Yes, Poetry

Download the issue here for free!

Contributor’s Notes

L. Ward Abel, poet, composer and performer of music, teacher, lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been published hundreds of time in print and online, and is the author of Peach Box and Verge (Little Poem Press, 2003), Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), The Heat of Blooming (Pudding House Press, 2008), Torn Sky Bleeding Blue (erbacce-Press, 2010), and the forthcoming American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012). He has just completed his latest poetry collection, The Crater.

Ann Cummings has had work published previously in a few select religious magazines, and Yes, Poetry. For about a year, writing has come to her as poetry. Brevity appeals to her now, packing the most into a few words. Briefly, her life experience has included motorcycle riding, mountain climbing, and other sports. Married twice, now widowed,she has one daughter. Confined to her home, she writes what she sees.

Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. His poems have appeared in Bryant Literary Review,Camroc Press Review, elimae, The Orange Room Review and Pearl. His website is at: www.pw.org/content/robert_laughlin.

My name is Sophia Le Fraga, I am a New York based poet finishing my studies in Poetry and Linguistics this December at NYU. Thank you so much for your consideration.

Most recently, Kristi Nimmo has been painting with scrub brushes in watercolor. She writes poetry to feel the softness of a bending heart. She also teaches meditation and loves to travel. You can read more about her in DC Books and Authors Blog: http://dcbooksandauthors.com/2011/08/25/kristi-nimmo-elephant-rides-beautiful-bags-and-poetry/

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review,

The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay

“Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please

visit his website atwww.simonperchik.com.

Sophie Playle studied English Literature with Creative Writing at UEA, and has an MA in Creative Writing from Royal Holloway, University of London. She has previously worked in the publishing industry, and continues to freelance. Passionate about writing and publishing, she runs Inkspill Magazine (www.inkspillmagazine.com) and blogs regularly about creative living at: www.sophieplayle.com.

Emmalea Russo is a poet and visual artist who grew up in Eastern Pennsylvania. She holds a BA from Antioch University Los Angeles and is pursuing an MFA in Poetry at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work has appeared most recently in the Bicycle Review and Blood Lotus.

Carly Susser is a writer and mfa candidate at Sarah Lawrence College. She loves art, animals, and warm climates. Carly has been journaling since 1997 and is working on a memoir (or possibly several all at once) based loosely on the meaning of life. She is also the non-fiction editor of The Boiler Journal: http://theboilerjournal.wordpress.com/.

Christian Ward is a 31 year old UK-based poet who recently completed an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway, University of London.

Editor Biographies

Joanna C. Valente is a MFA candidate in Poetry Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also a part-time mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. Her work has appeared in Italics Mine and other journals. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and as always, poetry. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. One day, she would like to become a silent film star. Her favorite desserts are crème brûlée and strawberry-rhubarb pie. She can be found at: kitschy.tumblr.com.

G. Taylor Davis, Jr is from the Milky Way.

Photographer Biography

Marcin Majkowski is 36 years old and from Poland. He is a performance/spoken word poet/writer. He lives in Krakow in Poland.

Yes, Poetry is happy to announce its first issue of 2012! We welcome you into the new year with these wonderful poems, which can be downloaded for free here. 

Contributor’s Notes

Christian Belz has been a practicing architect in the Metro Detroit area for 27 years. He has been published in Writers’ Journal and The Storyteller and is currently writing an Architectural Murder Mystery.

Tyler Bigney was born in 1984. He lives, and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada. His short stories, poetry, and non-fiction have appeared in Pearl, Poetry New Zealand, Third Wednesday, The Meadow, and Neon, among others.

Ariana D. Den Bleyker is a Pittsburgh native currently residing in a small town in New York where she is a wife and mother of two. She is a graduate of William Paterson University in Wayne, NJ where she earned a B.A. in English. She is passionate about poetry and writing because it speaks to her, influences her daily life, and encourages her to write. She draws much of her energy from her own life experiences. Her poetry was most recently featured in The Homestead Review and Stone Highway Review and will soon be featured in Burnt Bridge, scissors and spackle, Grey Sparrow Press, and Heavy Hands Ink.

