by Modesty Sanchez
Read More »With every passing minute, every punitive increase in temperature, every dreary mile of unchanging desert, we were brought closer and closer to our destination.
Category: Words
Happy Pizza
by Marc Isaac Potter
As you look at the contradiction
Your teenage years are a raging fire
Read More »2 poems
by Ollie Shane
Read More »This poem goes out to those bored in infinite zoom meetings
Putting down a half formed sonnet to fill the void where notes of summation should be
Views of an Indian Village at Dawn
by Shamik Banerjee
Far, mid the mountain slopes, rises the sun
and the Pipit, hints the day has begun.
The ocean’s face, welcomes the sky in blue
and tunes appear from the nest of Cuckoo.
In pots with readiness, the new flowers,
twirl with glee towards the gleamy showers;
Read More »I’m Secretly a Monster But Don’t Tell Anyone
by Erin Mullens
I fling back my elegant neck, sipping flowery rosé
As the jewel encrusted birds flutter about the glamour
Resting precariously on the edge of my shoulder.
Every word is a golden lie, a bit of thread I twist
Hard, to weave together a beautiful tapestry.
If I just look like a rainbow on a green hill
They won’t see the demons fighting in the palm of my hand.
Under the table, my legs shake and my ankle bounces
I am terrified that someone will see through my illusion.
Quote of the Week, #9
So long as you are not actually ill, hungry, frightened or immured in a prison or a holiday camp, Spring is still Spring. The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers, but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it.
– George Orwell, Some Thoughts on the Common Toad
April Is the Cruellest Month
(After T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land”)
by R. S.
April is the cruellest month,
Harbinger of hope, summer’s prelude;
Springing daisies, springing lilacs,
At best a fleeting interlude.
Mussel
by Christian Ward
Every shell is dipped in night.
Place an ear against the ceramic
to eavesdrop on fox squabbles,
crows watching rubbish bags
left split open like unfinished
operations, brambles unfurling
their fruit. Humans, extras
with no dialogue. Open every
shell to reveal day – the glazed
pottery, a perfect sky. Of course,
there’s the meat: An orange muscle
on a ready-made plate. Quiet,
contemplative. I threw up the sea
the first time I tried it. Didn’t know I was chewing its prayer.
Quote of the Week, #8
The sourball of every revolution: after the revolution who’s going to pick up the garbage on Monday morning?
– Mierle Laderman Ukeles, Maintenance Art Manifesto (1969)
Read More »A Day in September
by Ivona Bozik
I almost forgot the warmth of the September sun, its gentle rays that stopped burning our skin some time after the last heat wave (now, I’m sitting here, sunbathing with the usual lateness, offering up my outside to its caress).
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