you to lie down, watch
the rainbow flight of the toucans,
the unfurling wings of dawn’s
bright swans.
I’m glad you came. I’m glad we made it.
We are here. We did not forget.
/published in Maja Trochimczyk "Into Light: Poems and Incantations" (Moonrise Press 2016)
Bionote
MAJA TROCHIMCZYK, Ph.D., is a Polish American poet, music historian, photographer, and author of seven books on music, most recently Górecki in Context: Essays on Music (2017) and Frédéric Chopin: A Research and Information Guide (2015). Trochimczyk’s eight poetry volumes include three anthologies, Chopin with Cherries (2010), Meditations on Divine Names (2011), and Grateful Conversations (2018) as well as Rose Always, Miriam’s Iris, Into Light, and two prize-winning books based on Polish experiences of WWII: Slicing the Bread (2014) and The Rainy Bread (2016). A former Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga, she is the founder of Moonrise Press, Board Secretary of the Polish American Historical Association, President of Helena Modjeska Art and Culture Club, and Senior Director of Planning and Development at Phoenix House California. Hundreds of her poems, articles and book chapters appeared in English, Polish, and other languages. She read papers at over 80 international conferences and received many awards from Polish, Canadian, and American institutions, such as the American Council of Learned Societies, Polish Ministry of Culture, PAHA, McGill University, and the University of Southern California. trochimczyk.net
2 Poems by Ted McCarthy
EYES
And later, when, unnoticed by the rest of us,
music slipped finally from your mind
and your fingers, so nimble once, so sure,
settled as if by gravity into their unfamiliar rest
only your eyes reacted, fastening on light
or moving side to side, the slightest flickering
as if skimming a score you already knew by heart.
CALDRAGH IN APRIL
(i.m. Seamus Heaney)
Leave the ferry to plough its strait
one car at a time; turn instead, a mile
along the shore, to a graveyard ringed with birdsong,
each call a different colour. This is the end,
the centre, a stillness crushed elsewhere in the searching;
a border, too, tilth held at arm’s length,
a strip for the old gods, a ribbon for the curlew.
Bionote
Ted McCarthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada and Australia. He has had two collections published, 'November Wedding', and 'Beverly Downs'. His work can be found on www.tedmccarthyspoetry.weebly.com
And later, when, unnoticed by the rest of us,
music slipped finally from your mind
and your fingers, so nimble once, so sure,
settled as if by gravity into their unfamiliar rest
only your eyes reacted, fastening on light
or moving side to side, the slightest flickering
as if skimming a score you already knew by heart.
CALDRAGH IN APRIL
(i.m. Seamus Heaney)
Leave the ferry to plough its strait
one car at a time; turn instead, a mile
along the shore, to a graveyard ringed with birdsong,
each call a different colour. This is the end,
the centre, a stillness crushed elsewhere in the searching;
a border, too, tilth held at arm’s length,
a strip for the old gods, a ribbon for the curlew.
Bionote
Ted McCarthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada and Australia. He has had two collections published, 'November Wedding', and 'Beverly Downs'. His work can be found on www.tedmccarthyspoetry.weebly.com
2 Poems by Ute Carson
The House of Childhood
We return to the place
where we first heard voices,
smelled the air and tasted nourishment,
where hands caressed or frightened us,
where comfort was our cocoon
or neglect made us shiver.
The tears of harm are cold,
the tears of joy warm as a lagoon.
We carry the house of childhood within us,
and spying through its translucent walls
we keep life at a distance-or embrace it.
Not Night Yet
It is evening, the night still at bay,
still time to stroll with a loved one
through a colorful garden
as leaves begin to fall
or to pluck an apple or two
from an overripe orchard.
Before sunrays fade to darkness
a few daylight hours remain
to recall stories about a life
shared, complex and rich.
Bionote
A writer from youth and an M.A. graduate in comparative literature from the University of Rochester, German-born Ute Carson published her first prose piece in 1977. Colt Tailing, a 2004 novel, was a finalist for the Peter Taylor Book Award. Carson’s story “The Fall” won Outrider Press’s Grand Prize and appeared in its short story and poetry anthology A Walk Through My Garden, 2007. Her second novel In Transit was published in 2008. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and magazines in the US and abroad. Carson’s poetry was featured on the televised Spoken Word Showcase 2009, 2010 and 2011, Channel Austin, Texas. A poetry collection, Just a Few Feathers was published in 2011. The poem “A Tangled Nest of Moments” placed second in the Eleventh International Poetry Competition 2012. Her chapbook Folding Washing was published in 2013 and her collection of poems My Gift to Life was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Award Prize. Save the Last Kiss, a novella, was published in 2016. Her new poetry collection Reflections was out in 2018. She received the Ovidiu-Bektore Literary Award 2018 from the Anticus Multicultural Association in Constanta, Romania. In 2018 she was nominated a second time for the Pushcart Award Prize by the Plain View Press.
Ute Carson resides in Austin, Texas with her husband. They have three daughters, six grandchildren, a horse and a clowder of cats. www.utecarson.com
We return to the place
where we first heard voices,
smelled the air and tasted nourishment,
where hands caressed or frightened us,
where comfort was our cocoon
or neglect made us shiver.
The tears of harm are cold,
the tears of joy warm as a lagoon.
We carry the house of childhood within us,
and spying through its translucent walls
we keep life at a distance-or embrace it.
Not Night Yet
It is evening, the night still at bay,
still time to stroll with a loved one
through a colorful garden
as leaves begin to fall
or to pluck an apple or two
from an overripe orchard.
Before sunrays fade to darkness
a few daylight hours remain
to recall stories about a life
shared, complex and rich.
Bionote
A writer from youth and an M.A. graduate in comparative literature from the University of Rochester, German-born Ute Carson published her first prose piece in 1977. Colt Tailing, a 2004 novel, was a finalist for the Peter Taylor Book Award. Carson’s story “The Fall” won Outrider Press’s Grand Prize and appeared in its short story and poetry anthology A Walk Through My Garden, 2007. Her second novel In Transit was published in 2008. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and magazines in the US and abroad. Carson’s poetry was featured on the televised Spoken Word Showcase 2009, 2010 and 2011, Channel Austin, Texas. A poetry collection, Just a Few Feathers was published in 2011. The poem “A Tangled Nest of Moments” placed second in the Eleventh International Poetry Competition 2012. Her chapbook Folding Washing was published in 2013 and her collection of poems My Gift to Life was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Award Prize. Save the Last Kiss, a novella, was published in 2016. Her new poetry collection Reflections was out in 2018. She received the Ovidiu-Bektore Literary Award 2018 from the Anticus Multicultural Association in Constanta, Romania. In 2018 she was nominated a second time for the Pushcart Award Prize by the Plain View Press.
Ute Carson resides in Austin, Texas with her husband. They have three daughters, six grandchildren, a horse and a clowder of cats. www.utecarson.com
5 Poems by Cindy Hochman & Bob Heman
COLLABORATION #3
in the third box or
maybe in the fourth
or with hands included
and sad, swollen feet
and a face that casts no shadow
nor silhouette of limbs
but only the voices of trees
alive with their greening
luring always luring
beckoning with their branches
and their sweet rustling voices
but they don’t tell their secrets
that's left for us to figure out
a chorus of foliage (outside the box)
COLLABORATION #44
(inspired by the Czech film Valerie and Her Week of Wonders)
sweet coquette, ripe with blood and berries
flowers stained with the puzzle of the future
she watches the actors and eagles from her balcony
and the missionaries who behave in unexpected ways
but something’s rotten in Czechoslovakia!
her suitor is her brother, at least until he isn't
pale Grandma is cousin (or maybe she’s Mother)
and like everyone else she wants the earrings
teeth of the vampire against virgin shoulders
blood always the explanation we are given
priests and thieves and plague-ridden fowl
either the masks they wear or hidden behind those masks
yes, Valerie, the grown-up world is all flesh and cruelty
there's nothing to do but to sleep long and deep in the lonely forest
COLLABORATION #55
the best board games give you unexpected choices
sometimes a thimble and sometimes a hat
and sometimes paths you have to choose between
even when you don’t have a clue
sometimes you have to roll a die to find out how far you can go
and then you have to worry about landing in jail
or you may have to roll again
and then you might find some sweets along the way
as you get ready to slide down a chute or climb a ladder
but does it hurt the donkey when its tail gets pinned?
only if no one says "I'm sorry"
or has to go under the dreaded knife
and sometimes you have to pick a card to decide your fate
the board game of life is an uncertain tally
COLLABORATION #68
How many poems can you write in a year?
