Issue 18 August 2020
Lenny DellaRocca, Editor
Lenny DellaRocca, Editor
Adam Ai, David B. Axelrod, John Balaban, Lili Bita, Michelle Bitting, Rosalind Brenner, Shirley J. Brewer, Traci Brimhall & Brynn Saito, Ronda Piszk Broatch,
Sylvia Cavanaugh, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda Peter Cooley, Charles Coté, Jesse DeLong, Deborah Denicola, Arturo Desimone, Andrea England, Joseph Fasano, Zan Gay, Clarice Hare, Kathleen Hellen, Paul Hostovsky, Ilhem Issaoui, Lauren Kania,
Sylvia Cavanaugh, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda Peter Cooley, Charles Coté, Jesse DeLong, Deborah Denicola, Arturo Desimone, Andrea England, Joseph Fasano, Zan Gay, Clarice Hare, Kathleen Hellen, Paul Hostovsky, Ilhem Issaoui, Lauren Kania,
Visual Art by Jay Snodgrass
Adam Ai Los Angeles, CA
Memory
In remembering the muscle weaving Ancient hollow-bone words,
As roped to the trunk of my neck
I cast finger-threads for a pattern, a trail,
For dry nests and remains among rooting branches,
I’m brought to where a primitive thing had passed
Before I arrived, to know
Memory, self, the mysterious eye,
Despite the deconstruction of symbolism.
Because everything isn't everything
Clouding the roots
Draped in the puckering river
Like tiny toes splayed in the shudder
Of a sudden wonder,
Everyone is someone else, too.
No ending circuit, just
Fingering twists at the sky
In wood-web and leaves
Returned in red mud asking
What was it?
What was the last poem in the world?
And I made something up,
Or thought I did,
Daisy-chained letters three abreast
Twice in step as if rehearsed
To the laughing wilderness.
You are.
When a black-headed, red breasted
White eyed Thrush
Alit to watch
Through bramble curtains
Thrumming so small to my heart,
And I tensed with recognition.
Adam Ai is a Puerto Rican and Basque poet and US Army veteran from Los Angeles. He has been published in various print and online publications. He lives with a ghost. Hobbies include time travel and teaching robots to love. Connect with him on Twitter and Instagram @adamaipoems.
In remembering the muscle weaving Ancient hollow-bone words,
As roped to the trunk of my neck
I cast finger-threads for a pattern, a trail,
For dry nests and remains among rooting branches,
I’m brought to where a primitive thing had passed
Before I arrived, to know
Memory, self, the mysterious eye,
Despite the deconstruction of symbolism.
Because everything isn't everything
Clouding the roots
Draped in the puckering river
Like tiny toes splayed in the shudder
Of a sudden wonder,
Everyone is someone else, too.
No ending circuit, just
Fingering twists at the sky
In wood-web and leaves
Returned in red mud asking
What was it?
What was the last poem in the world?
And I made something up,
Or thought I did,
Daisy-chained letters three abreast
Twice in step as if rehearsed
To the laughing wilderness.
You are.
When a black-headed, red breasted
White eyed Thrush
Alit to watch
Through bramble curtains
Thrumming so small to my heart,
And I tensed with recognition.
Adam Ai is a Puerto Rican and Basque poet and US Army veteran from Los Angeles. He has been published in various print and online publications. He lives with a ghost. Hobbies include time travel and teaching robots to love. Connect with him on Twitter and Instagram @adamaipoems.
David B. Axelrod Daytona Beach, FL
Sympathy
He is the neighbor who expects
your help. You see him standing
atop a ladder, reaching forward
toward a gutter. The ten-foot
fall, the bloody gouge from
a small tool. How did he not
break bones? His pain, he says,
is terrible, but it is you who
must drive him to the ER,
you who must clean the blood
off your upholstery. Beyond
an accident there is common
sense. You want to sympathize
but anyone could see impending
catastrophe. At the hospital they
tell him, “You’re lucky you fell.
We’ve discovered your cancer
early. Smoke like a chimney,
drink like a fish, of course, you
could die. So obvious are his
flaws, you want to just run--
run him over—but instead, drive
him daily for chemo knowing
cancer could be hiding in us all.
David B. Axelrod is recipient of three Fulbright Awards including the first Fulbright Poet-in-Residence in the People’s Republic of China. He has received grants from New York Council on the Arts and State University of New York; Virginia State Arts Council; and Suffolk County on Long Island where he also served as Poet Laureate. He has twenty-three books of poetry. Axelrod lives with his wife, Sandy Martin, in Daytona Beach, where he is Volusia County Poet Laureate. His website: www.poetrydoctor.org.
He is the neighbor who expects
your help. You see him standing
atop a ladder, reaching forward
toward a gutter. The ten-foot
fall, the bloody gouge from
a small tool. How did he not
break bones? His pain, he says,
is terrible, but it is you who
must drive him to the ER,
you who must clean the blood
off your upholstery. Beyond
an accident there is common
sense. You want to sympathize
but anyone could see impending
catastrophe. At the hospital they
tell him, “You’re lucky you fell.
We’ve discovered your cancer
early. Smoke like a chimney,
drink like a fish, of course, you
could die. So obvious are his
flaws, you want to just run--
run him over—but instead, drive
him daily for chemo knowing
cancer could be hiding in us all.
David B. Axelrod is recipient of three Fulbright Awards including the first Fulbright Poet-in-Residence in the People’s Republic of China. He has received grants from New York Council on the Arts and State University of New York; Virginia State Arts Council; and Suffolk County on Long Island where he also served as Poet Laureate. He has twenty-three books of poetry. Axelrod lives with his wife, Sandy Martin, in Daytona Beach, where he is Volusia County Poet Laureate. His website: www.poetrydoctor.org.
John Balaban Cary, NC
Anna Akhmatova Spends the Night on Miami Beach
Well, her book, anyway. The Kunitz volume
left lying on a bench, the pages
a bit puffy by morning, flushed with dew,
riffled by sea breeze, scratchy with sand
--the paperback with the 1930's photo
showing her in spangled caftan, its back cover
calling her "star of the St. Petersburg circle
of Pasternak, Mandelstam, and Blok,
surviving the Revolution and two World Wars."
So she'd been through worse...
the months outside Lefortovo prison
waiting for a son who was already dead, watching
women stagger and reel with news of executions,
one mother asking, "Can you write about this?"
Akhmatova thinking, then answering, "Yes."
If music lured her off the sandy bench
to the clubs where men were kissing
être outré wouldn't have concerned her much
nor the vamps shashaying in leather.
Decadence amid art deco fit nicely
with her black dress, chopped hair, Chanel cap.
What killed her was the talk, the empty eyes,
which made her long for the one person in ten thousand
who could say her name, who could take her home,
giving her a place between Auden and Apollinaire
to whom she could describe her night's excursion
amid the loud hilarities, the consuming hungers,
arriving towards the end of the American era.
John Balaban is the author of thirteen books of poetry and prose, including four volumes which together have won The Academy of American Poets' Lamont prize, a National Poetry Series Selection, and two nominations for the National Book Award. His Locusts at the Edge of Summer: New and Selected Poems won the 1998 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. In 2003, he was awarded a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship. In 2005, he was a judge for the National Book Awards. His new book of poetry is Empires (Copper Canyon Press, 2019).
READ MICHAEL HETTICH’S REVIEW OF THIS BOOK ON OUR REVIEW PAGE.
In addition to writing poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, he is a translator of Vietnamese poetry, and a past president of the American Literary Translators Association. In 1999, with two Vietnamese friends, he founded the Vietnamese Nôm Preservation Foundation (http://nomfoundation.org). In 2008, he was awarded a medal from the Ministry of Culture of Vietnam for his translations of poetry and his leadership in the restoration of the ancient text collection at the National Library. Contact: [email protected] see: www.johnbalaban.com for fuller biographical materials and bibliography.
Well, her book, anyway. The Kunitz volume
left lying on a bench, the pages
a bit puffy by morning, flushed with dew,
riffled by sea breeze, scratchy with sand
--the paperback with the 1930's photo
showing her in spangled caftan, its back cover
calling her "star of the St. Petersburg circle
of Pasternak, Mandelstam, and Blok,
surviving the Revolution and two World Wars."
So she'd been through worse...
the months outside Lefortovo prison
waiting for a son who was already dead, watching
women stagger and reel with news of executions,
one mother asking, "Can you write about this?"
Akhmatova thinking, then answering, "Yes."
If music lured her off the sandy bench
to the clubs where men were kissing
être outré wouldn't have concerned her much
nor the vamps shashaying in leather.
Decadence amid art deco fit nicely
with her black dress, chopped hair, Chanel cap.
What killed her was the talk, the empty eyes,
which made her long for the one person in ten thousand
who could say her name, who could take her home,
giving her a place between Auden and Apollinaire
to whom she could describe her night's excursion
amid the loud hilarities, the consuming hungers,
arriving towards the end of the American era.
John Balaban is the author of thirteen books of poetry and prose, including four volumes which together have won The Academy of American Poets' Lamont prize, a National Poetry Series Selection, and two nominations for the National Book Award. His Locusts at the Edge of Summer: New and Selected Poems won the 1998 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. In 2003, he was awarded a John Simon Guggenheim Fellowship. In 2005, he was a judge for the National Book Awards. His new book of poetry is Empires (Copper Canyon Press, 2019).
READ MICHAEL HETTICH’S REVIEW OF THIS BOOK ON OUR REVIEW PAGE.
In addition to writing poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, he is a translator of Vietnamese poetry, and a past president of the American Literary Translators Association. In 1999, with two Vietnamese friends, he founded the Vietnamese Nôm Preservation Foundation (http://nomfoundation.org). In 2008, he was awarded a medal from the Ministry of Culture of Vietnam for his translations of poetry and his leadership in the restoration of the ancient text collection at the National Library. Contact: [email protected] see: www.johnbalaban.com for fuller biographical materials and bibliography.
