All posts filed under: Poetry Journals

“I Have to Believe that the Body Aspires to a Soul” and other poems by Ann Pedone

  I Have to Believe that the Body Aspires to a Soul I tell you/there was something about that woman/her face/undiluted/ lips open/as if she were waiting/for the sky to come/down on her. There was something about it that/I needed to know/something that/I wanted to remember/something/it was the light/that mattered/this woman/gathered/the light/ held it in-side of her/I should have/told her this/but I suspected/myself/what I know/and don’t know of the world/seemed/immense/I should have told her this/but she crossed the street/she was/gone/and I had/nothing to do with it.   Love Song #7 you are for me as you cannot be for yourself (a gathering) I return to without demand with-out diminishment your dark eyes amethyst hidden whose darkness is for a me a form of prayer a place of love’s rest   The Sea I was going down in an elevator. I was in a building on the Upper West Side. I remembered a dream I had about Jacques Lacan. He was sitting with a woman in a hotel bar in Paris. She told him she had …

“Birthday” and other poems by Kimberly Reyes

  Drink Before the War The bells of St. Fin Barre, off again Five faint chimes and warring finches 2:41am birdsongs sculpt slim air Rollers, tits, a fidgeting pigeon Crashes on a glass ceiling Neck feathers bobbing, weaving warning: No one with roots doubled under Can survive these days I tried             I’ve travelled             I’m tired Maybe lyrebird or starling (Define invasive species?) Can’t tell if it’s a crow or my stomach God protect me her sensual coo   We are all drowned out If you respect the dead and recall where they died by this time tomorrow there will be nowhere to walk —Katie Ford I believe in ghosts Pray for hauntings On the road from my grandmother’s grave Clipping through terrified reforests Kinderschrecks and pelting rain Salt and fog through the veil, ether Eleven speeding hours on I-95 I, alone, wondered Which lands aren’t haunted? South Carolina is hailing blood Whole orphaned babies Where are the living? Five Points            …

‘After Rembrandt’s Women’ by Iseult Healy

  Delicious She was no Eve this apple of a woman whose red dress surrounded the flowing flesh of twin hillocks, hung over the ridge of her cheeks to flow down to stocking tops Hot and juicy, easy-peel woman They ate at their pleasure wiped her juice from their jaws munched to the skeletal core that framed her bitter pips swallowed her inside them where she lay hurt for a day or two till they spat her out without a backward glance to take root once more   Him 1 He kissed me tenderly as he stabbed my pulsing neck vicious as he twisted the knife leaving me wretched in unbearable pain tearing at his face Him 2 He kissed me tenderly as his pulsing cock stabbed me in a vicious way leaving me wretched in unbearable pain tearing at his face   After Rembrandt’s Women Nipples sucked while I work the brush to the canvas the vermilion and ochre matching my puckered skin standing ready for pleasure Your tongue-tip a missile of heat and …

“Distancing” and other poems by Jessamine O’Connor

  Meet me for coffee Not a cup of tea, a pint or just ‘meet me’ because I want to wait awkward at a counter beside you with the steam spluttering, the espresso machine knocking and our overdressed elbows almost touching. I want to sit opposite you at a small table that can never be small enough, absorbing the heat of your hidden knees and then eyes when I catch you watching me lick the froth off my lips. I want us to be both fiddling with our round white cups, thumbing the holes that make the handles, intense with conversation while idling our fingers around and around those curves. I want to be alone with you in a clamorous place where no one will notice what’s not being said, that’s why I say safely, meet me for coffee, instead of suggesting something else. Winner of the Poetry Ireland Butlers Café competition 2017 Limbo You visit my room, punctually as if it’s an appointment and I’m never quite ready after waiting for days. Time isn’t …

‘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 …