Probably no more than one or two that contain the word "osprey."
And there are other birds that should never be mentioned.
And sometimes there are poems that use exactly the same words.
Redundancy is allowed when you’re trying to EMPHASIZE.
And of course the words on the page can always be re-arranged.
Or erased and then patched together again.
Allowing the meaning to hide deeper, almost out of sight.
But the subtext is clear, even through the faint lines.
Although sometimes we think we are seeing something else.
All of life open to interpretation.
And of course sometimes things have no meaning at all.
So it’s up to the poets to tell us what we saw.
Even if it's only a bear waking from a dream.
COLLABORATION #73
The kinds of money they accumulated included colors and lizards and adverbs.
Their wealth was based on the laws of nature.
It was extremely difficult to count.
The stock market rose and fell depending on the weather.
And even adding a comma could change its direction.
Everyone went broke due to shifts in punctuation.
Or grew rich with the changing colors of the autumn leaves.
The middle class was gone with the wind.
They had barely a lizard to call their own.
And no bulls in this bear market.
But the bears continued to be amused by the colors and the adverbs.
And all the other shiny objects in their path.
Objects that reflected their own puzzled faces.
Like mirrors and windows and wine glasses.
Bionote
Collaborations by Cindy Hochman and Bob Heman have appeared in Otoliths, Unlikely Stories, Mannequin Haus, Have Your Chill, Clockwise Cat, and Live Mag! These poems are contained in the collaborative chapbook The Number 5 Is Always Suspect, which was published this year by Presa Press.
in the third box or
maybe in the fourth
or with hands included
and sad, swollen feet
and a face that casts no shadow
nor silhouette of limbs
but only the voices of trees
alive with their greening
luring always luring
beckoning with their branches
and their sweet rustling voices
but they don’t tell their secrets
that's left for us to figure out
a chorus of foliage (outside the box)
COLLABORATION #44
(inspired by the Czech film Valerie and Her Week of Wonders)
sweet coquette, ripe with blood and berries
flowers stained with the puzzle of the future
she watches the actors and eagles from her balcony
and the missionaries who behave in unexpected ways
but something’s rotten in Czechoslovakia!
her suitor is her brother, at least until he isn't
pale Grandma is cousin (or maybe she’s Mother)
and like everyone else she wants the earrings
teeth of the vampire against virgin shoulders
blood always the explanation we are given
priests and thieves and plague-ridden fowl
either the masks they wear or hidden behind those masks
yes, Valerie, the grown-up world is all flesh and cruelty
there's nothing to do but to sleep long and deep in the lonely forest
COLLABORATION #55
the best board games give you unexpected choices
sometimes a thimble and sometimes a hat
and sometimes paths you have to choose between
even when you don’t have a clue
sometimes you have to roll a die to find out how far you can go
and then you have to worry about landing in jail
or you may have to roll again
and then you might find some sweets along the way
as you get ready to slide down a chute or climb a ladder
but does it hurt the donkey when its tail gets pinned?
only if no one says "I'm sorry"
or has to go under the dreaded knife
and sometimes you have to pick a card to decide your fate
the board game of life is an uncertain tally
COLLABORATION #68
How many poems can you write in a year?
Probably no more than one or two that contain the word "osprey."
And there are other birds that should never be mentioned.
And sometimes there are poems that use exactly the same words.
Redundancy is allowed when you’re trying to EMPHASIZE.
And of course the words on the page can always be re-arranged.
Or erased and then patched together again.
Allowing the meaning to hide deeper, almost out of sight.
But the subtext is clear, even through the faint lines.
Although sometimes we think we are seeing something else.
All of life open to interpretation.
And of course sometimes things have no meaning at all.
So it’s up to the poets to tell us what we saw.
Even if it's only a bear waking from a dream.
COLLABORATION #73
The kinds of money they accumulated included colors and lizards and adverbs.
Their wealth was based on the laws of nature.
It was extremely difficult to count.
The stock market rose and fell depending on the weather.
And even adding a comma could change its direction.
Everyone went broke due to shifts in punctuation.
Or grew rich with the changing colors of the autumn leaves.
The middle class was gone with the wind.
They had barely a lizard to call their own.
And no bulls in this bear market.
But the bears continued to be amused by the colors and the adverbs.
And all the other shiny objects in their path.
Objects that reflected their own puzzled faces.
Like mirrors and windows and wine glasses.
Bionote
Collaborations by Cindy Hochman and Bob Heman have appeared in Otoliths, Unlikely Stories, Mannequin Haus, Have Your Chill, Clockwise Cat, and Live Mag! These poems are contained in the collaborative chapbook The Number 5 Is Always Suspect, which was published this year by Presa Press.
1 Poem by Therese Young Kim
At Summer’s End
Ever since you left
I’ve been learning
how to let you go,
like we let the summer go,
fall, winter, spring―
And when summer return
like rivers returning to the sea
azaleas will blossom in symphonies
of pink, the nightingale will call
from a weeping cherry
in the midnight garden again—
So, don’t let yourself go,
for we need to be there
when life returns
in dawn’s glow
in forsythia yellow
to surprise us again in the beauty
of forgiving at summer’s end―
Bionote
Born in Korea, Therese Young Kim studied English in Kyung-hee University in Seoul and worked at Lufthansa sales agency before coming to America. She worked as a professional interpreter for over 25 years in New York while immersing herself in poetry and prose in Korean and English.
Excerpts of her novel, Nayoung’s Journey, have been published in Infinity literary journal in earlier years and most recently in Tuck Magazine (A Forgotten Story of War). Her works have also appeared in Korean literary journals, as well as in Rosebud, poems and prose in Tuck Magazine, Poetry Pacific and The Journal of Baha’I Studies. Her website:http://yoursentimentalstranger.com/
Ever since you left
I’ve been learning
how to let you go,
like we let the summer go,
fall, winter, spring―
And when summer return
like rivers returning to the sea
azaleas will blossom in symphonies
of pink, the nightingale will call
from a weeping cherry
in the midnight garden again—
So, don’t let yourself go,
for we need to be there
when life returns
in dawn’s glow
in forsythia yellow
to surprise us again in the beauty
of forgiving at summer’s end―
Bionote
Born in Korea, Therese Young Kim studied English in Kyung-hee University in Seoul and worked at Lufthansa sales agency before coming to America. She worked as a professional interpreter for over 25 years in New York while immersing herself in poetry and prose in Korean and English.
