Issue Eight • Issue Eight Poetry • Poetry
December 1, 2019
By J.W. Burns Like some animal you get tired of your skin, want to sink to the bottom and just push life through the mud. But...
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By Angela T. Carr I am not born. Doctors gas my mother and she baulks. Trees creep in, snake the delivery room. She wanders out of...
By Sandra Renew the revolution of 1863 Singer sewing machines and Butterick/Mc Calls patterns collected in Lever arch files ...
By Owen Bullock Clarence and Marion. The steep path to the door. The view of a distant ocean and near clay tips. High tea spread to...
By Eamonn Wall Today through field glasses I observe one small flock of red-winged blackbirds busy about the Audubon Center, the...
By Drucilla Wall In summer the cattle graze the high patches made rich on limestone leaching into thin topsoil, rain generally...
By Eamonn Wall —the best teacher lives outside, the best teacher lives inside you, beating blood, breathing air, the best...
By Angela T. Carr Nest of pebbles on the doorstep – a pagan offering, the work of small hands – its matted grass walls,...
By Anthony Lawrence In a river that still reeks of decay, in a time before the weir divided fresh from salt among mangroves that...
By Anne Walsh Visible in the wild wreck I am is the empire I was. My ruin is the most beautiful architecture. Wreckage has made me...
By J.W. Burns hunched against the orange sky, a white horizon nibbling at his bowels. Far below, his sheep hungry, thirsty, horny to...
By Anthony Lawrence While the other boys were drawing their guns and falling into the ruins of an open pavilion of sky and pines, I...
By Hélène Cardona. when my soul turned round, perceiving the other-side of everything…...
by Peter Boyle. Saint Germain des près, St Martins in the Fields — what are so many churches doing in the meadows? Why are...
By Kristen de Kline, + we loved like demons our kisses, fresh and fugitive we snorted lines as Cave wrestled skeleton trees crooned...
By Bernadette Gallagher. He talked of grey, of blue, purple and all the possible pigments that make up grey. He talked of trees, of...
By Matthew M.C. Smith Dream on a breeze of summer eve’s tree-dappled light Do not fear the advancing shadows Let Autumn storms...
By Bernadette Gallagher For John Philip You came already formed a silken scarf blowing in the wind. To unravel would...
By Robyn Rowland whirling Dervish, Istanbul Unworn as any adolescent son, the youngest Mevlani Dervish trembling on the cusp...
By Matthew M.C. Smith for Anne We fly over girded earth trailing the rise of Apollo light thousands of feet high The...
By Marilyn Humbert west of Alice Springs the Finke River rambles roots of ancient eucalypts Namatjira paints his soul ghost...
By Dr Wendy J. Dunn Red like blood I plucked a rose Grasped its beauty close to me uncaring of its thorns Blood red red blood...
by Peter Boyle. The lost cantatas of Mozart are being performed on an island in the wide fork of a river not far from here....
by Ian C Smith. To visit their son, a bearded adult now in what feels to him a fast-forwarding of years, she drives him to the...
Issue Six • Issue Six Poetry • Poetry
December 15, 2018
“The road is full of perfume. Urine. Bile. Death.” These nine initial words from Jayant Kashyap’s poem ‘History’ in this issue...
Issue Six • Issue Six Poetry • Issues • Poetry
By Jayant Kashyap * The road is full of perfume. Urine. Bile. Death. People walk the road, up and down, in high boots, heads...
by Kevin Higgins You knew for a fact, they’d never allow a pair of mad eyes with a pistol near the Emperor and his wife; and...
By Michael Aiken Beelzebub fallen to disease, absent himself willfully, to muster some inkling, some new insight born of nothing...
By Jack B. Bedell My daughter has been watching the news every night this week, anxious for word on the soccer team...
By Cheryl Pearson In the late 1880’s, the body of a young woman was pulled from the Seine. The pathologist at the Paris Morgue was so...