Lili Bita 1935-2018
The Hunchback Atlas
Translated from Greek by Robert Zaller
You are neither mule nor ox
yet some curse compels you
to pull girders, stones, and men.
From the dawn’s first light
to night’s last vesper
sweat, denser and sharper
than pebbles, pricks your rag-swathed
loins, your feet a stab of birdclaws
seeking purchase on a limb,
the curve of your body gleaming
like a false tooth
in the pitiless heat.
In June, the monsoons spill over you
like grains from a sack.
Even the cows seek shelter,
but you pull, ever closer
to the earth that rises steaming
like the pit of a sacrifice.
Old man, older
than the compassionate Buddha,
the world’s wonders die
at the trapdoor of your eyes.
Silence trembles at your rasping breath.
The world’s on your back
and you dare not stop
lest we all fall off.
Lili Bita was born in Zakynthos, Greece. Actress, author, and pianist, she emigrated to the United States after a career as a leading lady in Greece. The author of twenty books of poetry, fiction, memoir, and translation, Bita was inducted into the Hellenic Writers Association, the oldest and most prestigious literary academy in Greece, in honor of her lifetime achievement.
Translated from Greek by Robert Zaller
You are neither mule nor ox
yet some curse compels you
to pull girders, stones, and men.
From the dawn’s first light
to night’s last vesper
sweat, denser and sharper
than pebbles, pricks your rag-swathed
loins, your feet a stab of birdclaws
seeking purchase on a limb,
the curve of your body gleaming
like a false tooth
in the pitiless heat.
In June, the monsoons spill over you
like grains from a sack.
Even the cows seek shelter,
but you pull, ever closer
to the earth that rises steaming
like the pit of a sacrifice.
Old man, older
than the compassionate Buddha,
the world’s wonders die
at the trapdoor of your eyes.
Silence trembles at your rasping breath.
The world’s on your back
and you dare not stop
lest we all fall off.
Lili Bita was born in Zakynthos, Greece. Actress, author, and pianist, she emigrated to the United States after a career as a leading lady in Greece. The author of twenty books of poetry, fiction, memoir, and translation, Bita was inducted into the Hellenic Writers Association, the oldest and most prestigious literary academy in Greece, in honor of her lifetime achievement.
Rosalind Brenner East Hampton, NY 2 poems
East End Spring 2020
A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island.
Salty spring air fills us with a tangy shiver,
like tartness in the sweet melt of dark chocolate
on the tongue. Along the beachfront,
Leyland cypress trees are silent. The morning world
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds
have vanished. A front yard of emerald ferns
unfurls dime-size spiral heads.
Burlap wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,
will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee,
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive
cacophony. The chorus of mating
spring peepers hidden in the wetlands, contributes
piercing screeches to the ensemble’s
swelling sound. Though the virus shadows
like a hungry ghost, nature’s noisy party
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us
by surprise. Our broken lives, nights
wishing for escape, have brought us
here at last, our fears unmasked,
to taste renewal. A cardinal flashes
across the road. We stop to see him land.
An influencer indeed,
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch
thick with blooms. Perfect,
we think. Red bird, pink tree.
A cloud of rolling fog half covers Gardiner’s Island.
Salty spring air fills us with a tangy shiver,
like tartness in the sweet melt of dark chocolate
on the tongue. Along the beachfront,
Leyland cypress trees are silent. The morning world
is sleeping. Our island’s April winds
have vanished. A front yard of emerald ferns
unfurls dime-size spiral heads.
Burlap wrapped bushes, cocooned creatures,
will soon be free. The scrubby shoreline
forest chatters. Chicadees sing dee, chickadee,
new season! Woodpeckers ratchet repetitive
cacophony. The chorus of mating
spring peepers hidden in the wetlands, contributes
piercing screeches to the ensemble’s
swelling sound. Though the virus shadows
like a hungry ghost, nature’s noisy party
is an invitation. Small wonders catch us
by surprise. Our broken lives, nights
wishing for escape, have brought us
here at last, our fears unmasked,
to taste renewal. A cardinal flashes
across the road. We stop to see him land.
An influencer indeed,
he draws us in, chooses a cherry branch
thick with blooms. Perfect,
we think. Red bird, pink tree.
Passing at a Distance
Nero’s fiddle, forged of gold and greed,
plays another chorus while I weep
for my mother’s country, this land,
America, she barely could pronounce,
to which she ran to breathe her last
in a democracy. We can’t whisper
solace into death’s ears,
our mouths beneath our masks.
Can’t read lips to receive goodbyes.
No visitors permitted in the maze
of isolation. Our arms, shackled,
forbidden hugs. No holding hands,
when reaching for each other
feels more urgent than before
these cold courtesies. Our lungs
cannot inspire, fear
of contamination. Though smiles
are imprisoned, the heart, bass note
of the chorus that inhabits us
finds a way to teach our eyes to sing.
Rosalind Brenner, Sarah Lawrence MFA 2009, poet and artist, owns Art House B&B in East Hampton, NY. Her most recent poetry book is Every Glittering Chimera, Blue Light Press, 2020. Previous books include Omega’s Garden, a chapbook from Finishing Line Press 2011 and All That’s Left, Art House Press 2010, which combines her art and poetry. She has published widely in magazines and journals.
Nero’s fiddle, forged of gold and greed,
plays another chorus while I weep
for my mother’s country, this land,
America, she barely could pronounce,
to which she ran to breathe her last
in a democracy. We can’t whisper
solace into death’s ears,
our mouths beneath our masks.
Can’t read lips to receive goodbyes.
No visitors permitted in the maze
of isolation. Our arms, shackled,
forbidden hugs. No holding hands,
when reaching for each other
feels more urgent than before
these cold courtesies. Our lungs
cannot inspire, fear
of contamination. Though smiles
are imprisoned, the heart, bass note
of the chorus that inhabits us
finds a way to teach our eyes to sing.
Rosalind Brenner, Sarah Lawrence MFA 2009, poet and artist, owns Art House B&B in East Hampton, NY. Her most recent poetry book is Every Glittering Chimera, Blue Light Press, 2020. Previous books include Omega’s Garden, a chapbook from Finishing Line Press 2011 and All That’s Left, Art House Press 2010, which combines her art and poetry. She has published widely in magazines and journals.
Shirley J. Brewer Baltimore, MD
Cocktails with the Queen
In her sitting room, Queen Elizabeth and I
welcome the tray balanced with snifters
of Dubonnet, gin, lemon slices, small
floes of ice. We clink glasses, toast the royals,
gossip over juicy news: Brexit-this, Harry-that.
The Dubonnet glows ruby in London light.
After lunch, the queen summons a leash.
We walk her dogs. Stunning in a yellow primrose
Hermès headscarf, she pats my arm, proclaims:
If I wore beige, no one would know me. Later on,
at a palace affair for a well-medaled duke,
the monarch carries her sartorial signature--
a classic black Launer handbag, suede-lined.
She loans me a regal patent leather purse. No pause
to nap or recover from painstaking research
for my blockbuster, “A Day in the Life of the Queen.”
Her Majesty snaps me out of my trance.
We don purple coats, matching hats.
A carriage awaits. Perhaps a prince.
I scrawl in my notebook—Dinner with Phil.
Shirley J. Brewer had careers in bartending and speech therapy. She serves as poet-in-residence at Carver Center for Arts in Baltimore, MD. Poetry books include A Little Breast Music, Passager Books, After Words , Apprentice House, Bistro in Another Realm, Main Street Rag. www.apoeticlicense.com
In her sitting room, Queen Elizabeth and I
welcome the tray balanced with snifters
of Dubonnet, gin, lemon slices, small
floes of ice. We clink glasses, toast the royals,
gossip over juicy news: Brexit-this, Harry-that.
The Dubonnet glows ruby in London light.
After lunch, the queen summons a leash.
We walk her dogs. Stunning in a yellow primrose
Hermès headscarf, she pats my arm, proclaims:
If I wore beige, no one would know me. Later on,
at a palace affair for a well-medaled duke,
the monarch carries her sartorial signature--
a classic black Launer handbag, suede-lined.
She loans me a regal patent leather purse. No pause
to nap or recover from painstaking research
for my blockbuster, “A Day in the Life of the Queen.”
Her Majesty snaps me out of my trance.
We don purple coats, matching hats.
A carriage awaits. Perhaps a prince.
I scrawl in my notebook—Dinner with Phil.
Shirley J. Brewer had careers in bartending and speech therapy. She serves as poet-in-residence at Carver Center for Arts in Baltimore, MD. Poetry books include A Little Breast Music, Passager Books, After Words , Apprentice House, Bistro in Another Realm, Main Street Rag. www.apoeticlicense.com
Traci Brimhall & Brynn Saito Manhattan, KS & Fresno, CA 2 poems
Distance Ghazal
Almost music, the red-winged blackbirds and frogs in the distance
trying to summon a season’s love before summer’s distances.
A single violin singing in an empty square; necklace pearls
scattered over wet asphalt. Hard evidence, love at a distance.
The sound of the door handle, oh the beloved’s hands grow
close. The heart opens at footsteps. Even at a distance.
If I could box the wind, the warm dust, the echoing chimes
I’d fold this early summer for you, send it from a distance.
Scarves of smoke purled the grill, laughter sparking the yard.
We hail each other’s joy with masks on, keeping our distance.
Night songs: toads croaking, buzzing flies, low-pitched barking.
Poets know how to be alone: holy solitude and sounds in the distance.
The map above my desk measures shipwreck and mermaid rescue
by inches. And you, my friend, are only a thumb-width’s distance.
Almost music, the red-winged blackbirds and frogs in the distance
trying to summon a season’s love before summer’s distances.
A single violin singing in an empty square; necklace pearls
scattered over wet asphalt. Hard evidence, love at a distance.