Excerpts of her novel, Nayoung’s Journey, have been published in Infinity literary journal in earlier years and most recently in Tuck Magazine (A Forgotten Story of War). Her works have also appeared in Korean literary journals, as well as in Rosebud, poems and prose in Tuck Magazine, Poetry Pacific and The Journal of Baha’I Studies. Her website:http://yoursentimentalstranger.com/
1 Poem by Hillary Lyon
The Narwhal
you’re fiberglass and paint and whale-song moaning
through climate-controlled museum air
filling empty bottles and shell-shaped ears
with the silt of history your spiraled tusk
as lethal as the knight's lance as legendary
as the unicorn's horn historically unreal
your great needle slid through the fabric
of frigid ocean waters burst through the broad nets
of incredulous seamen skewered any and all
disbelief in God and sea monsters
Bionote
Hillary Lyon is founder and editor for the Arizona-based independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet, her own poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey, and Red River Review, as well as numerous anthologies. When not writing, she creates illustrations for scifi/horror and pulp fiction publications.
you’re fiberglass and paint and whale-song moaning
through climate-controlled museum air
filling empty bottles and shell-shaped ears
with the silt of history your spiraled tusk
as lethal as the knight's lance as legendary
as the unicorn's horn historically unreal
your great needle slid through the fabric
of frigid ocean waters burst through the broad nets
of incredulous seamen skewered any and all
disbelief in God and sea monsters
Bionote
Hillary Lyon is founder and editor for the Arizona-based independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet, her own poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey, and Red River Review, as well as numerous anthologies. When not writing, she creates illustrations for scifi/horror and pulp fiction publications.
1 Poem by John Bartlett
Time Passes
In Rue Auguste Brun
dusty glass cases
hold headdresses eons old,
their feathers painting
the shaded stillness of
a New Caledonia afternoon.
Doors spring open
releasing Kanak children
with hair like electric spaghetti
‘Come back after lunch’
says the dreadlocked doorman
‘You don’t have time
to see it all now.’
We step back into
Rue Auguste Brun
where time slows to a trickle,
women in flowered dresses
chat under
lipstick pink bougainvillea.
Time, callous and blind,
dismisses my small life
like a rejecting lover.
Bionote
John Bartlett is the Australian author of three novels, a collection of short stories and an e-book collection of his non-fiction- ‘A Tiny & Brilliant Light’. His poetry has been published in a number of online journals. He blogs regularly at: http://beyondtheestuary.com/
In Rue Auguste Brun
dusty glass cases
hold headdresses eons old,
their feathers painting
the shaded stillness of
a New Caledonia afternoon.
Doors spring open
releasing Kanak children
with hair like electric spaghetti
‘Come back after lunch’
says the dreadlocked doorman
‘You don’t have time
to see it all now.’
We step back into
Rue Auguste Brun
where time slows to a trickle,
women in flowered dresses
chat under
lipstick pink bougainvillea.
Time, callous and blind,
dismisses my small life
like a rejecting lover.
Bionote
John Bartlett is the Australian author of three novels, a collection of short stories and an e-book collection of his non-fiction- ‘A Tiny & Brilliant Light’. His poetry has been published in a number of online journals. He blogs regularly at: http://beyondtheestuary.com/
2 Poems by Carol Barrett
The Waves of Change
are so small, I can’t make
them out, even in space
between my wet face and
the mirror, where you’d think
all would be obvious
as goldfish
swimming in my daughter’s
tank, not yet
plopped in the bowl
as she prepares
his coming, her treasury
of downed plane and sea
grass, her painting of fruity
fish draped on his back
window like a promise
Legacy
Nineteen paintings tell me
you are gone -- canvases, and still
unframed watercolors at Goodwill,
Valerie Miner in the lower corner.
You painted a sprig of violets
that hung beside my grandmother’s
bed, yellow centers
nubby as chenille. Remember?
When she died, no one knew
their story. Too practical
for paintings, she permitted
only your violets in her house.
I once commissioned a golden
Kansas field with farm and outhouse,
thinking it would take her back.
She said the clouds are wrong.
They don’t have clouds like that
in Kansas. I lift your thousand-
petalled mums and asters, step
gingerly in the cool creek
beneath birch and aspen, revel
in your opal and ruby skies.
I will take you home, make room
for how you dreamed the world.
Bionote
Carol Barrett holds doctorates in both clinical psychology and creative writing. She coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University, and also teaches in the Creativity Studies program at Saybrook University. Her books include Calling in the Bones, which won the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, Drawing Lessons from Finishing Line Press, and Pansies, a work of creative nonfiction, from Sonder Press. Her poems have appeared in JAMA, Poetry International, Poetry Northwest, The Women’s Review of Books, and many other venues. She lives in Bend, Oregon.
are so small, I can’t make
them out, even in space
between my wet face and
the mirror, where you’d think
all would be obvious
as goldfish
swimming in my daughter’s
tank, not yet
plopped in the bowl
as she prepares
his coming, her treasury
of downed plane and sea
grass, her painting of fruity
fish draped on his back
window like a promise
Legacy
Nineteen paintings tell me
you are gone -- canvases, and still
unframed watercolors at Goodwill,
Valerie Miner in the lower corner.
You painted a sprig of violets
that hung beside my grandmother’s
bed, yellow centers
nubby as chenille. Remember?
When she died, no one knew
their story. Too practical
for paintings, she permitted
only your violets in her house.
I once commissioned a golden
Kansas field with farm and outhouse,
thinking it would take her back.
She said the clouds are wrong.
They don’t have clouds like that
in Kansas. I lift your thousand-
petalled mums and asters, step
gingerly in the cool creek
beneath birch and aspen, revel
in your opal and ruby skies.
I will take you home, make room
for how you dreamed the world.
Bionote
Carol Barrett holds doctorates in both clinical psychology and creative writing. She coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University, and also teaches in the Creativity Studies program at Saybrook University. Her books include Calling in the Bones, which won the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, Drawing Lessons from Finishing Line Press, and Pansies, a work of creative nonfiction, from Sonder Press. Her poems have appeared in JAMA, Poetry International, Poetry Northwest, The Women’s Review of Books, and many other venues. She lives in Bend, Oregon.
1 Poem by Nels Hanson
New Day
Overnight this world did
change, at early morning
he noticed right away, sun
on rose then golden breast
of dove on red-tiled roof,
a four o’clock’s pink bells
echoing with bees, the lizard
on tiny claws pumping legs
up and down, stirring blood
to bask in blond warm light.
Spidery ferns uncurled thin
fronds of green filigree, sky
was cobalt, one ivory cloud
an egret’s feather, water at
the faucet tasted sweet, cold
from river far underground.
At center of a wide hibiscus
bloom streaked rose, deepest
cardinal, a tall scarlet stamen
grew crosswise buds, saffron
stalks with globes like Earth,
towers with yellow beacons.
Ruby-throated hummingbird
drank nectar three seconds in
a whir and disappeared before
the Monarch butterfly arrived
on translucent wings, orange
veined by black tiger stripes.
Everything was different yet
the same. With new old eyes
of a lost explorer in a pristine
world he saw he wasn’t lost
but finally home again as he
walked Eve’s garden Adam
never knew though the story
says he was the first to wake.
Bionote
Nels Hanson grew up on a small farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California and has worked as a farmer, teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations.
Overnight this world did
change, at early morning
he noticed right away, sun
on rose then golden breast
of dove on red-tiled roof,
a four o’clock’s pink bells
echoing with bees, the lizard
on tiny claws pumping legs
up and down, stirring blood
to bask in blond warm light.
Spidery ferns uncurled thin
fronds of green filigree, sky
was cobalt, one ivory cloud
an egret’s feather, water at
the faucet tasted sweet, cold
from river far underground.
At center of a wide hibiscus
bloom streaked rose, deepest
cardinal, a tall scarlet stamen
grew crosswise buds, saffron
stalks with globes like Earth,
towers with yellow beacons.
Ruby-throated hummingbird
drank nectar three seconds in
a whir and disappeared before
the Monarch butterfly arrived
on translucent wings, orange
veined by black tiger stripes.
Everything was different yet
the same. With new old eyes
of a lost explorer in a pristine
world he saw he wasn’t lost
but finally home again as he
walked Eve’s garden Adam
never knew though the story
says he was the first to wake.
Bionote
Nels Hanson grew up on a small farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California and has worked as a farmer, teacher and contract writer/editor. His fiction received the San Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations.
2 Poems by Sam Smith
Not Artists, Notarists
Filled with uncertainty
for what he’s doing
for what he’s done
sees only futures
that will elude him
Yet still he owns the aspiration
to be a writer
rather than to write
Being to him more important
than doing
for his ‘linguistic community’
writers group
exporting his lack of resolve
he puts together
a guide to guides about guide books
Absent Negatives
“Nothing,” said.
Empty as an abstract notion,
of relevance only as a negative.
Nothing
a construct
a useful notational abstract
that said
no container can be truly empty
must contain something
if only a vacuum
“Something,” said.
Within life’s journey
from zero to zero
egos but mutts
kick-scratching verges
Bionote
Sam Smith is editor of The Journal (once 'of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry'), and publisher of Original Plus books. He has been a psychiatric nurse, residential social worker, milkman, plumber, laboratory analyst, groundsman, sailor, computer operator, scaffolder, gardener, painter & decorator........ working at anything, in fact, which paid the rent, enabled him to raise his three daughters and which hasn’t got too much in the way of his writing. Now in his 70s he has ended up living in South Wales. For the last couple of years he has been blogging http://www.thesamsmith.simplesite.com. And he has signed with a new publisher, Wordcatcher for both his novels and poetry collections. https://sites.google.com/site/samsmiththejournal/
Filled with uncertainty
for what he’s doing
for what he’s done
sees only futures
that will elude him
Yet still he owns the aspiration
to be a writer
rather than to write
Being to him more important
than doing
for his ‘linguistic community’
writers group
exporting his lack of resolve
he puts together
a guide to guides about guide books
Absent Negatives
“Nothing,” said.
Empty as an abstract notion,
of relevance only as a negative.
Nothing
a construct
a useful notational abstract
that said
no container can be truly empty
must contain something
if only a vacuum
“Something,” said.
Within life’s journey
from zero to zero
egos but mutts
kick-scratching verges
Bionote
Sam Smith is editor of The Journal (once 'of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry'), and publisher of Original Plus books. He has been a psychiatric nurse, residential social worker, milkman, plumber, laboratory analyst, groundsman, sailor, computer operator, scaffolder, gardener, painter & decorator........ working at anything, in fact, which paid the rent, enabled him to raise his three daughters and which hasn’t got too much in the way of his writing. Now in his 70s he has ended up living in South Wales. For the last couple of years he has been blogging http://www.thesamsmith.simplesite.com. And he has signed with a new publisher, Wordcatcher for both his novels and poetry collections. https://sites.google.com/site/samsmiththejournal/
1 Poem by Jeremy Nathan Marks
The fish in the wind
The meaning of fish is found among other fish
in much the same way water tastes like water.
I saw a fish caught in a net:
the wind was its egg,
the net its pond.
But the meaning of fish, egg, net
I must insist
is only to be found within the pen
that paired them.
Bionote
Jeremy Nathan Marks is a London, Ontario-based writer. Recent work appears/is appearing in Cajun Mutt Press, Writers Resist, Eunoia Review, Unlikely Stories, Poets Reading The News, New Reader Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Alien Pub, Runcible Spoon and The Wire’s Dream. His story “Detroit 2099” will appear in The Nature of Cities Anthology in January 2019. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry.
The meaning of fish is found among other fish
in much the same way water tastes like water.
I saw a fish caught in a net:
the wind was its egg,
the net its pond.
But the meaning of fish, egg, net
I must insist
is only to be found within the pen
that paired them.
Bionote
Jeremy Nathan Marks is a London, Ontario-based writer. Recent work appears/is appearing in Cajun Mutt Press, Writers Resist, Eunoia Review, Unlikely Stories, Poets Reading The News, New Reader Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Alien Pub, Runcible Spoon and The Wire’s Dream. His story “Detroit 2099” will appear in The Nature of Cities Anthology in January 2019. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry.
1 Poem by Ross Jackson
Dusk
sunlight draws close to the exits
those coloured birds, the flowers
close their wings
a pensioner shuts her book
on romance
to what spot in the moonlit garden
does a redundant bee retire?
Bionote
Ross Jackson is a retired teacher who lives in Perth, Western Australia. He has had poetry published in many Australian literary journals and poetry websites. Work has also appeared in Ireland, New Zealand and the U.K.
sunlight draws close to the exits
those coloured birds, the flowers
close their wings
a pensioner shuts her book
on romance
to what spot in the moonlit garden
does a redundant bee retire?
Bionote
Ross Jackson is a retired teacher who lives in Perth, Western Australia. He has had poetry published in many Australian literary journals and poetry websites. Work has also appeared in Ireland, New Zealand and the U.K.
1 Poem by Roy Wahlberg
HAUNTINGS
I try to recall faces from the past
and hold them fast
in my mind
like photos in an album
but they slide away and swiftly fade --
even the dearly loved ones.
I may briefly be left
with the faintest scent
or a manner of dress, or a walk
or the glimpse of a profile
or a smile
that eddies before me an instant, then --
like a wisp of smoke its gone.
It's as if the album's burning
bright scarlet into black,
the paper edges curling
back to the center
'til all that remains
are dim memories
of memories I once had --
fragile shadows of the past
that shatter at the
slightest touch.
Editor's Note
This piece is recommended by Mike Northen, editor of Wordgathering, who wrote to PP: Roy Wahlberg has a neurological disability and writing poetry has literally been his lifeline in prison. Roy's work was sent to me by a friend of his last fall and I published several of his poem in the September issue of Wordgathering. Since then I have found myself in the position of trying to help Roy get some of his work published. I've attached a file with seven of his shorter poems that I hope you can consider for inclusion in Poetry Pacific. Roy is still in prison and can only receive email mail through a program called jpay, so I am sending these (with his permission) on his behalf.
I try to recall faces from the past
and hold them fast
in my mind
like photos in an album
but they slide away and swiftly fade --
even the dearly loved ones.
I may briefly be left
with the faintest scent
or a manner of dress, or a walk
or the glimpse of a profile
or a smile
that eddies before me an instant, then --
like a wisp of smoke its gone.
It's as if the album's burning
bright scarlet into black,
the paper edges curling
back to the center
'til all that remains
are dim memories
of memories I once had --
fragile shadows of the past
that shatter at the
slightest touch.
Editor's Note
This piece is recommended by Mike Northen, editor of Wordgathering, who wrote to PP: Roy Wahlberg has a neurological disability and writing poetry has literally been his lifeline in prison. Roy's work was sent to me by a friend of his last fall and I published several of his poem in the September issue of Wordgathering. Since then I have found myself in the position of trying to help Roy get some of his work published. I've attached a file with seven of his shorter poems that I hope you can consider for inclusion in Poetry Pacific. Roy is still in prison and can only receive email mail through a program called jpay, so I am sending these (with his permission) on his behalf.
3 Poems by Lowell Jaeger
The Great Bob Dylan Debate
It makes no sense, my older brother said.
The words make no sense. We shared
a bedroom through junior high, and kept
a little radio on the nightstand between us.
Turn it down, Dad commanded from the dark
of our parents’ bedroom too nearby. I’d waited
to hear this particular song, and now I strained
and leaned closer. Shhh, I said to my brother.
The words make no sense, he said again.
Then I made a big mistake; I tried to explicate
Dylan’s lyrics, as my brother raised his eyebrows,
smirked, and cocked his head sideways.
Got tangled up in my efforts to untangle.
So I talked on and on, more loudly,
twisting the song to mean as I wanted. Dad hollered,
Turn that damn thing off and both of you hush.
My brother’s face filled with glee to see me stumble
as I whispered, and strained to convince him,
and wanted to punch him because he was right.
I hated the hiss of my insistent half-baked analysis.
And I hated my brother for long afterwards,
though really he’d done me a great favor.
