Poetry Drawer: Even Big Guys Cry by Dan Provost

Fostered, aligned
Along the walls of
Guilt…

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.


Poetry Drawer: I Will Be A Ghost One Day by Louise V. Brown

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.

Poetry Drawer: Mea Culpa by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

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

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Between Jobs & Not Me by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Between Jobs

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.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: REQUIEM FOR A DEAD COMPUTER by Robert Demaree

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.

Poetry Drawer: Two Poems by Isabelle Kenyon

The tutor

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.

Poetry Drawer: My dreamy manifesto under the starry sky, cometward by Paweł Markiewicz


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.


Poetry Drawer: The bee in the calyx by Paweł Markiewicz

The bee in the calyx

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.

Poetry Drawer: The Apparition/ Anchor (For Berjouhi) / Amends/ A Student’s Reminiscences by Dr. Susie Gharib

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.

Poetry Drawer: Four Poems by Dr. Susie Gharib

Poetry Drawer: Hygiene by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Hygiene

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.

Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado

Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Loch by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Photogenic by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Microwave by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Granite by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Trick by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Coal by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Poetry Drawer: Poetry Slam by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois