12/1/2018 1 Comment Poetry by Cate McGowan Cate McGowan is the author of the story collection, True Places Never Are (Moon City Press, 2015), winner of the Moon City Press Fiction Award. A Georgia native, McGowan’s fiction, essays, and poetry have appeared in many literary publications, including Glimmer Train, Crab Orchard Review, Barrelhouse, Shenandoah, Into the Void, Vestal Review, and W. W. Norton’s Flash Fiction International. Find out more about Cate at: https://www.catemcgowan.com/ Twitter handle: https://twitter.com/cate_mcgowan
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12/1/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Brinda GulatiZOUK There’s vomit leaving my stomach and my eyeballs are about to burst out of their sockets and my forehead strains with the labored breaths of a palpitated heart. And no, I don’t need a man with strong fingers and a warm chest to cup my temples sweaty with loneliness. Words have held me when a body couldn’t. No, I don’t want a throaty whisper in my ear with an arm around my shoulder and a body that fits into the groove of my waist, leaning against the wall sat on the tiled bathroom floor. I don’t want him to hold my swollen face and stare at my quivering lip and tell me, even with the snot in my nostrils, that for once – for once, it’s okay to stay in bed. It’s okay to cry when my body is tired. That it’s okay to say, sometimes, I’m not okay. I don’t want him to kiss the red pimple on my cheek and tell me I’m beautiful with my untweezed eyebrows and sexy in the way that sometimes my hair smells of nicotine. I couldn’t want that. I shouldn’t. Strait of Malacca The sea, the stink of frying chicken, humid air - bubble tea, two vodkas and a locked door; too much perfume, frizzy baby hairs; freshly shaven legs, and clothes – on the floor. Mown grass, the stuffy nightclubs, neon signs; two naked bodies under the showerhead; light fingertips memorising the lines… Everything’s a passport. Most of all, your bed. I remember he liked the smell of lavender. I remember he liked fast cars. His wood-colored flask in his fist in October… Screeches of you s c a t t e r e d in the burning stars, I look for you in whirring engines and bouquets - anything to reach you, even my sodden ashtray. What My T.V. Taught Me That the angry red smatters lining my cheekbone need to be doused in ointments that smell of alcohol That the faint black hairs sprouting in my cupid’s bow should be tweezed until my lip is numb That the tiger stripes on my breast and the tributaries running down my thighs and the dimples in the skin of my bum have two choices – foundation, or jeans even in a Delhi summer. That the size of my waist will give my father the permission to stare at my plate, That a jutting collar and sharp hip will make you happier than two waffles and icecream with strawberries. That the mirror you hate is necessary. That – if you pinch the skin above your waistband, you will know rejection. Brinda Gulati is a final year Creative Writing student at the University of Warwick. Her favourite poem is 'Funeral Blues', she loves the smell of old pages in secondhand bookshops; her favourite account on Instagram is @jasoncampbellstudio. Brinda has lived across continents and in different cities: in Delhi, Singapore, and now in the UK. 12/1/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Marilee GoadThe Accident of the Vase When the vase of red chrysanthemums crashes on the yellow linoleum floor, Alistair hesitates, not wanting to break the spell of petals bleeding into water weeping a stained yellow sun rising against the crack of dawn, the black line between adjacent squares the distance between days he’s lived and days he hasn’t, the admixture of regret and possibility a bittersweet painting he almost enjoys, bold and impressionistic. Are you going to clean that mess up yet, his roommate asks, head deep in the mouth of their dim-lit refrigerator gaping emptiness into her eyes seeking sustenance. In a minute, he says, his heart racing to capture the emotion crumbling his chest, unarticulated and biting -- I want to see what happens when the colors stop running together and everything dries. She lifts her head and pierces his gaze. Just clean it up. tea & a friend Midnight and she offers her couch, a last minute film as a means to prolong an evening we’re not sure if we should end, early friendship so cautious, so hungry in its beginnings, its fits and starts cemented by laughter tumbling from tired mouths that will ring again in a couple of days, letters sent by text message: should we hang out again? dinner, and a movie, almost like a date but the stakes are lower, or maybe higher, in a society steeped in our growing isolation, how do you sow seeds that grow smiles you can hang on to longer than the five minute phone call you place just to say you’ve arrived, their doorbell broken again, she opens the door and sunlight floods in, its rays so bright you almost forget the frosty weather biting your nose outside she says, come in, I’ve just put on the kettle, plonks a steaming mug of chai in your hands, says, be careful, it’s very hot, and you’re glad of the warning, but the cinnamon and cardamom bloom on your tongue so spicy and alive, water you didn’t know could taste so sweet: winter froze your eyes shut from tears you shed and the steam unsnaps them, eyelashes relaxing, eyes so open and hopeful, she’ll want to know what you’re watching this time and you smile, say, anything, anything at all will do, all I need is the warmth of this couch, the tea seeping into my cold body, and you — laughing here, a person I’d forgotten existed in the depths of a season that almost killed me with its bitterness when all I needed was sweetness, tea and a friend. Marilee Goad is a queer writer residing in South Korea. She has work published or forthcoming in Ghost City Review, ELJ, Barrelhouse, and Yes Poetry, amongst others. You can follow her on twitter @_gracilis and find her website at marileethepoet.tumblr.com. Jude Marr teaches, and writes poetry, as protest. They are currently a PhD candidate at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and their chapbook, Breakfast for the Birds (Finishing Line), was published in 2017. Recent credits include Nightjar Review, 8 Poems, and Oxidant Engine. Transcription Do you know how difficult it is to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair? ....pass the burning torsos erected on poles like flag? warsan shire. You are Nigerian /until you are not/, until a man /cuts down your father/ and rapes your mother/ till death /do her apart/, you /are an orphan/ and you learn to say the /lords prayer/ in Yoruba far from your /home land /and then you are /nothing / a girl whose thumb is as small as a baby points at the /tribal mark/ on your cheek, she swears you are Yoruba, yes you are, /no / you are not sure until your /uncle comes to claim you from the refugee camp/. Your uncle is /Ibo/ and his wife has the skin of a/ flaked/ god And like all foreign gods, she too leaves for her snow flaked country with you along, so you are/ Nigerian/ all over again, until you are at the /border /and the immigrant officer questions your identity and some how shows you a country with a /map/ of /half a yellow sun/, your mother is/ Ibo /the flaked god aunt asserts, you pass the border and you don't remember what's stamped on your visa, you are too young until /you are not too young/, until you get /fucked / by a guy who ponders too much about your/ black skin /and now you are /colored/ , and you tell colored/ girls story/ and write poems on/ broken bottles /then you are a /northerner /all over again when your teacher asks you to compose about yourself until they force you to remember why you carry your hair in Afro then you become African and you remember you have a visa, you bring out your visa and find out you have no/ identity/, you are nothing/. Ejiro Elizabeth Edward is a poet/writer and passionate lover of the art. She has been published in pangolin review, Praxis magazine, Kalahari Review, and a regular contributor in the and afri-diaspora and recently redefining herself seeing that writing /the art is probably her only way of living while she battles with the writers syndrome of depression or insomnia. She spends her free time reading, modeling and traveling . Currently an undergraduate of the University of Benin. She resides in Nigeria. She is on Instagram as Diasporapoetry, and on Facebook as Ejiro Edward, also on Twitter as ejiro Edward 552 lilhelen Flickr CC Lightning in the Cornfield for Mollie Tibbetts Bolt after, the remaining harvest which appears to be beautiful but feels like bruised skin, pulled tightly like the skin of a drum. The dull ache a reminder of loneliness as you drive for hours into a place where corn grows like patches of hair. Like brunette hair, which belongs to so many. My hair, your hair, and hers. and then there is the way the stalks move, bristled by the air, creating a path for you. But they did not guess, could not wonder what sort of pain