I was hearing something the words weren’t saying,
something in the spaces between. Poetry
is what I’d call it now all these years after. Back then
I couldn’t make sense of how words
can’t always hold what the heart sings clearly.
And feelings aren’t easy to explain.
Birthday Surprise
I’d lit all eight candles, snugged
my birthday cake close to my chest
and carried it from one room into the next,
buttoned like a wild-west hero
in the best gift of all:
fancy-stitched
silky purple cowboy shirt with fringes
luxuriously circling the chest and back,
dangling along the undersides of both sleeves.
Anything could happen in a shirt
with such shine. No surprise
when the fringes caught fire, crackled,
and in the midst of my gun-fighter reveries
I combusted like Fourth of July . . . .
I dropped the cake and bolted,
wild as a blazing wind
blistering through sage,
or a comet racing in midnight black,
ecstatic in the brilliance of notoriety
and confounded as to why
— while party guests screamed —
my parents pursued me,
whipping me with pillows
and dishtowels and rags.
Nothing Lasts Forever
Toothaches.
Diarrhea. Bee stings. Heat waves.
Cold snaps. That stupid tune stuck in your head.
Hiccoughs. Drippy faucets. Traffic jams.
A good buzz.
Bad trip.
Regimes, left and right.
Pacts between regimes.
Prudence enough
not to pull the switch.
Rocket fire.
Sirens.
Panic.
The planet in bloom.
Then nothing.
And nothing
lasts forever.
Bionote
Lowell Jaeger (Montana Poet Laureate 2017-2019) is founding editor of Many Voices Press and Professor of English/Creative Writing at Flathead Valley Community College (Kalispell, Montana), where he also serves as Humanities Division Chair. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, winner of the Grolier Poetry Peace Prize, and recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Montana Arts Council. Lowell was awarded the Montana Governor’s Humanities Award for his work in promoting civil civic discourse. He is the author of eight collections of poems, the most recent of which are Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press 2016), Earth-blood & Star-shine (Shabda Press 2018), and Someday I’d Write This Down (Shabda Press 2019).
War On War (Utah State University Press 1988)
Hope Against Hope (Utah State University Press 1990)
Suddenly Out of a Long Sleep (Arctos Press 2009)
WE (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2010)
How Quickly What's Passing Goes Past (Grayson Books 2013)
Driving the Back Road Home (Shabda Press 2015)
Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press 2016)
Earth-blood & Star-Shine (Shabda Press 2018)
Edited:
Poems Across the Big Sky (Many Voices Press 2007)
New Poets of the American West (Many Voices Press 2010)
Poems Across the Big Sky II (Many Voices Press 2016)
Lowell Jaeger
20978 Hwy 35
Bigfork, Montana 59911
ljaegermontana@gmail.com
406-261-5731
It makes no sense, my older brother said.
The words make no sense. We shared
a bedroom through junior high, and kept
a little radio on the nightstand between us.
Turn it down, Dad commanded from the dark
of our parents’ bedroom too nearby. I’d waited
to hear this particular song, and now I strained
and leaned closer. Shhh, I said to my brother.
The words make no sense, he said again.
Then I made a big mistake; I tried to explicate
Dylan’s lyrics, as my brother raised his eyebrows,
smirked, and cocked his head sideways.
Got tangled up in my efforts to untangle.
So I talked on and on, more loudly,
twisting the song to mean as I wanted. Dad hollered,
Turn that damn thing off and both of you hush.
My brother’s face filled with glee to see me stumble
as I whispered, and strained to convince him,
and wanted to punch him because he was right.
I hated the hiss of my insistent half-baked analysis.
And I hated my brother for long afterwards,
though really he’d done me a great favor.
I was hearing something the words weren’t saying,
something in the spaces between. Poetry
is what I’d call it now all these years after. Back then
I couldn’t make sense of how words
can’t always hold what the heart sings clearly.
And feelings aren’t easy to explain.
Birthday Surprise
I’d lit all eight candles, snugged
my birthday cake close to my chest
and carried it from one room into the next,
buttoned like a wild-west hero
in the best gift of all:
fancy-stitched
silky purple cowboy shirt with fringes
luxuriously circling the chest and back,
dangling along the undersides of both sleeves.
Anything could happen in a shirt
with such shine. No surprise
when the fringes caught fire, crackled,
and in the midst of my gun-fighter reveries
I combusted like Fourth of July . . . .
I dropped the cake and bolted,
wild as a blazing wind
blistering through sage,
or a comet racing in midnight black,
ecstatic in the brilliance of notoriety
and confounded as to why
— while party guests screamed —
my parents pursued me,
whipping me with pillows
and dishtowels and rags.
Nothing Lasts Forever
Toothaches.
Diarrhea. Bee stings. Heat waves.
Cold snaps. That stupid tune stuck in your head.
Hiccoughs. Drippy faucets. Traffic jams.
A good buzz.
Bad trip.
Regimes, left and right.
Pacts between regimes.
Prudence enough
not to pull the switch.
Rocket fire.
Sirens.
Panic.
The planet in bloom.
Then nothing.
And nothing
lasts forever.
Bionote
Lowell Jaeger (Montana Poet Laureate 2017-2019) is founding editor of Many Voices Press and Professor of English/Creative Writing at Flathead Valley Community College (Kalispell, Montana), where he also serves as Humanities Division Chair. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, winner of the Grolier Poetry Peace Prize, and recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Montana Arts Council. Lowell was awarded the Montana Governor’s Humanities Award for his work in promoting civil civic discourse. He is the author of eight collections of poems, the most recent of which are Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press 2016), Earth-blood & Star-shine (Shabda Press 2018), and Someday I’d Write This Down (Shabda Press 2019).
War On War (Utah State University Press 1988)
Hope Against Hope (Utah State University Press 1990)
Suddenly Out of a Long Sleep (Arctos Press 2009)
WE (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2010)
How Quickly What's Passing Goes Past (Grayson Books 2013)
Driving the Back Road Home (Shabda Press 2015)
Or Maybe I Drift Off Alone (Shabda Press 2016)
Earth-blood & Star-Shine (Shabda Press 2018)
Edited:
Poems Across the Big Sky (Many Voices Press 2007)
New Poets of the American West (Many Voices Press 2010)
Poems Across the Big Sky II (Many Voices Press 2016)
Lowell Jaeger
20978 Hwy 35
Bigfork, Montana 59911
ljaegermontana@gmail.com
406-261-5731
2 Poems by Prabhu Guptara
Autumn
The twin trees in front of my window
Begin, like us, to be tinged by fire.
Soon it will have caught them, wrapped them, lit them,
And they’ll be aflame –
On this gentle hillside, alight for all to see.
And then the leaves will fall, one by one,
To yield lines that stand stark, gaunt, black-brown
Against a sky layered with dry mussel,
Till white gentles and cools us, and rests us awhile.
Refugee
I smile,
He looks away.
I laugh,
She is embarrassed.
I throw my arms wide open,
They’re scandalised.
I sing,
They flee.
I scowl
And all is well.
Bionote
Prabhu’s first published poem was in The Illustrated Weekly of India, in the 1960s. Since then, his work has appeared in Indian PEN, Journal of Indian Writing in English, Kunapipi, Masala, MuseIndia, Poetry24, Ship of Fools, and The Redbeck Anthology of British Asian Poetry. Two collections of his poems, Beginnings & Continuations, were published in the 1970s by Writers Workshop, Calcutta. He edited An Anthology of Contemporary Indian Religious Poetry in English, as well as Selected Poems of Leela Dharmaraj. In January 2017, Skylark Publications, UK, chose him Poet of the Month, and he is included in Debrett’s People of Today.
The twin trees in front of my window
Begin, like us, to be tinged by fire.
