Archive #48
June, 2017
Unknown Soldier
We have covered him with real flowers and taken him from country to country. It's always the same journey -- people standing in the streets silently saluting as we carry him by. And our hands tremble under his weight, our eyes are shocked by the riddle of tongues presenting the same paradox in every country -- the whole human voice as background shrilled to fever about keeping the guns at bay. Read the poetry of Katherine Gallagher Read a profile of Katherine Gallagher
Background Noise
A garbage truck rumbles down the street like rolling thunder. He sleepwalks out of the bedroom, stumbles into the kitchen. Half-empty wine glasses glare at him from the table. Morning shadows envelop every room—silent, accusatory. Heat shimmers from the slanted garage roof tiles like an exhausted lover. He hears a car door open, waits for a knock at the front door, doesn’t know if he’ll answer it. Read the poetry of Frank C. Modica Read a profile of Frank C. Modica
I, and Not You—To My Son
Not even to these was I always constant-- What escaped my attention. What small hands of sunlight; what frail and infant breeze, hid trembling among the trees—and all those so freely given, those tender, those aching, gifts I turned from each day. As much as I loved, I un-loved. I know without counting. For each and every evening I walked alone in the twilight; for each time I paused to consider the moon; or the sun as it traveled with yellow and pink, to the distance the color of bruises; there were softer, more subtle—even sometimes more glaring, prisms I chose to ignore. And so it was also with You, my Son-- Argonaut, Tall Lion, Philosopher King—Prince along the bookshelves, happy and excited, hunter of knowledge, and friend to all lost sailors washed onto the shores. Too often I chose indifference. As often as duty chose me, I failed what duties I chose for myself—at least, if not more. So now in your grandeur-- husband and father; bold Captain—know it was I—not You— I, who failed to row to those flares from the waves; I—and not You —I, and not You—steered away from the call. Read the poetry of Mark MacDonald Read a profile of Mark MacDonald
The Poet
The poet goes to bed with, awakens in the warm arms of mystery, words coming to her like shafts of light, like drifts of petals, gusts of wind. She fossicks, excavates, not for fossils or bones, not for shiny gemstones, but for other gleamings she can hold up to the light, look at this way and that, not seeking revelation so much as glimpse. In such fertile ground, there is so much hidden to be found the work is endless, the days pass in a blur between night and night, mystery’s embrace never failing her. Read the poetry of David Adès Read a profile of David Adès
Body Condom
He was the best defense lawyer in the country. Wore his mistress’ silk panties to trial. Almost all of his clients were guilty, so he wouldn’t hear of it. Just the details: who, where, when, what, how… Big on search and seizure. Civil rights abuses. Wrapping himself in the law like a body condom he could use against itself. Knowing he did not have to prove innocence as much as he had to instill doubt. The best defense is a questionable offence. And to always minimize everything. Make culpability look like pocket change you almost forgot about. Inconsequential as carpet dust. To tell a story. Provide a strong working narrative that the jury could understand. Simple enough to have done it yourself without even realizing, but sordid enough in legal complexities that even the law itself would be confused. And that is the real aim. To use the letter of the law against itself. To poke holes in everything so that nothing ever leaves the ground. Read the poetry of Ryan Quinn Flanagan Read a profile of Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Helium
When I heard the news, it hit me like fire –– melting flesh from my ears, cremating friendships. It couldn’t have been fate when control of your vehicle was lost. It couldn’t have been fate when you veered off of the highway, when you were pronounced dead at the scene-- death by impact with a living tree. Fate doesn’t play with devilish ironies. Fate is not that cruel. Right now, to say that “God works in mysterious ways” would be an insult to God. There was no divinity hidden in the twisted steel, the smoking branches. This was not meant to happen. The world will never sleep again. I’m taking the airbags out of my car, pumping them full of helium, letting them go, watching them transcend this black cloud of mourning. I know it’s too late to save you, but it will always be too early to forget. Read the poetry of B. Diehl Read a profile of B. Diehl
Poetry in Yo Face
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off,I know that is poetry. —Emily Dickinson If hope is the thing with feathers Like the Myth of Amherst said-- Then poems are words like birds, Nesting in your head, singing sweetly Or chirping curses. As likely to peck your eyes out, As dazzle you with verses. The Book of St. Albans A murder of crows-- A gaggle of geese. In poetry and prose-- A linguistic masterpiece! A parliament of owls Or perhaps a scream of swifts. You can feel it in your bowels: Such luscious artifice! Read the poetry of Daniel Klawitter Read a profile of Daniel Klawitter
our rancher uncle