Jack Foster is the Editorial Manager of A Few Lines Magazine. He currently attends school at Cal Poly Pomona as an English Literature and Language major. When he is not editing or in class, he can be found at the bars in Claremont, CA.

Margaret Graber grew up in Valparaiso, Indiana, a city 45 minutes southeast of Chicago. She is a lifelong friend of Lake Michigan, the avocado, and pop-up books. She is currently pursuing her M.F.A. at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.

Nick Hranilovich is a writer, musician, visual artist, and several other things that leave one poor, lazy, and beautiful. He currently resides in Williamston, Michigan, where he is working on pieces for the Michigan Nature Association, as well as maintaining day-jobs for the sake of humility and seeking transcendence of the physical realm. More of his poetry can be found at: http://clutchingatstraws.wordpress.com/category/nick-hranilovich/

Justin Hyde lives in Iowa.

Mark Jackley is the author of several chapbooks, including Every Green Word, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press, and a full-length collection, There Will Be Silence While You Wait (Plain View Press). He lives in Sterling, VA.

Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. His poems have appeared in Bryant Literary Review,Camroc Press Review, elimae, The Orange Room Review and Pearl. His website is at: www.pw.org/content/robert_laughlin.

Austin McCarron is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years.  His work has appeared in various poetry magazines in the United Kingdom, France and America in recent years.

Vincent McGillivray lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. His poetry has appeared in Grain, CV2,Misunderstandings Magazine, Ascent Aspirations, Skidrow Penthouse, Juked and All Rights Reserved. Vincent has recently decided to undertake a (self-imposed) project to rediscover his province, via its backroads.

Michael Tugendhat has a memoir due out by Turquoise Morning Press in 2012. He’s been published in Poetry SZ and has poems forthcoming in Blue and Yellow Dog. He’s dedicated to writing about mental illness to educate and inspire.

Matt Prater is a poet from Saltville, VA. His writing has appeared in Now & Then: The Appalachian Magazine, NANO Fiction Magazine, and Alcalines, among other publications. He is currently studying towards an MA in English at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina.

Christine Reilly lives in New York City. She is getting her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College and won full scholarships to the Sarah Lawrence Poetry Seminar and Bucknell University Seminar for Younger Poets. Her poems will be featured in “The Clearing: Forty Years with Toni Morrison”. Her chapbook of poetry, “The Blue Of”, was a finalist in the Pulled Pork Susquehanna University Contest. She has been published in 31 journals. She was named Breadcrumb Scabs’ Editor’s Pick. She has just finished her first novel. She teaches poetry to teenagers on the Lower East Side. Her website is: www.christinejessicamargaretreilly.com

Shriram Sivaramakrishnan likes to call himself as a budding poet who is trying to learn the art called Poetry. A fan of John Keats, he is a true slave to poetry and boast himself for that. His works have appeared in journals such as Short Fast and Deadly, Right Hand Pointing, Dirt Cakes, Wingposse, and so on. He writes a blog called “Thought Pebbles” and publishes poems on other poetry communities. His blog link is: http://thoughtpebble.blogspot.com/

Parker Tettleton’s work is featured in &/or forthcoming from Gargoyle, elimae, > kill author, Mud Luscious, & PANK, among others. His chapbook SAME OPPOSITE is available from Thunderclap! Press. More or less is here.

Robert Vaughan’s plays have been produced in N.Y.C., L.A., S.F., and Milwaukee where he resides. He leads two writing roundtables for Redbird- Redoak Studio. His prose and poetry is published in over 150 literary journals such as Elimae, Metazen and BlazeVOX. He has short stories anthologized in Nouns of Assemblage from Housefire, and Stripped from P.S. Books. He is a fiction editor at JMWW magazine, and Thunderclap! Press. He co-hosts Flash Fiction Fridays for WUWM’s Lake Effect. His blog: http://rgv7735.wordpress.com.

Michael Uhall, Jr., lives in Champaign, Illinois.