Soon it will have caught them, wrapped them, lit them,
And they’ll be aflame –
On this gentle hillside, alight for all to see.
And then the leaves will fall, one by one,
To yield lines that stand stark, gaunt, black-brown
Against a sky layered with dry mussel,
Till white gentles and cools us, and rests us awhile.
Refugee
I smile,
He looks away.
I laugh,
She is embarrassed.
I throw my arms wide open,
They’re scandalised.
I sing,
They flee.
I scowl
And all is well.
Bionote
Prabhu’s first published poem was in The Illustrated Weekly of India, in the 1960s. Since then, his work has appeared in Indian PEN, Journal of Indian Writing in English, Kunapipi, Masala, MuseIndia, Poetry24, Ship of Fools, and The Redbeck Anthology of British Asian Poetry. Two collections of his poems, Beginnings & Continuations, were published in the 1970s by Writers Workshop, Calcutta. He edited An Anthology of Contemporary Indian Religious Poetry in English, as well as Selected Poems of Leela Dharmaraj. In January 2017, Skylark Publications, UK, chose him Poet of the Month, and he is included in Debrett’s People of Today.
3 Poems by Michael Keshigian
SYNERGIST
All day I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal ripple stillness
just outside my office window.
An opera in red tux,
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house of sound,
awakening memories of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
I can almost touch what once was
as it floats between song and wind.
An inflection so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
than to merely texture the commotion.
His tune incites another gift.
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.
A SILENT POEM
In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into a cold and ruthless world
and noticed for the first time
sun’s reflection glistening
upon lake serenity
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.
And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen,
he fell to his knees,
stared mutely,
unable to excise
the swell in his soul,
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.
WILDFLOWERS
What is love
but the dried up bulbs
the gardener insists on planting
to everyone’s objections
that irrationally burst
into magnificent dahlias.
The lunacy of uncertainty,
a fascination of delight,
most often unpredictable.
Wild grow
the flowers of the heart
in the garden of our lives,
wilder still
blooms affection.
Bionote
Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, has been published in numerous national and international journals, recently including Aji Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Muddy River Review, and Passager. His poetry cycle, Lunar Images, set for Clarinet, Piano, Narrator, was premiered at Del Mar College in Texas. Subsequent performances occurred in Boston (Berklee College) and Moleto, Italy. Winter Moon, a poem set for Soprano and Piano, premiered in Boston. (michaelkeshigian.com).
All day I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal ripple stillness
just outside my office window.
An opera in red tux,
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house of sound,
awakening memories of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
I can almost touch what once was
as it floats between song and wind.
An inflection so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
than to merely texture the commotion.
His tune incites another gift.
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.
A SILENT POEM
In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into a cold and ruthless world
and noticed for the first time
sun’s reflection glistening
upon lake serenity
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.
And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen,
he fell to his knees,
stared mutely,
unable to excise
the swell in his soul,
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.
WILDFLOWERS
What is love
but the dried up bulbs
the gardener insists on planting
to everyone’s objections
that irrationally burst
into magnificent dahlias.
The lunacy of uncertainty,
a fascination of delight,
most often unpredictable.
Wild grow
the flowers of the heart
in the garden of our lives,
wilder still
blooms affection.
Bionote
Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, has been published in numerous national and international journals, recently including Aji Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Muddy River Review, and Passager. His poetry cycle, Lunar Images, set for Clarinet, Piano, Narrator, was premiered at Del Mar College in Texas. Subsequent performances occurred in Boston (Berklee College) and Moleto, Italy. Winter Moon, a poem set for Soprano and Piano, premiered in Boston. (michaelkeshigian.com).
1 Poem by Igor Goldkind
I Folded My Mother Up
I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.
We arc this abyss; tightening ropes over time.
We are not our worst intentions,
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping
Over the broken sidewalk of Being.
We are not the sum of our categories
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance
That keeps us from stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.
Bionote
Igor Goldkind is a San Diego poet, scholar and scribe. Igor Goldkind’s most recent work, IS SHE AVAILABLE?, incorporates poetry, art, music, and animation; a collaboration with over 25 artists from the comic, fantasy and fine art (as well as the jazz composer Gilad Atzmon) and is published by Chameleon Publishing. Igor Goldkind has completed a forthcoming collection of 13 short stories entitled The Village of Light set in and around a computer environment. He describes his work as Speculative Realism, a new genre offspring of Speculative Fiction and Magic Realism.
I folded my mother up
Into a creased peace of paper
Folding memories into intentions.
Flattening the dementia of unstructured emotions
Into a neat, file-able document.
We arc this abyss; tightening ropes over time.
We are not our worst intentions,
but we are the acts that follow.
Like clobbering footsteps tripping
Over the broken sidewalk of Being.
We are not the sum of our categories
or the crimes that we have witnessed
But we are the balance
That keeps us from stumbling
Over our own shoelace sense of time.
Bionote
Igor Goldkind is a San Diego poet, scholar and scribe. Igor Goldkind’s most recent work, IS SHE AVAILABLE?, incorporates poetry, art, music, and animation; a collaboration with over 25 artists from the comic, fantasy and fine art (as well as the jazz composer Gilad Atzmon) and is published by Chameleon Publishing. Igor Goldkind has completed a forthcoming collection of 13 short stories entitled The Village of Light set in and around a computer environment. He describes his work as Speculative Realism, a new genre offspring of Speculative Fiction and Magic Realism.
2 Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar
Tease
There is more to life
than can be easily deciphered.
Hieroglyphs mulled over
in broken tongues.
Glimpses of revelation
grasped for fleeting moments,
only to shatter
as if never seen at all.
Goodbye to the Machine
The new night sky
speaks in algorithms
beyond the constellations
we had started to glean
a babbling of tongues
a wagging of fingers
a shaking of heads
a smirk from the system
Bionote
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press. His show, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio.
There is more to life
than can be easily deciphered.
Hieroglyphs mulled over
in broken tongues.
Glimpses of revelation
grasped for fleeting moments,
only to shatter
as if never seen at all.
Goodbye to the Machine
The new night sky
speaks in algorithms
beyond the constellations
we had started to glean
a babbling of tongues
a wagging of fingers
a shaking of heads
a smirk from the system
Bionote
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, reviews, live events, and books can be found. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Outlar was a recipient of the 2017 Setu Magazine Award for Excellence in the field of literature. Selections of his poetry have been translated into Afrikaans, Albanian, Dutch, Italian, French, Persian, and Serbian. He has been a weekly contributor for the cultural newsletter Dissident Voice since 2014. His most recent book, Abstract Visions of Light, was released in 2018 through Alien Buddha Press. His show, Songs of Selah, airs weekly on 17Numa Radio.
1 Poem by dan raphael
Rain Tastes Best Just off the Cloud
First rain of the new fall
exiting the tunnel of sunshine
seasoned with smoke & ash
how quickly the fresh is cured, salted down
suspended in immunity
no surprises, mutations,
seeing whats known instead of whats there
The rain followed me home
whats the rain trying to sell us
consistently unpredictable
one of the few things you cant bet on
not a drought but the rain was stopped at the border
we want only euro-centric rain, rain without rainbows
full falling transparency
How did that cloud get here
the fragile shell inside that illusory puffiness
while we’re trying to figure out what that cloud looks like
weather comes in through the open windows
wind keeps the getaway car running
rain never takes, always leaves evidence
that can grow, transform wherever its left
Rain gives birds something to talk about
changes tires tune, remind me of the nerves and bones
beneath my skin, my saliva wishes it was rain
a taste our tongues keep evolving toward
Bionote
For three decades dan raphael's been active in the Northwest as poet, performer, editor and reading host. Manything came out this fall from Unlikely Books in New Orleans. Current poems appear in Caliban, The Opiate, Mad Swirl, Oddball and Otoliths. Every Wednesday he writes and records a poem for the KBOO Evening News.
