I lean into graffiti of hate, of despair. Where tears leave me to write shitty poetry and try to eliminate the thought from my mind of banging my stupid head against the wall…
Anger—king anger, Never smiles or looks for a postcard from Utopia
It fades along the late fall skies
The tremors of Plath
The worth of Judas…
Just wrong, so fucking wrong…
Dan Provost’s poetry has been published by the small press for many years. His latest chapbook Wear Brighter Colors was released by Analog Submissions. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and their dog Bella.
I read a poem about you today.
I was nearly naked before my audience,
scarcely dressed in death-spattered rags of pain,
speaking of your dying by suicide.
Grief gave me downcast eyes,
and a voice that stuttered and broke,
like a rusty old chain on a bike,
the wheels not turning as they should.
My eyes tried to become blind
to the listeners sorrowing faces,
and my head lowered to this page,
eyelids now a rampart for gallons of oily grief.
After one lecturer said I must achieve catharsis
before I speak of you. That my reading was destabilised
by my grief, better get some stabilisers then
for this battered broken old bike.
He said I must control the material,
not let the material control me,
those grief spattered rags I wore today,
I need to turn them into an elegant gown.
They want me to turn my mourning for you into beautiful art,
all my messy grief erased and transfigured into
silken threads of understanding, cloths of gold,
instead of this jumble sale of sadness.
One day I will come back as a ghost
and haunt him with my swirling drapes of mourning.
I will bury him with my heavy sorrowing
and will whisper wailing poems of you into his startled ears.
Ghosts do not have downcast eyes or voices that crack, death is pretty good at ridding us of the troublesome past.
Louise is an MA student at the University of Leicester.
It was all my fault My immaturity got the better of me and I found myself less interested in finding a solution to our problems that in hearing her say You’ll not make an arse of me again in her rich British voice
Each time she said it was like a little thrill-spike to my rat brain a jewel in my diadem Or maybe it wasn’t— that phrase just popped to mind I don’t even have a fucking diadem
Our relationship was doomed due to nothing more than my penchant for colourful language
She was easily angered I was superficial I also didn’t care to develop a long-term committed relationship and said as much on the various dating websites I’d joined I’d even joined Christian Mingle because I’d been hooked by the poignancy of one of their commercials the one in which the dewy-eyed woman says: He’s my second chance
I guess my heart wasn’t in the game as much as it should be and when my new partner protested: I’m no one’s twat-waffle I couldn’t get enough of it
We would go down in flames on the Hindenberg of vociferously expressed non-twat-waffledom
I don’t have long in this world My wife will keep me going for a while and I’ll keep her But then it will be as she suspected and as I suspect Again I’m drunk in the afternoon on red wine She’s at work I look out the back window The forest rises like a mountain The mountains rise like the white-capped waves coastal travelers see
Not Me
I made you pregnant Early the next morning you suffered nightmares Hideous Parisians were coming after you men with shaggy wolf heads Huge black men cut the air with glinting sickles I took a meal in an elegant restaurant I thought of everything in the world with equanimity A golden waffle with very small holes was served on a china plate Coffee was served in a gilt-edged cup I made you pregnant Early the next morning you twisted in bed suffering nightmares We were at my parents’ home When I got up to piss my mother trapped me in an alcove and persuaded me not to marry you
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
Our desktop, age 12, expired quietly Last night, after a long illness, Surrounded by loved ones. Win32k.sys Address BF801276… In its declining years It was still able, slowly and with Great difficulty, to find The best price on gas, The route to Nova Scotia. But twelve is pretty old, even in doggy years, So when we saw the dire language On the blue screen, We despaired of heroic cures And entrusted it to the Cyberhospice Who thought they could save My e-mail list, some files; Other things gone, Like certain memories, irretrievable.
I used the library’s computer today— New operating system— And saw a list of files Not meant for my eyes: Resume update, Draft for Mum’s obituary.
If our new computer should last twelve years… Better not to speculate. I do hope they’ll return the Old hard drive. I plan to keep it In an urn On the mantle.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
I listen close, knotting thread through my fingers, focus on the disruntled cock of your head: “you’re fidgeting again”, shrug the shiver of wanting to hold comfort in my grasp but fuel thirst for scrutiny.
