April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
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Geometry of motion: the pinpricks of stars behind
moving clouds reforming into instants of fungus.
World’s tallest building in the revolving foreground.
1.
Player piano script unrolled on the green park bench
near boulevard Magenta. Strawberries for sale in the market,
three coins a pound. The butcher is disassembling a leg of lamb:
his left hand is a hook. Still lifes of meat in the window.
2.
“. . . in the grotto of Our Lady of the Cripples, a girl
placed a plastic rosary around a statue’s wrist
that melted in the hot light of the votives. Her prayers–
balls of burnt wax at the figures’ unclothed feet.”
3.
Maps to everywhere lead to nowhere where there’s
the always of never, never again. Cave housed
with bats unfolding like tricky scissors, or airs of night time.
4.
Stamps on a letter canceled by mascara.
5.
Black and white of a photograph of the canal
and the train station behind. The engine house switching
round like the handless arms on a watch.
6.
On the inside cover of a matchbook there’s
an advertisement for a new set of teeth;
dentures sent through the mail, echo of Van Gogh.
7.
Woman at a loom weaving a canvass of henbane. The spool
turns and flax is taken up onto wooden beams. The thread
passes between her lips– dragon flies land ringleting the pond.
7.1/2
Stitchwork of concentric circles left by the skipping stone . . .
by Philip Kobylarz
Philip’s recent work appears or will appear in Connecticut Review, Basalt, Santa Fe Literary Review, New American Writing, Poetry Salzburg Review and has appeared in Best American Poetry. His book, Rues, was recently published by Blue Light Press of San Francisco.
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Old trees in the winter are like wizards
clean shaven or white beards hanging,
you can see the 60s and 70s in them,
not far off at all, right there even,
if you look closely. You could even see
other decades that you wish you lived in,
like the, 40s? I don’t know, I don’t look for
the 40s when I look, but
these trees are the ones, with that grainy gray
winter film on them: where the sticks come from
that crack under our feet when we walk together
through the woods towards the giant wind turbines
we’ve always wanted to stand at the base of,
just to see. Walking towards a brand new thing
like you and I, through the Scots pines, Silver maples,
Old things, trees
at home in yards: the ones creaky old rocking chairs
are made from, newly made even, I could make one
right now, lubed up and stained fresh,
but if I used that old thing out there, like a giant’s tibia
preserved from some other decade,
it would creak, crack, cold and crisp with gray
outside like this portion of the world’s schedule
the sun just couldn’t buy its way into:
“Sorry Mr. Sun, sir. The sky is booked. It’s not that
the rain will be using it, it’s just that you can’t.”
That kind of gray, more refreshing to wake up to
than orange juice, gray dancing in a line around
November through February and the trees—
branches dead enough to let me climb them
to their tip top, but snap anytime I try sitting
up there awhile and watch me fall, all the way
back onto the grass, back on the grass,
breathing in the smoke smell from a bon-fire
two houses down, burning old creaky things,
old creaky things burning.
by Andy McIntyre
Andy’s poetry and fiction have been published in Hard Freight, a Penn State literary journal, and two of my original plays were also there produced during my time there as a student.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
It began as easily
as the opening of a flower.
A parfait of feelings,
sticky confections
enjoyed together;
an ache in the marrow
when they were apart.
They went to dinner and films.
They danced at clubs and balls
dressed up in the costumes
of fairy tales.
Then came the camping trips,
and visits to theme parks.
And they got an apartment,
dividing rent, utilities,
groceries and chores.
Soon, they met the parents
with mock chastity,
sleeping in separate bedrooms.
It was a predictable dance.
Tacit understandings.
Compromises.
Accommodations.
Expectations.
A diamond ring
to close the deal.
They sat together on the couch
in their bathrobes by the flatscreen TV.
Between them was a bowl of buttered popcorn
to share on movie night.
As he listens to Andy Dufresne and Red
talk about escaping from
Shawshank State Prison,
all he can think about
is how to say goodbye.
by William Ogden Haynes
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan and grew up a military brat. His book of poetry entitled Points of Interest appeared in 2012 and is available on Amazon. He has published nearly forty poems and short stories in literary journals and his work has been anthologized multiple times. In a prior life he taught speech-language pathology at Auburn University and authored six major professional textbooks.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
I hear a red, circular noise,
but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
I could look for it,
but I think I’ll just to go back to bed for a couple of weeks.
Even if the night is a magnetic field,
it’s still darkly repulsive.
When you examine the historical record,
you can learn about the lowest high temperature,
and the highest low temperature.
The speed limit however, is not posted.
It’s a little like listening to the sizzle of pink electricity;
carnal, yet pristine.
I often wish I knew how to play poker, but I was raised very religiously.
I wasn’t allowed to gamble anywhere near a television set.