Editor Biographies

Joanna C. Valente is a MFA candidate in Poetry Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also a part-time mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. Her work has appeared in Italics Mine and other journals. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and as always, poetry. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. One day, she would like to become a silent film star. Her favorite desserts are crème brûlée and strawberry-rhubarb pie. She can be found at: kitschy.tumblr.com.

G. Taylor Davis, Jr is from the Milky Way.

Photographer Biography

Brett Stout is a 32 year old punk rock artist and writer living in Myrtle Beach, SC. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and paramedic. He creates art while mainly hung-over from a small cramped apartment in Myrtle Beach, SC. He is the owner and operator of the Anti Condo Art group and puts on controversial art projects throughout the Southern U.S.

STEPHANIE VALENTE

WHEN YOU ARE NOT LOOKING, I WRITE ON YOUR SHEETS


hello,
I made coffee until
the grains went runny

and flipped through
your grammar books

past receipts
and emptied pockets
to get back
a sense of that lingering
your arm and hand makes
on my should
sometime
after night

but, before morning.



THE LINING


i feel like an empty glass of water

cooled over droplets

parched against achy palms



the kind of thing

that goes unnoticed

when out of use.




CIRCUMVENTS

“absence,” he said, “is a part of the wine.”

a glass stem, to separate

the warmth



with fingers bending 

around a spinal cord, clear and thick



so fragile,

to which it empties

the contents



upon frenzied lips.



LEWIS HUMPHRIES

THE FADING LIGHT OF SUMMER


God damn the meek, obliging sunlight, 
a fading glow from dusk’s pink skies, 
that lies down still beneath the twilight, 
then falls to sleep and rests its eyes,
in tame resistance to the new born night, 
its soft, hushed voiceless lullabies.

Then acquiesces in surrender,   
to the birth of season’s change, 
as thickset clouds disturb the splendor, 
of summer’s brightest, emerald planes,
now touched by rainfall fallen tender, 
a landscape doused by fresh tear stains. 

How he would long to see the summer, 
berate the autumn’s whispered cool, 
and see it rage with prideful rapture, 
in place of tearful, strangled mewl,
whilst still its brightness gently tempers, 
when met with infant winter’s rule.


PETER MARRA

DEEP INSIDE THE PEEP SHOW

 
Milling bodies
shadows
doors machines
projected lights.
 
walk aisle
upon aisle
 
up and
down
young
child
looks
 
and watches frozen.
 
the
screen changes and
displays it’s prisoners
the time is frequent
walk down the tunnels and feel
a spark
that glows but
dies up the spine and down.
 
that’s
it.


RAE SPENCER

PINK DOGWOOD


What vein did they tap, these many
Limbs, to dredge such plumage
From depths dank with time

Flocked finery, fiery with bees
Bumbling through air still thin
With cough and chill, shocked

By such florid frenzy of petal
Cupping ambrosia, wanton eruption
Of sneeze and irony

That dirt is the source
Of what pleases, where worm
And mole wedge unhurried

Tunnels through rank dens
Among tendrils that mine
Motes of splendor and glisten

From mold and clay, compost
And rot, melted snow and slough
Earth stain of tannin and iron

Drawn by the stem into bud
For this tumbling delight
This brief, airy blossom and flight


NOMENCLATURE

Come see this creature
Call it crinoid
Call it trilobite
Call it stone

This next one
Still stone, disarticulate
Some soft bridge
Call it fossil

Not yet the terrible lizard
Of tooth and pelvis, fenestrated
Skull, like a bird’s
So close to what calls

From the brush
Ahead, hunting the small
Warmth that will flourish
Into familiar fauna

For an age, inarticulate
Or inchoate
Designed or not
What it is, for now

Call it life
Inevitable as lust
And brief
Rife in every age

And changing
This to that, or not
But living on
Despite its name


ERIC G. MULLER

FOUR VARIATIONS ON YES

 
Yes is more
and
No is a door
that
opens
when you accept
the door that’s
             shut
 
*
Yes!
I do want –
But more than that
I want
Not to want!
 