their bending creates. So when a brunette body, came to rest there in the stalks the harvest whispered if something becomes too topical it is hard to read. They kept and they covered for a month a woman’s body. Preserved in farmland. The lightning seems nearer then, setting the corn aflame. Five hours away from the patch of growth that decayed. Leaving me with only one question left to ask What is it about a woman’s body, bleeding, that interests you anyway? Lydia A. Cyrus is a central Appalachian writer from Huntington, West Virginia. She is an award-winning scholar and her work as been featured in various places in print and online. She is a proud Mountain Woman who strives to make positive change in and about Appalachia. She lives in Lafayette, Indiana with her strong will and sense of truth, which guide her wherever she goes. tubb Flickr CC I Remember the Chapel View My life taught me to die I am the last cannonball covered with rusty I-don't-know's buried with hounds of love Even courage cannot save me Your heavy hands rehearse my heart lines and I stretch to fit your words I pretend not to see the marks left behind Kiley first encountered poetry while wading through her mother's library as a child. This experience began in her a life-long love of language that has pushed her to quietly hone her craft. She recently relocated back to Almost Heaven, West Virginia. Her cat approves this poem. Follow her on Twitter: @KBogart10 Cookie Cutter These are the memories meant to be sweet, Christmastime treats— a batter stirred, simple choices, a dough kneaded light to keep it tender, rolled thin, ready to cut shapes-- trees & stars, bells & wreaths, mother's rolling pin setting a course for tradition. cookies cut and sugared right-- 'trees are green, not red!', she says and i learn to wallpaper an obedient face. my hands fist into my Raggedy-Ann printed apron, wrinkling ruffled trim, knees pressed in silent prayer against a wooden seat that won’t forgive me, hard just like the smile that she turns on me, a mouth that opens and threatens to eat my thoughts alive no matter how silent they are. so— i sugar all the trees green, and wait for the falling hand of justice she hovers over my head. Juliette van der Molen is a writer and poet living in the Greater NYC area. Her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in Rose Quartz Journal, Burning House Press, Memoir Mixtapes, Collective Unrest and You Are Not Your Rape (anthology). You can find more of her writing at Medium and connect with her on Twitter @j_vandermolen. Her debut chapbook, Death Library: The Exquisite Corpse Collection, was published in August 2018 by Moonchild Magazine. 12/1/2018 0 Comments Poetry by Bola Opaleke Bola is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. His poems have appeared or forthcoming in a few Journals like Frontier Poetry, Rising Phoenix Review, Writers Resist, Rattle, Cleaver, One, The Nottingham Review, The Puritan, The Literary Review of Canada, Sierra Nevada Review, Dissident Voice, Poetry Quarterly, The Indianapolis Review, Canadian Literature, Empty Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Drunk Monkeys, Temz Review, St. Peters College(University of Saskatchewan) Anthology (Society 2013 Vol. 10), Pastiche Magazine, and others. He holds a degree in City Planning and lives in Winnipeg MB. www.bolaopaleke.com 12/1/2018 0 Comments CNF by Jennifer Wolkin Jennifer Wolkin is a a health and neuro psychologist, speaker, mental health advocate, adjunct professor, and mindfulness-meditation practitioner. She is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing and literary translation at Queens College. Her work has been published/forthcoming in Third Point Press, Streetlight Press, Sooth Swarm Journal, A Beautiful Space, British Journal of Medical Practitioners, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Ink & Voices, Rhythm&Bones Lit, Dreamers Creative Writing, Flypaper, Ars Medica, the Same, Boston Accent Lit, Noble Gas Quarterly, The Intima, and Unbroken, and the Bellevue Literary Review. Her poem, "Using Medical Jargon to Cycle Through Stages of Mourning in No Particular Order" was shortlisted for the annual Live Cannon International Poetry Prize. Her non-fiction work translating and sharing the science of brain research and mindfulness has been published in Thrive Global, The Huffington Post, Mindful.org, PsychCentral among others. They are compiled and can be found on her blog BrainCurves.com. |
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