All posts filed under: Magic

‘Hinges’ and other poems by Jax NTP

hinges it is easy to obsess over small objects paperclips spoons and q-tips when self grooming generates silence — virginal trumps untamable — the renunciations of dullness do not lead to desire with upturned hands, razors, at rest it is easiest to use sadness as a utensil to push people away spiders construct traps from their abdomen then devour daily to recoup, silk protein recycled gouaches in lowlight, design or debris we all think we might be terrible but we only reveal this before asking someone to love us a kind of undressing — it is easy to section and peel a tangelo even false origin stories expose shame — a cerebral echo chamber when self sculpture empties mark the focal point as hinge hemmed, at the center, coral since microwave romances have deceptive expiration dates i brush my teeth at his place now, but that’s not the point scuba means self contained underwater breathing apparatus he kisses me urgently mid chew ginger garlic fish sauce in public, no pressure, no hesitation, and this is …

“Writing with Light” and other poems by Gerry Stewart

Writing with Light Finnish Photography Notes Guided by imaginary intersections, fumbling our heavy DSLRs, we learned the rules for rhythm and repetition, aperture and cropping. My notebook sketched the tutor’s words in haste. They resurface beyond the lens. Organise your space. I carve out this new home without maps, using rough translations and neighbourly advice. Exaggerate the angles. Each experience becomes bigger, more muddled. I focus along sightlines to the extremes until I can make sense of the finer details. Never cut away the long shadows. If I cannot embrace the long Finnish winter, I can view its sharp oblique light, from skis or over a hot cup of glöggi.* Leave the house, explore the parts of the world where you don’t belong. Blend in with the locals, find what attracts you to strangers in their silence, in their open faces. Travel light. My unnecessary luggage and expectations are abandoned. Arrive early, leave late. Wait for the decisive moment to speak those hesitant first Sanaa. Don’t put the subject in the centre. Yet even out …

“Curlew” and other poems by Rosalin Blue

Lonesome Occupation Up – up and away in my little studio under the sky drawn back alone – to write That loneliness is the room for concentration bears the space for inspiration strikes the key of motivation to create origination with insane illumination and a wild determination, the poetic flow in motion — oh that cosmic emanation for the sake of word-elation Yet, it requires segregation and at times I miss emotion wishing for some conversation and a mutual revelation. So I leave my elevation seeking true communication and some closer stimulation —far beyond my meditation of obsessive rhyme-creation And when that space inside of emphatic animation and ecstatic evocation with the strange amalgamation of expansion and sensation, that poetic incantation that orgasmic culmination fills me up to saturation, then I get the urgent notion to fulfill my true vocation And again I draw back to my lonesome destination up – up and away in my little studio under the sky — to write   Under the Silvermoon And how often am I looking up with longing gaze …

“Needlepoint” and other poems by Erin Vance

Hiraeth In the turpentine afternoon I wanted to beat my wings— hollow so hollow. And in the rectal evening 
I wanted to be a hummingbird. A hum m ing bird. In the frost-swept night I wished you a Lamb. Soft like cotton balls and languid with musk. Turn me into a violent fresco,
 Lamb, and touch me like hot bricks in the wet dawn. I wanted to be a leaf lodged in amber. — — An insulin needle. And at the musk-soaked August’s end
 I wanted to be hollow t r a n s l u c e n t a hum mingbird with — — insulin — — needle— — legs lodged in amber. My hollow wings snap ping In your lamb’s mouth, turn me into a violet fresco, Lamb,
 touch me like hot bricks. Confession After Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, photographers of The Cottingley Fairies When Frances followed the little thing into the shallow beck I stayed back, watching her stockings sag in the water, flapping at her ankles like bloated second …

“Fireflies” and other poems by Christine A. Brooks

house of beauty just three houses down from my pale green house a magnificent dark red house sat regally on a throne of both beauty & possibility on a street that never quite fit in with the rest of the city it was a dead end, in a time & place undefined by class middle, less than that, but all otherwise, the same —more or less except #44 it was the only house on the street with a fence around the front how rich they must be, I thought to be able to have a fence in the front a small white sign with black writing hung & swung from a black post behind that fence with scrolled letters Willie Mae’s House of Beauty my mother would send me if I was lucky, with 2 quarters to buy us each a candy bar that Willie Mae would stock on a small shelf in her makeshift waiting room in her basement I would look at myself in her big mirror that sat in front of her …