*
Sometimes the NO
Is a necessary detour
To the YES
 
Sometimes the YES
Is an unnecessary way
Of saying NO
 
Both YES and NO
Depend on the context,
But in the end
YES is what we know
As love
 
*
Poured myself some sparkling
Water – each bursting bubble,
A tiny drumbeat
Against the crystal glass,
Which rejoiced with a vibrant
            Yes in C#!
An invitation to jam along,
Which I humbly did,
Sipping and humming around the
Descending scale until I’d
Quaffed the ambrosial draft
Into silence…
Though the sound still echoed on
In the tingle of my tongue.


THINKING ABOUT EMILY

 
She died where she lived
in her upstairs ‘ Paradise ’
of light and words
pacing from window to corner window
 
On occasion she took
a thinly coiled cord and let
herself descend – only on the taste
of her sweet smelling gingerbreads
 
to the gleam-eyed delight
of the cheerful gathering of
jumping children – before quickly
reeling in the frail umbilical rope
 
that still kept her loosely linked
to the life she once had led
 
            Written after visiting the Emily Dickinson House
            (up the road, over coffee, in the Black Sheep)
 

A.P. GARENS

secrets


naked limbs
intertwined
and a poem
in my brain
about how
it’s not going to work out
while a soft smile
fades into sleep
as i edit


WHEN I CAN’T SLEEP


Why
I sometimes wonder
Is the trash collected
At the earliest hours 
of the morning
When everyone is asleep
As if we’d rather not know
Where our shit goes
or
What becomes 
of the people we wore,
the people we were
before we got home
and took our skins off
at the end of the day.
And I think
oh, mr. trashman
you must be
the most human of us all.


STEPHEN JARRELL WILLIAMS

REPLAYING


I keep replaying the words
you said to me over the phone.

Sometimes it takes a hammering
repetition to get through to me.

How many times have you
found yourself
having this problem?

I’m sure with your charismatic
features and tongue
many have wanted you.

Am I that old
fooling myself
in the steaming mirror
seeing yesterday’s
reflection?

Our conversation was as heavy as
blocks of ice
pounding on you,
pounding on me.

You referred to me as
a friend.

You’re bruised…
I’m crushed.


DOUGLAS BERTRAM

AT STAKE



I shall go into a hare, 
With sorrow and sych and meickle care;
And I shall go in the Devil’s name,
Ay while I come home again.
– Isobel Gowdie


Didn’t it tell you anything that I rammed a stool in our bed,
as you slept, replacing me? (Night by night I cried

on winnowed straw, aching to be shot of you – out of here,
for once – free.) Or that those shiftings I made, from quim to

scut and back again, were nothing to stamped-out howlings
in a Queen’s hall? (The ‘likeness of a woman’ 

is all you saw, day after day, in my eyes, clouding not tricks 
but stifled larceny.) No, not that. Nor

you. Blank to my lives, you see what you hear and not what 
you see. Alone, less myself, you’re rewritten 

in a blur whose skirl isn’t theirs but whose plot is. Scored out
to dumb, my voices silenced in the lifting of a hand. 

Here to hare, hoar and nowhere. 


INSTANCES


1 


This morning saw a 
Joker on the floor, cornered 
in the lift. Upside 
down. 
– to David Ferguson 

2 


dusk, dust, wing. 
an owl falls in 
night. the night falls 
over a roof. 

alone, a lone fall 
at night, as shadow. 
a fall to land. 
– after Ovid 

3 
– Gaza 

Their games of 
switches and ash. 
I see that ash on 
sand. And sands 
to dust. 


ALEXANDER JORGENSEN

ARTICLE OF CRITIQUE


Fella says 
it’s raining―
But he doesn’t 
know how 
to debate.
So, we argue 
till he loses 
and, by chance,
in the end, it
doesn’t matter 
that we’re 
wet.


