All posts filed under: Maps

‘Ludus’ and other poems by Roula-Maria Dib

Ludus or “A Thousand Poems” You’ve written a thousand poems for me, my friend –in your sapio-sudsy head… in a world as real as this one, where the ebb and flow of its soapy tides, brush off and on that murky shore— where all that can’t but is, all that shouldn’t but will, and all what’s hidden is naked under that ruthless, roofless hut: your eyes. A thousand thought-fruits you’ve yielded and ignored the tree in vain— rejecting, pushing, plucking, peeling, carving, craving, …and ultimately, feasting upon the forbidden. While gnomes gnaw the inner walls of your cerebral cave, engraving them with cuneiform fantasies, a thousand lyrics you pen, and sing to that tune of what I recognize to be my own voice.     Lavenders With the night hushing irises away, lavenders call at the break of dawn, waving purple corollas at the vigilant apertures. From a provincial path, and beyond the hinterland of memory, the healing embrace of a once-stranger dwelling in my heart thaws the ice-patched knees of my soul. Defrosted, touched …

“Justice” and other poems by Rachel Lauren Storm

Justice I believe in transformation, pupa-to-winged emergence. I believe in the power of the pulsating chrysalis the eating of lessons and the uncurling of fetal winters. I believe in the stillness of calm after storm the redressing of old wounds and the snakeskin-shed of bandages. I believe anger is grief in new clothes, I believe violence her stillborn child. Wrapped in cloth and carried over our jagged terrain, cradled in the skeletal arms of the dead. I believe in the fading of scars, the catching of tears in the old jelly jar, and drinking in their medicine. I believe in transformation. And the movement beyond. [Justice was first published in the Spring 2020 issue of CURA Magazine] Death and Waking Thank you for the reminder.  I suppose I needed it.  Had almost forgotten to  squeeze your hand upon parting. I won’t ever do it again.  Or at least not when I think of it.  I’ll finish the fight before bed.  Make sure I’m calling my mother. Sure, sometimes I’ll fall into old ways,  Patterns of …

“Dear Eavan” by C. Murray

Eavan Boland (1944-2020) Break the glass that holds morning’s flame. Proceed from your room— I have become so aware of my hands, their folding of things of too-sweet smelling fabrics (washing machine is crocked) their patting of panes, pain, counter-pane, administering drugs or massages to a dying cat— I chose not to believe your death. Homebound, gardenbound, the pitch of kids’ voices subdued by the old ancient box-hedge. They are out-sung by sparrows and wrens jaunting through, skitting overhead, fearless. They are always present in the halls, their halls. There is a bright bright moon tonight. Blackbirds are always last to sing, to sound the alert It is night, it is night. I lit a purple candle for you. It smells of berries, of hot-house pinks— © C. Murray 27.04.2020 Eavan Boland (1944-2020). We have not begun, even yet, to assess Eavan Boland’s wonderful life and her contribution to our culture. For now, I am so sorry for her family, friends, and colleagues. Thank you, Eavan Boland for your unstinting and wonderful support of women …

‘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 …

“Soon” and other poems by Lisa Bain

  Soon “Let’s get together soon,” without setting a date is the tactic we always use to keep others on the line without actually giving of our time. You’ve made it clear you don’t have time for me, so why would I tell you my secret when everything would have to change? I’m torn. I’ll be a burden either way. I’m stuck trying to decide which is more humane. Do I inject grief now into your too busy timeframe? Or wait and risk you maybe cursing my name because I didn’t give you the chance to say goodbye? I tried to tell you in my wordy way but forgot you never read what I write, so wouldn’t know I was going away. The words are just too hard to say. So sure, let’s get together soon. Someday.   Bubbles Swamp bubbles lurched from the mud below belching the stench of repressed memories I hadn’t let go. Forgotten trauma attacked in waves, pain and self-loathing vomited in saving grace. Wiping my mouth with the back of …