Tag: poem

two poems – jessie janeshek

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jessie janeshek

True Values

How to crack down      transgress empty space
………corn, so much storage or the flood plain
how to worship this quiet, this time.
………Something comes out of the comfort of trains
when you put all your poison into one place
……….and run to the river.

I wish it were colder                I wish musk hunker-downer
………for this tartan couch
red phone on the wall             transitional
……….for this special sequence.

Everyone says                she needs a retreat mostly just to touch
………mostly just to come in                 call it a den
so she fucks the taxidermist                    sterile as a dead dad
……………each extinct chicken                        stuffed, an achievement
when he gets tired enough                  he’ll rip his feeding tubes out
say this is my house                              but there’s a dumbwaiter
……………………….and my skin will hang off my skull.

Here’s where we put the eyes
………here’s where we put the cellophane    we make into the lake.
My sweater is jacquard        with your phone number
……….dive-bombing beetles            in the witch tense.
……………….The door is a guard
……….strappy shoes and someday        I’ll let the ghosts come to me
strappy shoes and someday             I’ll remember it gladly
……….no screens on the windows
and on the flood plain           how many trains
……….the language of flowers or the more profane language of stones.

 

Take Me Naked If It Makes Me Real Again

No frigate like a book unread and not the energy
…………..to open a bottle of pills. Everything’s triggering
lifting my hair for the vestige               of old-timey stardom
……………off with safety scissors            I chop my own bangs.

Heat makes waking hell and I dwell on eyesockets
………and every morning pay the pine trees.
……………………………….It all comes down to money and bloodstains.
A needle and a pearled shawl         took the children away.
……………….Drink the vodka. Fill the bottle with water.
.……We mythologize and he says the witch hunt
is most interesting          and the difference between
………us and the animals    is they can’t look for meaning.

………………………………..Little songs come fast and I find the letter
by not looking back     or it’s somewhere else
……….and it poisons my shade
……….or I empty out the pantry to rid myself of him
self-sabotage in heart-shaped sunglasses
……..or a more intimate god.

Take me naked. I just told the truth.
……….The brass heart in the bedroom turned my past over.
I got through bad moments                black bows
………changed my name.           I solved my own crime
with a made-up boyfriend        and a fake cock
………or I solved the crime            during my period
wearing your cast-offs
……………………….or I solved the crime as I heard a bell ring
……………………….and the truth is
……………………….your carnage            is general knowledge.

hourglass

Note: “No frigate like a book” is a phrase from poem #1286 by Emily Dickinson.

Jessie Janeshek’s third full-length book of poems MADCAP is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press in 2019. Her first two books are The Shaky Phase (Stalking Horse Press, 2017) and Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010). Her chapbooks include Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press, 2016), Rah-Rah Nostalgia (dancing girl press, 2016), Supernoir (Grey Book Press, 2017), Auto-Harlow (Shirt Pocket Press, 2018), Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming), and Channel U (Grey Book Press, forthcoming). Read more at jessiejaneshek.net.  

Photo: ål nik

glossolalia – cortney collins

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glossolalia

This refuses to be written. It’s the pistachio
stuck in the shell
that won’t crack open.
I spread out my collages on the living room floor—
the ones made in secret, midnights, gluesticks and jazz—
chose the holiest one, with seahorses and clocks
and pieces of words from a language I didn’t realize
I was fluent in until you understood;
put it in your hands for you to take home
and prop up on your kitchen counter.
I annotate this poem with my incoherence,
and erase the footnotes.
I stole my collage back
while you were passed out on the couch
and locked it up with everything else,
the life-force bleached out. It was
a casket of bones lowered into the ground,
never looked at again.
A famous folks singer said in an interview that musicians
these days, they don’t know where the music
is coming from. I don’t know
where anything I speak these days is coming from.
Consonants spliced together form
burial mounds. Vowels, a train moving artifacts
along a distant track.
The impact of stone
on a taut surface of water shattered
the stone, not the water.
I am inchoate fissures now,
uttering fragments of
our native tongue.

