Friday, 5 May 2017
5 Poems by James G. Piatt
I Could Not
Under the shade of a
Black Maple tree
Searching for peace, I
Heard echoing off the blue
Skin of a placid pond the
Sound of a red headed
Woodpecker tapping…
Forget, forget, forget,
Into the emptiness of
Silence…
But I could not.
A Spring Night
Lightning bolts stridently
Screaming
Across the ebony sky
Like
Brilliant electric spider webs
Strike the damp earth,
Sounding like
A wild animal’s
Thunderous roar, and
I long for summer.
Secret Memories
Vanishing memories,
Wafer thin lines of
Whispering yesterdays
Give us a
Never-ending
Litany of fading visions,
While scents of irises
Awaken in our minds,
Memories of long lost
Secrets.
Spring is Here
In the midst of a white
And chilly wind,
I heard the breath
Of winter’s last gasp,
It coldly foretold
The final day
Of winter,
Where tiny birds
To weather bent, and
A warm dog became
This old man’s
Very best friend.
A Spring Night
In my bed, on an overcast
Spring night,
I listened to torpid frogs’
Basso voices
Croaking in my slumbering
Mind.
Their arias echoed in my
Dreams,
Where precious hours
Painted
With yesterday’s rainy
Moments
Rested peaceably.
<><><><><><><><><>
Bionote
James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a pushcart and best of web nominee, and many of his poems were chosen for inclusion in The Top 100 Poems of 2016, 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He has published 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “LIGHT," (2016), 3 novels, 35 short stories, and over 930 poems. His fourth collection of poetry is to be released this year.
Under the shade of a
Black Maple tree
Searching for peace, I
Heard echoing off the blue
Skin of a placid pond the
Sound of a red headed
Woodpecker tapping…
Forget, forget, forget,
Into the emptiness of
Silence…
But I could not.
A Spring Night
Lightning bolts stridently
Screaming
Across the ebony sky
Like
Brilliant electric spider webs
Strike the damp earth,
Sounding like
A wild animal’s
Thunderous roar, and
I long for summer.
Secret Memories
Vanishing memories,
Wafer thin lines of
Whispering yesterdays
Give us a
Never-ending
Litany of fading visions,
While scents of irises
Awaken in our minds,
Memories of long lost
Secrets.
Spring is Here
In the midst of a white
And chilly wind,
I heard the breath
Of winter’s last gasp,
It coldly foretold
The final day
Of winter,
Where tiny birds
To weather bent, and
A warm dog became
This old man’s
Very best friend.
A Spring Night
In my bed, on an overcast
Spring night,
I listened to torpid frogs’
Basso voices
Croaking in my slumbering
Mind.
Their arias echoed in my
Dreams,
Where precious hours
Painted
With yesterday’s rainy
Moments
Rested peaceably.
<><><><><><><><><>
Bionote
James, a retired professor and octogenarian, is a pushcart and best of web nominee, and many of his poems were chosen for inclusion in The Top 100 Poems of 2016, 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He has published 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “LIGHT," (2016), 3 novels, 35 short stories, and over 930 poems. His fourth collection of poetry is to be released this year.
2 Poems by Michael Marrotti
One Bullet Per Stanza
Andy Warhol lived
to tell the tale
of how a disgruntled
dyke shot him
with a handgun
My friend Billy
also survived
a solitary walk
up Warrington Avenue
where he fell victim
to a random
gun shooting
Kurt Cobain
pulled the trigger
at the ideal time
leaving behind
a musical legacy
as the persistence
of other bands
only tarnished
their image
If you're actually
taking the time
out to read this
poem of insipidity
I probably don't
have to explain
the despair of
Hemingway
it was his time to go
who am I to protest
Needless to say
I've never taken
advantage of my
second amendment
rights in all these years
nor am I a registered
republican
Stalin's Moustache
If Pittsburgh
wore a moustache
it would be a replica
of Joseph Stalin's
If Pittsburgh
had nice things
to say in general
it would tell me
to shut the fuck up
about it
Only missionary
penetration here
in Pittsburgh
I'm surprised
sodomy still isn't
a crime of passion
If you're expecting
liberalism in this
so-called blue state
discard it as propaganda
the free spirits have
a tendency to face
relentless persecution
It's the city
I hate to love
my birthright
the place that gave me
my lovely children
Till death do us part
well I'm still waiting
for a few in-laws to go
before I emigrate
to the west coast
for what could be
further disappointment
Bionote
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, equipped with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He's out to make a difference through writing and philanthropy. A faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. Michael Marrotti writes books that sell no more than five copies, but get 5 star reviews, like F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. You can reach him at michaelmarrotti@gmail.com
Andy Warhol lived
to tell the tale
of how a disgruntled
dyke shot him
with a handgun
My friend Billy
also survived
a solitary walk
up Warrington Avenue
where he fell victim
to a random
gun shooting
Kurt Cobain
pulled the trigger
at the ideal time
leaving behind
a musical legacy
as the persistence
of other bands
only tarnished
their image
If you're actually
taking the time
out to read this
poem of insipidity
I probably don't
have to explain
the despair of
Hemingway
it was his time to go
who am I to protest
Needless to say
I've never taken
advantage of my
second amendment
rights in all these years
nor am I a registered
republican
Stalin's Moustache
If Pittsburgh
wore a moustache
it would be a replica
of Joseph Stalin's
If Pittsburgh
had nice things
to say in general
it would tell me
to shut the fuck up
about it
Only missionary
penetration here
in Pittsburgh
I'm surprised
sodomy still isn't
a crime of passion
If you're expecting
liberalism in this
so-called blue state
discard it as propaganda
the free spirits have
a tendency to face
relentless persecution
It's the city
I hate to love
my birthright
the place that gave me
my lovely children
Till death do us part
well I'm still waiting
for a few in-laws to go
before I emigrate
to the west coast
for what could be
further disappointment
Bionote
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, equipped with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He's out to make a difference through writing and philanthropy. A faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. Michael Marrotti writes books that sell no more than five copies, but get 5 star reviews, like F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. You can reach him at michaelmarrotti@gmail.com
3 haikai by Richard Stevenson
eighties hair bands
play the ball park tonight
eggshell blonde
*
no more cats
the robin luxuriates
in the bird bath
*
whale sharks in the gulf
need my signature today
want teeth I expect
Bionote
Richard Stevenson recently retired from a thirty-year gig teaching English and Creative Writing at Lethbridge College in southern Alberta. He will be moving to Nanaimo when his wife retires in two years. His most recent of thirty books are two haikai collections: Fruit Wedge Moon (Hidden Brook Press, 2015), and The Heiligen Effect (Ekstasis Editions, 2015). Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders, a long poem sequence, should be out in the fall.
play the ball park tonight
eggshell blonde
*
no more cats
the robin luxuriates
in the bird bath
*
whale sharks in the gulf
need my signature today
want teeth I expect
Bionote
Richard Stevenson recently retired from a thirty-year gig teaching English and Creative Writing at Lethbridge College in southern Alberta. He will be moving to Nanaimo when his wife retires in two years. His most recent of thirty books are two haikai collections: Fruit Wedge Moon (Hidden Brook Press, 2015), and The Heiligen Effect (Ekstasis Editions, 2015). Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders, a long poem sequence, should be out in the fall.
1 Poem by George K. Karos
An Idea of Self
In the drudgery of compliance, or care,
Remember to stay focused in the moment
For others have illuminated your sense of self.
Bionote
George K. Karos was raised in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he attended public schools until the completion of seventh grade. He then attended and graduated from Saint James School, located in Washington County, Maryland. He received his Bachelor of Arts from West Virginia University in 1991, and his Master of Arts from American University in 1999. For over two decades, he has created, studied, performed, and worked with numerous arts projects, musical collaborations, and arts-related organizations facilitating various art-mediums and expression as an artist, a magazine columnist and poetry editor, lead singer for rock bands, performance artist, and folk singer. As a solo artist/acoustic guitarist and band-member or songwriter, he has toured and performed in musical venues throughout America with an emphasis on the regions of his Mid-Atlantic roots. He has also performed solo works in improvisational settings in art spaces with nationally known artists and music groups. He currently lives in Central Florida where he continues to write, record, tour, and perform his acoustic music infused with poetry.
In the drudgery of compliance, or care,
Remember to stay focused in the moment
For others have illuminated your sense of self.
Bionote
George K. Karos was raised in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he attended public schools until the completion of seventh grade. He then attended and graduated from Saint James School, located in Washington County, Maryland. He received his Bachelor of Arts from West Virginia University in 1991, and his Master of Arts from American University in 1999. For over two decades, he has created, studied, performed, and worked with numerous arts projects, musical collaborations, and arts-related organizations facilitating various art-mediums and expression as an artist, a magazine columnist and poetry editor, lead singer for rock bands, performance artist, and folk singer. As a solo artist/acoustic guitarist and band-member or songwriter, he has toured and performed in musical venues throughout America with an emphasis on the regions of his Mid-Atlantic roots. He has also performed solo works in improvisational settings in art spaces with nationally known artists and music groups. He currently lives in Central Florida where he continues to write, record, tour, and perform his acoustic music infused with poetry.
2 Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar
Singing on the Way to Our Grave
This layer of crackling leaves
lies dry upon the earth,
brown and begging
for a return to the dirt
so that the cycle
can be completed.
The beautiful colors
were once vibrant
upon the trees,
but now, in their withered state,
shall be cannibalized by the soil
during nature’s yearly ritual.
Like a shooting star
fading through the sky,
this wondrous vision in autumn
shines brightest
before it dies.
37
After living on this earth for 36 years,
it becomes increasingly difficult
to experience new ways of being disappointed.
But God knows,
she really did a number on me.
Bionote
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. His latest books include: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015), Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016), and Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016). Scott recently received three Pushcart Prize nominations for his work in 2016. He serves as an editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, Novelmasters, and The Peregrine Muse.
This layer of crackling leaves
lies dry upon the earth,
brown and begging
for a return to the dirt
so that the cycle
can be completed.
The beautiful colors
were once vibrant
upon the trees,
but now, in their withered state,
shall be cannibalized by the soil
during nature’s yearly ritual.
Like a shooting star
fading through the sky,
this wondrous vision in autumn
shines brightest
before it dies.
37
After living on this earth for 36 years,
it becomes increasingly difficult
to experience new ways of being disappointed.
But God knows,
she really did a number on me.
Bionote
Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. His latest books include: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015), Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016), and Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016). Scott recently received three Pushcart Prize nominations for his work in 2016. He serves as an editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press, The Blue Mountain Review, Novelmasters, and The Peregrine Muse.
5 Poems by Joseph Milford
GE –Abolishing the Old (Dui [Lake] Over Li [Fire])
____ ____
__________
__________
__________
____ ____
__________
Seasons shed codes
The tanning of the hide, the molting skin
The astronomer reads the calendars
The panther’s skin in flux with time and place
Revolve mutate
Your glistening new skin in the march rain
Jing (Replenishing Kan Water Over Xun Wood)
____ ____
__________
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
Constant deep well
In accordance, the village gathers ‘round
Quenching at dusk
Like roots uncoiling towards underground lakes,
people austere in gathering circle
carry bowls, scowls
Kun Exhausting Dui Lake Kan Water
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
__________
____ ____
Treestump silt, salt
Cracked riverbed at the end of long road
Enlightenment from gloom—odyssey done
Asphalt blacksnake
Careens from horizon to sting your eyes
The pain of gods
Lu
__________
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
____ ____
Everyone in their travel is a stranger
Bird burns his nest
The fires carried across the peaks by wind
Five hundred soldiers pack up their shelters
Wend firth choose quest
Steadfast yet trek
Zhong Fu
__________
__________
___ ___
___ ___
__________
__________
The arrow true through target passes, core
Of what is felt not seen—wind on water
Yet still Lucid
No mist Lone crane
Then calls from a hidden place. Sky above,
Earth below, the lake between: human heart.
Bionote
Joe Milford is an English professor and writer in Georgia. He is currently finishing his second collection of poems, TATTERED SCROLLS AND POSTULATES, which is forthcoming in May, 2017. He has nightmares about amphibians and DNA.