First rain of the new fall
exiting the tunnel of sunshine
seasoned with smoke & ash
how quickly the fresh is cured, salted down
suspended in immunity
no surprises, mutations,
seeing whats known instead of whats there
The rain followed me home
whats the rain trying to sell us
consistently unpredictable
one of the few things you cant bet on
not a drought but the rain was stopped at the border
we want only euro-centric rain, rain without rainbows
full falling transparency
How did that cloud get here
the fragile shell inside that illusory puffiness
while we’re trying to figure out what that cloud looks like
weather comes in through the open windows
wind keeps the getaway car running
rain never takes, always leaves evidence
that can grow, transform wherever its left
Rain gives birds something to talk about
changes tires tune, remind me of the nerves and bones
beneath my skin, my saliva wishes it was rain
a taste our tongues keep evolving toward
Bionote
For three decades dan raphael's been active in the Northwest as poet, performer, editor and reading host. Manything came out this fall from Unlikely Books in New Orleans. Current poems appear in Caliban, The Opiate, Mad Swirl, Oddball and Otoliths. Every Wednesday he writes and records a poem for the KBOO Evening News.
2 Poems by Brooks Robards
HOME INVASION
Where did you start—
in the kitchen? No silver
but you ate some hummus.
Did you see me working
on my computer, watch
me as I typed? How else
did you know to go downstairs?
You were no sloppy invader.
Only clue was the garage door
left open. Were you still in there
when we came home? Too bad
for you the car battery was dead.
You left my keys on the car floor
a pair of earrings not mine–
where did they come from?
My wallet open, money gone
plus two credit cards. Not the rest.
Tell me. Are you curious about me?
JAIL TIME
We went to court
every time you did
until it was over.
We talked to your dad
your cousin’s widow.
Continued, continued
it took a year after
you were sentenced
for me to get my jewelry
back. No fingerprints
so no theft charge
just receiving stolen goods.
Two and a half years
with probation. Letters
informed us of your progress
a no contact order
work release, parole
then good behavior.
How will you pay us back?
Tell me, are you going
to haunt me forever?
Bionote
Brooks Robards has published 5 volumes of poetry, the most recent of which are “Fishing the Desert” (2015), with photographer Siegfried Halus, and “On Island” (2014), with painter Hermine Hull. Her work in anthologies and periodicals includes: Layman’s Way, Canary, DASH, Wednesday’s Poets, Island Quintet, Avocet, Aurorean, Cleavel and House Poets, Plainsongs, Fulcrum, Equinox and Silkworm. She lives in Northampton, MA, and summers on Martha’s Vineyard.
Where did you start—
in the kitchen? No silver
but you ate some hummus.
Did you see me working
on my computer, watch
me as I typed? How else
did you know to go downstairs?
You were no sloppy invader.
Only clue was the garage door
left open. Were you still in there
when we came home? Too bad
for you the car battery was dead.
You left my keys on the car floor
a pair of earrings not mine–
where did they come from?
My wallet open, money gone
plus two credit cards. Not the rest.
Tell me. Are you curious about me?
JAIL TIME
We went to court
every time you did
until it was over.
We talked to your dad
your cousin’s widow.
Continued, continued
it took a year after
you were sentenced
for me to get my jewelry
back. No fingerprints
so no theft charge
just receiving stolen goods.
Two and a half years
with probation. Letters
informed us of your progress
a no contact order
work release, parole
then good behavior.
How will you pay us back?
Tell me, are you going
to haunt me forever?
Bionote
Brooks Robards has published 5 volumes of poetry, the most recent of which are “Fishing the Desert” (2015), with photographer Siegfried Halus, and “On Island” (2014), with painter Hermine Hull. Her work in anthologies and periodicals includes: Layman’s Way, Canary, DASH, Wednesday’s Poets, Island Quintet, Avocet, Aurorean, Cleavel and House Poets, Plainsongs, Fulcrum, Equinox and Silkworm. She lives in Northampton, MA, and summers on Martha’s Vineyard.
1 Poem by Robert Masterson
Suburban Deer
Suburban deer are small to begin with
and they fold themselves origami-wise,
all willow stick legs, all so very long necks these delicate white-tail,
to appear most undeer-like,
puzzles of joints and tucks smaller yet,
under the low branches in the way backyard evergreen shrubbery,
the low Gold Mop False Cypress and the Japanese Holly,
to daytime drowse
in the backyards of the houses without fences,
houses without children, without dogs,
eyes closed or closing or barely open
resting until the night,
despite whatever the people hour may say, it is the season
who tells the sun when to leave
and bring the blue flicker shadow glow
to the people’s windows,
They unfold themselves, then,
the suburban deer, unpuzzle themselves back to white-tail
and will graze until the hour before dawn,
on tulips and azalea and every vegetable and peony and
all the prize-winning roses and fruit trees
thinking all the while, slow chewing,
ears rotating to catch even the smallest of small suburban sounds
the suburban deer eat the ornamental and the exotic and they think,
“We were here first. We were always here first.”
Bionote
Robert Masterson, professor of English at CUNY-BMCC in New York City, has authored Artificial Rats & Electric Cats, Trial by Water, and Garnish Trouble. His work appears in numerous publications and he holds degrees from the University of New Mexico, the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in Boulder, Colorado; and Shaanxi Normal University, the People’s Republic of China, and India.
Suburban deer are small to begin with
and they fold themselves origami-wise,
all willow stick legs, all so very long necks these delicate white-tail,
to appear most undeer-like,
puzzles of joints and tucks smaller yet,
under the low branches in the way backyard evergreen shrubbery,
the low Gold Mop False Cypress and the Japanese Holly,
to daytime drowse
in the backyards of the houses without fences,
houses without children, without dogs,
eyes closed or closing or barely open
resting until the night,
despite whatever the people hour may say, it is the season
who tells the sun when to leave
and bring the blue flicker shadow glow
to the people’s windows,
They unfold themselves, then,
the suburban deer, unpuzzle themselves back to white-tail
and will graze until the hour before dawn,
on tulips and azalea and every vegetable and peony and
all the prize-winning roses and fruit trees
thinking all the while, slow chewing,
ears rotating to catch even the smallest of small suburban sounds
the suburban deer eat the ornamental and the exotic and they think,
“We were here first. We were always here first.”
Bionote
Robert Masterson, professor of English at CUNY-BMCC in New York City, has authored Artificial Rats & Electric Cats, Trial by Water, and Garnish Trouble. His work appears in numerous publications and he holds degrees from the University of New Mexico, the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics in Boulder, Colorado; and Shaanxi Normal University, the People’s Republic of China, and India.
2 Poems by Eric Greinke
Snowed In
Deep snow collects on my windowsill.
Clouds fill up the early winter sky.
Naked trees evoke bare feelings.
I remember the faces of friends,
both the survivors & the long lost,
along with other winter pictures
revealed by the gusty wind of time
that blows some places nude as regret
while others drift to higher dunes,
snow swirling above fragile peaks,
miles above the gravity of now.
It’s a short slippery step from there
into an avalanche of memory,
where drifting & blowing are expected.
Apollinaire
“Abandon all hope”
points of light pop
on the page
light of stars
light of hearts
“if you enter here”
neutrons collide
assassinations
inside implosions
recent
events scatter like sparks
Bionote
Eric Greinke is the author of twenty-two books, most recently Invisible Wings (Presa Press, 2019). His poems and essays have been published in hundreds of American and international literary magazines since the early seventies, including Abraxas, California Quarterly, Cape Rock, Delaware Poetry Review, Forge, Freshwater Literary Review, Gargoyle, Ginyu (Japan), The Hurricane Review, Ibbetson Street, The Journal (UK), Lake Effect, The Loch Raven Review, Main Street Rag, New York Quarterly, The Paterson Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Pennsylvania English, Pinyon, Poem, Prairie Schooner, Prosopisia (India), Rosebud, South Carolina Review, Trajectory, Turtle Island Quarterly and The University of Tampa Review. He is a two time Allen Ginsberg Award winner and has been nominated twice (1972, 2014) for the Pulitzer Prize, numerous times for the Pushcart Prize and once for Best of the Net. He is currently a Contributing Writer for Schuylkill Valley Journal. He lives in an old stone cottage by a lake in Western Michigan. www.ericgreinke.com
Deep snow collects on my windowsill.