The sound of the door handle, oh the beloved’s hands grow
close. The heart opens at footsteps. Even at a distance.
If I could box the wind, the warm dust, the echoing chimes
I’d fold this early summer for you, send it from a distance.
Scarves of smoke purled the grill, laughter sparking the yard.
We hail each other’s joy with masks on, keeping our distance.
Night songs: toads croaking, buzzing flies, low-pitched barking.
Poets know how to be alone: holy solitude and sounds in the distance.
The map above my desk measures shipwreck and mermaid rescue
by inches. And you, my friend, are only a thumb-width’s distance.
Blood Ghazal
Roses wilt in late April’s heat, a ceremony of blood.
The dog by accident breaks my skin, it blisters with blood.
Rumor has it God wants to love me so much he asked
His son to pay the tuition to forgiveness with blood.
If I could, I’d embrace my mother and father, breathe in
their familiar scent, our lives sheltered by blood.
A spot in the window saved for a caladium—angel wing
leaves, veins stained the shade of menstrual blood.
Whooping laughter in the dark and wind chimes.
I am a ghost in my own house, summer in the blood.
A storm announces itself, but the trees are busy.
A finch scolds a robin, its chest the shade of old blood.
Driving across state lines during a pandemic: Will I be hurt
because of my face, because of what’s imagined of my blood?
Traci Brimhall earned a BA at Florida State University, an MFA at Sarah Lawrence College, and a PhD at Western Michigan University. She is the author of the poetry collections Come the Slumberless to the Land of Nod (2020), Saudade (2017), Our Lady of the Ruins (2012), selected by Carolyn Forché for the Barnard Women Poets Prize, and Rookery (2010), winner of a Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award and a finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year Award. Brimhall collaborated with Brynn Saito on the chapbook Bright Power, Dark Peace (2013), and her poetry has been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2014 (edited by Terrance Hayes).
Brynn Saito is the author of two books of poetry from Red Hen Press, Power Made Us Swoon (2016) and The Palace of Contemplating Departure (2013), winner of the Benjamin Saltman Award and a finalist for the Northern California Book Award. She recently authored the chapbook, Dear—, commissioned by Densho, an organization dedicated to sharing the story of the World War II-era incarceration of Japanese Americans. Brynn is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing in the English Department at Fresno State and co-director of Yonsei Memory Project.
Roses wilt in late April’s heat, a ceremony of blood.
The dog by accident breaks my skin, it blisters with blood.
Rumor has it God wants to love me so much he asked
His son to pay the tuition to forgiveness with blood.
If I could, I’d embrace my mother and father, breathe in
their familiar scent, our lives sheltered by blood.
A spot in the window saved for a caladium—angel wing
leaves, veins stained the shade of menstrual blood.
Whooping laughter in the dark and wind chimes.
I am a ghost in my own house, summer in the blood.
A storm announces itself, but the trees are busy.
A finch scolds a robin, its chest the shade of old blood.
Driving across state lines during a pandemic: Will I be hurt
because of my face, because of what’s imagined of my blood?
Traci Brimhall earned a BA at Florida State University, an MFA at Sarah Lawrence College, and a PhD at Western Michigan University. She is the author of the poetry collections Come the Slumberless to the Land of Nod (2020), Saudade (2017), Our Lady of the Ruins (2012), selected by Carolyn Forché for the Barnard Women Poets Prize, and Rookery (2010), winner of a Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award and a finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year Award. Brimhall collaborated with Brynn Saito on the chapbook Bright Power, Dark Peace (2013), and her poetry has been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2014 (edited by Terrance Hayes).
Brynn Saito is the author of two books of poetry from Red Hen Press, Power Made Us Swoon (2016) and The Palace of Contemplating Departure (2013), winner of the Benjamin Saltman Award and a finalist for the Northern California Book Award. She recently authored the chapbook, Dear—, commissioned by Densho, an organization dedicated to sharing the story of the World War II-era incarceration of Japanese Americans. Brynn is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing in the English Department at Fresno State and co-director of Yonsei Memory Project.
Ronda Piszk Broatch Kingston, WA 2 poems
I Tell Myself Each Day
In a forest of pianos, the violin waits in spruce.
I can no longer keep the universe from expanding.
The animal in my throat calls to the yew tree.
It speaks of the vulnerability of strings, of horse
hair, and poetry. Inside my womanly body a zoo,
two by two, though the cats shut down the crowd.
In the mirror everything was right again. Mirrored
I saw a catalogue of death songs, of bright dead
things. Beneath a rock lay hidden the almighty
power of the first woman. Beneath the rock, the apple
seed, the squashed snake. They have been there since.
At least we save our desperation under glass.
At least the sudden flames leapt away from the horses.
The story of a daughter was kept in a banana peel. It was
a good story, how skin strips away leaving something
raw and sweet, every time. A black umbrella.
A night dark enough to slice. The first woman saw
the first wrinkle in a reflection in the first lake.
We are fond of our faces says the water.
When I step across the bridge of singing birds
my body becomes the bow, the book of gratitude.
In a forest of pianos, the violin waits in spruce.
I can no longer keep the universe from expanding.
The animal in my throat calls to the yew tree.
It speaks of the vulnerability of strings, of horse
hair, and poetry. Inside my womanly body a zoo,
two by two, though the cats shut down the crowd.
In the mirror everything was right again. Mirrored
I saw a catalogue of death songs, of bright dead
things. Beneath a rock lay hidden the almighty
power of the first woman. Beneath the rock, the apple
seed, the squashed snake. They have been there since.
At least we save our desperation under glass.
At least the sudden flames leapt away from the horses.
The story of a daughter was kept in a banana peel. It was
a good story, how skin strips away leaving something
raw and sweet, every time. A black umbrella.
A night dark enough to slice. The first woman saw
the first wrinkle in a reflection in the first lake.
We are fond of our faces says the water.
When I step across the bridge of singing birds
my body becomes the bow, the book of gratitude.
This longing you whisper, this gravitational lack
of planets levels me true. I no longer fill
my pockets with starlight. I tell the gathering crowd
I’m not famous, but an experiment in scatter
and deception. I take my panic home,
the way a stone on the tongue wants meat to go with it.
My body is full of private hysteria, a shatter
of lightbulb. I pull the cord, the top spins,
piano strings thrum to hammer’s gloved touch.
Someone falls asleep hearing a poem. Someone shows me
the millstone she was once lashed to. This unfolding
you hum while frozen to river rock speaks of baptism,
white doves descending. If I look through the water’s icy
screen, I can make out Mother Mary’s face, crowned in silt,
the way fir needles drift into the current.
Poet and photographer, Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press, 2015). Ronda was a finalist for the Four Way Books Prize, and her poems have been nominated several times for the Pushcart prize. Her journal publications include Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Sycamore Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered, among others.
of planets levels me true. I no longer fill
my pockets with starlight. I tell the gathering crowd
I’m not famous, but an experiment in scatter
and deception. I take my panic home,
the way a stone on the tongue wants meat to go with it.
My body is full of private hysteria, a shatter
of lightbulb. I pull the cord, the top spins,
piano strings thrum to hammer’s gloved touch.
Someone falls asleep hearing a poem. Someone shows me
the millstone she was once lashed to. This unfolding
you hum while frozen to river rock speaks of baptism,
white doves descending. If I look through the water’s icy
screen, I can make out Mother Mary’s face, crowned in silt,
the way fir needles drift into the current.
Poet and photographer, Ronda Piszk Broatch is the author of Lake of Fallen Constellations, (MoonPath Press, 2015). Ronda was a finalist for the Four Way Books Prize, and her poems have been nominated several times for the Pushcart prize. Her journal publications include Blackbird, Prairie Schooner, Sycamore Review, Mid-American Review, Puerto del Sol, and Public Radio KUOW’s All Things Considered, among others.
Sylvia Cavanaugh Cedar Grove, WI
Bars
Dad dropped us off at a playground
in a small unknown town
as Saturday rain drummed down.
He gave us the two army-green
ponchos from the trunk of his Dodge
and then took off
to watch the Reading Buccaneers
his favorite drum and bugle corps
practice.
He spent hours teaching himself to play drums
in the basement
while mom shut herself in the bedroom
writing poetry.
The strange little town felt uninhabited
and in that sodden playground
with its slick black macadam
bouncing back raindrops with the flare of a snare
we couldn’t quite reach the speed
of childhood’s light. Time slowed
and our vision tunneled
as we stared through the graymetal ladders
of the silver slide and monkey bars.
Years later, my brother stared through the bars
of the county jail
for the crime of addiction.
He became popular with the other inmates
telling stories and finding humor
making them believe they had the strength
to outlast this ordeal.
Sylvia Cavanaugh teaches high school cultural studies, has advised breakdancers and poets. She and her students are actively involved in the Sheboygan chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she has published three chapbooks and her poems have appeared in various periodicals and anthologies. She is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual: An Online Community Journal of Poetry and is the editor of English language poetry for Poetry Hall: A Chinese and English Bilingual Journal. Her work has received awards from The Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, Wisconsin People and Ideas, The Poetry Society of Michigan, Milwaukee Irish Fest, and others. She serves on the board of the Council for Wisconsin Writers.
Dad dropped us off at a playground
in a small unknown town
as Saturday rain drummed down.
He gave us the two army-green
ponchos from the trunk of his Dodge
and then took off
to watch the Reading Buccaneers
his favorite drum and bugle corps
practice.
He spent hours teaching himself to play drums
in the basement
while mom shut herself in the bedroom
writing poetry.
The strange little town felt uninhabited
and in that sodden playground
with its slick black macadam
bouncing back raindrops with the flare of a snare
we couldn’t quite reach the speed
of childhood’s light. Time slowed
and our vision tunneled
as we stared through the graymetal ladders
of the silver slide and monkey bars.