PENCILED CORRESPONDENCES 


for Samit Roy 

08:00       Democratic liberalization’s again led community 
…              to carve own biological niche by way of machetes.
…
09:27       Ambassador, driver’s side: taxi 
…              tout with gash so deep, wide that―How 
…              his tongue does?―Mouth closed. 
…
09:42       Oh, dear, said. Nothing abandoned―
…              filling bottle with water beside a squat-type loo.
…              Open air. Breeze. The clamor of rickshaws. 
… 
12:11       We drink masala chai, share biscuits. 
…              Lemon Cokes. Kit Kat chocolates.
…              Di-di dries fingers in a tatty old snot-rag.
…
13:39       First, what not (“Big Sister” = eunuch)
…              to talk about. Next, to chat, 
…              chat, chat.
…
14:45       400, if you’re blue-eyed―200
…              if you look around: an Israeli
…              drug tourist (from Queensland). Fooooosh!
…
17:22       Finally, remember to remember
…              what not to remember 
…              and what not to forget―dynamically
…              empathizing (to prevent, was told: Ire).
…
19:17      Imagine: The earth―held―in horns―of a cow―
…             within which’re―millions of gods―“conver-sating.”
…             Piloted visas, pamphlets by the Dalai Lama, placquards from the TYC1 , 
…             ideas, and pharmaceuticals. No problem, these― 
…
20:51     Newsflash: Thieves (sphincter)―DISTRESSING DOGS 
…            an English-edition paper: ESPECIALLY THOSE―
…           “You don’t re-write what I write!” (Warren Beatty, ‘Jack,’ Reds)―
…            DRAGGING BUNGS DOWN STREET (@ the hotel intersection 
…            of Park), as one S&M queen might―a leash.
…
23.55     Nearly well, I think, midnight and―


1 Tibetan Youth Congress


DISSONANCE OF COMPASSION


byway of David Lynch

I’d be
sent to throw marbles
from the window
of my bedroom;

Maybe 
it’ll be
(very) quiet

sent to throw marbles
when, clearly, 
there, we, weren’t,
hadn’t, any—

…and we
can wear
our raincoats.

Sent to throw marbles
till’d become
too tired to retrieve a
single one.

Might last
only an hour,
but let’s hope!


TOM PESCATORE

MY MORNINGS WITH ARTHUR AND HIS KIND WORDS


Everywhere the Aardvark slept,
the grinding of steely intestines
and metallic orbs
watching over us,
brought him restless nights,
though in the morning,
with a thin bead of light
shining through our window
he always smiled,
spoke of romantic dreams,
and drinking cups of
blackened coffee,
waited for the rapture
with me.


THE RAM


Abraham and Isaac

I think if I could have been
anyone on that mountain
I would have been the ram,
innocent, austere, righteous
the perfect (in)human sacrifice;

for Isaac’s place he took,
Did he waver? Was he bound and gagged?
did he ask his father why?
Did he know he would come to prefigure
the crown of thorns
and its wearer?

To submit is to have faith
to be obedient is to die,

Isaac was unaware
Abraham all too prepared
and the ram, twisted in the thicket
the property of angels,
watched quietly
as God forsook him
and his seed.

Yes I would be that saintly ram,
and I would run away
and leave Isaac to face the fire.


THE TIME TRAVELER AND THE AUTO SALESMAN

I’m writing to change
the future,
but you already forget me,
I left a letter for you
next to the vase of chrysanthemums
on your desk,
I wanted to write:

“The Dreams you had of me
were meant to come true,
but for time they were only sketches
to erase.”

Instead I wrote
“I guess I missed you,
Love,
Tom”

The woman at the flower shop
typed heavily on the cash register,
I told her never send 
Christmas flowers
in February with the sky
gray and winter watching,

There was a 57’ Chevy
in the parking lot,
in 1957 it was new,
it looks new today,
its license plate
reads:
“Classic Car.”

it had once read:
“DGC-1486”

I told the woman at the DMV this
and that classic cars
aren’t really old or classic
they just are,
I think she smiled,

I walked to your desk,
but you weren’t there
and so I waited,
a man told me you no longer
worked here,
it looked like he had a firm handshake
I didn’t test him,

I wondered where you had gone,
I stood there for a while
deciding to scribble a
short message
in case you ever returned

I looked at your desk,
empty but for the
fading ring left by some fading glass
I crumbled the note and
fit it into my pocket
to reread later,

how strange,
I remembered
because
I was going to
leave you flowers
but
I forget them.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Contributor’s Notes:

Born in Scotland in 1982, Douglas Bertram read Music at Durham University and, later, at King’s College London. He lives, works, and writes in London.

