Poetry - Year IV - Number 21 - February 2019

UNHOLY MEDICINEby Mark J. Mitchell UNHOLY MEDICINE If Buddha had a coldwould the eight-spoked wheelstill start to turn? Would the diamond vehicleconvey learned saintsabove the summit of Mount Meru? Would chanting monksset ancient columnsvibrating with wordless songs? Would meditation...

EMILYby Luke Francis Beirne I: Emily, February 14thThe wind started:blowing and gustingacross the ground,fresh snow coveredmost of the red. Frayed strandsof a welcome matpoked through the snowat her feet. Blinds hid most of the room.Bottles and cans...

LOVEby Katharine Studer Love Before the word is spokenA man might walk on handsDangling mid-air without a net or wire,Concentrating to keep the weightof his legs extended straight in the center,Nudging his fingers to gain an...

THE PEOPLE WHO VANISHby Ryan Havely  The People Who VanishYou wear the wind around youlike a favorite shawl.  I tryto hold you against meand you go to ashes.  Youleave like a storm,tie your hairwith ribbonslike...

GERANIUMSby Noel Williams A slow approach to Turner in the corner of the gallery This hull emerges dazzlingin the blue blaze of air, breaks througha pulse of sun, emptying lightthrough a lancet of bulwark and bow. That...

LETTER TO A YOUNG POETby Korkut Onaran AFFINITIES A starfish lives in a five-hour day,an octopus in October.Words are crawling all over me!‘Cheek’ sits on my cheek. ‘T’ is Christian, ‘t’ is born again.‘K’ is my name,...

SO BRIEFLY HEREby John Grey THESE VACATION MEMORIESTourists trudge throughthe makeshift marketplace along the dock,inspect the obligatory merchandise:chess sets, shell necklaces,coconuts carved into faces."Very cheap," says one local after another.But the visitors have little time...

THE LAW OF SILENCEby David Dephy When a Poet I am a firm believerThat as soon as a person stops lyingTo himself,He will be able to find someoneHe can trust unconditionally.And this someone is his own...

REDUCTIONby Jonathan Dowdle RiffIn the rebound, resound,Where all thoughts go to drown,And we sleep beneath the sea,That buries us in echoes bleed;How are we to sleep or dreamBetween the stitch and the seam,Plucking grief from...

BUTTON COLLECTIONby Howard Winn   BUTTON COLLECTIONBringing order to our mother’s house,as she sat in her rocking chairwatching a daytime television program,my sister threw out old candy boxescontaining buttons hoardedfrom at least sixty years.They sounded like...