as the cancer advances I drive the pickup on a last outdoor errand checking on his newborn calves ❦ ‘the point being’ bringing us back to what we were trying to avoid ❦ vagabond scripture following only trail winds world-rough and renewed Read the poetry of ayaz daryl neilsen Read a profile of ayaz daryl neilsen
De-myth-i-fy-ing
I see the poem in a waking dream in strands of sea kelp where I swam in skeins of Spanish moss curtaining me off to perform my madness I make lines entangle lines lines weave elaborate palm braids for my crown my metaphor is nude my simile is naked you wonder why symbols masquerade fig leaves symbols allude leaves of grass because the poem says so & if it wants to come all over the Jackson Pollacks so be the poem who will not release me makes me fear I’ll do something I’ll be sorry for tomorrow the poem needs it quickies & it needs to erase the image of Prometheus Bound paint over remains of mythic bondage the poem throws off chains in the poem Medusa is the beautiful Madonna I am here to do its bidding until the waking dream sleeps Read the poetry of Karla Linn Merrifield Read a profile of Karla Linn Merrifield
Still Life
I am a snapshot of now, without the struggle or the darkness. Two-dimensional as a flower in a vase, I am cut roots, observing and waiting for rain. A still life of me pinned to a scaffold, a butterfly folded in silent gaze – exhibiting the shape but not the substance. A mannequin posed in perpetual curtsey. Tanka colors of spring push through the soil how many times will the birds sound new? Haiku soaring with his words paper butterfly Read the poetry of Kat Lehmann Read a profile of Kat Lehmann |
Second Day
We talked about it all summer and we walked by the daycare often slowing down to show you the slide and the apple tree we made our voices all bouncy and told you how fun it would be and then at night we read the books about llamas and raccoons going to school for the first time and how they cry sometimes but then the mamas always come back we let you pick out new boots and we gave you your brother’s old lunchbox and the morning of your first day we hugged you so long you squirmed out from under us you were quiet but played with the toys as the kids ran around you and when you told me at dinner about your new friend Dominic I added it to the invisible column of things that went well but the next morning when you asked me what car we’d take today and I reminded you that your new daycare is just at the end of our block you looked at me confident and calm but mama I already went and I realized we never mentioned you would go every day so that after all the books and that long hug you must have thought what a peculiar fuss. Read the poetry of Samantha Reynolds Read a profile of Samantha Reynolds
Déjà Vu's
Oh hell here they are again trailing behind me like a string of ants lined up for tedious miles one after another after another all creeping in a petty pace I swore & swore off vodka martinis especially the cranberry kind lust-listing toward the closest man inducing shameless sex & riptides of remorse I promised my losing-it sister I wouldn’t laugh when she misplaced her keys, her camera, her car, wore her nightgown to Safeway left ice cream dripping on the shelf but I did & I did & I did yesterday I smacked my daughter who showed up stoned I felt my mother’s stinging slap flame across my cheek followed by my silent, futile vow maybe I need a large can of Raid a quick trip to Home Depot otherwise they will continue to crawl until the last syllable of my recorded life dragging déjà vu’s all over again Read the poetry of Claire Scott Read a profile of Claire Scott
Oak Trees Are for Love
And then underneath the Novocain blanket of darkness I told you that I loved you with all of my palpitating junkie heart. I wanted to caress your skin with my throbbing fingers and show you how the moon robbed you of sun-dried kisses You kissed me on my red-checkered cheek and explained that you just wanted to be friends Friends? "Okay, friends it is," I said. And my heart palpitations stopped as we sat underneath the gnarled Oak tree I dreamed of indelible initials carved upon the trunk Midnight whispered its greeting to us and we hugged I held on a little too long but not long enough Read the poetry of Adam Levon Brown Read a profile of Adam Levon Brown
Overheard From Longing
~To Charlie, April 19, 2017 Sometimes, your voice catches me from beyond and overhead, from your longing love—I think of your timbre, the tremolo and cords it strikes, reminiscent always of starlings, their cantabile speech, as they learned to sing— no, talk, to Mozart. Was it he who learned and copied their joyful trance or they who conveyed back his sweet noise to wrap him in a swoon of song so sonorous that he composed concertos so plangent that when he wrote his resplendent Masses, he was able to catch an audience in rapt and full attention, swoop his listeners Into an evanescent murmuration as dense and wide as the starlings, when they disappear of a sudden into their wild and mysterious flight? Read the poetry of Judith Brice Read a profile of Judith Brice
Inside Suburban Lines
