Catharine Lucas/Poetry

AFTERMATH Big Sur, California, May 2009 Phosphorescent green flickers against wet dark,             fire in another tongue Memorials of trees, stripped bare, black as mummies, stand witness Leaf-laden alders, parchment ghosts, testify in blanched whispers Our dead...

Alita Pirkopf/Poetry

  TEAHO-- USE IN THE JAPANESE GARDEN The young man and the ancient Japanese flute make sounds like breath and wind, like rain and river, make sounds that soar—like birds— sounds that sing— toward evening’s silence, sounds we are told, of water dripping— from the...

Carl Auerbach/Poetry

  EXILE The word bird does not itself take flight from ..........off .................the ........................page. nor do the letters robin insert their beak deep into the field of white between the text to impale a small wet worm. We are torn from being by...

Catherine Lucas/Poetry

AFTERMATH Big Sur, California, May 2009   Phosphorescent green flickers against wet dark, .............fire in another tongue Memorials of trees, stripped bare, black as ............mummies, stand witness Leaf-laden alders, parchment ghosts, testify...

Nothing Important Happened Today/Book Review

  Nothing Important Happened Today Publisher: Broadstone Books 418 Ann Street Frankfort, KY 40601-1929 Available on Amazon ISBN:  978-1-937968-23-6 Publication Date:  March 9, 2016 Paperback, 148 pages $18.95   “Nothing Important Happened Today”  by Arthur...

Marina Soler/Poetry

Last Deceptions   Regardless of how fond and fondling stars inculcate the dark there is yet to press the wax seal against each enveloped space— gaps  infinite and intimate a woman standing by a window, her back to the audience of antiques:   everything...

Michael Meyerhofer/Poetry

THE MAN WHO INVENTED FIRE A hundred million nights before the first electric chair, some bored Neanderthal with the luck of a TV detective knocked two rocks together and made them spark. Glacial wind pawed the hide hung over the cave-maw. Maybe an infant cried in the...

Gladys Carr/Poetry

Firefly I dabble in wings in variations of flux Heraclitus is my friend everything in the world is my living room I am not pretty but let me show you my light here I land on your fingertip no no do not crush me I fear the dark as you do there are others I could have...

Sara LaPell/Poetry

An Elegy for Mother, or, an Attempted Remembrance of the Great Storm   We say she lives on, untrue, in recollection like the dragon having hungered for more than kinsfolk — those long gone, flea-bitten, and burrow-rid by toxic smoke too hazy sick for honest...

Donovan Borger/Poetry

It takes only a moment to think the Tiber was blond when we
rode in on it this morning or I have never seen my mother
punch someone before or I hope these men kill each other
so neither takes me or I don’t want him inside me, don’t
want to shut my eyes just to keep that sneer out of my head.

Three Poems by Trina Gaynon

Why Does the New Moon Hide?   Dogs barking at a skateboard rasping across the dark. The mother scolding her children to bed. A house where the wife is beaten. Tonight it is silent. May God keep her safe. The daughter leaving home, the door closed on her soft...

Macaulay G. Glynn/Four Poems

I’ve always

been good at hurting

my mouth, the warmth and wetness and shrill taste

of red. Even now, I nibble

at the pink flesh of my cheeks.

Three Poems by Jean C. Howard

HANDING OF THE FLAG (Services of William Reese)   At the grave site, as each star is swallowed by a fold or white-glove tuck, the flag moves, slowly, precisely, each tug calculated and rehearsed.   The gatherers are silent, hearing each move, though...

William Wolak/Words and Images

I write poems, translate poetry, make collages, and take photographs. The creative energy and drive for self expression is the same in all of the above; for me, it’s simply a question of what materials are at hand and where my attention is focused at any particular time. My first love is poetry, so that’s where I expend most of my time and creative energy.

By Zoltán Böszörményi/Poetry in Translation

  The Poem Didn’t Join the Class Struggle (A vers nem lett osztalyharcos) By Zoltán Böszörményi translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar   (the poem dropped out didn’t join the class struggle toured Paris saw Endre Ady and went to Moscow  to trace the way...

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