Home Poetry - Year VII - Number 53 - January 2022

Poetry - Year VII - Number 53 - January 2022

    ROSARY IN VACUUM by Shivangi Mishra

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    I. What Colour is Peace and Home? Is it to consume the gothic or expend the sublime?Would coloured value survive in white that seethes number?For all known times, when colours be at peaceable rest, white...

    THE BODY NEEDS BLOOD by Ruth Niemiec

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    The Body Needs Blood My father smoked cigarettes,pack a day,enough to punctuate every sentence with a coughI began to wait for a cough at the end of each sentenceSome were louder than othersThe others were...

    WRITERS’S BLOCK by Bernadette Dickenson

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    WRITERS’S BLOCK Words scuttle around the squaremarking the edge of my mindrunning in chaosfrom corner to cornerupstairs and downstairsnot lingering on the landing for restI struggle to put them to pen! Words of exquisite love,darkest despair,desire...

    ON THE BASIS OF SELFLOVE by Ann Huang

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    The Rights of A Girl In summer solstice, lightning in midnightpulls you from cosmos—rain stormsthe waterscapesYou walk backward, making space aboutthe need to start becoming. To thosewhom you see and embrace, you keepin with poetry,...

    GAME OF THREE by Lucia Coppola

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    THE SNAKE Coiled up by the side of the trackswhile the train whizzes past, kicks up dead leavesthe overcast chill drizzles down fog and dreamsproject onto his reptilian stare – he lies there.At the bottom...

    THEME FOR THE ETERNAL NOW by John Sweet

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    why i dreamt of the west coast a suicide maybe bitter taste ofabandoned hope says he hates her saysshe hates him and then there’s thekid forgotten at thebottom of the bathtub asshole in the front yard saysshe owes...
    David Lenna

    THE SADDEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN by David Lenna

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    The Saddest Thing I’ve Ever Seen (Chapter I) My left palm still hurts. Going, preparing without a backpack on my back. My left palm still hurts so much that my stomach feels like burning for...

    REFLECTION by Jane Muschenetz

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    Miracles Previously Unnoticed I longed for poetry and doom-scrolleduntil headlines separated from the screen and breathedin sighs, like teenagers,we sent each other music audio filesand slowly began to speak the language of birds—everything defied being...

    ANOTHER MORNING by John Drudge

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    My Streets HobbledBy a narrowStoic universeOwing nothingTo anyoneAloneOn the cobbled stonesWith an airy desperationFirm in my pocketAnd hiddenFrom everythingWorth hiding fromFrom anythingUnseenBelow the waterlineAlong the swiftSwollen riverWith the dark currentsOf old tormentsAnd the windswept spacesBeneath...

    ON BEING ALONE by Katherine Ault

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    Voicemail Listening is not hearing.Like a wind that is slowly nearingthat never hits your face.What I want is for my words to meet your embrace.Not to be fixed or figured out.I want to be seen...