Years later, my brother stared through the bars
of the county jail
for the crime of addiction.
He became popular with the other inmates
telling stories and finding humor
making them believe they had the strength
to outlast this ordeal.
Sylvia Cavanaugh teaches high school cultural studies, has advised breakdancers and poets. She and her students are actively involved in the Sheboygan chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she has published three chapbooks and her poems have appeared in various periodicals and anthologies. She is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual: An Online Community Journal of Poetry and is the editor of English language poetry for Poetry Hall: A Chinese and English Bilingual Journal. Her work has received awards from The Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, Wisconsin People and Ideas, The Poetry Society of Michigan, Milwaukee Irish Fest, and others. She serves on the board of the Council for Wisconsin Writers.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda Los Angeles, CA 2 poems
I Think it’s Much Scarier to Live Life Alone 1
Change don’t come easy. For
anyone. But this state of war
we live in, 2 between two
worlds, I am alone in
my room, 3 briefly banished
by the sun, where the light
burns one’s doubts, one’s
fears, to wait—only to wait 4 --
Alone—do you know what
that means? 5 This is the world
I was born into: In it the wilderness
in me speaks, 6 the light intense
as a love affair. The world
just pours it out. I was blinded,
delighted, not just because,
nobody needs this much sun
light. 7 I had to see it and hear
it and react to it 8 , I miss the world
like a tremor trying to escape
its own denial, trying to pretend 9 .
Doesn’t anybody want to get up
in the middle of the night and sing 10 ?
The world where we live is a
burning house, the eyes say. I was
in a wild hurry to be living in
the halos with the past. The future
meant the gates that open
and the walls must turn
into carpets. 11 I am alone forever
in this room where the light burns 12
because our world is extravagant
and nobody needs this much sunlight. 13
1 Sarah Xerta, Juliet I
2 Cherríe Moraga, This Bridge Called My Back
3 Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals
4 Anna Kavan, Asylum Piece
5 Franz Kafka, The Judgment
6 bell hooks, Appalachian Elegy
Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
8 Mary Oliver, Upstream
9 Cassandra Troyan, Hatred of Women
10 Mary Oliver, Upstream
11 Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline
12 Anna Kavan, Asylum Piece
13 Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
Change don’t come easy. For
anyone. But this state of war
we live in, 2 between two
worlds, I am alone in
my room, 3 briefly banished
by the sun, where the light
burns one’s doubts, one’s
fears, to wait—only to wait 4 --
Alone—do you know what
that means? 5 This is the world
I was born into: In it the wilderness
in me speaks, 6 the light intense
as a love affair. The world
just pours it out. I was blinded,
delighted, not just because,
nobody needs this much sun
light. 7 I had to see it and hear
it and react to it 8 , I miss the world
like a tremor trying to escape
its own denial, trying to pretend 9 .
Doesn’t anybody want to get up
in the middle of the night and sing 10 ?
The world where we live is a
burning house, the eyes say. I was
in a wild hurry to be living in
the halos with the past. The future
meant the gates that open
and the walls must turn
into carpets. 11 I am alone forever
in this room where the light burns 12
because our world is extravagant
and nobody needs this much sunlight. 13
1 Sarah Xerta, Juliet I
2 Cherríe Moraga, This Bridge Called My Back
3 Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals
4 Anna Kavan, Asylum Piece
5 Franz Kafka, The Judgment
6 bell hooks, Appalachian Elegy
Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
8 Mary Oliver, Upstream
9 Cassandra Troyan, Hatred of Women
10 Mary Oliver, Upstream
11 Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline
12 Anna Kavan, Asylum Piece
13 Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
Thrift Store Mysteries
I can still hear her, mi Mami
porque, why would you want
to own someone else’s ropa--
cochino clothes is what she
would tell me over and over
and of course being the grosero
treinta-something boy/man-child
that I was, I had to go just to see
the blushing annoyance on her
rosy roja caramella tan cara
cheeks. What mi Mami never
wanted to entender were los
cuentos, the stories, so many
untold inside the aisles of Good
Will. So many inanimate voices,
ready to speak to me. What
happened to the wilted now
faded off white matrimono
boda dress. Holding up, I picture
aromas of a mal conceived
medianoche Vegas wedding--
a once beaming siren now
dimming in regrets, wanting
to forget the night, she would
replay in her mind, just like
the hombre who once sported
the azul prom tuxedo suit,
almost pristine with a hint
of Southern Comfort, stains
of chaser memories of Old
Style cerveza tell me this
chico never found his lucky
señorita, or else he would
have kept and treasured his
suerte, buena threads that
ooze smooth cool like
a Fonzi leather chaqueta
de cuero, even Mami would
be impresionada with this
one. How many motorcycle
rides did this masterpiece
of fabric experience before
the wife made the owner
donate—just by the scent
you could tell she didn’t want
all the lonely neighborhood
esposas y las divorciadas
sniffing around her once malo
bad boy, now tamed sin
his immortal threads like
superman domesticated
without his cape. All of these
cuentos on every rack, hanging
ready for further adventures--
reminding me when I would
arrive home, I could hear
mi Mami ordering me to
wash and lávate sus manos
sucias —she not knowing
in my closet I scored a vintage
blanco y negro camisa, perfecto
para Mardi Gras, she may never
enterder giving new life to
a shirt like this, yearning
to experience new skin, placing
mi oreja to the fabric and feel
their anticipación so many
stories these colores, pockets
and collars ready to behold.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of the full-length poetry collection Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, the poetry chapbook So Many Flowers, So Little Time from Red Mare Press, Between the Spine published with Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar, a collection of cento poems inspired by Sylvia Plath’s 1963 novel published by CLASH Books. You can connect with Adrian on his website:
http://www.adrianernestocepeda.com/
I can still hear her, mi Mami
porque, why would you want
to own someone else’s ropa--
cochino clothes is what she
would tell me over and over
and of course being the grosero
treinta-something boy/man-child
that I was, I had to go just to see
the blushing annoyance on her
rosy roja caramella tan cara
cheeks. What mi Mami never
wanted to entender were los
cuentos, the stories, so many
untold inside the aisles of Good
Will. So many inanimate voices,
ready to speak to me. What
happened to the wilted now
faded off white matrimono
boda dress. Holding up, I picture
aromas of a mal conceived
medianoche Vegas wedding--
a once beaming siren now
dimming in regrets, wanting
to forget the night, she would
replay in her mind, just like
the hombre who once sported
the azul prom tuxedo suit,
almost pristine with a hint
of Southern Comfort, stains
of chaser memories of Old
Style cerveza tell me this
chico never found his lucky
señorita, or else he would
have kept and treasured his
suerte, buena threads that
ooze smooth cool like
a Fonzi leather chaqueta
de cuero, even Mami would
be impresionada with this
one. How many motorcycle
rides did this masterpiece
of fabric experience before
the wife made the owner
donate—just by the scent
you could tell she didn’t want
all the lonely neighborhood
esposas y las divorciadas
sniffing around her once malo
bad boy, now tamed sin
his immortal threads like
superman domesticated
without his cape. All of these
cuentos on every rack, hanging
ready for further adventures--
reminding me when I would
arrive home, I could hear
mi Mami ordering me to
wash and lávate sus manos
sucias —she not knowing
in my closet I scored a vintage
blanco y negro camisa, perfecto
para Mardi Gras, she may never
enterder giving new life to
a shirt like this, yearning
to experience new skin, placing
mi oreja to the fabric and feel
their anticipación so many
stories these colores, pockets
and collars ready to behold.
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda is the author of the full-length poetry collection Flashes & Verses… Becoming Attractions from Unsolicited Press, the poetry chapbook So Many Flowers, So Little Time from Red Mare Press, Between the Spine published with Picture Show Press and La Belle Ajar, a collection of cento poems inspired by Sylvia Plath’s 1963 novel published by CLASH Books. You can connect with Adrian on his website:
http://www.adrianernestocepeda.com/
Peter J. Cooley New Orleans, LA 2 poems
Epithalamium
The trees keep telling me we’re only passing through,
the live oaks of New Orleans City Park.
“But legend says we stood here before Christ.”
Under their boughs of summer, I am ambling again,
no end in sight, watched over by that sun
darkening the hour of the crucifixion.
Here in the Park, my five white swans, one black,
split the lagoon’s dark mirror, all their grace
disguising awkwardness if I should shout
as shout I have. I won’t today, the black
could be new image of the beforelife,
an immortality.
I have only to ask.
I ask, calling you back here, Love,
our first summer in this city, remember?
By this lagoon, after my hey, you, fly!
a black swan rose, the darkening wings
splattering us with filthy water. Remember,
you screamed out your delight, squeezing my hand.
I squeeze now, answering back, locking your grip.
And now you’re leaving, as I finish this.
The trees keep telling me we’re only passing through,
the live oaks of New Orleans City Park.
“But legend says we stood here before Christ.”
Under their boughs of summer, I am ambling again,
no end in sight, watched over by that sun
darkening the hour of the crucifixion.
Here in the Park, my five white swans, one black,
split the lagoon’s dark mirror, all their grace
disguising awkwardness if I should shout
as shout I have. I won’t today, the black
could be new image of the beforelife,
an immortality.
I have only to ask.
I ask, calling you back here, Love,
our first summer in this city, remember?
By this lagoon, after my hey, you, fly!
a black swan rose, the darkening wings
splattering us with filthy water. Remember,
you screamed out your delight, squeezing my hand.
I squeeze now, answering back, locking your grip.
And now you’re leaving, as I finish this.
Apologetics
Christ of the only world I know today
risen for me, splayed sunshine on the floor,
why do I have to wake up the same man,
the same body I woke in yesterday?
But since You only speak to me in my words,
breaking out images to concoct a poem,
or in the silences between the lines,
and this is not a poem yet, I’m searching you
by questioning, while You wait in the dust motes--
This is the body I was born to die in.