It’s much easier to love an other at a distance,
although, over time, you may discover yourself
growing apart.
Love chooses its own gravity,
just like a remora chooses its own shark.
Symbiosis works best in tandem with loneliness.
On the surface of the diamond planet, ‘55 Cancri e’,
the temperature is 3900 degrees.
Wherever you may be, the flame burns bluest near the source of combustion.
On August evenings, Hollywood’s swimming pools glisten
like intentionally set wildfires.
They shimmer, wet rectangles of aquamarine, television light.
Of course, you can’t change the channel.
Fortunately, learning to write a complete poem is a lot easier than it looks,
if you give it half a chance.
Like a reincarnation story you’ve read twice,
it’s over more than once, before you’ve begun.
by Brad Rose
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. His poetry and fiction have appeared in , Boston Literary Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Off the Coast, Third Wednesday, The Potomac, Santa Fe Literary Review, Barely South Review, Imagination and Place, Monkeybicycle, Right Hand Pointing, Little (flash) Fiction, SleetMagagazine.com, and other publications.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
“Energy is eternal delight.” – William Blake
At 4 years old I levitated
Locked my eyes and lifted from my bed
Floated through the house
Soared over mountains of crushed and flattened cars
I knew the golden flashes of the stars
The electric chanting of the air
The darkness of the universe
I knew invisibility
And on the stairs outside the kitchen door, I tasted endlessness
At 9 I pissed on my big sister who wouldn’t get off the pot
I squirted a gusher on that hapless, acne’d wretch
Soaked her chest, her lap. her thighs
That same day epiphany raged through me like an avalanche
The magnitude of death, end of consciousness, everlasting solitude
I shuddered, and shudder yet
At 13, my Bar Mitzvah year
I eavesdropped on my parents thrashings of desire
Ashamed, appalled, and beating off
And bragged about it to my friends
In my teens, (the young manhood of a Jew)
I bullied the weak, ridiculed the strange, shunned the lonely
and toadied to the crew I most admired.
I thirsted to become whatever it was I would become
I was a courtier in the courtyard of my life
At 21, the year I came of age,
In the spirit of equality I slapped a woman who loved me
Like Rimbaud, I turned away from rectitude, shunned all things familiar
Cheated my parents, they who seeded me, in the name of education
I enlisted in the Marine Corps in a dream of chivalry
Washed out quickly, my apathy intact
When no one was looking
I made babies cry and dogs whimper in pain
I was searching for an ethic of creativity, looking for a rose
At 31, appearing fully formed and fortunate
I was a husband, father, businessman in high regard
I walked upon the world intent on leaving footprints of achievement
I hankered after a baroque richness and a classical order
Doing what I had to do
I fleeced whoever trusted me, and bribed officials, and pimped my secretary
Along the way I cheated on my wife and gave her crabs
Kicked around my sons to ease my cares
Terrified my daughter to nurture her imagination
I paid no attention to the pageantry of time
No longer troubled to recall my dreams
At 40, aware of my impermanence
I’d learned that defeat and loss are the hyenas that feed upon us
And resilience is a lifelong obligation
I turned my lust to matters altruistic
Setting out to heal the sick at heart
I became the train that carried broken birds of passage
I listened to their cries at night and wailed into the night
In my envy I seduced the sad and lonely
Again and again my resolve to do some good unraveled into lassitude
My indifference sped desperate people to their ruin
Now, at 63, I bring you these bitter fruits, this litany of memories
The song of my self-loathing
I’m dedicated to a self-absorbed ideal of partial truth
I make no apologies
This is a cleaner work then what has gone before
It redeems me by virtue of a half-assed honesty and graceful phrasing
I tell you I am joyful and unrepentant
I tell you these are the badges of my sainthood and mortality
I tell you I’m expanding as my world contracts
I tell you I’m a falcon rising
I tell you that I’m laughing as I gaze into my grave.
by David Lewitzky
David Lewitzky is a retired social worker/family therapist living out his sedentary life in Buffalo, New York. Recent work has appeared in Nimrod, Roanoke Review, and Third Wednesday among others and forthcoming work in Passages North, Clarion, Sam Smith’s Journal and Poetry Bus.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
You swing the scythe in washed out flaxen fields
You may hear the blade against the dried out stalk
It is a sweet sound if the cutting edge is thin
You will listen for that faultless cut, it is a veiled thing
It will hide in the murmur of starlings and six-row barley
You will swing and scare the murderous crows
In repetitions you swing with the turning of your hips
They are never the same, form of swing or ting of blade
The light will fail and you will walk home under cast out corncrakes
By turf lit doorway you will sit and spit then drag the whetstone
You will smother the wicks and set loose the hungry tomcat,
Evicted field-mice are suing for recompense.
by Alan Donnelly