____ ____
__________
__________
__________
____ ____
__________
Seasons shed codes
The tanning of the hide, the molting skin
The astronomer reads the calendars
The panther’s skin in flux with time and place
Revolve mutate
Your glistening new skin in the march rain
Jing (Replenishing Kan Water Over Xun Wood)
____ ____
__________
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
Constant deep well
In accordance, the village gathers ‘round
Quenching at dusk
Like roots uncoiling towards underground lakes,
people austere in gathering circle
carry bowls, scowls
Kun Exhausting Dui Lake Kan Water
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
__________
____ ____
Treestump silt, salt
Cracked riverbed at the end of long road
Enlightenment from gloom—odyssey done
Asphalt blacksnake
Careens from horizon to sting your eyes
The pain of gods
Lu
__________
____ ____
__________
__________
____ ____
____ ____
Everyone in their travel is a stranger
Bird burns his nest
The fires carried across the peaks by wind
Five hundred soldiers pack up their shelters
Wend firth choose quest
Steadfast yet trek
Zhong Fu
__________
__________
___ ___
___ ___
__________
__________
The arrow true through target passes, core
Of what is felt not seen—wind on water
Yet still Lucid
No mist Lone crane
Then calls from a hidden place. Sky above,
Earth below, the lake between: human heart.
Bionote
Joe Milford is an English professor and writer in Georgia. He is currently finishing his second collection of poems, TATTERED SCROLLS AND POSTULATES, which is forthcoming in May, 2017. He has nightmares about amphibians and DNA.
2 Poems by Jo Burns
Forgiveness
Put your hand in mine right now.
Yesterday is a fable already told,
tomorrow a city built in our heads,
no lamps illuminating the way.
We may shrink in the eyes of each other
but in this moment we’re huge, we’re bold.
Let us not think now of conservation,
or planning coup d’etats of sense and logic
or each day anticipate the foretold.
Here and now we’re giants, we are able, we breathe.
Put your hand in mine, just for this moment.
Yesterday is a fable and we are growing old.
The Three Nymphs of Syrtes Sing Jason Out of Depression
Lean back Jason, smell the clean sea air.
Hear the roll and roar of the waves.
Feel the cool, smooth sand between your fingers.
Watch the clear crystal water creep towards you.
Sing to the horizon, in xenoglossy.
Don't let your voice dilute in black clouds.
Hoist the ship and and let the lines lie, lazy.
March with purpose. March far far out.
Let the red hem at night be your desire.
The shine and suspension of filtered sun.
Wind possessing, whipping through your veins
to the sky to mingle blood and your blue skin.
Lose your memories, fears, presumptions, wants.
Switch dimensions from that shadow side of you.
Be like the dolphin, who jumps, brave, elegant
from his known salt habitat into the new.
When the light dims, rise with the hydrotherms.
Swim to the surface. Face the moon straight on.
There’s nothing to fear.
Night is just caesura.
Tread time untill tomorrow’s dawn.
Bionote
Born in Maghera, County Derry, Northern Ireland, Jo Burns is a 39 year old biomedical scientist and mother of three. She has resided in Chile, Scotland, England, and now lives with her family in Germany. To date, her poems have been published by A New Ulster, The Taj Mahal Review, Greensilk Journal, The Artistic Muse, Poetry Breakfast, The Galway Review, The Honest Ulsterman, featured in The Irish Literary Times, Poetry NI P.O.E.T Anthology and Dove Tales Anthology Identity are forthcoming in Acumen.
Put your hand in mine right now.
Yesterday is a fable already told,
tomorrow a city built in our heads,
no lamps illuminating the way.
We may shrink in the eyes of each other
but in this moment we’re huge, we’re bold.
Let us not think now of conservation,
or planning coup d’etats of sense and logic
or each day anticipate the foretold.
Here and now we’re giants, we are able, we breathe.
Put your hand in mine, just for this moment.
Yesterday is a fable and we are growing old.
The Three Nymphs of Syrtes Sing Jason Out of Depression
Lean back Jason, smell the clean sea air.
Hear the roll and roar of the waves.
Feel the cool, smooth sand between your fingers.
Watch the clear crystal water creep towards you.
Sing to the horizon, in xenoglossy.
Don't let your voice dilute in black clouds.
Hoist the ship and and let the lines lie, lazy.
March with purpose. March far far out.
Let the red hem at night be your desire.
The shine and suspension of filtered sun.
Wind possessing, whipping through your veins
to the sky to mingle blood and your blue skin.
Lose your memories, fears, presumptions, wants.
Switch dimensions from that shadow side of you.
Be like the dolphin, who jumps, brave, elegant
from his known salt habitat into the new.
When the light dims, rise with the hydrotherms.
Swim to the surface. Face the moon straight on.
There’s nothing to fear.
Night is just caesura.
Tread time untill tomorrow’s dawn.
Bionote
Born in Maghera, County Derry, Northern Ireland, Jo Burns is a 39 year old biomedical scientist and mother of three. She has resided in Chile, Scotland, England, and now lives with her family in Germany. To date, her poems have been published by A New Ulster, The Taj Mahal Review, Greensilk Journal, The Artistic Muse, Poetry Breakfast, The Galway Review, The Honest Ulsterman, featured in The Irish Literary Times, Poetry NI P.O.E.T Anthology and Dove Tales Anthology Identity are forthcoming in Acumen.
3 Poems by Gigi Marks
Undoing
When it is time to let the scar
of earlier injury grow weaker,
to let the dark ridges of healed bark
separate and crack, let weather
in, like ice that dams the river,
and when the light of day begins
to shine through, touch places
not revealed before, then it is
also time to let undoing take
its way, through bark and wood,
and heart, and heavier branches:
letting them fall.
Before Spring
You and I were happy,
held in the tight grip of the frost
that could chill deep so easily,
the cold nights and mornings
that could freeze without any
force at all. How bright it all was,
ice that slipped under great
drifts of snow, sky turned pearl-
white in snowfall, every step
a strike onto shimmering paths
and you and I were the dark
shadows attached by slippery
soles, we were a bundle of twigs
held close by a hand ready
for a fire, you and I were,
before spring, brought together
for all the warmth of our great
bodies, even for awhile, and
we were happy then.
In the Wake
In the wake of the long winter,
one week of thaw re-freezes
and the sap buckets set in the maple trees
hang empty. The day,
a child’s face, glowing with cold, and
the snow with its wind sweeping
it along is taking us back
to the coldest hours, just as the round
opening in the rotten tree trunk
calls back the woodpecker to be
busy again. Imagine spring,
like this but with so much that drives
the winter out and pulls the sap
from maple trees. And even more
than that once the ground
unfreezes and isn’t cold.
Bionote
Gigi Marks lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York, near the western edge of Cayuga Lake. She regularly publishes poems in a variety of literary journals. Her collections of poems include, most recently, Close By, published by Silverfish Review Press in 2012, What We Need, published by Shortline Editions, and Shelter, published by Autumn House Press.
When it is time to let the scar
of earlier injury grow weaker,
to let the dark ridges of healed bark
separate and crack, let weather
in, like ice that dams the river,
and when the light of day begins
to shine through, touch places
not revealed before, then it is
also time to let undoing take
its way, through bark and wood,
and heart, and heavier branches:
letting them fall.
Before Spring
You and I were happy,
held in the tight grip of the frost
that could chill deep so easily,
the cold nights and mornings
that could freeze without any
force at all. How bright it all was,
ice that slipped under great
drifts of snow, sky turned pearl-
white in snowfall, every step
a strike onto shimmering paths
and you and I were the dark
shadows attached by slippery
soles, we were a bundle of twigs
held close by a hand ready
for a fire, you and I were,
before spring, brought together
for all the warmth of our great
bodies, even for awhile, and
we were happy then.
In the Wake
In the wake of the long winter,
one week of thaw re-freezes
and the sap buckets set in the maple trees
hang empty. The day,
a child’s face, glowing with cold, and
the snow with its wind sweeping
it along is taking us back
to the coldest hours, just as the round
opening in the rotten tree trunk
calls back the woodpecker to be
busy again. Imagine spring,
like this but with so much that drives
the winter out and pulls the sap
from maple trees. And even more
than that once the ground
unfreezes and isn’t cold.
Bionote
Gigi Marks lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York, near the western edge of Cayuga Lake. She regularly publishes poems in a variety of literary journals. Her collections of poems include, most recently, Close By, published by Silverfish Review Press in 2012, What We Need, published by Shortline Editions, and Shelter, published by Autumn House Press.
2 Poems by Joshua Meander
CLIFF JUMPER’S FEVER
A much visited seashore peak.
The cliff does function as a stage
Where drama happens through the week,
And wisdom there is not the rage.
Thrill-seekers in their late teens be
Ruling the turf in nonstop show,
Sprinting to jump into the sea,
Barely missing the boulders below.
By noon, virgins get reckless flu:
Not only boys, but women, too.
Now the rational lose their grip
As jumpers yell, “Abandon ship!”
The cliff --- platform for expression.
By twilight, the lunatic feast
Shall end, leaving an impression
On people who need it the least.
AROUND A CHESTNUT TREE
Two hundred ecology minded campers
Linked hands around a chestnut tree
On the site of next years super highway.
The growl of bulldozers on prey
Echo in the distance like Marine Tanks.
The campers have planted themselves
Not for a showdown,
But rather to stay beside
Their well cultivated teacher
The chestnut tree,
When the fangs of death
Come to gnaw away at him.
Two hundred of his arborized students,
One for each year he stood
Advancing to the sky
And in their pockets
They have seeds and a list
Of fresh concepts.
Both will germinate into another wooded campus
Better rooted in nature’s verses.
Bionote
Joshua Meander is editor of Nomad's Choir Poetry Journal.
A much visited seashore peak.
The cliff does function as a stage
Where drama happens through the week,
And wisdom there is not the rage.
Thrill-seekers in their late teens be
Ruling the turf in nonstop show,
Sprinting to jump into the sea,
Barely missing the boulders below.
By noon, virgins get reckless flu:
Not only boys, but women, too.
Now the rational lose their grip
As jumpers yell, “Abandon ship!”
The cliff --- platform for expression.
By twilight, the lunatic feast
Shall end, leaving an impression
On people who need it the least.
AROUND A CHESTNUT TREE
Two hundred ecology minded campers
Linked hands around a chestnut tree
On the site of next years super highway.
The growl of bulldozers on prey
Echo in the distance like Marine Tanks.
The campers have planted themselves
Not for a showdown,
But rather to stay beside
Their well cultivated teacher
The chestnut tree,
When the fangs of death
Come to gnaw away at him.
Two hundred of his arborized students,
One for each year he stood
Advancing to the sky
And in their pockets
They have seeds and a list
Of fresh concepts.
Both will germinate into another wooded campus
Better rooted in nature’s verses.
Bionote
Joshua Meander is editor of Nomad's Choir Poetry Journal.
1 Poem by Pijush Kanti Deb
A Camouflazed Mirror
Neither telepathy is known
nor an effective time-machine is owned
yet the race towards you
seems to be so automatic that
the frightening distance
between you and me
and the on going moking circumstance
from my land to your sky
fall like rain on my roof
forming two options for my destination,
either enjoying a bath
and returning to the old central point
or centralizing ownself in that new point
where capricious water flows me down.
Alas!
I am still uncontented and restless
bearing the tight wrapping
of a long mysterious tape of life around me
and the resultant brain-beating
for unabated detection and solution
embracing you p
who are still a camouflazed mirror to me
as I look more at you
so I know more about myself
instead of you and your love for me.
Bionote
Pijush Kanti Deb is a Professor in Economics and a new Indian poet with around 3oo published or accepted poems and haiku in around 100 nos of national and international magazines and journals , print and online. His best achievement so far is the publication of his first poetry collection,’’Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon’’ which is available on AMAZON. Now he is working on his 2nd poetry collection "The Divine Face Of Smile".
Neither telepathy is known
nor an effective time-machine is owned
yet the race towards you
seems to be so automatic that
the frightening distance
between you and me
and the on going moking circumstance
from my land to your sky
fall like rain on my roof
forming two options for my destination,
either enjoying a bath
and returning to the old central point
or centralizing ownself in that new point
where capricious water flows me down.
Alas!
I am still uncontented and restless
bearing the tight wrapping
of a long mysterious tape of life around me
and the resultant brain-beating
for unabated detection and solution
embracing you p
who are still a camouflazed mirror to me
as I look more at you
so I know more about myself
instead of you and your love for me.
