are you aware that
with you
went the sun
all light
and what few stars
there were?
A Poet I’ve Never Heard Of: Alda Merini
Alda Merini put a lot of poetry and other writings into this world, but it is hard to find a lot of it translated! Below you will find both poems and aphorisms, or as Merini called them "spells of the night."
Read MorePoetry by F. E. Clark
To Bring the Sky Down
A scared flame of violet – burnt from a found bone,
The indigo of your first lover’s jeans,
High sky blue of a day in spring when the larks sung,
Green fired algae from the dead pond’s ditch
Yellow of the belly of the one who cowers,
Orange from the fungi that grows under the dead fox,
The red of a berry that poisons.
Plait the rainbow - red over orange, yellow over green, blue over indigo,
Tie with violet at the deepest hour of black,
Make sure you bind the rainbow’s ends tight,
When required, cast from a clifftop on a dark moon night.
F. E. Clark lives in the North East of Scotland. She writes and paints and walks the perimeter of her days looking for colour and texture to inspire her work. In 2016 she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, a Best of the Net, and had a Sma Buik published by Poems For All. Her writing can be found or is upcoming at: Molotov Cocktail Literary Magazine, Planet Paragraph, Twisted Sister Lit, Moonchild Magazine, and The Occulum. website - www.feclarkart.com | twitter - @feclarkart
Collaborative Poem by Alexis Bates & Logan February
pomegranate
with a neck bent / like prayer
I clung to the fruit as though I was
a part of it / a seed needing to be cut
away / I stared at food the way
murderers look / at their victims
the way God looks upon his creations
a single pomegranate
holds hundreds of decisions inside
its skin & eating was always
the wrong one / but it was sacred
sliding pulped flesh past my lips
spitting out seeds / just like it is
holy / to claim the self:
sickness / success /
I am hundreds of little / red decisions
scattered on the kitchen floor
& so what / if they don’t all taste good
I stare in the mirror / take a knife
to these delicate ideals
split them open wider
& wider / avoid the body
grip the fruit tight
it does not taste killer
I do not feel victimized
this is still progress
Alexis Bates is a poet and writer that uses words to become intimate with an audience. You can read her words in Luna Luna Magazine, Five:2:One, Vagabond City Lit, and elsewhere. Her micro-chap, When Cars Touch, is forthcoming from Ghost City Press.
Logan February is a happy-ish Nigerian owl who likes pizza & typewriters. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in (b)OINK, Wildness, Vagabond City, and more. His chapbooks, Painted Blue with Saltwater (Indolent Books) and How to Cook a Ghost (Glass Poetry Press) are forthcoming. Say hello on Instagram & Twitter @loganfebruary.
Poetry by Diannely Antigua
Maybe she loved someone like you once,
someone who could make her feel good
then like shit again. Maybe
she escaped from the side of his house,
no steps, just jumped.
Poetry By Alexis Bates
Let me teach you the value of silence.
I lock lips tight. Hand her the key.
For all I’ve done, you owe me this.
Give Me All Your Love, Prose Poem by Margaret Yapp
Margaret Yapp is a recent college grad working and living in Minneapolis. Her essays and poems have appeared in The Tishman Review, Midwestern Gothic, Driftward Press, and elsewhere.
Read MoreA Day in the Life by Bethany Ruth Anderson
For the first time in my life I crave cigarettes, I feel the pull of drugs and, though I’ve been vegetarian for ten years, the concept of greasy chicken is tantalizing. I want what isn’t good for me. I want what will kill me first, but I need enjoyment in the process. While I have the capacity to feel, I want to feel it all. I want the aches and the pains and the laughter. I want to consume large amounts of alcohol to make everything funny or interesting, to talk like I have something to say, and to listen likes it matters. I want the morning to be black, the day to be empty--just lying still, concentrating on being alive. The same as every other day, only my body responds and my mind doesn’t matter.
Read MorePoem By Kristin Chang
The first Chinese woman in America
lived inside a diorama. A little room
for a little lady, Four Inch Feet
Miss Ching-Chang King.