All posts tagged: New Poetry

‘Lifelike’ and other poems by Jennifer Matthews

Family Portraits   “With skin like that, you don’t have to open your mouth.”   Muting praise; Mother twirled back the sardine-tin key of his sister’s tongue.   Richard Avedon, embryonic photographer fixed his Kodax Box Brownie on Sister, to exhume her from her own beauty.   … she believed she existed only as skin, and hair, and a beautiful body …   He sought sun, the negative of his muse in hand to place on his shoulder: used his own skin as a contact sheet for the image to burn into him, to carry her as widows clutch framed photos of loved ones lost to war.   ok   1.   His tattoo: a stitch of self harm, a barcode, a brand, a word he wants so badly to replace his own skin that he signs consent to be burnt blue. He lies down to give his flesh to the upper-hand, the cruel beautician.   2.   Beauty is nothing but a flaw so stunning it can’t be ignored. Its twin image burrows into …

“The Last Childbearing Years” by Lindsey Bellosa

The Last Childbearing Years Deliciously, all that we might have been, all that we were— fire, tears, wit, taste, martyred ambition— stirs like the memory of refused adultery the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years. –Adrienne Rich, “Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law”   1.   The green leaves: so young against the sun. How our bodies betray themselves; spine of white pine, all its vertebrae clinging to the last of the day’s light— what insects have fed on it? What birds housed their young… it being an instrument and now, not, and now: what? We call it dignity, what the young fear in their lushness but the fear once swallowed can’t be swallowed again. It isn’t the age that tortures; it is the anticipation of the age… the sons who will forget us, not being forgotten; the purpose that ruins us and not its loss. What is empty is not there. Does the past mock like a calling bird? Do lost opportunities rattle like phantom limbs? Or what is never tasted, never remembered? Houses …

“Phoenix” and other poems by Müesser Yeniay

The House of God   We landed from the house of God to the island of heart we came into being we are at the house of earth bodies are celestial   Phoenix Poeta pirata est I should be a phoenix to the peaks of my imagination I should see the tips of my horizon and introduce myself to it never I wish anything remains hidden from me since I came here to see the front and behind both of dreams and reality Woman The wind is blowing that sweeps the sand around words Everybody is calling God! I am taking myself from inside and putting it out with my hands. I am the place where human-being is less God is more. Phoenix and other poems are © Müesser Yeniay MÜESSER YENİAY was born in İzmir, 1984; she graduated from Ege University, with a degree in English Language and Literature. She took her M.A on Turkish Literature at Bilkent University. She has won several prizes in Turkey including Yunus Emre (2006), Homeros Attila İlhan (2007), …

‘The Somnambulist Who Stood Still’ by Kate O’Shea

The Somnambulist Who Stood Still   1. Odorous   Don’t warble. She smells you for her own. His scarf is a garrotte, her on all fours. Hors d’oeuvre. Opens no doors. Whores. Don’t warble. She is not what she seems. She is real, mean; eats dwarves, oscillates on fat fingers, odorous dreamer, osseous tail – a small pencil from a bookie shop that wriggled down the back of the couch – that is how he wrote poetry, that is how he got in trouble, we say they are witches, no one believes, no one believes, no one believes. She tells him he smells like cabbage. He smells like her Daddy.   2. Lady Gaga   She is twisting hay, going on about the caul, her helmeted head, preternatural, making up stories. An heirloom on paper. Making out with sailors, but she is drowning in wine and brine. Pretty unnatural if you axe me. Goodluck to her. Sleeveen. We ain’t too chummy with batshit crazy. Amen to that. Cross yerself. Her eyes are stains, the dark …

‘the goldberg variations’ by Chris Murray

scene 1: the goldberg variations   a kiosk at the end of a dark train in an abandoned travelyard: two shadowmen ravel orange round about their nothing much the magician in his moth coat appears in a vaudeville flourish. your piano balcony is high above the narrow stone street, your piano plays the rescued Goldberg, plays, and plays through its charred pages, – their black edges. it is the gothic quarter men move in their coffins.  their coffins are white with crosses on (red)  their coffins are on narrow shelves of (stone) aside an archivum (shades of gray):     a shady tree     an etched stone     a skull and crossbones Scene 2 : the goldberg variations     that indestructible piano! the undestroyed Goldberg is playing (again) wending its tones above a skatepark of bullet-glass (the melody plays, yes). I see that:  the romans left their life-size eggs and urns below the city  stitches pull and sting on the underside of my elbow (pain) softening the blow here and here there is no stitching …