Bionote
Pijush Kanti Deb is a Professor in Economics and a new Indian poet with around 3oo published or accepted poems and haiku in around 100 nos of national and international magazines and journals , print and online. His best achievement so far is the publication of his first poetry collection,’’Beneath The Shadow Of A White Pigeon’’ which is available on AMAZON. Now he is working on his 2nd poetry collection "The Divine Face Of Smile".
1 Poem by Inna Dulchevsky
At the Dusk of Day
I wonder if the ray of light
Can reach beyond
Its own existence
Float its invisible appearance
Break heaviness of water
Warm up a straight standing stone
Behind its iron fence
Soul’s heaven lonely
Silent place
that I will own at last
It outlines my silhouette
It kisses first then
Seals the wrinkles on my face
Around eyes and sets them
Deep within its own expression
Presented in the reflection at the
Surface of a polished mirror
Same cold
just like an image of my stone
Bionote
Inna Dulchevsky spent her early school years in Belarus. She currently resides in Brooklyn, New York. She was awarded the First Prize 2014 David B. Silver Poetry Competition. Inna’s work has been published in numerous anthologies, books, and journals including Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, Napalm and Novocain, The Mind[less] Muse, 2015 Best Of Anthology, Storm Cycle, Shattered Anthology, Petals in the Pan Anthology, Element(ary) My Dear Anthology, Happy Holidays! Anthology, Secrets and Dreams Anthology, Tranquility Anthology, book Lavender, The Cannon’s Mouth, The Otter, New Poetry, Calliope Magazine, Calliope Magazine Anniversary Issue, Aquillrelle Anthology, 4th annual LUMMOX Poetry Anthology, KNOT Magazine, Spark Magazine, Antheon. In MeArteka Literary Magazine Inna’s work appeared in both English and Albanian translation. Her interests include metaphysics, philosophy, meditation and yoga. The light and expansion of consciousness through the connection with inner-self and nature are essential in the writing of her poetry.
I wonder if the ray of light
Can reach beyond
Its own existence
Float its invisible appearance
Break heaviness of water
Warm up a straight standing stone
Behind its iron fence
Soul’s heaven lonely
Silent place
that I will own at last
It outlines my silhouette
It kisses first then
Seals the wrinkles on my face
Around eyes and sets them
Deep within its own expression
Presented in the reflection at the
Surface of a polished mirror
Same cold
just like an image of my stone
Bionote
Inna Dulchevsky spent her early school years in Belarus. She currently resides in Brooklyn, New York. She was awarded the First Prize 2014 David B. Silver Poetry Competition. Inna’s work has been published in numerous anthologies, books, and journals including Pyrokinection, Jellyfish Whispers, Napalm and Novocain, The Mind[less] Muse, 2015 Best Of Anthology, Storm Cycle, Shattered Anthology, Petals in the Pan Anthology, Element(ary) My Dear Anthology, Happy Holidays! Anthology, Secrets and Dreams Anthology, Tranquility Anthology, book Lavender, The Cannon’s Mouth, The Otter, New Poetry, Calliope Magazine, Calliope Magazine Anniversary Issue, Aquillrelle Anthology, 4th annual LUMMOX Poetry Anthology, KNOT Magazine, Spark Magazine, Antheon. In MeArteka Literary Magazine Inna’s work appeared in both English and Albanian translation. Her interests include metaphysics, philosophy, meditation and yoga. The light and expansion of consciousness through the connection with inner-self and nature are essential in the writing of her poetry.
4 Portraits by Mark Wyatt
0512-0003. Lisbon, Portugal, 1979
6000-00363. Turin, Italy, 2014
6000-02555. New York City, USA, 2015
1866-0013. People’s Republic of China, 1995
Artist's Statement
The effect of street photography comes from the connection that is drawn between the viewer of an image and its subject. Photographs that portray authentic and spontaneous human expression invariably invoke empathy and even introspection, both of which are known to return positive results yet seem to be habitually in short supply. My photographs hope to be simple but compelling snapshots of humanity, ones that a viewer enjoys seeing more than once and doesn't easily tire of.
Bionote
Since around 1980, Mark Wyatt has been photographer to the unfamous wherever he has travelled. He posts his photographs to mwwyatt.wordpress.com, usually one or two a week. Each image faithfully reproduces what the camera saw at the moment that the shutter was tripped - they are never cropped and are processed only to the extent that they more accurately render the scene.
2 Poems by Simon Perchik
You water this box
the way flowers take up the slack
are circling down to reach the corners
who have lost everything, torn
from the rot all wood scrapes against
so you can hear over and over
how dirt is fed, half with grieving faces
half from wanderlust and the need
to walk –you know all about
how step by step a certain river
is poured back, closes in, taking along
the small sea once inside your legs
and now as arms and the wet grass
trembling slowly around your kisses
–you water and why not cover the dead
with shipwrecks, flood this floor
and the flowers one by one
carry it off, down to the bone.
*
You can’t hear it, the splash
still weak from the cold
though between your hands
an emptiness shows through
as snow, no longer struggling
lets it watch over you –a sky
could help you now
cover your grave with a mist
and this endless digging
not yet a flower for a stone
that lies down inside
scattered and you are here.
Bionote
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
the way flowers take up the slack
are circling down to reach the corners
who have lost everything, torn
from the rot all wood scrapes against
so you can hear over and over
how dirt is fed, half with grieving faces
half from wanderlust and the need
to walk –you know all about
how step by step a certain river
is poured back, closes in, taking along
the small sea once inside your legs
and now as arms and the wet grass
trembling slowly around your kisses
–you water and why not cover the dead
with shipwrecks, flood this floor
and the flowers one by one
carry it off, down to the bone.
*
You can’t hear it, the splash
still weak from the cold
though between your hands
an emptiness shows through
as snow, no longer struggling
lets it watch over you –a sky
could help you now
cover your grave with a mist
and this endless digging
not yet a flower for a stone
that lies down inside
scattered and you are here.
Bionote
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
2 Poems by Thomas Locicero
Drawn
for Josephine
I see a moth sentenced to die by
an abandoned web a rain or two
away from slipping off the fixture,
tearing its wings to threads trying
to reach the light bulb above it, not
satisfied by the luminous halo that
made it an angel among its fellow
moths, all transfixed on the beauty
below, ignoring the light that drew
them to instead watch death at its
grandest. I saw a similar death: a
woman I loved was too weak to
whisper, but just before she died,
she said, “I love you” in a loud
voice. I saw only her as light and
missed the light she was drawn to,
the bright light she said she saw.
Affair
You find words in the flight scribbling
of birds. Frenzied cursive writing,
short words, then long, and then
a coasting. Wings out, breast out.
Bravado. You are convicted by
a sparrow. For you, it is bravado
first, then a coasting, then frantic,
feverish, furious words and, unlike
the bird, you lack gracefulness
almost as much as I lack grace.
Bionote
Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, Antarctica Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Hobart, and Ponder Review, among other journals. He resides in Broken Arrow, OK.
for Josephine
I see a moth sentenced to die by
an abandoned web a rain or two
away from slipping off the fixture,
tearing its wings to threads trying
to reach the light bulb above it, not
satisfied by the luminous halo that
made it an angel among its fellow
moths, all transfixed on the beauty
below, ignoring the light that drew
them to instead watch death at its
grandest. I saw a similar death: a
woman I loved was too weak to
whisper, but just before she died,
she said, “I love you” in a loud
voice. I saw only her as light and
missed the light she was drawn to,
the bright light she said she saw.
Affair
You find words in the flight scribbling
of birds. Frenzied cursive writing,
short words, then long, and then
a coasting. Wings out, breast out.
Bravado. You are convicted by
a sparrow. For you, it is bravado
first, then a coasting, then frantic,
feverish, furious words and, unlike
the bird, you lack gracefulness
almost as much as I lack grace.
Bionote
Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, Antarctica Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Hobart, and Ponder Review, among other journals. He resides in Broken Arrow, OK.
1 Poem by William C. Blome
LEPRECHAUN
You best believe the little shaver in green
gets shocked to shit when he pokes his skinny index finger
into an electrical outlet that was plastered into the wall
‘way back during the hours of the Truman vice presidency,
but the frazzled leprechaun jumps back, hardly the worse
for wear, and Lucifer decides this really isn’t the day
to tempt your bulbous ass into spreading
all over the gray front steps of St. Anne’s rectory.
Bionote
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he once grabbed a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University while the getting was good. His work has previously appeared in such fine little mags as Poetry Pacific, Poetry London, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Mastodon Dentist, and Zymbol.
You best believe the little shaver in green
gets shocked to shit when he pokes his skinny index finger
into an electrical outlet that was plastered into the wall
‘way back during the hours of the Truman vice presidency,
but the frazzled leprechaun jumps back, hardly the worse
for wear, and Lucifer decides this really isn’t the day
to tempt your bulbous ass into spreading
all over the gray front steps of St. Anne’s rectory.
Bionote
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he once grabbed a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University while the getting was good. His work has previously appeared in such fine little mags as Poetry Pacific, Poetry London, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Mastodon Dentist, and Zymbol.
2 Poems by r soos
[author's note: The following micropoems are all about a person with Alzheimer's Disease]
missing
just a few more thoughts
it will all come together
just give me more time
welcome
who are you and why
are you here to take me home
you seem to know me
Bionote
r soos is a teacher, poet and musician, and has been published in over 200 print magazines, and has 20 books of poetry, including Somersaults With Life (2016), Parting/Departing (2015), Bringing In The Sheets (2012). All of his books may be purchased at on-line bookstores, such as Amazon and Barnes and Noble. His poetry appears online in Peacock Journal, Tuck, Leaves of Ink, Micropoetry, Random Poem Tree, Cuento, In Between Hangovers, and others. His video poems may be viewed on youtube. His latest chapbook, Cell Notebook, was published in December, 2016. He blogs at http://rsoos.com
missing
just a few more thoughts
it will all come together
just give me more time
welcome
who are you and why
are you here to take me home
you seem to know me
Bionote
r soos is a teacher, poet and musician, and has been published in over 200 print magazines, and has 20 books of poetry, including Somersaults With Life (2016), Parting/Departing (2015), Bringing In The Sheets (2012). All of his books may be purchased at on-line bookstores, such as Amazon and Barnes and Noble. His poetry appears online in Peacock Journal, Tuck, Leaves of Ink, Micropoetry, Random Poem Tree, Cuento, In Between Hangovers, and others. His video poems may be viewed on youtube. His latest chapbook, Cell Notebook, was published in December, 2016. He blogs at http://rsoos.com
1 Poem by Taylor Graham
Butterfly of Wakamatsu
Oh your laughter like
Keyaki, your memory home
Even then lost but
In its whisper of leafing
I wander the grounds
To find you in silken stripes
Of caterpillar.
Bionote
Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada, and serves as El Dorado County’s first poet laureate (2016-2018). She’s included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman’s Library) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University). Her latest book is Uplift (Cold River Press, 2016).
Oh your laughter like
Keyaki, your memory home
Even then lost but
In its whisper of leafing
I wander the grounds
To find you in silken stripes
Of caterpillar.
Bionote
Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada, and serves as El Dorado County’s first poet laureate (2016-2018). She’s included in the anthologies Villanelles (Everyman’s Library) and California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Santa Clara University). Her latest book is Uplift (Cold River Press, 2016).
1 Poem by David Rodriguez
Should the Inevitable Happen
Our city supposedly has x
pick your newest estimate
years left till the floodwall
drops like a Higgins boat
bow ramp. We don’t care,
and why should we? God
gave a noodle to us, a great
noodle, but come on. As
if we could stop or want
to epochal mania. Let the
drownings come. Not a
stiver of resistance from
me. Make it exciting. Get
tetanus. Get rabies. Remove
a smoke alarm battery. Open
your eyes in hot tub water.
Hold it in as long as you
can. If you explode, come
study my final days. Watch
me drop pennies on a street-
car track and fill my house
with quicksand pits. These
are things I have to do, we
all have to do, we all need.
There’s no reason not to put
snakes in public toilets or
plan for April Fool’s Day. I
want the biggest end possible.
I’m 2 checks short of buying
a laser hot enough to leave my
silhouette on the stair wall,
which, I guess, means I want
a legacy. And there it is:
the human spirit, whatever
it means, still wants silence
to be respectful, lest it die.