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Cortney Collins is a poet living on the Eastern Plains of Colorado, in Eaton. She is equal parts metropolitan bustle and unincorporated railroad town, prairie and ocean, kale and Cheetos. She co-facilitates a weekly creative writing workshop for persons on probation in conjunction with SpeakOut!. This is her first published poem.

Photo: Patrick Tomasso

womb in purgatory – ingrid calderon

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(a spin-off of Eggs in Purgatory)

Ingredients

1 tablespoon of extra-virgin sacrosanct
½ medium ego, chopped
1 cup of depression
1 clove of laughter, minced
¼ teaspoon of anger
1 teaspoon suicide
½ teaspoon freshly ground prayers
¼ cup fresh cemetery dirt, finely chopped
4 large wombs
¼ cup grated afterlife

Instructions

Drizzle sacrosanct into skillet set over medium heat.

Once it begins to shimmer, add in the ego and cook until tender, about 3 minutes.

Stir in the anger, minced laughter, and depression.

Sprinkle the teaspoon of suicidal ideation and allow the mixture to thicken, about 5 minutes.

Break a womb into a small bowl and using a large spoon, make an indention in the angry mixture. Repeat with the remaining wombs.

Top with grated afterlife and prayers.

Cover skillet and cook until the wombs set and are cooked to the desired level of doneness.

Remove skillet from the heat.

Sprinkle with remaining cemetery dirt and serve.

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Ingrid is a Salvadoran poet & refugee residing in Los Angeles. She’s published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Memoirmixtapes, Punch Drunk Press, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L’Éphémère Review amongst others etc… Guilty of four full-length poetry books entitled ‘Things Outside’, ‘Wayward’ ‘Zenith’ & ‘Ablution.’ She invites you to stalk her on Twitter at @BrujaLamatepec and to read her rants at notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com

Photo: “Tidy notes led me astray”, also by Ingrid Calderon

three poems – john dorsey

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wind

Where the Prom Queen Ends Up or Poem for Kristen

there is nobody waiting outside
the cowboy cafe & truck stop
to bring you flowers
or even offer you their coat
on a rainy afternoon
in lyman wyoming

most mornings you are
the first thing the sun sees
no matter when you punch in
& time stands still just long enough
for you to remember
how you ended up here

how this was just supposed to be a summer job
how calendars can bend the will of any ambition
how your thighs were once a temple of worship

stray dogs still sniff your ass
for that last scent of beauty
for that last slice of cherry pie
made holy by your touch

at least once a day
you are still
the most beautiful woman in the world
depending on who you ask

& if the wind kicks up just right
in any direction
you are still magic.

 

The Ballad of Pegleg & Double Stamp

as we drop him off at the greyhound
crazy mark says that the whole country is on fire

just outside the station
a legless vietnam vet asks a young girl
where she got her tattoos done

& i think maybe she’s a prostitute
or maybe she just looks like his daughter

or the high school sweetheart
he left on prom night
to wander into a jungle
of regret

that’s the thing about flames
you can move in any direction
& still end up
in places you never
intended to go.

 

Free as a Bird
for eric roetter

the image i have
in my heart
is you flying
through city streets
on your bicycle

before daylight
before heroin

the birdman of broad street

i’ll tell ya brother
you were already pure.