I wipe the night sweats from my cheeks and forehead.
Another cup of coffee, then a poem?
Silence, my Christ, my answers are all questions.
I’ll find out what I’m looking for between betweens.
And this is not a poem, just broken silences.
Peter Cooley is the author of ten books of poetry, the most recent of which is World Without Finishing, Carnegie Mellon 2018. The former Poet Laureate of Louisiana, he lives in New Orleans. The poems here in SoFloPoJo are part of a new ms. The One Certain Thing. Other poems in the ms. have been accepted by Plume, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review and other magazines.
Christ of the only world I know today
risen for me, splayed sunshine on the floor,
why do I have to wake up the same man,
the same body I woke in yesterday?
But since You only speak to me in my words,
breaking out images to concoct a poem,
or in the silences between the lines,
and this is not a poem yet, I’m searching you
by questioning, while You wait in the dust motes--
This is the body I was born to die in.
I wipe the night sweats from my cheeks and forehead.
Another cup of coffee, then a poem?
Silence, my Christ, my answers are all questions.
I’ll find out what I’m looking for between betweens.
And this is not a poem, just broken silences.
Peter Cooley is the author of ten books of poetry, the most recent of which is World Without Finishing, Carnegie Mellon 2018. The former Poet Laureate of Louisiana, he lives in New Orleans. The poems here in SoFloPoJo are part of a new ms. The One Certain Thing. Other poems in the ms. have been accepted by Plume, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review and other magazines.
Charles Coté Rochester, NY
Oysters
For DiGi
I eat clams. I'm not afraid
of the Atlantic's swirling,
the taste of pearls on my lips,
am not afraid of straddling
that wild ridge.
In my throat, a burning
spice settles in brine,
a word made flesh,
my new life on the half shell.
Like my name, my mother says,
it's beautiful on the tongue,
beautiful like the sound
of Cabernet and cloves,
or daybreak when I gaze
up at you in bed,
a laze of light from the window
on your face bent toward me
in the morning. How lucky
the symmetry, two pillars
holding up the dawn,
two green and gold shelters.
You say, I want you
and I watch your words
hover over me like a blue dragon,
watch your words curled up
in the linen like a delicacy
that lingers, like those oysters
still linger in memory,
how, no longer afraid, I open.
Charles Coté’s elegies lament and celebrate the loss of a beloved son in his chapbook, Flying for the Window (Finishing Line Press, 2008) and his first full-length collection, I Play His Red Guitar (Tiger Bark Press, 2019). He has published widely in journals. He teaches poetry at Writers & Books and serves on the boards of literary publisher BOA Editions.
For DiGi
I eat clams. I'm not afraid
of the Atlantic's swirling,
the taste of pearls on my lips,
am not afraid of straddling
that wild ridge.
In my throat, a burning
spice settles in brine,
a word made flesh,
my new life on the half shell.
Like my name, my mother says,
it's beautiful on the tongue,
beautiful like the sound
of Cabernet and cloves,
or daybreak when I gaze
up at you in bed,
a laze of light from the window
on your face bent toward me
in the morning. How lucky
the symmetry, two pillars
holding up the dawn,
two green and gold shelters.
You say, I want you
and I watch your words
hover over me like a blue dragon,
watch your words curled up
in the linen like a delicacy
that lingers, like those oysters
still linger in memory,
how, no longer afraid, I open.
Charles Coté’s elegies lament and celebrate the loss of a beloved son in his chapbook, Flying for the Window (Finishing Line Press, 2008) and his first full-length collection, I Play His Red Guitar (Tiger Bark Press, 2019). He has published widely in journals. He teaches poetry at Writers & Books and serves on the boards of literary publisher BOA Editions.
Jesse DeLong Baton Rouge, LA 2 poems
Slumped against the front bumper of my Mercury Comet, I hold a map the way you’d expect
someone like me to. I feel the way the weather does—windless. Everywhere, miles of Badland
grass an eighth a tank of gas won’t cover. As I glance at the map, my finger rests on a town
whose name sounds faintly recognizable, like a voice underwater.
At least on the edge—the town, the sunflowers
among the garbage—it’s much, much too late
to pretend we can withstand, like a sun-dial, the hours.
At the edge of town, sun flowers the least. Whose
entire life could be grey, but he still believes in yellow?
It takes someone stronger than me not to hate,
at least, myself. Driven to the edge,
among the garbage—it’s much, much, much.
someone like me to. I feel the way the weather does—windless. Everywhere, miles of Badland
grass an eighth a tank of gas won’t cover. As I glance at the map, my finger rests on a town
whose name sounds faintly recognizable, like a voice underwater.
At least on the edge—the town, the sunflowers
among the garbage—it’s much, much too late
to pretend we can withstand, like a sun-dial, the hours.
At the edge of town, sun flowers the least. Whose
entire life could be grey, but he still believes in yellow?
It takes someone stronger than me not to hate,
at least, myself. Driven to the edge,
among the garbage—it’s much, much, much.
Walking through the light snowfall, I remember the day, a little over a year ago, when the river
churned up silt and leaves, and you, strung-out by the rain, left for a long time.
We have fallen, I admit. No, Bird, never mind, return
to the lint-dry air upon this one day of the year--
a mirroring, shadows digesting themselves on snow,
impressions of salt and carbon where we have fallen--
staccato of snowfall disturbed by movement through the flakes.
Everything comfortable, shaken. As water is ruffled by trout,
the soil, a gaseous planet, salted, and carbon drenched, returns
to the riverbed. Dirt meeting its origins of dirt. One day, a year.
Jesse DeLong's work has appeared in Colorado Review, Mid-American Review, American Letters and Commentary, Indiana Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Typo, as well as the anthologies Best New Poets 2011 and Feast: Poetry and Recipes for a Full Seating at Dinner. His chapbooks, Tearings, and Other Poems and Earthwards, were released by Curly Head Press. His debut manuscript, The Amateur Scientist's Notebook, is forthcoming from Baobab Press.
churned up silt and leaves, and you, strung-out by the rain, left for a long time.
We have fallen, I admit. No, Bird, never mind, return
to the lint-dry air upon this one day of the year--
a mirroring, shadows digesting themselves on snow,
impressions of salt and carbon where we have fallen--
staccato of snowfall disturbed by movement through the flakes.
Everything comfortable, shaken. As water is ruffled by trout,
the soil, a gaseous planet, salted, and carbon drenched, returns
to the riverbed. Dirt meeting its origins of dirt. One day, a year.
Jesse DeLong's work has appeared in Colorado Review, Mid-American Review, American Letters and Commentary, Indiana Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Typo, as well as the anthologies Best New Poets 2011 and Feast: Poetry and Recipes for a Full Seating at Dinner. His chapbooks, Tearings, and Other Poems and Earthwards, were released by Curly Head Press. His debut manuscript, The Amateur Scientist's Notebook, is forthcoming from Baobab Press.
Deborah Denicola Margate, FL
Karma
You—the smuggler of just-let-me-get-by.
Me—your fence in the outside world. The star
that burnt out but left you a light to smother
in quilts of denial. I was the one who disturbed
your elusive double-entendres with my untoward
euphemisms and underlit puns. I was your galactic
counterpart at the threshold where the door swung
open onto some place like Oz. I was the whisper
that insisted we down that laced drink,
the ecstatic trip lost in a zip code beyond belief
in the construct of time. I was the synapse bridging neurons
of bold suggestions and untransmuted desires.
You were the ear-worm of Cm’ere/Go away, Cm’ere/Go away--
while I went undercover, snooping for classified documents,
the exposure of false flags, big lies under shadows
of recycled debris. I was the believer in spite of contrary
evidence, the quiver to raise your genetic vibration, gateway
to golden-age orgasm. I was the booty call you overlooked,
and mistook for a dim alley when I actually led into truth town.
You—of the bad accent, you—of the brutal biceps and
occasional slur, you—wind of resistance, the broken
river’s poison. You of the locked cellar, the barbed wire, you
were the dumpster I dropped into, packaged wreckage I sought,
damned spot I dared rub hard with Clorox and dollar-store products.
You—the Houdini escape artist whose costume
malfunctioned. You were that slip into decadent underworlds
I’d risen out of. You were that guy, nailed to exigencies
of the past. I was ‘la crème de la crème’ coffee houses couldn’t
surpass, so rich and sweet no one could swallow—Together
our souls were unbalanced masses on Zeus’s scales, taxed
by the rumors of colleagues, separated by highway truck stops
and the side effects of prescription drugs. Despite these
minor differences, I loved you then, I love you now—.
Deborah DeNicola has authored two poetry collections, Original Human, and Where Divinity Begins and her memoir The Future That Brought Her Here. (Nicholas Hays/Ibis Press 2009) Deborah compiled and edited Orpheus & Company; Contemporary Poems on Greek Mythology (University Press of New England 1999). Among other awards, she has been a recipient of a National Endowment Fellowship.
You—the smuggler of just-let-me-get-by.
Me—your fence in the outside world. The star
that burnt out but left you a light to smother
in quilts of denial. I was the one who disturbed
your elusive double-entendres with my untoward
euphemisms and underlit puns. I was your galactic
counterpart at the threshold where the door swung
open onto some place like Oz. I was the whisper
that insisted we down that laced drink,
the ecstatic trip lost in a zip code beyond belief
in the construct of time. I was the synapse bridging neurons
of bold suggestions and untransmuted desires.
You were the ear-worm of Cm’ere/Go away, Cm’ere/Go away--
while I went undercover, snooping for classified documents,
the exposure of false flags, big lies under shadows
of recycled debris. I was the believer in spite of contrary
evidence, the quiver to raise your genetic vibration, gateway
to golden-age orgasm. I was the booty call you overlooked,
and mistook for a dim alley when I actually led into truth town.
