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TWO POEMS

Poetry

June 2020

David Hawkins

Poetry

June 2020

  FIELD RECORDING   When you record the air, its soundings go boneward.    A small, ear-sized mushroom collapses upwards into    a state...

poetry

April 2020

Turkeys In Snow

Jory Mickelson

poetry

April 2020

after Edward Hirsch   Some mornings when  he wakes, after sleep       sleep has wounded him   into wildness, he...

Poetry

Issue No. 27

SECOND PERSON SINGULAR

ZOSIA KUCZYŃSKA

Poetry

Issue No. 27

David Gilmour records a setting of the famous sonnet – the one about comparing thee – afloat upon a...

Poetry

February 2020

Gamma Rays

Valzhyna Mort

Poetry

February 2020

  Cupid’s arrow – a scissors’ beak I’ve stuck into my thighs, thirty kilometers from                                Minsk, sunstruck.  ...

Poetry

December 2019

THREE POEMS

Cat Woodward

Flo Reynolds

Poetry

December 2019

dear Other, with pink dish   (Flo Reynolds & Cat Woodward)     in the interest of distance let...

Prize Entry

November 2019

ETXE

Julie Irigaray

Prize Entry

November 2019

For my partner’s first visit to his village, my father brings us to the highest peak of the Pyrenees....

Outside, the rain seems always on the brink Like most people that morning I was avoiding my father’s funeral I must’ve stood at the door with my coat on for hours, always turning  back as though putting off seeing a film It was the sort of day for wearing an old shirt into town to buy a new shirt The rain began The wind agitated the lake The sort of lake you can’t when giving directions from the road miss The sort of road people call ‘the high road’ leading down to the lake people call ‘the old lake’ from which the wind brings news of the drowned boy
The Lake

Prize Entry

November 2019

Dane Holt

It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t been known For the chickens But she was famous for these white, Undappled hens, which she’d bring to Perquín to sell On weekends The mayor’s chickens, they were called, As if her husband would ever want them (regal though They were), elegant as the egrets that are still Left to wander the presidential palace in Panama City By the time it happened, the buildings had gathered up The evening to form a landscape, and the streets grown Rancid, like oblong containers from the kind of potluck, In a dank small town, that people will choose to attend Out of boredom, and call a world  Her son was staying In San Salvador to study, and so she was alone                                                  They came for her, and her Box of hens, in three military vehicles, the passengers Disguised as radicals It would be different if they hadn’t Been so quiet They arrested her She was accused of Standing with guerrillas, Vesta at her hearth, in her slacks And a dead son’s blazer, like a queen expatriate In tenuous provinces And her crime was simple, she was The Mother of Intellectuals, the ideal accomplice It’s noted among us that this was recorded in mediocre Spelling, in a functionary’s awkward Palmer hand, As mader de intelectos [sic], a piece of wood, then, Made of the intellect To make her an idea Of accomplishment — it would’ve be different if they Hadn’t been so quiet Soon, some women Who stood outside the barracks — the ones who Ordinarily might jump to buy white chickens — turned When they heard her singing and heard her ringing Her keys against the walls, as if her room were full Of open doors, as if her greatest urgency should be That the room should leave to meet the evening Slowly they turned her body into a torso Then it was A floor Rarely do rooms like these have hands

Prize Entry

November 2019

Vesta

Yvette Siegert

Prize Entry

November 2019

It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t been known For the chickens. But she was famous for these white,...

you’ll be the war and I’ll be the war-torn and I’ll be underground resistance printing pamphlets on sugar paper and you’ll be the war   and I’ll be the girls back home and the boys on the front line and the songs that they sing to be brave when they’re frightened   or   I’ll be the war and you’ll be the war-torn I’ll be the war and you’ll march against me with the placards that say MAKE LOVE – NOT YOU then and I’ll be the war   you won’t believe I’m even happening you’ll duck and cover as I paint the town red and when I tumble home across the whole horizon blasted you’ll be ruined
no surrender

Prize Entry

November 2019

Laura O'Callaghan-White


 

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