Carnival in Berlin

April 2013 | back-issues, poetry

“Anything goes tonight, my girl. Come on,

have another. What are we here for, dear lady?

Copulation is the only philosophy and

carnival its enabler. If you promise

not to move I’ll get you another flute

of champagne. My dear, we can leave.

I know a charming place just behind

Hackescher Markt. This is Berlin, you know.”

A Pierrot sways against the door frame,

stares drunken desire, mouth bent

into predator’s disappointment,

leans over the railing and vomits the first half

of an unsuccessful night.

Endless festing before Ash Wednesday –

nights of excess. The windows drip

yellow light and blue notes.

A tall Columbine clatters down the stairs

wrapped in a cape made from starlight.

She is running now, her high heels impeding

a fast getaway, her tracks clearly visible

in the first snow. No taxis anywhere.

She slips and slides towards the snow-decked

fire hydrant, its plump little arms outstretched

in a gesture of expectation. As her head

cracks open like a ripe fruit broken,

her purse spills condoms and pepper spray.

The snow reddens around her face.

Very slowly she relaxes.

The best party ever.

by Rose Mary Boehm

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm, short-story and novel writer, copywriter, photographer and poet, now lives and works in Lima, Peru. Two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS) have been published in the UK. Her latest poems have appeared – or are forthcoming – in US poetry reviews. Among others: Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Morgen Bailey, Burning Word, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary… For her photographs see: http://www.bilderboehm.blogspot.com/

The World is a Potter

April 2013 | back-issues, poetry

She sits at the wheel pulling cold balls of clay

centering us on the bat, foot gently feeding the pedal

pressing out our densities, opening our centers

turning us into simple vessels

built for filling.

I want to be your favorite soup-bowl

a singing teapot.

But the world is still creating us—

glazing & firing us until we have no more water, or we give up

or until someone plucks us from the kiln saying,

“You, perfect little vessel, are just what I need.”

When that happens, you are no longer organic

no longer molding Earth: you are Art, capitol A.

That’s what I want to be so fucking bad

but I’ll settle for plate. I’ll sit permanently on your bathroom sink holding your soap.

I’m just tired of being only leather-tough

sick of the world forming & decorating & tattooing designs on me.

Please, just put me on the shelf. Cracked

blemished, unfinished—I want to be useful, I want to be a vessel

I want to know my name and practicality

I want to carry something for you.

by Jacob Collins-Wilson

Jacob Collins-Wilson, a high school English teacher, has had poetry published in Pathos Literary Magazine as well as a short essay published by 1 Bookshelf.

In Passing

April 2013 | back-issues, poetry

I.

His legs are twined
with the branch
below him as
if they were
just another knot
taught to him
by his father
when he was
a young boy

II.

I know a girl
who wears innocence
like a sundress,
setting each night
over her ankles

and I know
that there is a boy
with kerosene

in his eyes
that she turns to

and sometimes
I know the boy
and sometimes
that boy is me

III.

We perched

the same branch
like two birds

huddling close

in the depths of winter,
for the music.
Swear, for the music.
Beautiful falsetto.

IV.

My heart is tinder


and the quiet man 


that built his home there


this past winter


paces slowly


and with a limp


His footsteps

fall on dry

sticks
 and paper


the sound echoing 


off of my ribcage amphitheater

and from far away


I’m sure it sounds


like a heartbeat

V.

Old age
just the wisps of

cinder gray above

my head
and in my heart,
trying to remember
themselves auburn 

before the fire

VI.

The cartographer stumbles
past slowly:
his legs stiff,
heels clicking
with the ground
like the strikes of a
drafting compass;
and with his every step
earth measures him back.

VII.

I like to practice dying.

Sometimes I lay

down and carve tree trunks, my name scratched six

feet above my head
and admired
by the procession ants
that pause one

by one to

pay their respects

I like to walk
through the forest
looking at the names

that my mother thought about giving me
but didn’t

and wonder if they
are practicing too

VIII.

The gardener cups his thumb on the head of his hose.
When the sun is out
he works alone,
watering the seeds
that his son will

buy one day
from a florist near

8^th street and
lay over his grave

IX.

Nothing smells
more like beauty
than rain
on asphalt

Nothing looks so good
as the sun
shining through pollution

At 6 p.m.

Nothing sounds so pretty

as horse hair

and pernambuco
pulled back and forth

in a sea of G major, maple, spruce, and metal strings

as we were the currents
that held them in their sway

by Simon Rhee

Simon Rhee has been published in Poetry Quarterly, Stoneboat Journal, Do Not Look at the Sun, Mania Magazine, Visions with Voices, Red Ochre Lit Mini Chapbook, Line Zero Poetry Finalist, and Mary Ballad Poetry Prize Finalist.