A.P. Garens is a twenty-something law student by day, wordsmith by night, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He can also be found at his blog: http://wryit.tumblr.com/

Alexander Jorgensen’s visual poetry and writings have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Drunken Boat, Moria, Grasp, LIES/ISLE, Otoliths, The Return of Kral Majales: Prague’s International Literary Renaissance 1990-2010, and The Last Vispo Anthology. “Letters to a Younger Poet,” correspondences with the late Robert Creeley, appears in Jacket #31. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2008.

Peter Marra is a 51 year old writer who supports himself by trying to do computer-related work. He lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. He is also a musician and artist and fan of “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.” He was recently published in Maintenant 4.

Eric G. Müller is a musician, teacher and writer. He has written two novels, Rites of Rock (Adonis Press 2005) and Meet Me at the Met (Plain View Press, 2010), as well as a collection of poetry, Coffee on the Piano for You (Adonis Press, 2008), and numerous short stories. www.ericgmuller.com

Tom Pescatore was born in Philadelphia, he has lived there all his life though he travels often to New York and Washington DC. He is a Masters Student at Rutgers University studying history. When not researching he spends much of his free time writing creatively and working with his production company filming comedic skits (here is an example http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/video/video.php?v=785859828523). He also maintains a poetry blog amagicalmistake.blogspot.com.

Rae Spencer is a writer and veterinarian living in Virginia. Her poetry has been published in vox poetica, Poem2Day, Willows Wept Review, The Driftwood Review, Melusine, and elsewhere.

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. One day, she would like to be a silent film star. She can be found at her blog: kitschy.tumblr.com.

Stephen Jarrell Williams has been called “The Poet of Doom,” “A Voice in the Wilderness,” and “A Minstrel for Love.” He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared in Aoife’s Kiss, Aphelion, Blue Collar Review, The Broome Review, Camroc Press Review, Censored Poets, Chronogram Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Fissure Magazine, Freefall, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review, Heroin Love Songs, Hungur, Is This Reality, Kalkion, Liquid Imagination, Mad Swirl, Metazen, Mirror Dance, Neonbeam, Nerve Cowboy, Nomad’s Choir, POEM, Poesia, Posey, protestpoems.org, Purpose, REAL, Rusty Truck, Scifaikuest, Sex And Murder, Shoots And Vines, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Thieves Jargon, Zygote In My Coffee, and others.

HOWIE GOOD
ANOTHER PIECE OF USELESS ADVICE

The same rain falling on us 
with dreary sincerity 
fell on the Great Dead, so-called 
despite there being nothing 
great about being dead. 
Write every day, I was taught. 
Better yet, the rain said, 
trigger various car alarms, 
and whatever the point of two 
or more exclamation points in a row is, 
browse the pawnshops 
and the green spray of hills, 
forgetting, if you can, the children 
at the gates of the orphanage. 



CHRIS CRITTENDEN
AFTER THE LAST RAIN

ice already, 
hiding in the damp. 
in the spent orgies 
of starfish leaves. 

shreds of birches 
the cerecloth; 
and too the frayed gauze 
of shorn aspens. 

the lake lapping 
like a mule under a load. 
crows at the flanks 
cackle into a ring of char. 

a cloud, turgid and mean, 
with a double chin 
of despots for a hide, 
hogs the swimming hole, 

inflicting the weight 
of its doppelganger; 
and hardening the monocles 
of ten thousand 

petty puddles. 



LATE NIGHT BLOCK

my hands folded, boney. 
corpse-still on my lap. 
the fingers not 
clog dancing over keys. 
only a still ridge 
announcing 
the dark side of the moon. 

at two a.m., the dim lamp 
is hitting them that way. 
shading the bulk of the skin 
to pale the knuckles. 
each round bump 
a bloodless face 
of a solider lying near the Marne, 
late september. 

if they moved now, 
it would be sweet magic. 
make their fiancées 
in distant homelands cry. 
but the lamp is heavy. 
cold as a gibbous sky 
soon to cast sleet. 

it’s hard to think under its siege 
of anything the dead 
want to say. 



