Caitlin Garvey/Poetry
Illustration from Iconographie Des Cactees (1841-1847) by Charles Antoine Lemaire
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...
Jason Allen/Poetry
Jason Allen/Poetry
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.
Three Poems by Ara Alexandre Shishmanian
A cheek glued to the void, I weigh the impalpable
Full of nothingness the rusty gate of my heart unlocks
The beast falls asleep under the light
like a page in the clutches of signs
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...
Michael T. Young/Poetry
Michael T. Young: Three Poems
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…