Tremor of hand, you analyse to alienate me until– I feel my limbs disconnect and fall heavy weighted by your speared pupils: a broken woman picks, picks, picks away at the fleshy upturned belly of a young girl, soft skin–with time she will grow the armour to fight this woman.
Florence tourist
Quiltwork faces collide we witness, feel stomach swelling toasting, square stuffed with selfie sticks – there a man lies supine painting film her slow-motion street dance, flashing backdrop of cathedral. Brash voices shoot code new language of Google maps hands navigate bars to golden doors future worship flicker on Facebook as night pales to calls distinctly English we wonder where locals hide from storming feet.
Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press. Her poems have been published in poetry anthologies by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Verve Poetry Press, and Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her book reviews, articles and blog posts have been published in various places such as Neon Books, Authors Publish, Harness magazine and Five Oaks Press.
Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.
It burns a peaceful campfire!
I am part of the pink eternity. I enchant the poetic stars. I dream with ghosts of melancholy. I am a magician of dawn. My wing is called Apollo. I’m so enchanted, so dreamy. I am a sky dreamer. I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm. My dream enchants the beautiful world. There is a magic dream in my wings. My wings can do magic. I like my dreams. My dream is hotter than feeling. Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me. Philosophical sparks shimmer at me. My philosophy is infinity. I am in love with the infinity of politics. I like a druidic fire. I want to become a druid priest. Modern druids beautify my existence. An eternal spark rests in my poetries. I am spiritualized thanks to poetry. In politics you can be poetic. I never quarrel with muses. I fly in pairs like muses. My wings would need starry rays. With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy. Poetic moments enrich my soul. There is an Osiris chalice in my soul. My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me. In tender tears my magic life takes place. I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness. I would build a school for Druids. The imagination unfolds in the moon. I adore Osiris forever. My friend Osiris likes the original beauty. In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul. I fly to the land of Osiris. I write a legend to the Osiris. I drink a dew of eternity. In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses. I warm myself in a gentle dew. I cool my wings in the magic dew. In the dew falls my little shooting star. Ambrosia is eternal for my sake. In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic. I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia. An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me. My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia. I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments. I sit there as if I were a musical angel. I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me. In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence. This touch reflects my eternity. The tender poetry becomes my temple. In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you. I can love all the fantasies of the dawn. I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness. I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
there was a tender muse-like moment of charm, such an Apollonian tear when the cute bee set down on a noble rose in the kind calyx of the bloom, full dreamy splendour
the gentle sun smiled, at that time, at it fairy-like oh, a sweet morning gracefulness of rays, the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit of flying into an ancient forest homewards
there was endlessly angelic-beautiful early spring a tender March like a breath with pleasant smell of hummingbirds and in bright nightly moonlight which is fulfilled in splendour of butterfly the ghosts of open fields are dreaming incredible with the gleaming time of fantasy
dreams about the morning star and this steeped in legend Venus boasted about the dreamy bee with marvellous native glow because it experienced something very old such a butterfly-like feeling as if it had been infinite fledged as the heavenly she-daydreamer
that bee wanted to relish only the dew take a few drops of an eternal water to itself easy drinking and its wings dipping
yes the rose was knowing in a gorgeous dream of the primeval delight
as soon as the insect looked in the mild kind dew it saw there an enchanting minute small mirror
through the mirror the bee observed the dreamful nature the hidden spring mermaid from an other time as trace of ontology
that was the boundless wonderful eagle-like eternity what a melancholic land of spring dream-magic!
the mermaid with the harp was a young poet of muses that youth forsooth with a thousand warm lights of hearts
the bee dreamed like an Apollonian rider through the March into April
meanwhile the soul of the bee became tender willing to a starry flight as well as worth the ambrosia
the while in rosy calyx and mermaid´s observation have enchanted forever the dream of the eternity
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Curlew, A New Ulster, Straylight Magazine, Down in the Dirt, The Ink Pantry, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, the Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Always Dodging the Rain, and Coldnoon.
The Apparition
The rain seeps into my brain. The swishing of car-wheels entails mud-stains on pants, in veins. I strive to grasp the shredded clouds with dripping hands, in vain.
