Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Published by Poetry Editor on February 22, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 29, Issue 29 Poetry, Poetry

Powder Keg

(1783-1810)

1.
Walrath_Powder-Keg_Slave-ship To be born a slave but to have known
the taste of freedom is bitter, a tang of existence
like the grit of blood in a clear river,
like steel in your hands—gun-metal freedom,
that can be given or taken away.

Deprived of freedom, the body still keens,
breathes in the wind, picks up its scent,
longs for sweet pain, and marches
with the infantry of death.

I knew long ago the betrayal of fate.
Turning its face from me, it left me for dead
face down in a river, with just my own hands
to pull me out.

2.
Bands of cold steel press into my skin—
my skin, merely a gunshot in a dark coda,
fingerprintless. This shell, a powder keg
alive within—charcoal and fire,
transient.

Walrath_Powder-Keg_sharecroppers I lost myself for a long time, for years
amongst the high towers of white
cotton and castles. Living,
I refused to remember.

I pressed away memories in the fields,
turned my face from the call of ravens
waiting on fence posts and church steeples
and on the handles of plows.

I shut out the soul, collecting memories like lashes of the whip.

The little woman and the children she bore,
who slept beside me in the row house,
were they merely flesh and blood?
Made from parts of me I cannot keep?

I know they are dead, but I wish I could have kept
a lock of hair, a cotton scrap, not the hazy memory
of their smell, the sweet tangle of their feet on the cot,
their smiles at sunrise.

What had they to smile about?

3.
Specters haunt the earth. Shadows broken
away from the sun. Rangers without bodies
to return to. But I know this much,
they are free while I am chained
to the never-ending pain of life’s riven fane.

Where is the promise of my years?
In sleep memory rages, claws
my eyes, sears my nostrils,
hisses in my ears.

— Holly Walrath

Holly Walrath attended the University of Texas for her B.A. in English and the University of Denver for her M.L.A in Creative Writing. She is a freelance editor and the Associate Director of Writespace, a literary center in Houston, Texas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Abyss & Apex, Pulp Literature, and Grievous Angels, among others.

Published by Poetry Editor on February 22, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 29, Issue 29 Poetry, Poetry

My Mom and Her Home

Fabiyas-M-V_My-Mom-and-Her-Homer These old stones
have undressed their
plaster-clothes. Her roof
is tattered, yet she declines my call.

Fashion and novelty
never tempt her. Her soles
sometimes soil her floor, but she
doesn’t fear a stretched-out index finger .

She refuses a share
of yummy Chinese noodles
or Arabian barbecue chicken
from my kitchen beyond the fence.

She takes steamed rice
and cheap sardine curry
as five-star food to her home.
No one teases her, the ill-mannered slurps.

She hears his footsteps
from the corridor of hallucination.
Nobody chimes in, her secret whisperings.
She likes the fright, the wilderness of dark lonely nights.

Nude red stones in her wall
remain as remnants of old love.
She’ll never come to stay in our new home,

she likes to be on her own always.

— Fabiyas M V

Fabiyas M V is a writer from Orumanayur village in Kerala, India. He is the author of Moonlight and Solitude. His fiction and poems have appeared in Westerly, Forward Poetry, The Literary Hatchet, E Fiction, Off the Coast, Anima, Structo, and in several anthologies. He won many international accolades including the Poetry Soup International Award (USA), the RSPCA Pet Poetry Prize (UK), Speaking of Women Story Prize (Canada), and The Most Loved Poet For March 2014 Award by E Fiction (India). His poems have been broadcast on the All India Radio.

Published by Poetry Editor on February 22, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 29, Issue 29 Poetry, Poetry

angels dream up the wildest excuses

John-Reinhart_angels-dream-up-the-wildest-excuses

for waking up late, for missing meetings,
for eating cheese puffs just before supper,
for the broken window next door,
and the marbles stuck up little sister’s nose

responsibility is reserved for earthly matters,
consequences of flesh & bone where
one + one equals two rather than infinity
spun into spiral springs and bounced down

the stairs to crash ceremoniously against physics
so angels can dream lugubrious visions
of sanguine potential and accomplish nothing
of purpose, merely lending ethereal ears

to fickle issues of time-trapped myopic beings
offering to salve the trauma of physics

— John Reinhart

An arsonist by trade, John Reinhart lives on a farmlette in Colorado with his wife and children. His poetry has recently been published in Scifaikuest, Star*Line, and FishFood Magazine. More of his work is available at http://www.patreon.com/johnreinhart

Published by Poetry Editor on November 28, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry, Poetry

Tire under the bridge

hangs by ribbons
knotted from plastic straws.

It swings back and forth
by the breath of a bored witch
winking from an abandoned building.

And then the tire stretches,
droops into a thin ovoid
as soot-angels from the drainage

clamber for a spot to play—
their rust wings crackling
on the heads of line-cutting scoundrels.

Grass blades hiss warning
at the strike of three, the witch retreats
and the angels dribble down the way they came.

Children in school uniforms fill the streets.
They take turns on the tire swing.

–Anne Carly Abad

Anne Carly Abad is currently busy trying to learn a new trick—jewelry-making.
Her written work has appeared or will appear in NameL3ss Digest, Apex, and Not
One of Us. Her science fiction novel The Light Bringer’s Kingdom saw print this year and is now available at Amazon.

Published by Poetry Editor on November 28, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry

Serving the Blind Girl

The pigeons moan when the blind girl calls,
for she is hungry and will be wanting pigeon pie.

Eugene sits in his big yellow chair to polish his spike.
I watch as he brushes the chamois over the walnut pole
until his fingers are stained darker than his skin.

We try to please her with small things, whatever we can manage.
I am embroidering a pillow for her with lilies that she can touch
on the surface of the rough cloth, perhaps even feel their color.

The blind girl is the last of her kind but she is not a witch,
not those poor creatures that were burned or drowned.
She calls us in visions when our services are needed
to purify our flock, and graciously we comply.

We are hers to bid, as a mother would bid her children,
and not a one of us dares question her except for fools
such as Rafe, misshapen and foul-mouthed, often drunk.
So it was natural that his blaspheming head wound up
on the sharp end of Eugene’s pole, supper for the crows.

There is always a great feasting and celebration
whenever a head finds its way to the spike,
when the blind girl calls.

–Marge Simon

Marge Simon lives in Ocala, Florida and is married to Bruce Boston. Her works appear in publications such as DailySF Magazine, Silver Blade and Urban Fantasist. She edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, “Blood & Spades: Poets of the Dark Side.” She has won the Strange Horizons Readers Choice Award, the Dwarf Stars and Elgin Awards and the Bram Stoker Award® for Poetry Collection.

Published by Poetry Editor on November 19, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry, Poetry

*

This leaf shutting down
drains as if its puddle
could speak for you

though the evenings too
have outgrown, no longer reds
or browns or face to face

the way all these trees
still gives birth in darkness
and the echo you listen for

has your forehead, scented
lulled by the gentle splash
coming by to nurse

–what you hear is the hand
hour after hour leaving your body
and this huge sea

that never blossomed
taking you back for rivers
that wanted to be water.

–Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.

Published by Karl Rademacher on November 19, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry

I will die from a cancer of the spine

Boris Vian (1920-1959), translated by F.J. Bergmann
I will die from a cancer of the spine

I will die from a cancer of the spine
It will happen on a horrible evening
Fair, warm, perfumed, sensual
I will die from the putrefaction
Of specific, little-known cells
I will die from having a leg torn off
By a giant rat springing out of a giant hole
I will die from a hundred cuts
The sky will have fallen on me
Breaking itself like a heavy windowpane
I will die from the boom of voices
Imploding my eardrums
I will die from deafened wounds
Inflicted at 2 a.m.
By bald and indecisive killers
I will die without noticing
That I am dying, I will die
Buried under the desiccated ruins
Of a thousand collapsed cotton bales
I will die drowned in the engine oil
Trampled underfoot by indifferent beasts
And immediately again, by different beasts
I will die naked, or wearing red cloth
Or sewn into a sack full of razor blades
Perhaps I will die without putting
Nail polish on my toes
And my hands filled with tears
And my hands filled with tears
I will die when someone unsticks
My eyelids under a rabid sun
When someone slowly speaks
Cruelties into my ear
I will die from seeing children tortured
And stunned and ashen men
I will die gnawed alive
By worms, I will die with
My hands tied beneath a torrent
I will die burned in a sorrowful fire
I will die a little, a lot,
Without passion, but with interest
And then when everything is finished
I will die.