Bionote
David Rodriguez is a writer and teacher based in New Orleans with an MFA from Florida State University. He has previously been published in the New Orleans Review, The Southeast Review, The Literateur, and The Double Dealer Redux, among other places.
Our city supposedly has x
pick your newest estimate
years left till the floodwall
drops like a Higgins boat
bow ramp. We don’t care,
and why should we? God
gave a noodle to us, a great
noodle, but come on. As
if we could stop or want
to epochal mania. Let the
drownings come. Not a
stiver of resistance from
me. Make it exciting. Get
tetanus. Get rabies. Remove
a smoke alarm battery. Open
your eyes in hot tub water.
Hold it in as long as you
can. If you explode, come
study my final days. Watch
me drop pennies on a street-
car track and fill my house
with quicksand pits. These
are things I have to do, we
all have to do, we all need.
There’s no reason not to put
snakes in public toilets or
plan for April Fool’s Day. I
want the biggest end possible.
I’m 2 checks short of buying
a laser hot enough to leave my
silhouette on the stair wall,
which, I guess, means I want
a legacy. And there it is:
the human spirit, whatever
it means, still wants silence
to be respectful, lest it die.
Bionote
David Rodriguez is a writer and teacher based in New Orleans with an MFA from Florida State University. He has previously been published in the New Orleans Review, The Southeast Review, The Literateur, and The Double Dealer Redux, among other places.
2 Poems by Jaime An Lim
Mayflies
live on borrowed time,
from dawn to dusk.
They do not eat.
They do not have
moving mouthparts.
They swarm for a while,
mate and then die.
Lord, are you telling us
something about life's
primal purpose?
Sponge
How can we live without
lungs heart and brain?
The sponge
manages nicely without.
No great love no big dream
no grand ambition.
Living on nothing
but a cloud of minute particles
that wander in and out
of its empty chambers
and endless corridors.
Bionote
I have won some awards for my poetry, including an Academy of American Poets Prize while studying at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana. My first poetry collection, Trios, was published by the University of the Philippines Press and my second, Auguries, is forthcoming from the University of Sto. Tomas Publishing House.
live on borrowed time,
from dawn to dusk.
They do not eat.
They do not have
moving mouthparts.
They swarm for a while,
mate and then die.
Lord, are you telling us
something about life's
primal purpose?
Sponge
How can we live without
lungs heart and brain?
The sponge
manages nicely without.
No great love no big dream
no grand ambition.
Living on nothing
but a cloud of minute particles
that wander in and out
of its empty chambers
and endless corridors.
Bionote
I have won some awards for my poetry, including an Academy of American Poets Prize while studying at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana. My first poetry collection, Trios, was published by the University of the Philippines Press and my second, Auguries, is forthcoming from the University of Sto. Tomas Publishing House.
2 Poems by Seth Copeland
[one poem originally published here was removed at the author's request on 15 april 2019]
birdsong
lucent thrush—
strip every note slowly
& in uniform
like the
bark of an old home
that grew
too proud to call you ‘mine’
Bionote
Seth Copeland edits Petrichor and The New Plains Review. He lives and studies in central Oklahoma.
birdsong
lucent thrush—
strip every note slowly
& in uniform
like the
bark of an old home
that grew
too proud to call you ‘mine’
Bionote
Seth Copeland edits Petrichor and The New Plains Review. He lives and studies in central Oklahoma.
1 Poem by Mel Waldman
BLUES APOCALYPSE
(on reading Lenore Kandel’s poem Blues for Sister Sally)
the flow of the blues
rushing slowly
oozing
into oblivion
in
the black of the night
the flow of the blues
drifting
into
the deep of nowhere
silence
& the sinful flow
mourning
into
midnight
& the moonlight blues
& jazzy notes
floating
on
the crimson river of the soul
& junkie blues
junkie rhapsody
flowing far away
& falling
into
ephemerality
for
the flesh is weak & on fire
& full lips
succulent & sucking soul
crave
& caress oblivion blues
& the mutilated mind’s
a cut-up
montage/collage
& a freaked-out fugitive
slinking & skulking
into
the shadows
spewing
electricity & the electrocution flow of the suicide blues
the dead sea of lacerated flesh spitting blood the furious
death-flow
the blues apocalypse wafting through oblivion & rushing
slowly through the veins
& flowing into a damning salvation down the River Hades
the blues apocalypse descending into the deep of nowhere
& longing for the lethal love of a phantom lady-
Lady Lamentation
Lady Blues Apocalypse
vanishing forever
into the Valley of the Shadows & the everlasting silence of the swirling Abyss
Bionote
Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose stories have appeared in numerous magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, PULP METAL MAGAZINE, and AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in magazines and books including INDIANA VOICE JOURNAL, LIQUID IMAGINATION, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, BRICKPLIGHT, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, POETRY PACIFIC, POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE & SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE JEWISH LITERARY JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM POST, HOTMETAL PRESS, MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD & HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, YELLOW MAMA, and NAMASTE FIJI: THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature and is the author of 11 books.
(on reading Lenore Kandel’s poem Blues for Sister Sally)
the flow of the blues
rushing slowly
oozing
into oblivion
in
the black of the night
the flow of the blues
drifting
into
the deep of nowhere
silence
& the sinful flow
mourning
into
midnight
& the moonlight blues
& jazzy notes
floating
on
the crimson river of the soul
& junkie blues
junkie rhapsody
flowing far away
& falling
into
ephemerality
for
the flesh is weak & on fire
& full lips
succulent & sucking soul
crave
& caress oblivion blues
& the mutilated mind’s
a cut-up
montage/collage
& a freaked-out fugitive
slinking & skulking
into
the shadows
spewing
electricity & the electrocution flow of the suicide blues
the dead sea of lacerated flesh spitting blood the furious
death-flow
the blues apocalypse wafting through oblivion & rushing
slowly through the veins
& flowing into a damning salvation down the River Hades
the blues apocalypse descending into the deep of nowhere
& longing for the lethal love of a phantom lady-
Lady Lamentation
Lady Blues Apocalypse
vanishing forever
into the Valley of the Shadows & the everlasting silence of the swirling Abyss
Bionote
Dr. Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, and writer whose stories have appeared in numerous magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, PULP METAL MAGAZINE, and AUDIENCE. His poems have been widely published in magazines and books including INDIANA VOICE JOURNAL, LIQUID IMAGINATION, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, BRICKPLIGHT, SKIVE MAGAZINE, ODDBALL MAGAZINE, POETRY PACIFIC, POETICA, RED FEZ, SQUAWK BACK, SWEET ANNIE & SWEET PEA REVIEW, THE JEWISH LITERARY JOURNAL, THE JEWISH PRESS, THE JERUSALEM POST, HOTMETAL PRESS, MAD SWIRL, HAGGARD & HALLOO, ASCENT ASPIRATIONS, YELLOW MAMA, and NAMASTE FIJI: THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY. A past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis, he was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature and is the author of 11 books.
1 Poem by Mark Senkus
ACCUMULATION
with age the years
tend to become
the thunder rolling
off in the distance
your accumulated
life becomes
the foggy storm
seemingly miles away
if you stare and squint
you might sometimes
see the faint glow
of thin lightning
out toward that far
horizon.
Bionote
Mark Senkus lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and works as a psychotherapist. He has appeared in Chiron Review, Pif Magazine, Miller's Pond, and Rattle Poetry Journal. He was widely published in the small press poetry underground of the late 1990s. He recently began writing again after a twelve year hiatus from poetry.
with age the years
tend to become
the thunder rolling
off in the distance
your accumulated
life becomes
the foggy storm
seemingly miles away
if you stare and squint
you might sometimes
see the faint glow
of thin lightning
out toward that far
horizon.
Bionote
Mark Senkus lives in Michigan's Upper Peninsula and works as a psychotherapist. He has appeared in Chiron Review, Pif Magazine, Miller's Pond, and Rattle Poetry Journal. He was widely published in the small press poetry underground of the late 1990s. He recently began writing again after a twelve year hiatus from poetry.
1 Poem by Catherine Fletcher
HOW TO TRANSFORM A MAN INTO A STONE OR SIMILAR OBJECT
Curse him.
Force him to witness the forbidden—
Gorgons, sinful cities, for example.
Betray him, ignore him for years
until his heart closes.
Dull his senses with too much work and little chance to sleep.
Train him as an astronaut,
drop his capsule through the atmosphere.
Carve his face into the side of a mountain.
Draft him for a British band named for a proverb.
Enable him to smoke himself into oblivion,
’til he becomes lost to himself and to others.
He could undergo embalming, undergo mummification.
Or to turn a man to rock or stone,
slowly take hope away.
Bionote
Catherine Fletcher is a New York-based writer. Recent poetry and essays have appeared in journals such as Poetry Wales, The Offing, Rattapallax, and Bird’s Thumb. She is a 2016-17 TWP Science and Religion Fellow at Arizona State University. She previously served as Director of Poetry Programs for the New York-based arts organization City Lore and Managing Director of the Los Angeles-based theater ensemble the Ghost Road Company. For more information please visit cafletcher.blogspot.com.
Curse him.
Force him to witness the forbidden—
Gorgons, sinful cities, for example.
Betray him, ignore him for years
until his heart closes.
Dull his senses with too much work and little chance to sleep.
Train him as an astronaut,
drop his capsule through the atmosphere.
Carve his face into the side of a mountain.
Draft him for a British band named for a proverb.
Enable him to smoke himself into oblivion,
’til he becomes lost to himself and to others.
He could undergo embalming, undergo mummification.
Or to turn a man to rock or stone,
slowly take hope away.
Bionote
Catherine Fletcher is a New York-based writer. Recent poetry and essays have appeared in journals such as Poetry Wales, The Offing, Rattapallax, and Bird’s Thumb. She is a 2016-17 TWP Science and Religion Fellow at Arizona State University. She previously served as Director of Poetry Programs for the New York-based arts organization City Lore and Managing Director of the Los Angeles-based theater ensemble the Ghost Road Company. For more information please visit cafletcher.blogspot.com.
2 Poems by Saloni Kaul
SPARKLING BLUEBELLS
And talking of the ever widening gap
Between the sheer numerical taut strength
Of the leaders highranked and the rank and file led,
The vast expanse of space and land for lonely leaders
And the cramped ground on which multitudes thrive,
For every one who’s born to lead head high
We’ve millions in line ready to tail.
You’d think there is a fanclub right at birth
Ready installed set.
SEASON CHANGE
Lazy for ever so long ,
To threaded hints obtuse,
Steeped in slippery slush lubricities ,
Quite sudden like those unveilings
Of lookers-on glazed statues,
As all that well-stored produce,
Still camphorladen , unaired all,
Is obligingly without a murmur,
Put at once to use.
Bionote
Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Eye On Life Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Horrorzine, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Misty Mountain Review, Inwood Indiana, Mad Swirl, FIVE Poetry, The Voices Project, The Penwood Review, Mantid Magazine , Haikuniverse and Blue Pepper. Upcoming publication acceptances include Sentinel Quarterly (October 2016) , AJI Magazine (Autumn 2016), The Voices Project, The Penwood Review, River Poets Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review and Cabildo Quarterly.
And talking of the ever widening gap
Between the sheer numerical taut strength
Of the leaders highranked and the rank and file led,
The vast expanse of space and land for lonely leaders
And the cramped ground on which multitudes thrive,
For every one who’s born to lead head high
We’ve millions in line ready to tail.
You’d think there is a fanclub right at birth
Ready installed set.
SEASON CHANGE
Lazy for ever so long ,
To threaded hints obtuse,
Steeped in slippery slush lubricities ,
Quite sudden like those unveilings
Of lookers-on glazed statues,
As all that well-stored produce,
Still camphorladen , unaired all,
Is obligingly without a murmur,
Put at once to use.
Bionote
Saloni Kaul, author and poet, was first published at the age of ten and has been in print since. As critic and columnist Saloni has enjoyed thirty eight years of being published. Saloni Kaul's first volume, a fifty poem collection was published in the USA in 2009. Subsequent volumes include Universal One and Essentials All. Most recent Saloni Kaul poetic production has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Eye On Life Magazine, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Horrorzine, Poetry And Paint Anthology, Misty Mountain Review, Inwood Indiana, Mad Swirl, FIVE Poetry, The Voices Project, The Penwood Review, Mantid Magazine , Haikuniverse and Blue Pepper. Upcoming publication acceptances include Sentinel Quarterly (October 2016) , AJI Magazine (Autumn 2016), The Voices Project, The Penwood Review, River Poets Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review and Cabildo Quarterly.