BLACK HOLE

depthless quietus, 
guzzling like a drunk, 

vision gets sucked 
into your unborn navel, 

then whirlpools of torsos 
and a nova of dreams. 

you ride bright landslides, 
snaring creatures of stars: 

red mammoths in yoked orbits, 
clydesdales of plasma 

tethered to a feverish pace. 

your sharp cusp 
butchers worlds down to gluons. 

no blood left, 
not even a twinkle. 

whatever they saw, 
hoboing through the light years, 

stretches into a fast-forwarded 
movie of everything― 

then vanishes like a rubberband 
that takes no time at all to snap 

and never be. 



CHRISTINA MURPHY
NIGHT SKIES IN THE DESERT

I have walked the plains of sand and piercing winds 
Seeking the places carried upon the winds 

The dry desert speaks through a silent darkness 
Of the mystery within the hollow winds 

Caked river beds reminiscent of the sea 
Ache for freedom from storms and surging winds 

The moon in coolness like steel and pearl aflame 
Rides the mystery of change within night winds 

Here in this complex silence, the mind and heart 
Speak of momentary stars and ancient winds 



DAVID KOWALCZYK
SILENCE

Moss on a cypress. 
Clouds in a dream. 
Setting suns. 
Yesterday’s thunder. 

Silence, the messenger 
of love. 
Silence, the most eloquent 
of liars. 


ARS POETICA HAIKU

To talk like the rain. 
Words the color of oneself. 
This is poetry. 



JOE MONTALBO
CHOICE, TRAVELING TO A PARTY

Either road is fecund, 
ending in wide tables: 
one lined with pastries 
the other only flowers. 



C.P. STEWART
SCALEBOR PARK (1980)

No-one seemed to notice as you shuffled by, 
past the white coats in the office, 
through the green swing-doors, 
that winter’s afternoon, on your way to the river. 

And you’d left your cigarettes 
on your bedside locker, 
like a man not intending to be gone for long. 

Later someone told me he’d passed you on the road, 
left side rolling, pushing on, 
like a man with an appointment, in your leather mules. 

It was almost spring when they found your body, 
washed up on the sandbanks, a bloated thing. 

I think about you often. 
And of the things men leave behind. 
I kept the faith you gave me ─ may it see you home. 



DONAL MAHONEY
THE COPYREADER

I have been here a month, 
sitting in a circle with others, 
reading copy and writing heads. 
Today I’m convinced 
crime in the streets 
will never stop 
as long as 
someone can write 
and someone can read. 
I spell “ukulele” for Ulrich 
and a strange continent of sweat 
breaks out 
on the back of my shirt. 
“It’s as big as Australia,” 
says Ulrich. 
At that moment I know 
I’m letting another July 
die in Chicago, 
reading copy and writing heads. 



THE CITY EDITOR

Each morning, 
he sits at his desk, 
lights a cigar, 
starts looking around 

like a bear on a waterfall 
looking for salmon. He growls 
for raw copy, anything typed, 
anything with errors in it. 

Each day he comes to the office 
honed to rectify wrongs. 
Suffer the little stories 
to come unto him. 



STEPHANIE VALENTE
SUN BATHING

they sat by the water 
languid bodies on bored sundays 
eye frames and red soup cans 

they spoke of school yards 
bent golf clubs 
the price of gold 
and the weight of kissing 
measured by silver 

they spoke 
and wallowed 
and rubbed their wrists 
until 
everything 
was 
all right. 



WHEN YOU LAUGH BY STARLIGHT


after the golf and champagne glass game is over 
empty soda bottles, crumpled cocktail napkins 
and the food musters 
disposable plates 

there is no use, for hands to hold 
under running water, you say 
ten speed bikes 
and long scarves 
are trademarks 
you bare 

with laughter 
and missing steps, buzzed 
pedaling 

misguided, 
i turn, shuffle 
thinking of the empty bottles 
the wet book of matches 
useless 

and you ring my telephone 
in the morning 
like a classified ad 
or looking for a lost pet. 