Beyond the background wheeze of A-roads, phlegm-thick, sky-drained & flooded, a spit of litter dittoed up their ragged banks, our puddle-deep suburbia; knuckle-thrusted by fungi, dusted with dry skin & skinny screams & over-looked by murky windows, identical, yet unique by degrees; houses boxed & roofed, chimed each to their own number, spread-hedged & labelled as home. Wind down to a lit-room un-busy evening away from the club-drum & spin of town, tuning instead to the bass line of pipes & motors or the switch-click & wood-creak of terraced movements. It is itching towards, aching towards, stiffening towards time the bulbs blinked cold; moon-lanterns leading the show into night, with the need for sleep unfulfilled & slinking towards morning. Read the poetry of Julia Stothard Read a profile of Julia Stothard
Ms. Hawthorn
dreams of standing on a ridge in Britain, looking down on cathedrals and car parks, on pubs and Morris dancers, albums she knew from used record stores and long-lost friends’ collections. Dirty blonde hair streaming in the wind, she would be barefoot, wear white, in spite of mud and wet grass. At fifty, she sits in traffic. Through mousy- brown bangs, she blinks at mist falling on her windshield, the line of cars snaking on past the exit. As violins on the CD swell, a young man sings about growing older on a morning like this one. He has just arrived in town; she has lived in this state for a dozen years. Read the poetry of Marianne Szlyk Read a profile of Marianne Szlyk
Shelter '81
every evening without fail I would watch from my third floor neon, Freon, digital eyrie as he scraped his arse along the street shuffling, scuffing the rags that passed for raiment ripping the empty legs further each night as the chorus of inebriate fighters, noses swollen veined plums, caroused and cajoled his every gravelled slide while throwing punches, and each other, can in hand at passing cars his limbs, of wood and plastic, would arrive later under police escort old world problems under the new world’s hardened, refrigerated glaze every evening without fail until the day he didn’t Read the poetry of Paul Sands Read a profile of Paul Sands
Russian Spy Lady
She checked out, clairvoyantly, books on cooking and Russian history, sixteen dollars in overdue fines, and left as quick as the bells on the front door handle ceased chiming. Without any accent, a Rosalind Russell grin; given four weeks, her heels will clap with the library carpet, and we'll earn more than a dissolved hello at her next visit. No speculation, just a tossing of replies and an escape like Tippi Hedren in Marnie; I have already forgotten her name the moment her tires peeled themselves from the parking lot. Once a week, the library assistant and I remind ourselves of the ominous air that the lady who spied our shelves flustered our minds with, always glancing at the entrance now, hoping she will slyly wander in again. Is it that she is reappearing to us, or simply disappearing from elsewhere, fleeing here in disguised apparition? I've heard the most suspicious people frequent to one particular place--and yet doesn't everybody? Read the poetry of Liam Strong Read a profile of Liam Strong
Plexus
Winter’s glass canopy – and Stalagmites as big As a Jesuit’s fist Grip the Antarctic Circle. A mammoth’s skull Lies pinnacled To a glacier. I pause. Too belated in this Vast waste Of mime impoverishment To mourn Ice-floes nudging Gondwana Land’s Prototypes Equator bound – I wait On an assembly Of epigrams With leaden wings And hope’s Refracted ethos Pre- Disposed. Read the poetry of Stefanie Bennett Read a profile of Stefanie Bennett |
Dark Sky Reserve
I am moon to your jupiter venus to your sun your glass eye reveals only what you need to see like how the milky way is a dimly lit and intricate labyrinth of resurrections and how the nebula of my torso hides a nursery of stars so if I kissed you in every dimension and every galaxy leads to forever could our love be the universe Read the poetry of Tracey Gunne Read a profile of Tracey Gunne
An Open Window
I fail in the heat. Feel weak after a succession of fiery days this late June. I open the window. Overcome its resistance. Breezes bring breaths of pine, marigolds, lavender dust. Calms wanting nerves. Dries my damp skin with feather touch. An opened window lets faith break away from my nemesis—doubt—and ride in on the wind. A breeze through the opened window dismantles misery, worry, heat. Backyard evergreens, currency of gentle winds, speak their intentions. We’ll carry the weight now. A language translated by kindness and relief. I open the window, a simple task. The might of muscle required is minimal. Developed from a lifetime of lifting, my strength is faith. Read the poetry of Ria Meade Read a profile of Ria Meade
Crows Weep a River
He was a piece of night, broken off, left behind. A crow smudging daylight and in his eye a star was trapped. He wept it free on high moors and it began to run through sphagnum moss, round granite, gathering up a thousand crow-dropped stars. It led them to a hollow, there they pooled and waited. Another day, a cloud burst of crows, a dam breaks, a galaxy streams downhill, sears through the valley. Read the poetry of Paul Mortimer Read a profile of Paul Mortimer
Burning