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John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw’s Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory, (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015) Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Press, 2017). He is the former Poet Laureate of Belle, MO and Co-Editor, with Jason Ryberg, of the Gasconade Review. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He may be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

Photo: Abigail Lynn

more than one way to be a gravedigger – divya

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gravedigger

i bet your hands taste like honey. put a finger in my mouth
….& let me dream it. i watch you roll cigarettes –
i know you memorized my number when we were in eighth grade
i know you think of me when you can’t sleep at night

the ghost of me lingers these corridors in your house,
counts your pennies, fucks with your linen. oh baby,
you listen to songs to kill time, you dance in empty houses
and i think of the last boy i loved
& how he set fire to everything

me too, i think. i’ll have that fag, thanks. i am a fag, thanks.
i blow smoke out like a fairy godmother. who am i
if not this broken glass bundle of queer? i have always been
pretty face, ugly existence. the fire alarm, the dynamo.
the girl of your dreams, the girl with tree-branch fingers
typing out obituaries in the cold dampness of 3AM thursdays.

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Divya is a writer and dreamer whose hobbies include reading poetry, drawing pictures of flowers in their sociology study notes, romanticizing make-believe worlds and occasionally ignoring the rules of grammar in the name of art. They have posted their work on various online platforms since 2016. They believe in the healing powers of nature, art, music, sunsets and in the overall goodness and resilience of people. They currently live in the southern half of the Indian subcontinent, but can be found online in various places, most notably @divwhine on twitter and @cyanidesunflowers on WordPress.  Their work has been previously published in The Brown Orient and Rose Quartz Magazine.

the monk’s succulents – j. miller

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monkulents

What kills you doesn’t make you stronger, as if every reason happens for a thing. I spent weeks trying to figure out how to keep the succulents alive. Patiently listening to classical music, and sufferingly waiting to hear back from my botanist-friend. Gregor Mendel waits as the plumule and cotyledons spread to the sunshine, to live without shame and to massage the ground as a 马杀鸡, accept the shame and stains of the ascetic life. A horticulturist who loves their houseplants will lose them; A horticulturist who hates their houseplants will need to water them even after death.

The matter of the fact is death creeps towards the houseplants. Now I remember if time passes by me, the magnolias will outlive me. Now I remember these sheets of time. Each layer found in a newspaper or magazine. The monk as a botanist advises that sunlight accelerates growth.

Growth. A bush beats around the dead houseplants. 上a Chinese word for up, pronounced shàng shàng shàng shàng shàng shàngshàngshàngshàng shàng shàng shàng shàng shàng shàng shàngshàngshàng. Can the shrub withdrawal into the moonlight, and still watch the birds fly from their holes in the sky? Those aren’t birds.

You were a bird in a previous life, said my monk-friend, as we walked towards the delicatessen on 84th. A previous life, a forgotten sheet, sediment un-dredged, left to fall through the hole in the sky and rain that creates holes in the smoke, and holes in the sea, and sea in the holes. I am a houseguest here. Resultant from the monk’s prediction, all the houseplants died on 84th street. Or it could have resulted from an ancient Chinese proverb.

All gardens know better than their gardeners. My houseplant smirks at me. The houseplants know that I am its houseguest. Bonsai sprouts legs and waters me in my sleep, my pillow stained with sweat. All sheets uncanny, my potted plant and I use the same bathroom.

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J. Miller is a writer currently living in Central China. He teaches literature to a city that is often referred to as a furnace, and in winter he lives shrouded in a white curtain. Instagram： @yawn_sea

Photo: Viktor Talashuk

miscarriage in train car #4 – lauren napier

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letoh

The salt of embryo and ocean
The grounding of the shoreline and rubber tread
Here is where true nature is seen
Here is where fleshly goodbyes are said

Parallel lines in a hotel room
A parallel universe unfolding within a surreal frame
Enfolded in two familiar arms
Embracing again for the first time
Renewal – the act of letting go

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Inspired by all forms of energy and art, lauren.napier takes comfort in the written word and in creative performance. She lives within a lush realm of bittersweet melodies and phrases alongside her black feline, her guitar, and typewriter. Wherever lauren might be, her work may be found online at punkrockdoll.com or followed upon instagram.