SARAH AHMAD
FINAL WARNING

My foolish existence 
flows through the river waters 
with plastic bags 
dancing on it’s head. 



PATRICIA MURPHY
THIS IS NOT A POEM ABOUT ICARUS

As if he didn’t fly toward that sun when the sky was sliced in two, 
Choosing instead to turn north toward colder climes, whereupon 
His wax and feathers froze and Odin spoke saying “all curious boys 
Commend themselves to wrong turns sometimes, but you flew 
Right and straight this time, handing off the burdens of avarice and 
Infamy.” Icarus, not knowing what to say really, surveyed the heights 
To which he had aspired. He counted one: I am going to cast out all 
My hopes of warmth, and two: freedom’s just another word for 
Nothin’ left to lose. The song ringing true in his head, Icarus looked up 
And saw his blood blue number written on the sky. “When I am 33,” 
He said, “I will die then and all the world will love me.” 



ALIEN, MY LOVE MONSTER

Far away, you dream my belly 
The one with the line down the middle 
Through which babies came sprawling into the world 
The one you’ve neither seen nor touched 
Years ago I went to New York in spring 
And bought you a book, first edition 
Signed by a poet you loved and emulated 
Your lines like his held out only so much 
Until restraint took over 
Secrets back in the box, yours, his, mine 
The book my small offering to what you wanted 
As March took over from the longest winter of our lives 
Now we walk such different streets, you and I 
My drum is syncopated to the only rhythm I know 
Yours to everyone else’s 
I like my drum better than yours 
Now when the sky streaks toward the West with cold pink fingers 
Pointing “come home” I will think of you and the book I put away 


——————————————————————————————————-

Contributor’s Notes:
Sarah Ahmad lives in Pakistan and is a photographer by profession. Poetry has appeared in Mad Swirl, Full of Crow, Otoliths, Stone’s Throw Magazine, and elsewhere. Chapbook, Unfulfilled Doubts, has recently been released by Artistically Declined Press.

Chris Crittenden teaches environmental ethics for the University of Maine. Much of his writing is done in a hut in a remote spruce forest. Acceptances reinvigorate him now and again, among the hurdles and pitfalls of his obsession to express. He blogs mordantly as Owl Who Laughs. 

Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 18 print and digital poetry chapbooks as well as a full-length collection of poetry, Lovesick (2009). His second full-length collection, Heart With a Dirty Windshield, will be published by BeWrite Books. 

David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred magazines and journals, including Istanbul Literary Journal, California Quarterly, St. Ann’s Review, and The Buffalo News. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at Arizona State University. 

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press, and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Friends, Poetry Super Highway, Pirene’s Fountain (Australia), and other publications. 

Joe Montalbo enjoys mint ice cream, naps, and poems by Sharon Olds. He is 22 and currently working towards an M.A. in creative writing. 

Christina Murphy’s poetry has appeared or is forthoming in a number of journals including, most recently, ABJECTIVE, Pool: A Journal of Poetry, Splash of Red, Counterexample Poetics, and Blue Fifth Review. 

Patricia Murphy received her Doctor of Arts in English from Idaho State University in 2003. She is an Assistant Professor of English and the Writing Program Coordinator at the SUNY Institute of Technology in Utica, NY.  She teaches Freshman Composition, Business Writing, Analytical and Research Writing and Creative Writing. Originally from New Jersey, she lives in Clinton, NY, where she spends her spare time organizing creative readings, supporting the After Breast Cancer Group, and participating as a proud member of the Mohawk Valley Peace Coalition. 

C.P. Stewart lives with his family in North Yorkshire, England. Formerly singer/songwriter with the cult band Laughing Gravy, his poetry has been widely published in England, Canada, Australia, and the United States . He was a former poetry editor for Sotto Voce Arts and Literary Magazine (U.S) His first poetry collection, Taking it In, was recently published by Koo Poetry Press. 

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. One day, she would like to be a silent film star. She can be found at her blog: kitschy.tumblr.com.