You—of the bad accent, you—of the brutal biceps and
occasional slur, you—wind of resistance, the broken
river’s poison. You of the locked cellar, the barbed wire, you
were the dumpster I dropped into, packaged wreckage I sought,
damned spot I dared rub hard with Clorox and dollar-store products.
You—the Houdini escape artist whose costume
malfunctioned. You were that slip into decadent underworlds
I’d risen out of. You were that guy, nailed to exigencies
of the past. I was ‘la crème de la crème’ coffee houses couldn’t
surpass, so rich and sweet no one could swallow—Together
our souls were unbalanced masses on Zeus’s scales, taxed
by the rumors of colleagues, separated by highway truck stops
and the side effects of prescription drugs. Despite these
minor differences, I loved you then, I love you now—.
Deborah DeNicola has authored two poetry collections, Original Human, and Where Divinity Begins and her memoir The Future That Brought Her Here. (Nicholas Hays/Ibis Press 2009) Deborah compiled and edited Orpheus & Company; Contemporary Poems on Greek Mythology (University Press of New England 1999). Among other awards, she has been a recipient of a National Endowment Fellowship.
Arturo Desimone Buenos Aires, Brazil 3 poems
In a Small Nation (Aruba)
To inhabit a small country, means
Power to assume, without airs,
at that hour, that night,
you may very well be the only one
playing Stravinsky
from speakers,
at that PM, AM, Amor-hour,
from one's house pouring
into the dry street of ghosts,
under the rooftops (asphalted)
of cats mating— hot nocturne
overhead.
To inhabit a small country (Aruba)
means: to not be able to explain
how mazurkas
made their skanky way
to the Antilles,
though one may never know
what import-export Russians today
compete with souvenir Divi-Divi dice
and vinyl records, in their yachts
in the Gomorrah marina,
with its view of the bay
and of Parliament,
to understand, but not explain
how the Holiday Inn Hotel or Telebingo
can replace colonialism's navies,
piranha-Orange of Nassau, out-dinned
by a thousand fantasy flags
of patriots proud of Our national industries:
liqueurs, Palmera rum,
aloe sun-tan lotion bottling—without rivalry,
aloe fountain of youth, world's #1 potion distiller
of laxatives--
To inhabit a small nation, means:
flags no child in a school in any other
vanishing republic was ever
taught, to memorize in crayon …
and to have natural solidarity,
to be privy,
to the vainglorious struggles, Epics
and misfortunes,
of the Lithuanians,
the Latvians, the Tunisians,
the Mauritians, Khazars,
the Ludicrecians,
and to understand why the Maltese
fear Albanians flooding in,
why the Azerbaijanis want you,
to believe
their doctrine
(they invented
the circle) .
Greenlanders lost laughing drunk
in Denmark squares, needing no compass
but whales rounding in their skulls--
While the others can only take
interest/trust
in the big names,
like Russia or Canada, Brazil
and other nations that wear
Embassies and space program tiaras--
To give to Cesaria Evora
what is Cesaria's:
to inhabit a petit pays,
means to not want
to argue
with a local hammock-columnist
as to why Aruba does not
need a space-program.
To inhabit a small country,
means to look
with one's searching ear,
like a schizophrenic canine
for evidence of that country's existence confirmed.
A ghost searches for proof of his own influx--
In a folk song by the Venezuelan star Cecilia Todd,
for instance,
in her hit song
Ay Caramba, somewhere towards the climax
did she wail the name,
of this land she visited
with her man then,
in desert-tropic’s rarity of rain?
To inhabit a small country, means
Power to assume, without airs,
at that hour, that night,
you may very well be the only one
playing Stravinsky
from speakers,
at that PM, AM, Amor-hour,
from one's house pouring
into the dry street of ghosts,
under the rooftops (asphalted)
of cats mating— hot nocturne
overhead.
To inhabit a small country (Aruba)
means: to not be able to explain
how mazurkas
made their skanky way
to the Antilles,
though one may never know
what import-export Russians today
compete with souvenir Divi-Divi dice
and vinyl records, in their yachts
in the Gomorrah marina,
with its view of the bay
and of Parliament,
to understand, but not explain
how the Holiday Inn Hotel or Telebingo
can replace colonialism's navies,
piranha-Orange of Nassau, out-dinned
by a thousand fantasy flags
of patriots proud of Our national industries:
liqueurs, Palmera rum,
aloe sun-tan lotion bottling—without rivalry,
aloe fountain of youth, world's #1 potion distiller
of laxatives--
To inhabit a small nation, means:
flags no child in a school in any other
vanishing republic was ever
taught, to memorize in crayon …
and to have natural solidarity,
to be privy,
to the vainglorious struggles, Epics
and misfortunes,
of the Lithuanians,
the Latvians, the Tunisians,
the Mauritians, Khazars,
the Ludicrecians,
and to understand why the Maltese
fear Albanians flooding in,
why the Azerbaijanis want you,
to believe
their doctrine
(they invented
the circle) .
Greenlanders lost laughing drunk
in Denmark squares, needing no compass
but whales rounding in their skulls--
While the others can only take
interest/trust
in the big names,
like Russia or Canada, Brazil
and other nations that wear
Embassies and space program tiaras--
To give to Cesaria Evora
what is Cesaria's:
to inhabit a petit pays,
means to not want
to argue
with a local hammock-columnist
as to why Aruba does not
need a space-program.
To inhabit a small country,
means to look
with one's searching ear,
like a schizophrenic canine
for evidence of that country's existence confirmed.
A ghost searches for proof of his own influx--
In a folk song by the Venezuelan star Cecilia Todd,
for instance,
in her hit song
Ay Caramba, somewhere towards the climax
did she wail the name,
of this land she visited
with her man then,
in desert-tropic’s rarity of rain?
Island Interregnum
This is the time of masks,
that levitate, after having eaten--
after having stolen
back the countenances
of their wearers.
This, the time
of Hypnotists
The footsoldiers of Hypnos trawl,
falconers selling off their cures
on all the markets.
I should not claim, fearfully,
to have missed my time:
born to the carnival season,
in the dark dawn following night-parade,
road-marches of shaky-limbed,
some on glowing stilts, (not to be mistaken
for Dutchman's crew, of the sordid and damned,
without Heineken, but still making rounds
on phantom Pestkopf-daemon boat—)
The jump-up, of see-sawing floats,
girls shaking hip, wearing solely feathers,
glitter and anemones—stolen, ripped from reefs,
by free-diver boys (they can hold
in their breath, if little else, for long)
Policemen embraced mobsters,
singing calypsos together, pointing
fight-tools in the air—(this happens year round,
but not in public, save during the Carnival,
Bacchanal unsound—) kerosene lanterns shook,
up & down & all along the seaside,
“Crosstown—Midtown—Uptown—Downtown,
His Body was Found...All over Town!”
As if desperate to ward off all the layers,
sediments of an old evil,
of the deliberated, barren desert island,
named Baranka. meaning “Piece of coral rock”
A crown of kadushi-cactus thorns to perch upon,
kneel upon, to declare Paradise Inc. with laurels,
(Laurels ward off cockroaches: a housewife wisdom)
"Paradis" for some, "Paraíso" Casino for others
"parasitic" for others still, according to
accounting-error inspectors dispatched
from Orange Motherland, peelers in hand,
they postulate a cure for carnival-unreason,
for those clothed in half of nothing,
hoping to provoke an azure Gargantuan
who sleeps drunken, dreamless in his
hammock of firecoral red and green reef
and a hundred thousand US dollars
floating by overhead, census he cannot keep--
he is more possessive still, of his azure giantess,
who cheats on him regular, and in many gardens.
And here comes a big truth teller,
cacique wearing sun-block,
without a cassock, corruption-sniffer
sent on a junket, in the newspaper snippet,
like a DEA man, but more moralistic,
trying to amass hate-mail, half raider
half high school teacher, quipping Socratic.
Get rid of him, get rid of her, banish them
and all the righteous.
An island is an island and no place
for their kind.
Now, where, my honeys,
did you stash that plastic bag
full of sand-dollars and hemlock?
This is the time of masks,
that levitate, after having eaten--
after having stolen
back the countenances
of their wearers.
This, the time
of Hypnotists
The footsoldiers of Hypnos trawl,
falconers selling off their cures
on all the markets.
I should not claim, fearfully,
to have missed my time:
born to the carnival season,
in the dark dawn following night-parade,
road-marches of shaky-limbed,
some on glowing stilts, (not to be mistaken
for Dutchman's crew, of the sordid and damned,
without Heineken, but still making rounds
on phantom Pestkopf-daemon boat—)
The jump-up, of see-sawing floats,
girls shaking hip, wearing solely feathers,
glitter and anemones—stolen, ripped from reefs,
by free-diver boys (they can hold
in their breath, if little else, for long)
Policemen embraced mobsters,
singing calypsos together, pointing
fight-tools in the air—(this happens year round,
but not in public, save during the Carnival,
Bacchanal unsound—) kerosene lanterns shook,
up & down & all along the seaside,
“Crosstown—Midtown—Uptown—Downtown,
His Body was Found...All over Town!”
As if desperate to ward off all the layers,
sediments of an old evil,
of the deliberated, barren desert island,
named Baranka. meaning “Piece of coral rock”
A crown of kadushi-cactus thorns to perch upon,
kneel upon, to declare Paradise Inc. with laurels,
(Laurels ward off cockroaches: a housewife wisdom)
"Paradis" for some, "Paraíso" Casino for others
"parasitic" for others still, according to
accounting-error inspectors dispatched
from Orange Motherland, peelers in hand,
they postulate a cure for carnival-unreason,
for those clothed in half of nothing,
hoping to provoke an azure Gargantuan
who sleeps drunken, dreamless in his
hammock of firecoral red and green reef
and a hundred thousand US dollars
floating by overhead, census he cannot keep--
he is more possessive still, of his azure giantess,
who cheats on him regular, and in many gardens.