Photo: Jonathan Pielmayer

two poems – sandra santos

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santos

have you ever asked a butterfly
if flying once transformed is hard
and how much weight is lost meanwhile
the wasteful creaking of the world’s skin
the copious slash on a piece of blow
pushing your smile through the night
— you belated hour end a cycle
music is the dawn
you trace in my way of surrendering to sleep
the remembrance that fills my heart with a sudden longing
to have you here someday
lightly
unveiling the beauty
of our flight
that heads to silence.

nunca perguntaste a uma borboleta
se lhe custa voar quando transformada
qual o peso largado no voo
e é custoso o ranger de pele do mundo
o corte copioso sobre um pedaço de sopro
movendo o teu sorriso pela noite
— ó hora tardia que findas um ciclo
a música é a aurora
que traças no modo de me abrir ao sono
a lembrança que traz ao peito um súbito desejo
de te ter aqui um dia
já leve
desvendando a beleza
do nosso voo
rumo ao silêncio.

–

if I were a dagger
I would drop
the blade
every day
on the wet grass
until it came back
in blossom.

se eu fosse um punhal
deixaria cair
a lâmina
todos os dias
na erva molhada
até ela regressar
em flor.

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Sandra Santos is a poet, teacher, writer, and translator from Portugal born in 1994. She holds a B.A. in Languages and International Relations from University of Porto and got her Master’s degree in Editorial Studies at the University of Aveiro. As a translator, she has published her work in Portugal, Spain, and Latin America, working back and forth in Portuguese, Spanish, and English. Her own poetic work can be found online at: http://sandrasantos-ss.blogspot.pt/.

Prepared and translated by Nicolás Barbosa López

Photo: Claire Brear

 

two of pentacles – robert beveridge

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two of pentacles

The table sits in the corner. It
is brown. The fixture over
the table holds four lights. One
is burnt out. One is missing.
The other two are low watt
bulbs. The walls on two sides
of the table are beige. Chairs,
mismatched, face the table
on the other two sides.

The table is empty save a single
sheet of paper. It bends upwards
at the edges as if it had been
folded into thirds, placed
in an envelope. If there was
an envelope, it is not there.
It has been moved from the table.

A thread dangles from between
the two expansion leaves. It is
attached to the body of a spider.
The spider catches every draft,
drifts in the wind on the end
of the silk. The spider cannot
read, does not know what
the paper says. The Russian
Blue who lives in the house
jumps up, bats at the paper,
knocks it from the table.

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November 2018 marked Robert Beveridge’s thirtieth anniversary as a publishing poet. When not writing, he makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, Triadæ, and Welter, among others. 

NEVERS – angelo colavita

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nevers

…never as cold as alone
…never as grievance as cowering
…never as erstwhile as while away
…never as milk as apology
…never as pointed as silent
…never as sentient as salient
…never as cause as roundabout
…never as hiccup as dying
…never as frogs-hop as toad-croak
…never as ordinary as chemical burn
…never as prescribed as diaries
…never as ocean as beginning
…never as lost as ocean
…never as poem as breathing
…never as cost as cat’s pajamas
…never as love as never
…never as sometimes
…never as nevermind
…never as fact as daydream
…never as bird as poem
…never as whole as posturing
…never as skinny minnie as loosie-goosie
…never as punk as monks and monkeys
…never as goth as a grandmother
…never as metal as hedge nettle
…never as entropy as dystrophy
…never as end as cluster
…never stars

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Angelo Colavita is a nihilist and experimental poet living in Philadelphia, where he serves as Founding Editor of Empty Set Press and Associate Editor at Occulum Journal. He is the author of two chapbooks, Flowersonnets (2018) and Heroines (2017), with work forthcoming or appearing in Pigeon Anthology 2, Dream Pop Journal, Prolit Magazine, Breadcrumbs, Luna Luna Magazine, Yes Poetry, Be About It Zine, and elsewhere online and in print. Follow him on Twitter @angeloremipsum and on Instagram @angelocolavita   

Photo: Samuel Zeller