I burned I burned I burned I walked home burning and heavy burning with unrequited anger heavy from the words that weighed me down heavy from words that lay like lead in my stomach heavy and hot from anger and words that could not be loosened to fly free unabated from my tongue because you would not listen because I could not say them I looked down at the crumbled sidewalk these slabs of pavement forced between the legs of mother earth even as the raped mother claimed the pavement her green fingers growing between the cracks driving them apart the raping pavement inviting me to it a cool inviting lover and I burned I burned I burned I felt too heavy to walk home sidewalk inviting me to lay my heavy burning body upon it to lay on its cool surface inundating my heat with cool supporting the weight of words I could not carry Lay down lay down lay down you burning heavy thing and I wanted so to lay down on cool pavement nestled on the pubic hairs of mother earth and how I burned stumbling home beneath the weight of words I could not carry because I cannot say them because you will not listen and how I burned with them knowing if I lay my head I would not rise again. Read the poetry of Janette Schafer Read a profile of Janette Schafer
from Edible Haiku
a bee shares my honey-- on the apfelstrudel ❊ the noise of frying pans in my grandmother's kitchen-- french fries ❊ a toad in the hole not in my backyard on my table ❊ sunny morning a parrot calls for banana in the neighbor's yard Read the poetry of Amauri Solon Read a profile of Amauri Solon
June Third, 1989
“...demonstrations that shook the Communist Party and ended with soldiers sweeping through the city on June 4, shooting dead hundreds of unarmed protesters and bystanders.” (New York Times, June 3. 2013) It was never meant to happen-- a day stolen from time an unrecorded, unspoken day when two lovers disappeared-- a mountain resort on a mirror lake on a summer evening, clouds dark at the horizon, cold but hidden inside the lovers were hot. In the anonymous hotel room the bed was full of sweat, sex and room service champagne, the TV on but they’re not watching busy in each other’s legs. At last exhausted they slept, the news broadcasting softly in the background until morning over tea and toast. Suddenly an image appears their hands freeze, a mouthful of boiled egg, draw the sheet up the announcer urgent, anguished an empty square shows, tanks and a single man in a white shirt standing in front, moving as it moves-- a silent picture. Then the screen went black, they waited looking at each other over the toast. Later they drove away in different directions, the TV back to normal the soldiers gone but the news filled with how the satellite feed was cut at that crucial instant. Nothing at all about a lone man confronting a tank. Read the poetry of Emily Strauss Read a profile of Emily Strauss
The Business of Death
Measuring wind, sun and rain Bony knuckles creaking Fingernails historically stained A face that counted heartbeats A mind crammed with memories Smile he'd forgotten to assemble In his countless shallow breaths He knows me From under his sinister eyes No shadows pass through And no sound does he utter But he knows you My spine straightens Feet bones spring Gathering pace, finding space Not today Will your hands find me Nor my skin will you lay your hands upon Or fold my layers of clothing Under your skylight of gone Not today........ Shall you take your time Rearranging my limbs In limbo No............ I shall be soundless While I feel you coveting me For nothing is on offer for your coffer Unclothed and untouched I pass you by Today. Read the poetry of Deni Howlett Read a profile of Deni Howlett
Cut
tongue can’t always swing, curl, spread, linger, vibrate, to pair with voice, a voice that sometimes simply sits, stubborn in my throat, swaying like in a boat on the surface of its own strings it picks syllables, juggles, yet they won’t reach this funnel made of flesh, and resonant, glistening pebbles pronounce what you long to hear; mouth is open, like fish fighting for life on the dry sand, nothing comes out. I can only offer silence a blade of sword that suddenly blinded you: you didn’t see when it cut our invisible cord of love. Read the poetry of Maja Todorovic Read a profile of Maja Todorovic
Smoke and Whiskey
A warm rasp of bullet tipped fingers on violin, of a nylon six string hum, and the brushing of a side drum. Honeycomb light, nursing the mood and tempo between the walls. We drink from short glasses. Eyes of black in the electric glow. Time capsuled, until the closing bell calls for taxis, and out with the current of the crowd we go. Our watchfires of certainty, flicking out their tongues to taste the night. Us smiling, with secrets of the womb we made there. Secrets we'll take home, place on the shelf like pine cones, and look to, when the weather ‘comes too much. Read the poetry of Christopher Hopkins Read a profile of Christopher Hopkins
from Selected Haiku
angels on life support old snowdrops ❦ up turn bins fresh blossoms on the freeway ❦ new day dandelions on the guillotine ❦ wasp nest parents night for the ballerina Read the poetry of Nancy May Read a profile of Nancy May
Before Things Were Named
there was no cardinal dancing red on a mud-brown branch, no flash of flame against grey sky. There were no azure lakes or turquoise seas, no slush-filled streets or cancelled schools. There was no larkspur or lavender-scented air, no one’s mother sitting with her loneliness. Before things were named there were no stories to remember, no photos to be traced with aging fingers, no heartache or sorrow, no strawberries or apples, no glaciers or mountains. Nothing to cherish or regret, no empty arms or vacant eyes. No word yet for grief. Read the poetry of Valerie Bacharach Read a profile of Valerie Bacharach |