And here comes a big truth teller,
cacique wearing sun-block,
without a cassock, corruption-sniffer
sent on a junket, in the newspaper snippet,
like a DEA man, but more moralistic,
trying to amass hate-mail, half raider
half high school teacher, quipping Socratic.
Get rid of him, get rid of her, banish them
and all the righteous.
An island is an island and no place
for their kind.
Now, where, my honeys,
did you stash that plastic bag
full of sand-dollars and hemlock?
Aruban-Rimbaudian Teenager's Firecoral Poem
Theorized then, at the logical age of 15
about warrior-culture,
then applied my theories, my speculations
would not be idle
(for no scientist is).
The devil doled out
the serious work
that guaranteed an alibi,
legitimate hiding place--
Fire-coral palace burns
without warming abdomen.
Lucifer, well in his Dominion
Doled out chores to his delegates,
who bowed, groveled
at their tunic-wrapped waists.
Praying for cleanliness,
little did they know
they worshipped a discord in him.
He is a dutiful, and dry-faced
rebel peasant of the corals,
he wears sun-dress made of jellyfish
Enjoying the burn,
frivolous self-punisher,
wearing a fine watch
of craft without god in it
on his wrist, he gives the middle finger
Proud of being early to rise, of his arbeit
He catches you like a worm.
I had a different labour of going
into the cold-coloured wind,
into the wide spaces,
the nothingness,
where I could vanish among the flowers,
or feel the sharp grains of Saharan-blown sand
in the wind cutting my face
along shapely feminine coastlines of Aruba,
on the beach of solitary walkers
Playa de los Solitarios
not far from the hotel
called Playa Linda, Lovely Beach in Spanish.
Hotel after Hotel is Babel, Babel
Loved for its generosity,
like the Aryan sun-wheel of the welfare state
hiring infinite bellboys to chime: Nation.
I risked my bare feet
that were not hard like the callused souls
of the young rastas and street urchins.
A street urchin can step
on a thorny sea-apple
and not feel any pain or zing.
I stepped on a sea urchin thorn
and my grandfather stepped
on a sea-urchin
before I was born,
before he died,
but in those two
wrong steps across
sand-swept barefoot
wave-punched time
Our foot soles meet,
and we stand conjoined again
sole-to-sole and
Palm to palm,
Ayn (Eye in Hebr.)
to Ayn:
hands of men
that once held the sword and shield,
shake the world and Babel
at its throat-handles,
strangle by electric eel.
And no barakuda or swordfish-snout
no ocean could divide or cut
through our knot, indivisible
as the hidden point in the pearl
that outlasts the visible pearl orb.
A warrior swallows the pearls
and raw shells
to die in a dream.
To have lived in a dream,
is worthy ,
dignified, but only
If followed by
to die a dream--
Arturo Desimone's poems, articles, reviews and short fiction pieces have previously appeared in The Acentos Review, CounterPunch, New Orleans Review, The Missing Slate, Hinchas de Poesia, Berfrois and Kenyon Review. Two books of his poems and drawings appeared in small presses in the UK, Africa and Argentina. These are "Costa Nostra/ Mare Nostrum" (Hesterglock press UK, see a review here) and " Ouafa and Thawra: About a Lover from Tunisia" (distributed by African Books Collective, editor Tendai Mwanaka, Zimbabwe) which was released recently in a bilingual edition in Argentina (La Amada de Túnez, Clara Beter Ediciones 2020)
Theorized then, at the logical age of 15
about warrior-culture,
then applied my theories, my speculations
would not be idle
(for no scientist is).
The devil doled out
the serious work
that guaranteed an alibi,
legitimate hiding place--
Fire-coral palace burns
without warming abdomen.
Lucifer, well in his Dominion
Doled out chores to his delegates,
who bowed, groveled
at their tunic-wrapped waists.
Praying for cleanliness,
little did they know
they worshipped a discord in him.
He is a dutiful, and dry-faced
rebel peasant of the corals,
he wears sun-dress made of jellyfish
Enjoying the burn,
frivolous self-punisher,
wearing a fine watch
of craft without god in it
on his wrist, he gives the middle finger
Proud of being early to rise, of his arbeit
He catches you like a worm.
I had a different labour of going
into the cold-coloured wind,
into the wide spaces,
the nothingness,
where I could vanish among the flowers,
or feel the sharp grains of Saharan-blown sand
in the wind cutting my face
along shapely feminine coastlines of Aruba,
on the beach of solitary walkers
Playa de los Solitarios
not far from the hotel
called Playa Linda, Lovely Beach in Spanish.
Hotel after Hotel is Babel, Babel
Loved for its generosity,
like the Aryan sun-wheel of the welfare state
hiring infinite bellboys to chime: Nation.
I risked my bare feet
that were not hard like the callused souls
of the young rastas and street urchins.
A street urchin can step
on a thorny sea-apple
and not feel any pain or zing.
I stepped on a sea urchin thorn
and my grandfather stepped
on a sea-urchin
before I was born,
before he died,
but in those two
wrong steps across
sand-swept barefoot
wave-punched time
Our foot soles meet,
and we stand conjoined again
sole-to-sole and
Palm to palm,
Ayn (Eye in Hebr.)
to Ayn:
hands of men
that once held the sword and shield,
shake the world and Babel
at its throat-handles,
strangle by electric eel.
And no barakuda or swordfish-snout
no ocean could divide or cut
through our knot, indivisible
as the hidden point in the pearl
that outlasts the visible pearl orb.
A warrior swallows the pearls
and raw shells
to die in a dream.
To have lived in a dream,
is worthy ,
dignified, but only
If followed by
to die a dream--
Arturo Desimone's poems, articles, reviews and short fiction pieces have previously appeared in The Acentos Review, CounterPunch, New Orleans Review, The Missing Slate, Hinchas de Poesia, Berfrois and Kenyon Review. Two books of his poems and drawings appeared in small presses in the UK, Africa and Argentina. These are "Costa Nostra/ Mare Nostrum" (Hesterglock press UK, see a review here) and " Ouafa and Thawra: About a Lover from Tunisia" (distributed by African Books Collective, editor Tendai Mwanaka, Zimbabwe) which was released recently in a bilingual edition in Argentina (La Amada de Túnez, Clara Beter Ediciones 2020)
Andrea England Kalamazoo and Manistee, MI. 2 poems
Lullaby
You’ve been dead fourteen years
come November, and he’s been gone
ten. The house, broken into, flood
followed by drought, wind farm’s come.
We keep the yearly rummage sale
stash on the screened-in porch,
where we used to hear the neighbors
throwing pots and plates, hear them
screaming, Fuck you mother fucker!
during dinner during summer.
Now the porch is pulling away
like a teenager on the first day of
school, slowing sinking into and away
from itself. All those plates colliding
to get to higher ground, I keep thinking
you left me a note, some instructions
for this life. Every visit home is the first
one and the last. Bikes and backhoes keep
time in the garage, furniture moved and
moved again. I’m losing track of what
this poem’s about. It’s not a sad poem
exactly, but the kind where the neighbors
holler out in the night, about something
I can’t quite hear, but this time, I don’t
go to the window to close it.
You’ve been dead fourteen years
come November, and he’s been gone
ten. The house, broken into, flood
followed by drought, wind farm’s come.
We keep the yearly rummage sale
stash on the screened-in porch,
where we used to hear the neighbors
throwing pots and plates, hear them
screaming, Fuck you mother fucker!
during dinner during summer.
Now the porch is pulling away
like a teenager on the first day of
school, slowing sinking into and away
from itself. All those plates colliding
to get to higher ground, I keep thinking
you left me a note, some instructions
for this life. Every visit home is the first
one and the last. Bikes and backhoes keep
time in the garage, furniture moved and
moved again. I’m losing track of what
this poem’s about. It’s not a sad poem
exactly, but the kind where the neighbors
holler out in the night, about something
I can’t quite hear, but this time, I don’t
go to the window to close it.
After Dinner
—after Lynda Hull
We are riding in the car
when my daughter calls and
it’s all FaceTime, and candy
she’s bought for a bribe,
as she reads her speech for class
secretary. I’ve already written
her a card with motherlies--
How I’m proud, how she’s brave
win or lose. She’s added some
humor like, we all like field trips
don’t we? It is dark, so she can’t
see us, but we can see her rocking
back and forth as she hums.
You have not seen her in a couple
months, and when she hangs up
you say, are those boobies? and
suddenly I’m Ringwald in Sixteen
Candles with her grandmother grabbing,
or with Debbie, my summertime friend,
cruising into JC Penny’s for layaway.
It’s the summer before high school
and I’ve started to bleed. At dinner,
my mother is excited, relieved.
Finally, it is dark in the car and
I’m thinking of the candy
my daughter will hand out,
how she knows that something sweet
can seduce. The street lamps blow by
one frame at a time like a wick
snuffed and pinched, and burning.
Andrea England is co-editor of the anthology, Scientists and Poets #Resist (2019), and the author of two chapbooks. Her publications include SWWIM, Potomac Review, Zone 3, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and others. She currently resides between Kalamazoo and Manistee, Michigan, where she teaches for a variety of universities and organizations. To learn more, visit andreajengland.com.
—after Lynda Hull
We are riding in the car
when my daughter calls and
it’s all FaceTime, and candy
she’s bought for a bribe,
as she reads her speech for class
secretary. I’ve already written
her a card with motherlies--
How I’m proud, how she’s brave
win or lose. She’s added some
humor like, we all like field trips
don’t we? It is dark, so she can’t
see us, but we can see her rocking
back and forth as she hums.
You have not seen her in a couple
months, and when she hangs up
you say, are those boobies? and
suddenly I’m Ringwald in Sixteen
Candles with her grandmother grabbing,
or with Debbie, my summertime friend,
cruising into JC Penny’s for layaway.
It’s the summer before high school
and I’ve started to bleed. At dinner,
my mother is excited, relieved.