3 Poems by Paul Tristram
Wildlife
I remember, someone putting out food
on a bird table.
Then being heartbroken and in tears
when the rats came.
The exact same thing applies
to your Energy… and People.
Council Flat Enemies
Thirty seven years, three months and thirteen days
they’ve been stuck living next to each other.
Mentally chained at the dodgy hip,
each refusing offers to move home out of spite.
You could supply electricity
to a small third world country
with the dark energy
that buzzes back and fore
each day through those hateful walls.
Knowing the time of your enemies bowel movements
can’t be good for either your mind or soul.
Their septuagenarian soldiering
goes on way past Ovaltine time most nights.
Sat as keen as hawks, rigid with anticipation,
for the slightest peep, most trivial of disturbance,
to log and report to the terrorized Housing Officer.
The Springtime sun is shining
outside of their heavily curtained windows
for the first time in weeks
but they are both completely unaware of it.
Along with ice-cream cones, seaside walks,
the smell of freshly cut grass, smiling ‘hello’
and everything else associated with pleasant living.
Written During A Mini Breakdown (I Think?)
Into the other, she slipped,
like a busted heel,
a something special, broken
in two.
Shuddering like a subway
unseen, like a Banksy.
No one cares, nor
should they.
The colours are vacant
but there are shadows
deeper and more important
than the hands they stretch
away.
Bionote
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036. You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
I remember, someone putting out food
on a bird table.
Then being heartbroken and in tears
when the rats came.
The exact same thing applies
to your Energy… and People.
Council Flat Enemies
Thirty seven years, three months and thirteen days
they’ve been stuck living next to each other.
Mentally chained at the dodgy hip,
each refusing offers to move home out of spite.
You could supply electricity
to a small third world country
with the dark energy
that buzzes back and fore
each day through those hateful walls.
Knowing the time of your enemies bowel movements
can’t be good for either your mind or soul.
Their septuagenarian soldiering
goes on way past Ovaltine time most nights.
Sat as keen as hawks, rigid with anticipation,
for the slightest peep, most trivial of disturbance,
to log and report to the terrorized Housing Officer.
The Springtime sun is shining
outside of their heavily curtained windows
for the first time in weeks
but they are both completely unaware of it.
Along with ice-cream cones, seaside walks,
the smell of freshly cut grass, smiling ‘hello’
and everything else associated with pleasant living.
Written During A Mini Breakdown (I Think?)
Into the other, she slipped,
like a busted heel,
a something special, broken
in two.
Shuddering like a subway
unseen, like a Banksy.
No one cares, nor
should they.
The colours are vacant
but there are shadows
deeper and more important
than the hands they stretch
away.
Bionote
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036. You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
1 Poem by Yuan Hongri
Home Sweet Home beyond Milky Way
Nestled in the wings of night
After the pearl gem sets in heaven
I climb to the roof of the earth
To gaze at the star.
Gazing at the star,
To witness the coming century, the city of the giant
Blossom like a silver Garden.
The Music from that mysterious Galaxy
Soothes my soul like the rain.
In the light, let my form alight
Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way.
2015.9.9
银河之外的家园
黑夜的翅翼
镶嵌了天堂的珍珠宝石
我在地球的屋顶之上
向星际凝望
仿佛看见未来世纪的巨城
绽放如白银的花园
来自神秘星系的乐曲
是一阵阵灵魂的甘雨
让我的身体乘光而行
回到了那银河之外的家园
2015.9.9
Bionote
Yuan Hongri, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. For Hongri, Buddha or God is but the respected name of the soul .
Nestled in the wings of night
After the pearl gem sets in heaven
I climb to the roof of the earth
To gaze at the star.
Gazing at the star,
To witness the coming century, the city of the giant
Blossom like a silver Garden.
The Music from that mysterious Galaxy
Soothes my soul like the rain.
In the light, let my form alight
Back to my home, beyond the Milky Way.
2015.9.9
银河之外的家园
黑夜的翅翼
镶嵌了天堂的珍珠宝石
我在地球的屋顶之上
向星际凝望
仿佛看见未来世纪的巨城
绽放如白银的花园
来自神秘星系的乐曲
是一阵阵灵魂的甘雨
让我的身体乘光而行
回到了那银河之外的家园
2015.9.9
Bionote
Yuan Hongri, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. For Hongri, Buddha or God is but the respected name of the soul .
1 Poem by Keith Inman
Riding Life
The circus was distracting;
the old man loved it. Eyes wide
like a boy’s. A boy
he'd never been.
On the way back, they drove
toward sunset. His wife’s
arm wrapped around him,
the Tuk-tuk bumping along the Reap
road. He’d stiffened when the Canadian
asked at dinner, where his wife was from.
A breeze rushed through them,
the future catching the past.
But, the French couple
at dinner? It was as if he'd known them.
Which was impossible.
They were far too young.
He’d been a child himself, then. The Tuk-tuk
drove on into shadow.
Bionote
Keith’s poetry can be found in Canada, the US, Cuba and Ireland. He has earned multiple grants, helps run The Banister Anthology and adjudicates a contest for teens through the Public Library System. His book, The War Poems: Screaming at Heaven from Black Moss Press, received excellent reviews, including Canlit #223. His new book, SEAsia, is scheduled for 2017, also through BMP. Keith lives in Thorold, Ontario. A former tradesman, he has no formal training in writing.
The circus was distracting;
the old man loved it. Eyes wide
like a boy’s. A boy
he'd never been.
On the way back, they drove
toward sunset. His wife’s
arm wrapped around him,
the Tuk-tuk bumping along the Reap
road. He’d stiffened when the Canadian
asked at dinner, where his wife was from.
A breeze rushed through them,
the future catching the past.
But, the French couple
at dinner? It was as if he'd known them.
Which was impossible.
They were far too young.
He’d been a child himself, then. The Tuk-tuk
drove on into shadow.
Bionote
Keith’s poetry can be found in Canada, the US, Cuba and Ireland. He has earned multiple grants, helps run The Banister Anthology and adjudicates a contest for teens through the Public Library System. His book, The War Poems: Screaming at Heaven from Black Moss Press, received excellent reviews, including Canlit #223. His new book, SEAsia, is scheduled for 2017, also through BMP. Keith lives in Thorold, Ontario. A former tradesman, he has no formal training in writing.
2 Poems by Larry Levy
Garlic
I imagine you unclothed!
Layer by layer I peel –
(She loves me, she loves me not)
down to chiclet smooth skin.
So eager to touch
I squeeze until you come apart.
I continue to press,
kneading you between my fingers.
Moistened,
I bring the taste of you
to my lips.
My tongue burns with delight
reverberating wildly
from the tang you left
in my mouth.
I consume you greedily
and you stay with me for days.
Should I Renew My Lease?
Troubled sleep (4:18 A.M.).
Sex without kisses
from a bedroom below.
Unusual noises.
Trying to decipher the language of whales.
Orgasm assumed. Laughter.
Running water. Guilt?
Within five minutes a reupholstered woman.
Superficialities conclude in the hallway.
No kiss.
Quickly to the car, man.
The most enlightened dog in the world
is let outside.
The introspective slither back to bed.
Snoring.
Troubled sleep. (4:52 A.M.).
Bionote
Larry Levy has written lyrics for The Histrioniks, The Thromboes, Muscrat Simms, and Square One. He has also been writing poetry for years. He is currently working on his first book of poetry to be published in the upcoming months. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
I imagine you unclothed!
Layer by layer I peel –
(She loves me, she loves me not)
down to chiclet smooth skin.
So eager to touch
I squeeze until you come apart.
I continue to press,
kneading you between my fingers.
Moistened,
I bring the taste of you
to my lips.
My tongue burns with delight
reverberating wildly
from the tang you left
in my mouth.
I consume you greedily
and you stay with me for days.
Should I Renew My Lease?
Troubled sleep (4:18 A.M.).
Sex without kisses
from a bedroom below.
Unusual noises.
Trying to decipher the language of whales.
Orgasm assumed. Laughter.
Running water. Guilt?
Within five minutes a reupholstered woman.
Superficialities conclude in the hallway.
No kiss.
Quickly to the car, man.
The most enlightened dog in the world
is let outside.
The introspective slither back to bed.
Snoring.
Troubled sleep. (4:52 A.M.).
Bionote
Larry Levy has written lyrics for The Histrioniks, The Thromboes, Muscrat Simms, and Square One. He has also been writing poetry for years. He is currently working on his first book of poetry to be published in the upcoming months. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
3 Poems by Therese Young Kim
Sweet Venus
On a mid-summer day in Manhattan
a young woman with golden tresses
stands on the curb of sidewalk
waiting for the light to turn green.
As she stands limber in her sundress
bared to her tony limbs and more
the sun etches a V onto her bosom.
Cars slow down, windows roll down,
lips round to Wow!
With the changing light her sandaled feet
float down the street in the perfection
of a moment framed in the summer haze.
Radiance
On a luminous summer day
gaze upon the sky where plump clouds
gently roam across the azure blue.
You’ll see mountains, valleys, streams.
From another angle, you may hear
occasional laughter, whispers, sighs.
At night you’ll find rubies, diamonds,
sapphires. They say many were expired
light years ago, but they’re still glowing.
Our brains reflect the universe
in the galaxy of grand mystery.
No human has beholden the sun
with naked eyes. We only see reflections
in the light and shadow.
My parents are long gone. I am only a shadow
of their silent radiance.
A Rendez-vous
In the calm of a winter night
a crescent moon sits on the bare boughs
of a sycamore,
her slim waist curved away
like a shy maiden girl.
A woman, bowed over a cane, trudges
behind her shaggy dog plodding on
in her shadow.
Tall lampposts on the hillside raise
their blue tulip lights and glow
like a crescent river.
In the tree nook above, a pair
of squirrels murmur in their slumber.
Surrendering to the naked sycamore
that has awaited me a hundred years
tonight,
I open my arms round to hold you tight.
Bionote
As a long-time writer of poems and prose, Therese Young Kim is in her senior year living in New York City with humble publishing history. A number of her Korean poems and stories were published in Korean language journals. Two stories in English were published twice in Rosebud literary magazine. An excerpt of her novel in completion, “Nayoung’s Journey,” was published in Infinity literary journal and the novel was a minor semi-finalist at two different competitions. Her website address is www.yoursentimentalstranger.com.
On a mid-summer day in Manhattan
a young woman with golden tresses
stands on the curb of sidewalk
waiting for the light to turn green.
As she stands limber in her sundress
bared to her tony limbs and more
the sun etches a V onto her bosom.
Cars slow down, windows roll down,
lips round to Wow!
With the changing light her sandaled feet
float down the street in the perfection
of a moment framed in the summer haze.
Radiance
On a luminous summer day
gaze upon the sky where plump clouds
gently roam across the azure blue.
You’ll see mountains, valleys, streams.
From another angle, you may hear
occasional laughter, whispers, sighs.
At night you’ll find rubies, diamonds,
sapphires. They say many were expired
light years ago, but they’re still glowing.
Our brains reflect the universe
in the galaxy of grand mystery.
No human has beholden the sun
with naked eyes. We only see reflections
in the light and shadow.
My parents are long gone. I am only a shadow
of their silent radiance.
A Rendez-vous
In the calm of a winter night
a crescent moon sits on the bare boughs
of a sycamore,
her slim waist curved away
like a shy maiden girl.
A woman, bowed over a cane, trudges
behind her shaggy dog plodding on
in her shadow.
Tall lampposts on the hillside raise
their blue tulip lights and glow
like a crescent river.
In the tree nook above, a pair
of squirrels murmur in their slumber.
Surrendering to the naked sycamore
that has awaited me a hundred years
tonight,
I open my arms round to hold you tight.
Bionote
As a long-time writer of poems and prose, Therese Young Kim is in her senior year living in New York City with humble publishing history. A number of her Korean poems and stories were published in Korean language journals. Two stories in English were published twice in Rosebud literary magazine. An excerpt of her novel in completion, “Nayoung’s Journey,” was published in Infinity literary journal and the novel was a minor semi-finalist at two different competitions. Her website address is www.yoursentimentalstranger.com.