Boris Vian (1920-1959)
Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale

Ce sera par un soir horrible
Clair, chaud, parfumé, sensuel
Je mourrai d’un pourrissement
De certaines cellules peu connues
Je mourrai d’une jambe arrachée
Par un rat géant jailli d’un trou géant
Je mourrai de cent coupures
Le ciel sera tombé sur moi
Ca se brise comme une vitre lourde
Je mourrai d’un éclat de voix
Crevant mes oreilles
Je mourrai de blessures sourdes
Infligées à deux heures du matin
Par des tueurs indécis et chauves
Je mourrai sans m’apercevoir
Que je meurs, je mourrai
Enseveli sous les ruines sèches
De mille mètres de coton écroulé
Je mourrai noyé dans de l’huile de vidange
Foulé aux pieds par des bêtes indifférentes
Et juste après par des bêtes différentes
Je mourrai nu, ou vêtu de toile rouge
Ou cousu dans un sac avec des lames de rasoir
Je mourrai peut être sans m’en faire
Du vernis à ongles aux doigts de pied
Et des larmes plein les mains
Et des larmes plein les mains
Je mourrai quand on décollera
Mes paupières sous un soleil enragé
Quand on me dira lentement
Des méchancetés à l’oreille
Je mourrai de voir torturer des enfants
Et des hommes étonnés et blêmes
Je mourrai rongé vivant
Par des vers, je mourrai
Les mains attachées sous une cascade
Je mourrai brûlé dans un incendie triste
Je mourrai un peu, beaucoup,
Sans passion, mais avec intérêt
Et puis quand tout sera fini
Je mourrai.

French poet:
Boris Vian (1920-1959) was a noted French Surrealist novelist, playwright and poet, as well as a songwriter and jazz musician. Inspired by use of mescaline, he wrote successful hard-boiled novels, pretending to be their translator—the banning of these works for “moral outrage” can only have helped their sales. He translated Van Vogt’s The World of Null-A into French.

Translation notes:
I’m bilingual in French as a result of having lived in Paris for a couple of years during a critical part of my childhood. A fondness for Surrealism led me to Alain Bosquet and then Boris Vian. This poem is from Je voudrais pas crever (1962, Éditions Fayard). John C. Mannone has pointed out that at least two other translations are available online, and comparing my version to those has been interesting. In a few lines, my wording is identical; in others there are differences in syntax, level of diction, and even the interpreted meaning of words. Some choices are more or less arbitrary; e.g., deciding whether contractions fit with the tone of the poem in the original language (I decided that they did not), some depend on knowing colloquial conventions as opposed to literal meanings: “colonne vertébrale” does indeed mean “vertebral column”—but it is the common term for “spine” or “backbone” in French, and I much prefer the flow of the line with “spine.” But some ostensibly simple French words are almost impossible to translate accurately and depend almost entirely on context; the pronoun “on,” for instance, can mean “we,” “they,” “somebody,” or “you” depending on how it is used—and does not quite correspond to any of them. But English, in general, has a wider choice of terms than are available in French; English cannibalizes almost every language it encounters, assimilating a truly enormous vocabulary from global sources. Each translator will make word choices based on accuracy of meaning for individual terms, resonance with the phonetics, rhythm and context of the source, and a feel for the basic style of the work, as well as the idiosyncrasies of individual aesthetics.

The word vers translates as not only the plural of “worms,” but also as “verse.” Unfortunately, the pun is not possible in English.

Translating poet:
F.J. Bergmann writes poetry and speculative fiction, often simultaneously, appearing in The 5-2, Black Treacle, North American Review, On Spec, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. Editor of Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (sfpoetry.com), and poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com).

