Poetry

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...

Clarence Brimley/Spoken Word

An artist friend, Karen Gunderson, introduced me to Clarence Brimley, a 35-year-old spoken-word poet from NYC. Clarence sent along a few of his poems, but without the voice. I wondered how they would sound/feel when he speaks them, when they’re heard. Clarence was glad to oblige, and sent along a few smart phone videos that appear here, accompanied by the written word. Hope you enjoy − another one of millions of emerging poets…

Andrew Morris/Poetry

Andrew Morris lives in the Catskill Mountains of New York State where he teaches high school English and history. His work has appeared in Redivider, Ruminate Magazine, Otis Nebula, and is forthcoming in Rufous City Review. He’s also a member of the Poetry Workshop at Bright Hill Press in Treadwell, NY.

Lyn Lifshin/Poetry

Three Poems   APRIL, PARIS     Nothing would be less shall we call it what it is, a cliché than April in Paris. But this poem got started with some thing I don’t think I could do but it reminded me of Aprils and then...

David Williams/Poetry

 Two Poems   Loving Backwards   “Me me me” is what Dad says, “me is all you think about and you are selfish.” I forget what I did. Dad works hard all the time. I always say I'm sorry. Then I am sorry.   He does not have time to...

Ben Myers/Poetry

 Three Poems   BENEDICTION: For My Father   In the gravel driveway beside the house of peeling paint there is a motorcycle, but it does not belong to you. The bike is black, a dragon painted on its gas tank, tail entwining a...

Remembering Nick Kolumban

And then he went on telling me how much fun he had had later on that afternoon that stretched into the evening and the night in the company of other poets and artists, a real bunch of bohemians. When I pulled out an envelope from my pocket, stuffed with six or seven of my surrealist masterpieces, he looked at it as if I were serving him with summons to appear in court. I assured him it only contained my poems, he nodded in reluctant assent and stowed the wrinkled package in a thin paperback book he had in his hand. But then he changed his mind and shoved the book in my face.

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