1 Poem by Vaughan Rapatahana
park plaques
[ka moe whakaaio ki te mate – Māori - sleep peacefully in death]
we sight them
straight away.
chaperoning i n d i s c r i m i n a t e trees
scarcely taller than themselves.
our dog could not care less
sprinkling a territory as wayward as theirs
and sprinting on some occult arc
only he can comprehend.
we stroll to ponder
their names, their dates,
their abbreviate lives;
reflecting on our own.
there seems no connectivity/between
kahikatea and john konia (1927-2003)
&
pohutukawa and mere jane williams (1985-1999);
except
perhaps,
some emic
umbilical cord
c o n j u g a t i n g us all.
the dog barks distant:
he’s gone feral.
while they will never
budge.
[Note: kahikatea and pohutukawa are both New Zealand native trees]
Bionote
Rapatahana is a New Zealand Māori, on a constant triangular tour between three abodes - Pampanga, Philippines; Tin Shui Wai, Hong Kong; Morenawhira, Aotearoa New Zealand. His latest collection of poetry, Atonement, was nominated for a Philippine National Book Award in 2016. He won the inaugural Proverse Poetry prize in 2016.
New Zealand Book Council Writers File: http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/Writers/Profiles/Rapatahana%2c%20Vaughan
Winner of 2016 International Proverse Poetry Prize: http://www.proversepublishing.com/yahoo_site_admin/assets/docs/PPPInfo_T_B_posted_on_2016_Nov_22a.32761244.pdf
Published 2014: Expand Your Mind with Poetry Books One and Two (Essential Resources, Aotearoa-New Zealand) http://www.essentialresources.co.nz/Products.aspx?SubjectID=&SeriesID=SER5808&NewReleases=True&Featured=False
(Co-Editor) OutLoud Too - an anthology of Hong Kong poets (mccm creations, Hong Kong)
http://www.mccmcreations.com/books/custom%20&%20culture/outloud-too/main.htm (Co-Editor)
Published 2015: Atonement (ASM/Flying Islands, Macau and MCCM Creations, Hong Kong) - a new collection of poems http://www.mccmcreations.com/#!atonement/c1wyx
Published 2016: Atonement (University of Santo Tomas Press, Philippines)
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.947880961966313.1073741876.100616736692744&type=3
Why English? Confronting the Hydra (Multilingual Matters, U.K.) - a follow up to English Language as Hydra, 2012. (Co-Editor) http://www.multilingual-matters.com/display.asp?K=9781783095841 Why so serious and Better to jaw-jaw than to war-war (The Commercial Press, Hong Kong) http://www.cp1897.com.hk/books_authors.php?display_type=details&number_per_page=15&sort_type=pudate_new&page=1&authors_code=04640096&keywords=Vaughan+Rapatahana&cl=English
(Co-editor.) Published 2017: Colin Wilson's Lulu (Paupers Press, Nottingham, England)
Forthcoming: An Introduction to English language Idioms (The Commercial Press, Hong Kong)
Multicultural Oceania (Essential Resources, Christchurch, New Zealand)
[ka moe whakaaio ki te mate – Māori - sleep peacefully in death]
we sight them
straight away.
chaperoning i n d i s c r i m i n a t e trees
scarcely taller than themselves.
our dog could not care less
sprinkling a territory as wayward as theirs
and sprinting on some occult arc
only he can comprehend.
we stroll to ponder
their names, their dates,
their abbreviate lives;
reflecting on our own.
there seems no connectivity/between
kahikatea and john konia (1927-2003)
&
pohutukawa and mere jane williams (1985-1999);
except
perhaps,
some emic
umbilical cord
c o n j u g a t i n g us all.
the dog barks distant:
he’s gone feral.
while they will never
budge.
[Note: kahikatea and pohutukawa are both New Zealand native trees]
Bionote
Rapatahana is a New Zealand Māori, on a constant triangular tour between three abodes - Pampanga, Philippines; Tin Shui Wai, Hong Kong; Morenawhira, Aotearoa New Zealand. His latest collection of poetry, Atonement, was nominated for a Philippine National Book Award in 2016. He won the inaugural Proverse Poetry prize in 2016.
New Zealand Book Council Writers File: http://www.bookcouncil.org.nz/Writers/Profiles/Rapatahana%2c%20Vaughan
Winner of 2016 International Proverse Poetry Prize: http://www.proversepublishing.com/yahoo_site_admin/assets/docs/PPPInfo_T_B_posted_on_2016_Nov_22a.32761244.pdf
Published 2014: Expand Your Mind with Poetry Books One and Two (Essential Resources, Aotearoa-New Zealand) http://www.essentialresources.co.nz/Products.aspx?SubjectID=&SeriesID=SER5808&NewReleases=True&Featured=False
(Co-Editor) OutLoud Too - an anthology of Hong Kong poets (mccm creations, Hong Kong)
http://www.mccmcreations.com/books/custom%20&%20culture/outloud-too/main.htm (Co-Editor)
Published 2015: Atonement (ASM/Flying Islands, Macau and MCCM Creations, Hong Kong) - a new collection of poems http://www.mccmcreations.com/#!atonement/c1wyx
Published 2016: Atonement (University of Santo Tomas Press, Philippines)
https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.947880961966313.1073741876.100616736692744&type=3
Why English? Confronting the Hydra (Multilingual Matters, U.K.) - a follow up to English Language as Hydra, 2012. (Co-Editor) http://www.multilingual-matters.com/display.asp?K=9781783095841 Why so serious and Better to jaw-jaw than to war-war (The Commercial Press, Hong Kong) http://www.cp1897.com.hk/books_authors.php?display_type=details&number_per_page=15&sort_type=pudate_new&page=1&authors_code=04640096&keywords=Vaughan+Rapatahana&cl=English
(Co-editor.) Published 2017: Colin Wilson's Lulu (Paupers Press, Nottingham, England)
Forthcoming: An Introduction to English language Idioms (The Commercial Press, Hong Kong)
Multicultural Oceania (Essential Resources, Christchurch, New Zealand)
1 Poem by Amanita Sen
The Colour Blue
Suddenly there is a wall behind my back ,
With colours strong,
Each unidentifiable from the other.
I recognize one though.
That of torment--sheer blue.
Intoxicably blue
So blue that you can die in its arms.
I panic, I rather be nowhere
And then I start running
Where my eyes can see,
where my legs can carry,
I keep on running
Till I reach the horizon.
And then I pause to breathe.
My existence here is a dotted one.
Colours would rather chase a canvas
Not a dot like me.
I am safe here,
Ready to merge with the oblivion.
No, not quite yet,
Being nowhere is not easy.
Bionote
Amanita Sen's first book of poems Candle In My Dream was first published from Writer's workshop, Kolkata. Her poems have been published in several magazines both in India and abroad. She has written the scripts for 3 short films , all of which have been shown in several film festivals in India. She works as a counselor and lives in Kolkata.
Suddenly there is a wall behind my back ,
With colours strong,
Each unidentifiable from the other.
I recognize one though.
That of torment--sheer blue.
Intoxicably blue
So blue that you can die in its arms.
I panic, I rather be nowhere
And then I start running
Where my eyes can see,
where my legs can carry,
I keep on running
Till I reach the horizon.
And then I pause to breathe.
My existence here is a dotted one.
Colours would rather chase a canvas
Not a dot like me.
I am safe here,
Ready to merge with the oblivion.
No, not quite yet,
Being nowhere is not easy.
Bionote
Amanita Sen's first book of poems Candle In My Dream was first published from Writer's workshop, Kolkata. Her poems have been published in several magazines both in India and abroad. She has written the scripts for 3 short films , all of which have been shown in several film festivals in India. She works as a counselor and lives in Kolkata.
1 Poem by Alwyn Marriage
Swimming in soft water
The sea sighs comfortably
as I slip into her soft embrace,
shrugs nonchalantly when I ask
about the water I displace
insinuates herself around
the curves and angles of my shape
dreamily lying back to hold
my weight within the waterscape
relieved of responsibility and stress
I celebrate freedom from my desk and ’phone
discovering as my limbs relax in water
just how blissful it can be to be alone
as my body is caressed I can’t imagine
anything more beautiful than this
and as busy days are washed away in solitude
I gaze up at the azure sky and soak up bliss.
Bionote
Alwyn Marriage’s ten books include poetry collections, non-fiction and, most recently, a novel, Rapeseed. She’s widely represented in magazines, anthologies and on-line, and gives readings all over the world. Formerly a university philosophy lecturer, Director of two international NGOs and a Rockefeller Scholar, she’s currently Managing Editor of Oversteps Books and a research fellow at Surrey University, England. www.marriages.me.uk/alwyn.
The sea sighs comfortably
as I slip into her soft embrace,
shrugs nonchalantly when I ask
about the water I displace
insinuates herself around
the curves and angles of my shape
dreamily lying back to hold
my weight within the waterscape
relieved of responsibility and stress
I celebrate freedom from my desk and ’phone
discovering as my limbs relax in water
just how blissful it can be to be alone
as my body is caressed I can’t imagine
anything more beautiful than this
and as busy days are washed away in solitude
I gaze up at the azure sky and soak up bliss.
Bionote
Alwyn Marriage’s ten books include poetry collections, non-fiction and, most recently, a novel, Rapeseed. She’s widely represented in magazines, anthologies and on-line, and gives readings all over the world. Formerly a university philosophy lecturer, Director of two international NGOs and a Rockefeller Scholar, she’s currently Managing Editor of Oversteps Books and a research fellow at Surrey University, England. www.marriages.me.uk/alwyn.
1 Poem by Paul Ilechko
Origami Flowers
If I knew how, I would make origami
flowers. I would take a sheet of paper,
and, with clever folds and cuts, a bunch
of roses, or lilacs, might appear.
My recent years have been bookended
by roses. Firstly, by a sprawling growth
of wild white roses, white as fresh snow.
Each summer, extensive pruning was
required, leaving me scratched and bloodied.
And now, in my current life, my tiny
garden is a constant source of colorful
delight. Each season plays its part, but
summer roses must be the highlight.
But still … if necessary, I could leave
all this behind. I could leave the color
and aroma of my flower garden,
just so long as those paper blooms, those
folding miracles, could be retained.
Bionote
Paul Ilechko was born in England but has lived most of his life in the USA. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry published by Elderly Magazine, Ibis Head Review, the Peacock Journal and Scarlet Leaf Review.
If I knew how, I would make origami
flowers. I would take a sheet of paper,
and, with clever folds and cuts, a bunch
of roses, or lilacs, might appear.
My recent years have been bookended
by roses. Firstly, by a sprawling growth
of wild white roses, white as fresh snow.
Each summer, extensive pruning was
required, leaving me scratched and bloodied.
And now, in my current life, my tiny
garden is a constant source of colorful
delight. Each season plays its part, but
summer roses must be the highlight.
But still … if necessary, I could leave
all this behind. I could leave the color
and aroma of my flower garden,
just so long as those paper blooms, those
folding miracles, could be retained.
Bionote
Paul Ilechko was born in England but has lived most of his life in the USA. He currently lives in Lambertville, NJ with his girlfriend and a cat. Paul has had poetry published by Elderly Magazine, Ibis Head Review, the Peacock Journal and Scarlet Leaf Review.
