April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
783:
invention
becomes
the mother of
the incandescent
in here
beneath
the hum
and rigging
all
wires
and false
senses of
places to go
invention
becomes
tired of itself
tired of reinvention
tired of movement
and political traction
invention
all folding
back in
on itself
reminding us
of history
those calm
pages
we were read
as children.
784:
in the center
of the rug
eyes slightly
slanted
a half-sleep
a half-ringing
telephone
by the stairs
shes cold
in a thousand
hairs
while her
eyes
walk a thousand
miles
yesterday she
thought more
of herself
in the lighting
of the patio.
there is calm
amidst
the ruckus
amidst
the backbone
of her mouth
and she’ll know
more for certain
as the
ground stops
swelling.
785:
what
can we be but
children
when all we want
can be handed over
cash still writes
the checks
that pave
our feet
over the snow.
786:
the expression
written
on the wall
is that
the sweat
continues
its path
remains
on course
until
all the right
words
are soiled
into
the minds
of the children next
to the countertop.
787:
are we justified
in our
methods
actions
all leaving
the dinner plates
to a feeling
of the often-misread
no we’re still
in here
as cold
as birth
as tired
as youth
notion
the breath
as it reflects
off the walls
of January.
Joshua Robert Long is an American-born poet who’s work has appeared in OTCC Magazine, AURCO Journal, Fresh Fish, and The Hogcreek Review. He has an upcoming series of poems to be featured by Spork Press and is the author of 3 books: Translating The Avenues (Walleyed Press), Mixtape (Walleyed Press), and Leaving Frost Upon the Walls, which was self-released. More information can be found on joshuarobertlong.com
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
A change could be a bloom
as well as a withering.
Her half‐world suspended between
two superstructures: a mystique of waxed floors
and shattered mirrors, spiderwebbed with cracks.
On the rim of her sky
were only hints of sunrise,
like goldfish swimming in ink.
No one was disturbed
by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones,
the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils,
the movements of her braid.
She bleached out herself, gradually
the way of old photographs, in a slow bath of acid:
first moles and pimples, then her shadings and face,
until nothing remained but general outlines;
a wax doll to stick pins into.
by Andrea Starr Pelose
The above poem is a cento poem that experiments with lines from novels, manipulating them, and thus creating a new work of poetry. A list of the works used can be provided upon request.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
I am riding the spooked horse
through a world of shadows –
In my visions,
there is nothing but ghosts
of all things.
There is another world
behind the one we live in.
Everything I see here,
is a shadow
from that world.
When I am riding,
things I see before me
disappear.
There is no more grass
or trees, skies or rocks.
When I am standing still,
I am traveling
on a horse made of bellows.
by Craig Shay
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
My mind does not sway like
awkward young lovers slow dancing
at their high school prom.
My mind does not run up and down
a beach like water carried by the tide.
And my mind most certainly does not
billow like a branch in the breeze.
My mind is erratic and sporadic,
It’s fantastic and its spontaneous.
It jumps from room to room,
wall to wall like electricity
it is
electric.
My attention deficit is not a disorder,
it is a way of life.
A way of life that not all can understand
but for the few that do they can’t live any other way.
Side to side, up and down but never
billowing back and forth between
hobbies, interests, goals and direction at the speed of light
hyperfocus
hyperfocus
hyperfocus.
Everything else ceases to exist until a new
fascination catches your eye.
Some take medicine to slow the brain,
but I think this defeats it’s purpose.
Attention deficit is not a disorder no,
it is a way of life that allows for
creative explosion.
by Nicholas Anderson
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
I sweat while I hack up
dust balls in the oily smelling
morning –5:09
I pound the coffee grounds into
the receptacle and wait
an empty stomach grows like a hybrid monkey
I ignore it
and read another Isacc Babel story
–that horrible war
and lumber to the cinema books
there is a picture of
Satre smoking on the beach
at Cannes 1947
I pull at heavy drapes
and am surprised by a white and
dark world
almost black and white but with
a strange blue hue –snow in february you are so cliché
now I can admit to the
chill and bring the portable heater
to my knees
and open the paper
an article on the next supercontinent,
Amasia they call it, interests me,
that gradual continental shifting,
a snail’s slow dance, that I
tell myself I can feel
hold on
and I read about
Iran’s nuclear program another
excuse for war, there are
so many, another witch hunt or
la conquista –la expulsion de los musulmanes
or la muerte de kunst
and as if struck I forget about Amasia
not hearing the death gulping
cries of the geese
confused as I am
I head for my covers
and forget the drab snow and morning
and I dream of that new
supercontinent and I know
I’m hearing and feeling the magnetizing pull
of continents under
folding water
by Oswald del Noce
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Under cover of night
The fiddler in blue gave the slip
to a toad of African proportions.
Toad wanted the fiddle.
The big silver whale
walked out of the water
took over the bandstand
and the angel folded his heavy
wings. In the soft light of
loving consequences the dragonflies
sat quietly on shimmer and
sparkle. Brook burbled and wouldn’t
change its tune.
Marigold floated on blackbird’s
melody, holding on to spiderwebs
during intervals. When manta ray
flew silently overhead all notes
burst with an audible sigh.
The Collector
finds them in bars,
parks, buses, the underground
or coffee shops;
he frequents downtown
pole-dance joints, picks up
blondes, brunettes or curly blacks.
Long legs, ample behinds,
he’s not choosey. All have one
thing in common: they talk.
Too much.
Somewhere in Soho they stagger
down those stairs
on dizzying heels,
click-clacking their way
into his basement. Call him
affectionately ‘Nutter’,
make themselves comfortable.
He smiles, puts his finger
to his lips and readies
the little machine. Pushes
the button and records
ten minutes of their silent breathing.
Terror
How much time is left?
In the whispers and hissings
are hidden words.
Mum and Dad disappear
after they kiss me good night.
They don’t know that I’ll soon be taken.
Something strokes me with cold feathers –
I wish I could tell.
Another ordinary story
Spring, it seemed, had changed
its mind. Like a disenchanted lover.
Pink, white, purple and tender greens
encased in winter-hardened water
topped with powdered sugar.
Fulgent in that white winter sun.
One harsh spring morning you
turned. No last glistening glory,
no last display of what
could have been.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm now lives with her second husband in Lima, Peru. When not writing poetry she wonders who to kill in her third novel, or goes off on a travel photo shoot. Her poetry collection TANGENTS has been published in the UK, and her latest poems have been/are about to being published in US poetry reviews.
