Here's a new animated poem – Nina's Blues – written and read by Cornelius Eady. It is part of
the Poetry Everywhere initiative, produced by the Poetry Foundation in association
with docUWM at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. The animation by Ryan Rogers.
Down on the nudist beach –
Drumming up stories,
Lies and fantasies
Of some neat country,
Some, arcane hemisphere
You are hoping to take me to
When the air is fresher
And the sea is more clear
And the mermaids appear,
In their dozens,
Not far from the rock
In opulent ball gowns
Spinning askew through the pebbles
As the sun deadens,
And the old guy
Flashes his cock.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She needs and she loves
Only this –
Those ‘kissable stockings’
The ones from Selfridges
Sweet edged –
Easy over leg
To feel what you’ve picked
And a black silk dress,
Slipping apart at the threads;
Dissolving on her body
Deborah Gordon says “I am a Sussex-based writer of poetry and
prose and have been writing since the age of seven. My style is quite
eclectic and I love the concept of
movement in poetry. I have had recent work published with Inclement, Phoenix, The Journal, Garbaj, Sarasvati, The Dawn Treader, Fire and Again Last Night. My first collection of poetry The Bluebells Pray (Indigo Dreams Press) is available now.”
* Pris Campbell creates both free verse poetry and haiga. Nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, she lives in the greater West Palm Beach, Forida.
Atlas of Signs
From the valley
the bones of cattle staked like a gate.
I sought the acerbic shade
of the manchineel tree
where sand cliffs dissolve into tides
like bronze idols or collapsing horses.
The shadow of a frigatebird armors
my already guarded face,
cinders of fresh fruit cloud the paths.
I have studied the maps
and discern vaster coordinates.
Take my hand,
light on water provides an atlas of signs
we shall interpret
before evening settles on the backs
of green dragonflies.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hide and Seek Beach
Under cloud cover softness
we listen to water
leaving jade traces
over volcanic stone.
A French girl in a straw hat
remained on the shore
searching for blue gems
and shrieking at lizards.
Daniel leapt from the edge
and I leapt after
into the rolling pool
where sailors catch turtles.
* John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky, USA. He has previously contributed to IS&T and his first chapbook – Prominences – has recently appeared from Flutter Press.
Come to me
the ice whispered.
Come to me –
you can walk on water.
I turned away and looked at the snow that had hidden the expanse of lawn and left powder shaken down one side of each of the trees making them slimmer. It had also dusted their bare branches with glitter. Like people in the winter of their years ready for a last party they stood facing the dance floor, not one of them wanting to be the first. The cedar tree with great feather boa arms offered the floor to me. So I turned back. I’ve never minded being the first to dance.
The lake spoke this time.
This ice is thick and
you are very thin –
The snow popped with each step till I reached the lake’s hard surface – its smoothness interrupted by pits and bumps. It held and I released the breath I hadn't known I was holding. I pushed off and slid, my leather shoes pink smiles dancing and sliding past the startled geese. As I twirled the trees danced around me their branches joining around me.
Gunshots snapped under my feet as I slid towards the middle. Too late I realised, this time I'd gone too far.
* Sonia Jarema describes herself as an allotmenteer living on the edge of London.
Three months on from not living with his parents, and still no shag.
The girl at the pub's club night seemed well promising though. Even borrowing the barman's felt-tip to scribble her mobile number across a tissue for him. If it was really was hers.
And now a fresh chance, waiting for the night bus, alone with a girl who's crying softly to herself. Prettier than the other one.
Offer her the tissue. Think how charming he'd seem, catch her on the rebound with his kindness. Give him the in to chat her up on the ride home.
What if she wasn't unhappy about being dumped. Time he found out, her tears would have smudged the phone number illegibly.
Fuck, what a dilemma.
* Julian Baker says “I like writing a lot more than working. I wish I could work less and write more. For a while I struggled to find a label for my writing (everybody likes a label) and then thanks to tiny poet I found one. I write tiny fiction. I've been published by Six sentences, Insolent Rudder, Scarecrow and This Zine will save your life.”
Each year I mark the stationary progress
made by a cluster of Spring Beauties,
that at a distance are a band
of some religious sect arrayed
in frail lavender gowns, leaning
southward into the nearly impenetrable grass on
an endless pilgrimage, remarkable
for being at once onward yet having
no apparent point of departure or arrival.
I look on, fascinated
by their adherence to a persistent paradox,
and also by what they are –
spring beauties – beautiful flowers.
* Larry Kimmel is a US poet of both haikai and mainline forms. His most recent books are this hunger, tissue-thing and Blue Night & the inadequacy of long-stemmed roses. (Modern English Tanka Press).