Yes, Poetry

September Poet of the Month: Eric Rodriguez

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Eric Doce is a philosophy graduate school drop out, compiling his forthcoming book “Son, Shower” (a collection of drawn collages and poems, 2011-2014). He lives in Brooklyn, with his gun.



Apothecary, Overgrown


I spied the laughing din of perennials
Scatter hummingbirds skyward, anchoring

My gabbling catmint, sea-holly cloaks.
Medusa’s intestines crown my face.

I spied anorthosite worlds wherein skin
Pumices; her cellar of petrologists.

I spark a millstone in the brush with flint,

Though the flowers, incanting, have sigils
Too soaked, to stoke, in mouthless laughter.


Scry Technicians

Boiled cicadas
Dart and bob the water’s rim.
Well-oiled machines furrow the oil well.
Molten Sycorax,

I think, gargles the brim,
And fumes 

Plumed air we take in and spend.
I swear

A memory of box-comb bees rolling
As we siphon their smoke, again.
We watched

The inks of Lascaux light our sober ceiling
Unframed, omens drop

After a pregnant month.
Our canopy

Caves, water-stained,
As earth rolls a steady boil.


Liquorice

Living under moss
Turns the outside

Earth unworthy of
Your days’, and nights’,
And hours’ ears,

Until your dankness
Suckles scavenger flies,

And merry families
Of heady fungi
Revisit your toxins

To our dulled,
Sea-drunk world.

August Poet of the Month: Peter Burzynski

Peter Burzynski is a first-year PhD student in Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.  He holds a B.A. from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, a M.F.A. in Poetry from The New School University, and a M.A. in Polish Literature from Columbia University. In between his studies, he has worked as a Sous-Chef in New York City and Milwaukee.  Peter’s poetry has appeared on The Best American Poetry, Kritya, and Bar None Group websites, as well as in the Fuck Poems Anthology. He has poems forthcoming from BORT quarterly and the Great Lakes Review.

Hot Mama

If I were a woman
forged of tin, smote
in an oven with hair
of barbs and toes
of hinge, I would
want a parasol.  

Rice Petals

Here is the river,
here is the sun,
tell me you feel
me, love. I can tell

that I’m late
for sometime.
I guess that’s why
rats run.

You Have Teeth, Too

Sunsets are a moot point
in the schedule. They bear

the weight of tube-hearted
trombones and yet still falter

through puddles. Collections
of marred concrete, rubber

bones, cracker-thin placard—
you call them home.  You left.

You spat tin into our garden—
a brass furnace. Heard bluebirds

cracking. We’d sing broken
heartedness to the stars,

measure the consistency
of our bones. Skin is pricey.

You had filled our world:
every petunia a parabola,

each house key a colossus,
a scarf a sarcophagus, every

telephone a thunderstorm.
Now it’s empty—deflated

of the last blips, of memory,
dregs of sunlight, of our star. 

 

Summer 2014

Dearest Readers,

In this issue, I asked each poet what makes them uncomfortable. If I could only ask one question for my entire life, that would be it. Exceptional writing comes through revelation, and that insight only results from duress. What would humans learn through complacency? We learn most about ourselves, and our world, when we want to change it.

Anthony, Karolina, & Aaron use language so eerily that their ghosts follow me around no matter where I go, pushing me to find the different parts of myself. 

Always yours,
Joanna C. Valente
Founding Editor

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In this issue:


Anthony Cappo
I always thought it was about / the music but it wasn’t.” 

Karolina Manko
It whispers, but only / to its own emptiness. / Filled with ghosts, but unburdened.”

Aaron Pinnix
When I said ghosts are assholes I meant dogs are smelling at the ghosts of assholes.”