Finally, it is dark in the car and
I’m thinking of the candy
my daughter will hand out,
how she knows that something sweet
can seduce. The street lamps blow by
one frame at a time like a wick
snuffed and pinched, and burning.
Andrea England is co-editor of the anthology, Scientists and Poets #Resist (2019), and the author of two chapbooks. Her publications include SWWIM, Potomac Review, Zone 3, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and others. She currently resides between Kalamazoo and Manistee, Michigan, where she teaches for a variety of universities and organizations. To learn more, visit andreajengland.com.
Joseph Fasano New York, NY 2 poems
Horses
Look at them, frisking in the spring wind.
You can come with me,
wholly, if you want to.
Come with me
and touch them in their trouble.
We will ride out,
all evening, through the deep leaves.
We will tire out
our own hearts in the darkness.
Come, then.
We will lead them back
and wash them.
We will rinse them
as our child-hearts
were rinsed, once. We will curry out
the thistle
from their hair.
Be here. Be here. Be here.
And you there
with your one life
in your own arms,
listen to it
frisking in its halter.
It has carried you
this far through the darkness.
Let it be, that wild thing
in starlight.
It will. It will take you there.
Look at them, frisking in the spring wind.
You can come with me,
wholly, if you want to.
Come with me
and touch them in their trouble.
We will ride out,
all evening, through the deep leaves.
We will tire out
our own hearts in the darkness.
Come, then.
We will lead them back
and wash them.
We will rinse them
as our child-hearts
were rinsed, once. We will curry out
the thistle
from their hair.
Be here. Be here. Be here.
And you there
with your one life
in your own arms,
listen to it
frisking in its halter.
It has carried you
this far through the darkness.
Let it be, that wild thing
in starlight.
It will. It will take you there.
The Moon
I, too, am tired of it. And yet, like an old love,
it comes to us, illuminating the bare walls
of our houses, catching its hems
on our thresholds, carrying its little cup of blossoms.
We are done with it.
Aren't we done with it?
We have told ourselves
only grace can change us;
we have told ourselves
the craft is not the magic;
we have told ourselves
the myths are in our hands.
And yet, Issa wrote to us, and ever.
Let us walk out through the summer grass
and be there. Let us look up through the deepest leaves
and open. Let us wait, then,
while the ancient things
are woken, because haven't
we always been lonely,
haven't we looked up
into the wild skies
and asked, too, to be luminous
and ruined,
and risen like this cold stone in the darkness
and changed in it as radiantly as we can?
Joseph Fasano is the author of the novel The Dark Heart of Every Wild Thing (Platypus Press, 2020). His books of poetry are The Crossing (2018), Vincent (2015), Inheritance (2014), and Fugue for Other Hands (2013). His honors include the Rattle Poetry Prize, the Cider Press Review Book Award, and a nomination for the Poets' Prize. His writing has appeared in The Times Literary Supplement, The Yale Review, The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, American Poets, Verse Daily, the PEN Poetry Series, and the Academy of American Poets' poem-a-day, among other publications. He teaches at Columbia University and Manhattanville College, and he is the founder of the Poem for You Series, which can be found on Twitter (@_PoemForYou_) and Instagram (@poem_for_you_series).
I, too, am tired of it. And yet, like an old love,
it comes to us, illuminating the bare walls
of our houses, catching its hems
on our thresholds, carrying its little cup of blossoms.
We are done with it.
Aren't we done with it?
We have told ourselves
only grace can change us;
we have told ourselves
the craft is not the magic;
we have told ourselves
the myths are in our hands.
And yet, Issa wrote to us, and ever.
Let us walk out through the summer grass
and be there. Let us look up through the deepest leaves
and open. Let us wait, then,
while the ancient things
are woken, because haven't
we always been lonely,
haven't we looked up
into the wild skies
and asked, too, to be luminous
and ruined,
and risen like this cold stone in the darkness
and changed in it as radiantly as we can?
Joseph Fasano is the author of the novel The Dark Heart of Every Wild Thing (Platypus Press, 2020). His books of poetry are The Crossing (2018), Vincent (2015), Inheritance (2014), and Fugue for Other Hands (2013). His honors include the Rattle Poetry Prize, the Cider Press Review Book Award, and a nomination for the Poets' Prize. His writing has appeared in The Times Literary Supplement, The Yale Review, The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, American Poets, Verse Daily, the PEN Poetry Series, and the Academy of American Poets' poem-a-day, among other publications. He teaches at Columbia University and Manhattanville College, and he is the founder of the Poem for You Series, which can be found on Twitter (@_PoemForYou_) and Instagram (@poem_for_you_series).
Clarice Hare Gainesville, FL
Snowcloud’s Band
Up the Yellow River, dark-
yellow, mountain-blue,
both lateral and vertical--
We huff our lungs clear of
world-quaking rain, just like
the horses; their salty manes shudder with
cold-combing tributaries.
Honeypot, being mostly white, likes,
and longs for, the mud—while we
long only for a momentary
overhang.
For long, for long, we drink the
sliding movement of the soil, the infinite
secretion of the earth. Here the mountains
sieve, the birdlike whinnies of the herd
call through a canyon roaring with a
mileweight wind.
The spirit of God shivers on the
mountain’s breast,
buttercup-clay-granite-marble-pied
where the storm of life has torn and
variegated her hide. The smoke
from her forty-some nostrils
wafts upward like a messenger of warmth
through miles of vaporous rime.
Clarice Hare has been writing her entire life, but is new to publication. Her poetry is forthcoming in detritus, Amethyst Review, Aromatica Poetica, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and Fleas on the Dog. She grew up in the rural Midwest, did a fair bit of bouncing around, and now lives in Florida with an assortment of furry and scaly pets.
Up the Yellow River, dark-
yellow, mountain-blue,
both lateral and vertical--
We huff our lungs clear of
world-quaking rain, just like
the horses; their salty manes shudder with
cold-combing tributaries.
Honeypot, being mostly white, likes,
and longs for, the mud—while we
long only for a momentary
overhang.
For long, for long, we drink the
sliding movement of the soil, the infinite
secretion of the earth. Here the mountains
sieve, the birdlike whinnies of the herd
call through a canyon roaring with a
mileweight wind.
The spirit of God shivers on the
mountain’s breast,
buttercup-clay-granite-marble-pied
where the storm of life has torn and
variegated her hide. The smoke
from her forty-some nostrils
wafts upward like a messenger of warmth
through miles of vaporous rime.
Clarice Hare has been writing her entire life, but is new to publication. Her poetry is forthcoming in detritus, Amethyst Review, Aromatica Poetica, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and Fleas on the Dog. She grew up in the rural Midwest, did a fair bit of bouncing around, and now lives in Florida with an assortment of furry and scaly pets.
Ilhem Issaoui Tunisia, North Africa
Mr in love with no one
was always in love-with no one-
He had a heart bigger than the orbs
Even bigger than his eyes
But it was a muscle
The sort of useless muscle you do nothing with
Except that it beats
But since a man of theory,
Mr in love believed his useless heart
Stops to beat
Just by ceasing of thinking of its existence inside
Perhaps it was true
Mr in love
Who was always in love
With no one, of course,
Always had Rendez-Vous
With no one
So he had this odd habit of
Sleeping early
For no reason
In order to wake up early
When no one is awake
Only to hear the lemon trees
Rejecting their own fruits
Like an ungrateful lover
Who, with tumult, throws hearts against the floor
Only to see them cracked and eviscerated
The way bodies can be disemboweled
Ilhem Issaoui is a Tunisian Ph.D. researcher, poet, and translator. She has been published in many countries including the US, the UK, Canada, and India in
print and online. She is in the process of publishing her second poetry collection.
was always in love-with no one-
He had a heart bigger than the orbs
Even bigger than his eyes
But it was a muscle
The sort of useless muscle you do nothing with
Except that it beats
But since a man of theory,
Mr in love believed his useless heart
Stops to beat
Just by ceasing of thinking of its existence inside
Perhaps it was true
Mr in love
Who was always in love
With no one, of course,
Always had Rendez-Vous
With no one
So he had this odd habit of
Sleeping early
For no reason
In order to wake up early
When no one is awake
Only to hear the lemon trees
Rejecting their own fruits
Like an ungrateful lover
Who, with tumult, throws hearts against the floor
Only to see them cracked and eviscerated
The way bodies can be disemboweled
Ilhem Issaoui is a Tunisian Ph.D. researcher, poet, and translator. She has been published in many countries including the US, the UK, Canada, and India in
print and online. She is in the process of publishing her second poetry collection.
Lauren Kania Saint Petersburg, FL 2 poems
The Man-eater of Champawat
I see a tyger burning bright,
who’ll come to hunt you in the night.
She’ll crunch your bones between her teeth
and suck your marrow from its sheath.
The floorboards squeal with sharp delight,
as your sinews stain the putrid night.
Wet, panting breath marks defeat.
You cease to struggle underneath.
Maggots and beetles yearn to bite
your femurs bleached by quaint moonlight.
She’ll tear you hair from its soft leather
and you and I will rest together.
I see a tyger burning bright,
who’ll come to hunt you in the night.
She’ll crunch your bones between her teeth
and suck your marrow from its sheath.
The floorboards squeal with sharp delight,
as your sinews stain the putrid night.
Wet, panting breath marks defeat.
You cease to struggle underneath.
Maggots and beetles yearn to bite
your femurs bleached by quaint moonlight.
She’ll tear you hair from its soft leather
and you and I will rest together.
Lauren Kania just graduated from Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida. She double majored in Literature and Creative Writing with a focus in poetry, and has plans to attend graduate school in order to continue her studies. Originally hailing from the Midwest, she loves to occupy her time going to various beaches with her dog to make up for the many cold winters she’s endured. Her work has been published in magazines such as Girls Right the World, Voice of Eve, and The Eckerd Review.