“Je mourrai d’un cancer de la colonne vertébrale”
extract of « JE VOUDRAIS PAS CREVER »
by Boris Vian

The poem, “Je mourrai d’un cancer vertebrale,” is reproduced and translated with permission, courtesy of:

Titulaire du compte : Librairie Arthème Fayard
Domiciliation agence Société Générale :
Société Générale, agence Paris Opéra (03620)
6, rue Auber – 75009 PARIS
Tel : 01 53 30 57 00
Références bancaires :
Banque : 30003
Agence : 03080
N° de compte : 00020027011
Clé : 09
Identification internationale :
IBAN : FR76 30003 03080 00020027011 09
BIC-ADRESSE SWIFT : SOGEFRPP

Published by Associate Editor on November 16, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 24, Issue 24 Poetry, Poetry

dream by John Reinhart

narrated by John Reinhart

Illustration by Sue Babcock

of sunbeams making 
love to crystals and 
dancing with a million 
of their shimmering 
children, where tree 
roots tell legends 
to daffodils and the sun 
itself breaks into a belly laugh 
that extends eternity another day


One-time beginner yo-yo champion, state fiddle and guitar champion, tinkerer, and certifiable eccentric, John Reinhart lives in the Weird, between now and never, protecting discarded treasures, and whistling combinations of every tune he knows. His poetry has recently been published in The Vocabula Review, Black Heart Magazine, FishFood & LavaJuice Magazine, Star*Line, 94 Creations Journal and Liquid Imagination, and Songs of Eretz.

Published by Associate Editor on November 15, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 24, Issue 24 Poetry, Poetry

Hard Row by David C. Kopaska-Merkel

narrated by Diane Severson

Illustration by Sue Babcock

This winter the bones of gods,
impregnated with chalcedony,
penetrated by the gold of fools,
frost heaves the jagged field,
Ragnarocking a tussocked down
under a spackled sky, fast moving, hieroglyphed,
good-word spreading to a mortal world.

This spring we bush hog the lower 40,
this year steel teeth stumble
on imperishable Tibias,
spatang off in divinely inspired trajectories,
cloud chamber trailing infinity.

My God, I worshiped
at Your empty tomb so long,
Your fragments, assembled,
a mighty God would make,
severed cervically, acephalic,
despite celestial sieving,
Your inspiration directionless,
but therefore ultramundane,
inerrant,
unquestionable,
unanswerable,
transcendent,
rising up with the sap,
blooming in summer's eyes,
swelling like young fruit.

We were warned to not take sup
Chez You, to never look back,
afraid over Who might be following,
or What, warned to not give ear,
for Your sake, to any crawling thing,
you can’t unlearn this knowledge,
can’t go Home, ever;
ignorance was bliss but now,
now grace’s a fleeting dream,
life a cup of sorrows,
till the harvestman counts your coup.

An aether compactor by trade, David Kopaska-Merkel began writing poetry after witnessing the Ascension of Tim. Kopaska-Merkel has written myriads of poems and stories since the 70s. He won the Rhysling award (Science Fiction Poetry Association) for best long poem in 2006 for a collaboration with Kendall Evans. He has written 23 books, of which the latest is SETI Hits Paydirt from Popcorn Press, http://www.popcornpress.com/seti-hits-paydirt/. Kopaska-Merkel has edited Dreams & Nightmares magazine since 1986. DN website http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/. @DavidKM on twitter.

Published by Associate Editor on November 15, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 24, Issue 24 Poetry, Poetry

Harboring by Kate Gillespie

Illustrated by Sue Babcock

Touch its anaerobic sky
to be burned.

Sulfurous, tarry, black
underneath inner harbor.

Two half-centuries have flowed above, time trickles
between the flattened layers. 

Ancient organisms
never languid in fluid repose
stretch out filaments. 

Gather in aggregates, 
colonies where the chemicals
seep, deep, keep 
compounding novel catalysts. 

Eighty three years of folly falling
into the algae slime
into the city’s crime
into the sifting sediment.

Coaxed in nitrogen-flushed tubes—
refugees of evolutionary phylogenetic trees.

Feed them chlorine-coated
chemical compounds, PCBs.

Anaerobes exchange protons
for donation of electrons
and spit out anions
to go make salt somewhere else.

It’s hard-knock strife
between the bedrock of ages.

Liquescent horizons
tenuous microbial life.

Changing and rearranging,
from the bottom
up.



Kate Gillespie is a microbiologist searching for her creative mojo. She is a poet, playwright, and fiction writer who balances creative writing endeavors with her marine biotechnology doctorate studies. An active participant in Baltimore’s literary arts community, Kate has been involved in cultural outings including Poets in the park, EMP Collective readings, Glass Mind Theater Group public lab, and Baltimore’s One Minute Play festival (OMP) . Her work has been published in Eight-stone Press “Smile Hon, you’re in Baltimore!”, The Magic Octopus, and Urbanite Magazine