4 Poems by Lisa Panepinto
please lift our breathless lungs
blood on the streets
put there by military cops
who will police the police?
wild river stranger clean my eyes
before they burn & tear in gasoline
downtown with the blood
of black children shed in dirty snow
*
you cowards can’t kill me!
spray painted across the bridge
above the tracks
your hand on my arm
leading me protectively
across cars
forever rivers
temporary coal
trains temporary steam
plants temporary pulp
mills temporary prisons
temporary factories
forever mountains forever rivers
thank you earth giver
purple and red fish
coming from under the log
after i put my feet in rain creek
and my baby followed me in
how lucky i am
fireflies in the night
the beauty of being alive
exiled
wanted only by the sea
and rivers
by hibiscus
& red branch
flowers in the night
& that’s a lot
slick fish
gliding by clean
& fluid hidden
among the throb
of bridges
city of visionaries covered in diesel
strangeness of not
having wilderness
to commune with
now i pray to each star
patch of sky
plot of grass
& graveyard wind
river that shines
wild blue oceanic at night
Bionote
Lisa Panepinto is the author of two poetry collections, On This Borrowed Bike (Three Rooms Press, 2013) and Island Dreams (Cabildo Press, 2009). Her writing has appeared in The Accompanist, Maintenant, Pittsburgh City Paper, Red Flag Poetry, Yes, Poetry and more. She is poetry editor for Cabildo Quarterly, an online and print literary journal.
blood on the streets
put there by military cops
who will police the police?
wild river stranger clean my eyes
before they burn & tear in gasoline
downtown with the blood
of black children shed in dirty snow
*
you cowards can’t kill me!
spray painted across the bridge
above the tracks
your hand on my arm
leading me protectively
across cars
forever rivers
temporary coal
trains temporary steam
plants temporary pulp
mills temporary prisons
temporary factories
forever mountains forever rivers
thank you earth giver
purple and red fish
coming from under the log
after i put my feet in rain creek
and my baby followed me in
how lucky i am
fireflies in the night
the beauty of being alive
exiled
wanted only by the sea
and rivers
by hibiscus
& red branch
flowers in the night
& that’s a lot
slick fish
gliding by clean
& fluid hidden
among the throb
of bridges
city of visionaries covered in diesel
strangeness of not
having wilderness
to commune with
now i pray to each star
patch of sky
plot of grass
& graveyard wind
river that shines
wild blue oceanic at night
Bionote
Lisa Panepinto is the author of two poetry collections, On This Borrowed Bike (Three Rooms Press, 2013) and Island Dreams (Cabildo Press, 2009). Her writing has appeared in The Accompanist, Maintenant, Pittsburgh City Paper, Red Flag Poetry, Yes, Poetry and more. She is poetry editor for Cabildo Quarterly, an online and print literary journal.
1 Poem by J. J. Campbell
bitterness
i pretend it doesn't
hurt that my father
chose to die than
ever talk to me
again
i'm not exactly
sure what kind
of alcohol goes
best with bitterness
these long nights
in the void
there is a certain
bravery in allowing
the weird to wash
over you
depression can't
get any darker
now
Bionote
J. J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is currently trapped in suburbia. He's been widely published over the last 21 years, most recently at Your One Phone Call, Beautiful Losers, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl and Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly. His most recent chapbook, Consequences No Longer Matter, was included in the 2016 Punk Chapbook Series (Epic Rites Press). You can find him most days bitching about something on his wildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
i pretend it doesn't
hurt that my father
chose to die than
ever talk to me
again
i'm not exactly
sure what kind
of alcohol goes
best with bitterness
these long nights
in the void
there is a certain
bravery in allowing
the weird to wash
over you
depression can't
get any darker
now
Bionote
J. J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is currently trapped in suburbia. He's been widely published over the last 21 years, most recently at Your One Phone Call, Beautiful Losers, In Between Hangovers, Mad Swirl and Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly. His most recent chapbook, Consequences No Longer Matter, was included in the 2016 Punk Chapbook Series (Epic Rites Press). You can find him most days bitching about something on his wildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)
1 Poem by Jan Napier
Listening To Frost
Some nights I wake not knowing why I am.
Listening to frost crack the tin roof, stickle windows
with white lace, feeling untucked as these sheets,
I wonder what battered god wanders the hollow
hours thumbing pages smudgy with crossings out;
so many mournings.
But here and now, there’s the 3am kettle steaming,
a china cup cheerful with peaches and plums,
slopped coffee burning my hand a little,
and the thought of really dying seems a fable
writ in wand light and rune.
Raising my eyes, I ask that when I fail and
fall as it seems I must, you dear friend, will home
my Siamese, and gardener that you are, dig
in the green manure, pick early peas, water
winter beetroot before the purple storms.
Coffee cools half drunk, the cat blanketed lump,
mrrs, stretches a chocolate paw, trusts his waking,
and I marvel that with years crowding behind
like impatient children in a doorway,
I have never paused to wonder the truth of skin
as chrysalis, that butterfly moment.
A half moon cuts in and out of clouds.
A car door clunks.
A couple laughing.
Bionote
Jan Napier is a Western Australian poet. Her work has been featured in journals and anthologies
both in Australia, and overseas. Jan’s poem Turned On won the Creatrix prize for Poetry in 2014,
and her first collection, Thylacine was launched in 2015.
Some nights I wake not knowing why I am.
Listening to frost crack the tin roof, stickle windows
with white lace, feeling untucked as these sheets,
I wonder what battered god wanders the hollow
hours thumbing pages smudgy with crossings out;
so many mournings.
But here and now, there’s the 3am kettle steaming,
a china cup cheerful with peaches and plums,
slopped coffee burning my hand a little,
and the thought of really dying seems a fable
writ in wand light and rune.
Raising my eyes, I ask that when I fail and
fall as it seems I must, you dear friend, will home
my Siamese, and gardener that you are, dig
in the green manure, pick early peas, water
winter beetroot before the purple storms.
Coffee cools half drunk, the cat blanketed lump,
mrrs, stretches a chocolate paw, trusts his waking,
and I marvel that with years crowding behind
like impatient children in a doorway,
I have never paused to wonder the truth of skin
as chrysalis, that butterfly moment.
A half moon cuts in and out of clouds.
A car door clunks.
A couple laughing.
Bionote
Jan Napier is a Western Australian poet. Her work has been featured in journals and anthologies
both in Australia, and overseas. Jan’s poem Turned On won the Creatrix prize for Poetry in 2014,
and her first collection, Thylacine was launched in 2015.
2 Poems by Fiona Marshall
Stripping
Something is being stripped away
I think it’s you, leaving me
Disembodied, odd,
As if it was me who had died.
Your flesh falls off me
And I rot, down to the bone.
I am painted red, put into jars.
I call the ancestors
From a throat of dry blood,
With the brittle tinkle
Of desiccated shins
Ready to record
The words of the spirit.
Sharpen your knife.
The magic murder of winter
A knocking in the early morning
above my head from the rooftop,
the stranger of spring wanting to come in.
A bird knocking out a snail,
his beady inhumanity,
head to one side,
ragged entrails shaken out.
Again the knocking;
there is murder going on above
while I drink my coffee,
eat my bread and honey.
A faint scatter of shell
down the slanting attic window.
Then silence.
Bionote
Fiona Marshall is a writer and editor based in London. She is author of ABSENCE, a novel, and has poetry and fiction published in a variety of outlets. Her short story, The Street of Baths , won the 2016 V.S Pritchett Memorial Prize. Her work has been commended in the Manchester Fiction Prize and in the Bridport Prize .
Something is being stripped away
I think it’s you, leaving me
Disembodied, odd,
As if it was me who had died.
Your flesh falls off me
And I rot, down to the bone.
I am painted red, put into jars.
I call the ancestors
From a throat of dry blood,
With the brittle tinkle
Of desiccated shins
Ready to record
The words of the spirit.
Sharpen your knife.
The magic murder of winter
A knocking in the early morning
above my head from the rooftop,
the stranger of spring wanting to come in.
A bird knocking out a snail,
his beady inhumanity,
head to one side,
ragged entrails shaken out.
Again the knocking;
there is murder going on above
while I drink my coffee,
eat my bread and honey.
A faint scatter of shell
down the slanting attic window.
Then silence.
Bionote
Fiona Marshall is a writer and editor based in London. She is author of ABSENCE, a novel, and has poetry and fiction published in a variety of outlets. Her short story, The Street of Baths , won the 2016 V.S Pritchett Memorial Prize. Her work has been commended in the Manchester Fiction Prize and in the Bridport Prize .
1 Poem by Yearn Hong Choi
Moon over the Arizona Desert
There is one and only lover
among 600 million people on Earth.
The Earth has one and only moon.
Some planets have more than one moon.
Some don’t have one.
---I have entered your moon and become a fossil of your moon.
Bionote
Yearn Hong Choi is founding president of the Korean-American Poets’ Group and authored four poetry books.
There is one and only lover
among 600 million people on Earth.
The Earth has one and only moon.
Some planets have more than one moon.
Some don’t have one.
---I have entered your moon and become a fossil of your moon.
Bionote
Yearn Hong Choi is founding president of the Korean-American Poets’ Group and authored four poetry books.
1 Poem by Joanna M. Weston
THE MAN IN THE AISLE
a stone rolled from under my foot
and I fell into a bowl of plum blossom
shades of pink filled hands and mouth
branches grew into my body
I could swing from planets where rainbows
tied cars to orbiting space junk
unheralded by the man on the aisle
who contributed articles
on slugs banshees ad-writers
and theatre critics to the New Yorker
which banned me from airports
for packing over-ripe peaches
in carry-on baggage that leaked
onto hawks’ and doves’ wings
my Ceasar cut dripping blood earwigs
and herrings into aisles as I slid
out into skies of wilted petals
where I leapt hydro wires with aplomb
Bionote
JOANNA M. WESTON: Married; has one cat, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Frame and The McGuire', published by Tradewind Books 2015; and poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications, May 2016. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
a stone rolled from under my foot
and I fell into a bowl of plum blossom
shades of pink filled hands and mouth
branches grew into my body
I could swing from planets where rainbows
tied cars to orbiting space junk
unheralded by the man on the aisle
who contributed articles
on slugs banshees ad-writers
and theatre critics to the New Yorker
which banned me from airports
for packing over-ripe peaches
in carry-on baggage that leaked
onto hawks’ and doves’ wings
my Ceasar cut dripping blood earwigs
and herrings into aisles as I slid
out into skies of wilted petals
where I leapt hydro wires with aplomb
Bionote
JOANNA M. WESTON: Married; has one cat, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Frame and The McGuire', published by Tradewind Books 2015; and poetry, ‘A Bedroom of Searchlights’, published by Inanna Publications, May 2016. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
2 Poems by Alan P. Garfoot Jr.
Cosmosis
As I stretch out my mind,
Through the conscious essence,
Of our shared daydreams,
I open my inner vision,
To the glorious colours,
Of your heart and soul,
And together we drift,
Like fireflies dancing,
Upon a starlight breeze,
Our creative spontaneity,
Of infinite individuality,
For love is the essence,
As our stars collide.
Fractured Soul
Looking through the black mirror,
I gaze into an infinite abyss.
As I look deep into the void,
Shattered fragments,
Are all that remains,
Of a self,
A time,
Which once was.
Bionote
The conceptual poet and abstract artist Alan 'A.p.' Garfoot of Scunthorpe, England is a published intellectual, scientist, poet and artist across a broad range of subjects and genres. If you would like him to produce unique pieces of work taylor suited to meet your demands please contact him at the following e-mail and webpage address of: newworldthoughtdisorder@Gmail.com &
www.Facebook. com/newworldthoughtdisorder
As I stretch out my mind,
Through the conscious essence,
Of our shared daydreams,
I open my inner vision,
To the glorious colours,
Of your heart and soul,
And together we drift,
Like fireflies dancing,
Upon a starlight breeze,
Our creative spontaneity,
Of infinite individuality,
For love is the essence,
As our stars collide.
Fractured Soul
Looking through the black mirror,
I gaze into an infinite abyss.
As I look deep into the void,
Shattered fragments,
Are all that remains,
Of a self,
A time,
Which once was.
Bionote
The conceptual poet and abstract artist Alan 'A.p.' Garfoot of Scunthorpe, England is a published intellectual, scientist, poet and artist across a broad range of subjects and genres. If you would like him to produce unique pieces of work taylor suited to meet your demands please contact him at the following e-mail and webpage address of: newworldthoughtdisorder@Gmail.com &
www.Facebook. com/newworldthoughtdisorder
1 Poem by Alan Britt
CROW FUNERAL
Below my right lung, in a lexicon reserved for family, crow
chortles the sunrise. Baby daughter, Nat Geo antennae aslant
folded wings, waddles my liver scraping sleepy beak against her
mom's feathers gleaming like moonlit tar. Mother’s beak sifts
black rainbows beneath daughter's icicle neck, seeking lice, ticks
& naive politicians. Snatches a governor from Arizona &
deposits her into the concrete artery feeding my stomach—I
belch & awaken the entire nest.
Papaya sun bleeds stringy walnut branches lining the
perimeter of a pasture. Six crows cross foreheads, yellow-
spotted, russet & watercolor rose, the dewy foreheads of oaks
& elms, joining murder in a maple to observe moments of silence
for young male broken by UPS truck yesterday noon, pausing
for ritual, proper service for this young'un who chased
dragonflies & sounded the chilly alarm for goshawks on the
prowl. One onyx feather graces the desk of a poet who loves
crows . . . others scattered by a pomegranate breeze across
gravel just before, in unison, all fifty-five crows explode like
flecks of pepper into the bloody dawn.
Bionote
In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in venues all across the country including the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. In 2013 he served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. His latest books include Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and published in Romania & Hungary (2015); Lost Among the Hours: 2015; Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013; and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
Below my right lung, in a lexicon reserved for family, crow
chortles the sunrise. Baby daughter, Nat Geo antennae aslant
folded wings, waddles my liver scraping sleepy beak against her
mom's feathers gleaming like moonlit tar. Mother’s beak sifts
black rainbows beneath daughter's icicle neck, seeking lice, ticks
& naive politicians. Snatches a governor from Arizona &
deposits her into the concrete artery feeding my stomach—I
belch & awaken the entire nest.
Papaya sun bleeds stringy walnut branches lining the
perimeter of a pasture. Six crows cross foreheads, yellow-
spotted, russet & watercolor rose, the dewy foreheads of oaks
& elms, joining murder in a maple to observe moments of silence
for young male broken by UPS truck yesterday noon, pausing
for ritual, proper service for this young'un who chased
dragonflies & sounded the chilly alarm for goshawks on the
prowl. One onyx feather graces the desk of a poet who loves
crows . . . others scattered by a pomegranate breeze across
gravel just before, in unison, all fifty-five crows explode like
flecks of pepper into the bloody dawn.
Bionote
In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. During his visit, he participated in venues all across the country including the international literary conference sponsored by La hermandad de las palabras 2015 in Babahoyo, Ecuador. In 2013 he served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. His latest books include Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and published in Romania & Hungary (2015); Lost Among the Hours: 2015; Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013; and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
1 Poem by Richard Schnap
MOCKINGBIRD
When she found herself within
The parlors of the rich
She would speak to them as if
She’d been born to wealth herself
And when she bartered with merchants
For a more attractive price
Her voice acquired an edge
That would bend them to her will
And when she lectured children
They would hear a gentle tone
So that they would not fear her
And consider her a friend
But when she was alone
She talked sadly to her self
In a language she was saving
For the one yet to appear
Bionote
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications and his debut chapbook, "A Wind From Nowhere", is available from Flutter Press.
When she found herself within
The parlors of the rich
She would speak to them as if
She’d been born to wealth herself
And when she bartered with merchants
For a more attractive price
Her voice acquired an edge
That would bend them to her will
And when she lectured children
They would hear a gentle tone
So that they would not fear her
And consider her a friend
But when she was alone
She talked sadly to her self
In a language she was saving
For the one yet to appear
Bionote
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications and his debut chapbook, "A Wind From Nowhere", is available from Flutter Press.
1 Poem by Stefanie Bennett
ALMOST LOVE POEM
Air. Rings of rain. Electricity
Wires line the sky...
Northward
Your dark window
Blends so well
It disappears.
Now, Southward... “I”
To air. Rings
Of rain
All about
Me... and you!
Somewhere else.
Bionote
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, and a libretto. She has been nominated for a Pushcart and acted as a publishing editor, tutored at The Institute of Modern Languages [James Cook University], and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee), she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title is The Vanishing, publisher, Walleah Press.
Air. Rings of rain. Electricity
Wires line the sky...
Northward
Your dark window
Blends so well
It disappears.
Now, Southward... “I”
To air. Rings
Of rain
All about
Me... and you!
Somewhere else.
Bionote
Stefanie Bennett has published several books of poetry, a novel, and a libretto. She has been nominated for a Pushcart and acted as a publishing editor, tutored at The Institute of Modern Languages [James Cook University], and worked with Arts Action for Peace. Of mixed ancestry (Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee), she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title is The Vanishing, publisher, Walleah Press.
1 Poem by Ted Mc Carthy
EARTH
Now that the long forgetting is over,
let thoughtless earth receive you, as is proper,
but know that you have become entire
again, at last like every other.
Bionote
Ted Mc Carthy 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
Now that the long forgetting is over,
let thoughtless earth receive you, as is proper,
but know that you have become entire
again, at last like every other.
Bionote
Ted Mc Carthy 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
1 Poem by Max Orr
The Author Joins a Friend at Church and Learns of David’s Redemption
Carry yourself to
an alley after
a storm. Sit
in a puddle
of gravel
and rainwater
under dappled
light sifted
through leaves.
Bathe in this
place, among
broken glass
and crabapples,
where paint
peels from sheds,
a burnt
summer skin.
Scrub your
hands with
hyssop until
the stranger’s
oils between
your fingers
are gone,
until their
soured scent no
longer wrings
mud
from your
stomach.
Bionote
Max Orr is an English teacher who lives in Columbus, Ohio with his cat. He spends his free time climbing rocks in the Red River Gorge and trying to get the right books into the hands of his students.
Carry yourself to
an alley after
a storm. Sit
in a puddle
of gravel
and rainwater
under dappled
light sifted
through leaves.
Bathe in this
place, among
broken glass
and crabapples,
where paint
peels from sheds,
a burnt
summer skin.
Scrub your
hands with
hyssop until
the stranger’s
oils between
your fingers
are gone,
until their
soured scent no
longer wrings
mud
from your
stomach.
Bionote
Max Orr is an English teacher who lives in Columbus, Ohio with his cat. He spends his free time climbing rocks in the Red River Gorge and trying to get the right books into the hands of his students.
1 Poem by Ed Butscher
DEJAVU
Messages from the dead
who ghost a child’s closet
and far bedroom corners
with whispers of dust
are more cryptic than
the classic mausoleums
and plebian stone stiles
that mob Queens’ green
hillsides like a rebel army
of raised shields besieging
Manhattan’s imperial towers.
Or so I must believe
their voices a chorus
around a moon-remote
woman when I lie down
for my afternoon nap
just before twilight wrings
me anxious, arctic Lucy
beneath me in her fluid
Heloise guise, lips at work
on a tingling earlobe.
No wife calls from her grave
beyond the garden gate
nor boy (after escaping
church) from a used-car lot’s
unlocked Chrysler where black
gospel songs rock its frame
to truant brothers’ glee.
No baby sister sighs
over an unlived life, her
small blood sign swept blank
by a ruthless ceiling fan.
Face down in defeat and
faux “noontide” desire
I climax a stifled groan
that lumbers through an old
house to startle awake
three rescued kittens, they
alone knowing who walks
and mourns here.
Bionote
Ed Butscher author of first biographies of Sylvia Plath and Conrad Aiken. The most recent collection of his own poetry is Child in the House from the Amagansett Press (2010).
Messages from the dead
who ghost a child’s closet
and far bedroom corners
with whispers of dust
are more cryptic than
the classic mausoleums
and plebian stone stiles
that mob Queens’ green
hillsides like a rebel army
of raised shields besieging
Manhattan’s imperial towers.
Or so I must believe
their voices a chorus
around a moon-remote
woman when I lie down
for my afternoon nap
just before twilight wrings
me anxious, arctic Lucy
beneath me in her fluid
Heloise guise, lips at work
on a tingling earlobe.
No wife calls from her grave
beyond the garden gate
nor boy (after escaping
church) from a used-car lot’s
unlocked Chrysler where black
gospel songs rock its frame
to truant brothers’ glee.
No baby sister sighs
over an unlived life, her
small blood sign swept blank
by a ruthless ceiling fan.
Face down in defeat and
faux “noontide” desire
I climax a stifled groan
that lumbers through an old
house to startle awake
three rescued kittens, they
alone knowing who walks
and mourns here.
Bionote
Ed Butscher author of first biographies of Sylvia Plath and Conrad Aiken. The most recent collection of his own poetry is Child in the House from the Amagansett Press (2010).
Saturday, 5 November 2016
Editor's Notes
dear PP Enthusiasts/Friends,
hope the past few months have been treating you all well!
two things new to start with::
1/ here at poetry pacific press, we are to release around the christmas time 6 sino-foreign editions of create abundance 《创造丰盛》authored by zhang xinyu; for each edition, there will be 10,000 copies available, which are being printed right now in shenzhen, china. the six editions are: chinese-german, chinese-russia, chinese-portuguese, chinese-arabic, and chinese-hindi.
2/ several pageviewers have in recent months posted their personal or even commercial messages in the 'comment' area of our blogsite, but as a rule we never publish such non-poetic 'comments'.
some statistic facts that might be intriguing to share (and record)::
1/ as of the cutting time of 4 november, our total pageviews are 207,411.
for a biannual, basically one-man e.show started whimsically four years ago as an irregular blog-based poetry outlet (in which we have invested no money and extremely limited computer time and technology), this is unquestionably a truly remarkable achievement, which has surely outperformed many literary e.publications, including some hosted or funded even by well-established institutions;
3/ the top 5 most pageviewed posts are:
Entry Pageviews
3 Poems by Robert Sheppard 2665
4 Mar 2013, 1 comment
2 Poems by Gershon Ben-Avraham 1059
5 Nov 2014, 1 comment
3 Poems by JoyAnne O'Donnell 679
20 Apr 2016
3 Poems by Ai Qing 539
5 Aug 2014
2 Poems by JoyAnne O'Donnell 529
5 Aug 2014
4/ the top 3 most pageviewed months are:
July 2016 (10,218 pageviews, with over 7,000 noticeably from russia alone between 19 and 29),
October 2016 (8,447 pageviews), and
May 2015 (8,120 pageviews).
this shows our monthly e.circulation has been increasing steadily, despite our switch from a quarterly publication to a biannual one last year.
two old points to call attention to again::
to submitters in particular: there are two important changes we have introduced to our revised submission guidelines:
1/ when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of an email to us - this will help reduce our computer time;
2/ for those who have work accepted, please wait at least one year after publication in PP to submit new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
in addition, please be reminded: we prefer shorter truly lyrical poems...
in this issue, we are honoured to showcase 3 visual artists and 69 poetry composers.
thanks so very much, dear PP readers and contributors, for your continuing support of our Magazine, and happy reading/writing!
with warmest regards from vancouver for a pleasant wintertime ahead,
-PP editorial team
hope the past few months have been treating you all well!
two things new to start with::
1/ here at poetry pacific press, we are to release around the christmas time 6 sino-foreign editions of create abundance 《创造丰盛》authored by zhang xinyu; for each edition, there will be 10,000 copies available, which are being printed right now in shenzhen, china. the six editions are: chinese-german, chinese-russia, chinese-portuguese, chinese-arabic, and chinese-hindi.
2/ several pageviewers have in recent months posted their personal or even commercial messages in the 'comment' area of our blogsite, but as a rule we never publish such non-poetic 'comments'.
some statistic facts that might be intriguing to share (and record)::
1/ as of the cutting time of 4 november, our total pageviews are 207,411.
2/ the top 10 country sources of audience are:
3/ the top 5 most pageviewed posts are:
Entry Pageviews
3 Poems by Robert Sheppard 2665
4 Mar 2013, 1 comment
2 Poems by Gershon Ben-Avraham 1059
5 Nov 2014, 1 comment
3 Poems by JoyAnne O'Donnell 679
20 Apr 2016
3 Poems by Ai Qing 539
5 Aug 2014
2 Poems by JoyAnne O'Donnell 529
5 Aug 2014
4/ the top 3 most pageviewed months are:
July 2016 (10,218 pageviews, with over 7,000 noticeably from russia alone between 19 and 29),
October 2016 (8,447 pageviews), and
May 2015 (8,120 pageviews).
this shows our monthly e.circulation has been increasing steadily, despite our switch from a quarterly publication to a biannual one last year.
two old points to call attention to again::
to submitters in particular: there are two important changes we have introduced to our revised submission guidelines:
1/ when submitting to PP, please paste up to 5 poems together with a brief 3rd person bio note in the body of an email to us - this will help reduce our computer time;
2/ for those who have work accepted, please wait at least one year after publication in PP to submit new work again - this will allow us to feature more authors.
in addition, please be reminded: we prefer shorter truly lyrical poems...
in this issue, we are honoured to showcase 3 visual artists and 69 poetry composers.
thanks so very much, dear PP readers and contributors, for your continuing support of our Magazine, and happy reading/writing!
with warmest regards from vancouver for a pleasant wintertime ahead,
-PP editorial team
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