Clouds fill up the early winter sky.
Naked trees evoke bare feelings.
I remember the faces of friends,
both the survivors & the long lost,
along with other winter pictures
revealed by the gusty wind of time
that blows some places nude as regret
while others drift to higher dunes,
snow swirling above fragile peaks,
miles above the gravity of now.
It’s a short slippery step from there
into an avalanche of memory,
where drifting & blowing are expected.
Apollinaire
“Abandon all hope”
points of light pop
on the page
light of stars
light of hearts
“if you enter here”
neutrons collide
assassinations
inside implosions
recent
events scatter like sparks
Bionote
Eric Greinke is the author of twenty-two books, most recently Invisible Wings (Presa Press, 2019). His poems and essays have been published in hundreds of American and international literary magazines since the early seventies, including Abraxas, California Quarterly, Cape Rock, Delaware Poetry Review, Forge, Freshwater Literary Review, Gargoyle, Ginyu (Japan), The Hurricane Review, Ibbetson Street, The Journal (UK), Lake Effect, The Loch Raven Review, Main Street Rag, New York Quarterly, The Paterson Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Pennsylvania English, Pinyon, Poem, Prairie Schooner, Prosopisia (India), Rosebud, South Carolina Review, Trajectory, Turtle Island Quarterly and The University of Tampa Review. He is a two time Allen Ginsberg Award winner and has been nominated twice (1972, 2014) for the Pulitzer Prize, numerous times for the Pushcart Prize and once for Best of the Net. He is currently a Contributing Writer for Schuylkill Valley Journal. He lives in an old stone cottage by a lake in Western Michigan. www.ericgreinke.com
1 Poem by Belinda Subraman
Faith
We are dots on a globe
that sustains us.
Our understanding decreases
as historical, hysterical notes
chronicle a human infestation.
The earth cracks, erupts,
bleeds in lava,
cries hurricanes,
wails tsunamis.
We stab and drill inside her
empty her bowels of oil
replace with toxic water
as if she were not living
and we didn’t poison mother.
Our cauliflower ears,
coffee and sea blue eyes
register desire
propped by dogma of dominion
exalted to gods
who enslave their own.
Look, I never gave up alters
but I never gave up reason..
If I just spread my arms,
open my hands
as if to fly like the angel
I believe I am,
my faith will not save me.
My lack will haunt me.
I will fall in the reality
of gravity
as my mind soars.
I may not believe in science
but it believes in me.
Bionote
Belinda Subraman has been writing poetry since the 6th grade and publishing since college. She had a ten year run editing and publishing Gypsy Literary Magazine (last century). Six of those ten years were from Germany where she was a Bohemian outcast among officer wives. She edited books by Vergin' Press, among them: Henry Miller and My Big Sur Days by Judson Crews. Left Hand Dharma: New and Selected Poems published in 2018 by Unlikely Books. Belinda is also an artist who sells work occasionally.
We are dots on a globe
that sustains us.
Our understanding decreases
as historical, hysterical notes
chronicle a human infestation.
The earth cracks, erupts,
bleeds in lava,
cries hurricanes,
wails tsunamis.
We stab and drill inside her
empty her bowels of oil
replace with toxic water
as if she were not living
and we didn’t poison mother.
Our cauliflower ears,
coffee and sea blue eyes
register desire
propped by dogma of dominion
exalted to gods
who enslave their own.
Look, I never gave up alters
but I never gave up reason..
If I just spread my arms,
open my hands
as if to fly like the angel
I believe I am,
my faith will not save me.
My lack will haunt me.
I will fall in the reality
of gravity
as my mind soars.
I may not believe in science
but it believes in me.
Bionote
Belinda Subraman has been writing poetry since the 6th grade and publishing since college. She had a ten year run editing and publishing Gypsy Literary Magazine (last century). Six of those ten years were from Germany where she was a Bohemian outcast among officer wives. She edited books by Vergin' Press, among them: Henry Miller and My Big Sur Days by Judson Crews. Left Hand Dharma: New and Selected Poems published in 2018 by Unlikely Books. Belinda is also an artist who sells work occasionally.
POETRY PACIFIC (8.2): BACK COVER
POETRY PACIFIC
[autumn 2019]
 |
Backcover Photo "One Tree Makes a Whole Grove" by Yuan Changming |
Sunday, 5 May 2019
PP (8.1): Editorial Notes
dear PP Patrons,
for reasons unknown, much of the essential content about our e.journal, including such as our background information, 'mission statement,' 'disclaimer,' 'guidelines,' 'list of associated journals,' 'links to writer's resources,' 'editors' profiles,' on the right side of our main page, has all disappeared recently. initially, we thought it was an internal technical failure, but so far have failed to retrieve it despite much 'blind' effort on our part. perhaps this unexpected removal results from a new google policy? if so, we become a little worried that google could introduce some changes some day all of a sudden that would not allow us to archive our previously published issues permanently. since the very start, we have been using the blog-based format for our publication, mainly because we hope that by so doing we can make all our published poets/poems available 'permanently' online to any reader anywhere any time even if and after we stop operation. (we understand that if we function within a purchased domain like '.com,' everything would be removed once the website is closed.)
several other things just to remind all our poetry submitters:: to minimise our computer time and gain a bit more freedom from the tyrannical rule of the cyber world, we never give links to anyone whose work is featured in PP, since we release each issue exactly on the date as specified in our acceptance emails. also, as a rule, we do never open attachments, nor do we send email requests for bios upon acceptance - please include it in your submission email in the first place unless you prefer not to provide the information. in addition, our response time will be 4 months instead of 6-8 weeks: if you do not get a response within four months after sending your work to us, that means we have released your submitted work back to you.
- eds. @ PP
for reasons unknown, much of the essential content about our e.journal, including such as our background information, 'mission statement,' 'disclaimer,' 'guidelines,' 'list of associated journals,' 'links to writer's resources,' 'editors' profiles,' on the right side of our main page, has all disappeared recently. initially, we thought it was an internal technical failure, but so far have failed to retrieve it despite much 'blind' effort on our part. perhaps this unexpected removal results from a new google policy? if so, we become a little worried that google could introduce some changes some day all of a sudden that would not allow us to archive our previously published issues permanently. since the very start, we have been using the blog-based format for our publication, mainly because we hope that by so doing we can make all our published poets/poems available 'permanently' online to any reader anywhere any time even if and after we stop operation. (we understand that if we function within a purchased domain like '.com,' everything would be removed once the website is closed.)
several other things just to remind all our poetry submitters:: to minimise our computer time and gain a bit more freedom from the tyrannical rule of the cyber world, we never give links to anyone whose work is featured in PP, since we release each issue exactly on the date as specified in our acceptance emails. also, as a rule, we do never open attachments, nor do we send email requests for bios upon acceptance - please include it in your submission email in the first place unless you prefer not to provide the information. in addition, our response time will be 4 months instead of 6-8 weeks: if you do not get a response within four months after sending your work to us, that means we have released your submitted work back to you.
in this issue, we are honoured to showcase 57 poetry authors and 2 visual artists.
thanks so much for your continued support as well as for your friendly understanding, and
happy spring while enjoy reading/viewing!
thanks so much for your continued support as well as for your friendly understanding, and
happy spring while enjoy reading/viewing!
- eds. @ PP
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