The trees, heeding my gaze, now sway with contrived grace, disguising their strain, for the fog that stalks my pace has begun to draw a face.
The leaves grimace. A candle-flame is displaced. A dog stops howling, disgraced as a hand on my shoulders pats then strays down to my hand that has grown quite weightless.
My fingers interlock with boneless flakes. A torrent of glows seeps into my frame as of bygone days when we frequented this very same lane to evade the hailstones of the human race.
Anchor {For Berjouhi}
Her face may be blurred by the mist of fifty years but my childhood shores still boast the marvellous gifts she once bequeathed, the aeroplane magically flying above our heads, the tortuous roads for sliding match-box cars in blues and reds, Andersen’s tin soldier miraculously resurrected from the belly of the fish, a doll, my height, with ebony lashes and gorgeous plaits, a Christmas-ball with ballerinas of silver flakes, and Joan d’ Arc on a Templar’s steed.
Her presence must have borne the vehement passion the very ancient monasteries of Anatolia evoke, she must have carried in her genes some ancestral trait of the early Christian martyrs who readily died for the King of Kings, a Gregorian gift.
I felt anchored in her lap and securely snug at the altar of her eyes, on which burned candles whose stature remained intact despite flames and flickers which refused to weep while diffusing their innumerable halos of light.
Amends
How can we make amends to lost friends when every single utterance has been rendered impotent? How can we redress the grievances of forests’ inmates whose habitats have been effaced? How can we rectify the gaping holes in heritage walls, the crumbling leaves of historic lore? How can we mitigate the bile of wounded pride? How can we reconcile a face with a smile?
Atonement is not an invisible force that embalms the mind with a remedial dose. It is a genuine feeling of remorse which to serious action it takes recourse. It is an act of healing rift that goes beyond verbal craft. It is an effort to repair damage, to rebuild, replant, retrieve and salvage.
A Student’s Reminiscences
Townhead, George Square, and Cathedral Street, I tightly close my eyes on these Glaswegian spheres, then distill them into cooling tears. It’s true I was friendless and without means, but at least I roamed those amicable domains unmolested.
The front window of W.H. Smith was my sanctuary in times of distress. I walked the isles in search of books I was certain I could not purchase, instead inhaled the fragrance of print, regaled my eyes with the gloss of tints of Penguin, Macmillan and university presses, and was not found wanting in taste for preferring books to a hookah’s blaze.
And the monster who resided in the dark blue lake had imparted its subterranean grace to my slender frame, for the ripples that caressed its bashful face still carry the fragments of Columba’s gaze.
My body smells bad It keeps me from finding a partner but without a partner I don’t feel the need for hygiene
I have a feeling of deep resistance to taking my clothes off and stepping into the enslaved rain of a tiled telephone booth
Rain inside a building designed to keep rain out is unnatural If I lived next door to a waterfall my life would be different
There are places like that in the Upper Peninsula a 3/2 with attached garage and adjoining waterfall but I don’t live anywhere near there
I couldn’t afford a house in those neighborhoods They wouldn’t let me use food stamps there They wouldn’t let me talk to their children
Children give me a sense of possibility but they wrinkle their noses at me and whisper to each other
I can hear them I have very good hearing I hear things others can’t
I took a creative writing class and wrote an autobiographical sketch though I claimed it wasn’t
I claimed it was about someone who had shit stains in the seam of his jeans
The teacher said it was a detail that had the power of veracity
I insisted on smoking in the classroom All the other students were against me They all washed behind their ears with ivory soap took naps when they were told and wore helmets when they rode their bikes
The Dean came and kicked me out I could tell he was afraid of me I could tell he was disgusted by my smell
If I had a girlfriend I’d be careful about my hygiene I’d spray my feet with athlete’s foot spray I’d go to the drug store and shoplift cans
I’d shave my face and watch the whiskers flee down the drain I’d use bay rum by the half-gallon
I’d put it on my clean-shaven face and the back of my neck
If I had a partner I’d feel a need for hygiene because there’d be a real woman I’d want to please and not offend
but until then my body smells repugnant, and there’s nothing I can do about it
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over fourteen-hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes, and was awarded the 2017 Booranga Writers’ Centre (Australia) Prize for Fiction. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, is based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. He lives in Denver, Colorado, USA.
