Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz #3
Untitled #3
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

A Long Moment
Peycho Kanev

We were riding the bus on the lakeshore.
Asphalt and concrete before the marble
waves and the seagulls and the herons
and the yachts tilted peacefully in the dim
light.

The passenger next to me pointed at something.

But all I saw was the horizon devouring our
collective thoughts. There was no light above,
just this long moment:
his hand,
the blurry picture making love with the window,
the absence of perception for the movement,
and the end.


Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. Translations of his books will be published soon in Italy, Poland and Russia. His poems have appeared in more than 900 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Columbia College Literary Review, Hawaii Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, The Coachella Review, Two Thirds North, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz writes stories, takes pictures and makes teddy bears by hand.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

A Question
Aishwarya

What does it mean,
To wake up on the brink of thirty,
Restless, heavy
From purple and blue dreams,
(Weird, vampire dreams)
To then walk into a crisp day,
(A white and yellow day)
Thinking about race, and otherness, and Gilda across time
And on the walk, be blown away by gusts of wind
Thankful, all along, for some sense (a fleeting sense) of tangible mutability
And then to walk through dank corridors, warm
(much too warm)
Into white labs
(to talk about rhetoric)
Into conversations of eighteen-year olds
About weird dreams of drunk parents, siblings, frat parties,
and werewolf virility?


Aishwarya lives in Arkansas. She has a Master’s degree in Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies from the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. She is interested in gender, identity formation and the shaping of subjectivities in literature and popular culture. Her article, “Urban Retro-Futuristic Masculinities in China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station” was published by the Journal of Popular Culture in 2012. Her non-academic work has not been published before.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

The Gingerbread Dress
Lilla Ashley

The witch is standing in her moon-filled house,
surrounded by slats of pine wood and clear glass
She wears flecked rags of black, her eyes
of blue oil-flint, watch us beneath their wilted hoods
My brother, jewel-bread hidden in his hand
I am singing lullabies as we walk in the woods
Petals splinter beneath our bare heels,
we will never go home. Father wanted us lost.
The witch comes to us, our drowsy bodies
clasped in her arms. Now she wears
a dress of gingerbread, the black rags shattered.
At her throat pearls gather, glittering crumbs.
She is beautiful for us. She promises
custard and plums, pale morsels of food.
There is a black kettle, a shining fire
Our twig-beds will go by the oven
I still sing lullabies, she does not mind.
Hansel grunts like a pig and reaches for candy
Among the woods we are caught in
a net of her moon-sugar, her dark cackle
She spits into the fire, rubbing her gray hands
together, a shadow-flare upon the wall
Her gingerbread dress smothers Hansel.
I wake in bed, the dream washed away
My brother’s belly in the dark, filled
with meat and eggs from our farm. She
never fed him. But I feel the dress flit
against my eyes, the gingerbread dress
cemented with lace. The moon looks away,
and her sugar comes finely into my veins.


Lilla Ashley lives under the old ivy, next to the white rose in Rappaccini’s locked garden.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Lunacy
(the Evil Queen’s song)

Lisa Lepovetsky

I will not sing of the moon
she is too round, too white:

a pale mouth
keening beneath dark waters

silent, though night ripples
her craters like lace, like love;

like the silvered mirror
I hate and fear and need so much.

She is a raging fleshy beast
swollen with too much to lose,

a giant teat of icy milk
no newborn babe dares suckle.

Hers is music that kills.

She is my wintry refrain
cast in silver to die again

and again she is so pale, so heavy
burnt so white with my pain,

she is an albino apple
I dare not eat.

She cannot be put into words
to echo through dark hollows

or clamor from rusty bells;
her light is no safe beacon

across tattered waves
and shattered empty highways.

She will not love me
She will not lead me home.
I cannot sing her name.


Lisa Lepovetsky has had poetry appearing in such publications as: Spoon River Quarterly, A Voice from the Hills, Air Fish, The Crow, and many others. Her fiction has appeared in several anthologies and national magazines like Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. She teaches for the University of Pittsburgh at Bradford and Penn State/DuBois.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Refrigerator Poems

I will picture
languid purple death
and not be sad

****

cry & let
skin heave
wind pant
chant bitter void symphony

****

boil water
blood
breast milk
and crush the
luscious parts

****

sing moon
then away
like a pink flood
mad beauty

****

black apparatus with
whisper knife shine
manipulate my tiny moans
& urge the rust red smear


Joely Johnson Mork is a published poet who spends much of her time writing and editing medical articles (when not caring for her toddler son). She and her family live in Seattle.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Lotus in a bell jar
Diane Dehler

Lotus
in a bell jar
preserved
in Nepenthe
surreal dislocation
poem from
silence to the
petal

Sleepy
water flowers
my love
preserved
in white blood
miasma fumes


Diane Dehler is a visionary poet known for her modernist exploration of tantric themes. She received a degree from the Creative Writing Program at San Francisco State University, receiving the Outstanding Student of the Year Award. She is an English Language poet in the international literary scene. Most recently she has been published in The Criterion: an international Journal in English, Contemporary Literary Horizon: a European multilingual publication, The Taj Mahal Review and has poetry forthcoming in a tribute anthology to Anais Nin. Diane Dehler is also known for her flower photography, especially her studies of the Lotus, Orchid and Chrysanthemum. Her blog Princess Haiku has received 165,000+ views and she can be found on facebook.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

My eyes are a sea

In pursuit of Moby Dick
you do not realize that my
eyes are a sea where a
great fish swims eternal
and can never be captured.


Diane Dehler is a visionary poet known for her modernist exploration of tantric themes. She received a degree from the Creative Writing Program at San Francisco State University, receiving the Outstanding Student of the Year Award. She is an English Language poet in the international literary scene. Most recently she has been published in The Criterion: an international Journal in English, Contemporary Literary Horizon: a European multilingual publication, The Taj Mahal Review and has poetry forthcoming in a tribute anthology to Anais Nin. Diane Dehler is also known for her flower photography, especially her studies of the Lotus, Orchid and Chrysanthemum. Her blog Princess Haiku has received 165,000+ views and she can be found on facebook.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

"The Dreamer #2," Barbara Carter
The Dreamer #2
Barbara Carter

Rimonah of the Flashing Sword
Donna Prinzmetal

Pomegranate skin,
eyes bright as seeds, melon-
veined skin, in case
you didn’t recognize her—not

white like me—
she wore her mother, crystal
vial of blood
around her bronzed neck
for protection.
And of course, you will remember

the sorceress, how she stirred
a porcelain bowl,
water gleaming,
how she admired her perfect teeth
from all the camel’s milk.

I wish
my huntsman had a gazelle
to impersonate me in death,
the scorpion necklace
that was harmless by day:
when the sun set, Rimonah stomped
it with a boot.

If I had a shining sword
to slice this desert night,
a steed to straddle,
forty thieves to stand guard
over my glass sleep,
who knows where my leathered feet
might wander next. Remember,

skin free of grave smell,
the liquid red mother
not far, sweet pomegranate juice voice,
blood smell suspended
from the open space
across her throat.


Donna Prinzmetal is a poet, psychotherapist and teacher living in Portland, OR. Her book of Snow White persona poems entitled, Snow White, When No One Was Looking, is scheduled for publication with CW Books in May of 2014. Her work has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Journal, Cider Press Review and many other small press publications.

Barbara Carter is a visual artist living in Nova Scotia Canada. You can visit her website at: barbaracarterartist.com

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Potions
Leonard Kress

If you ask me how I got these scars, I will tell you.
Note how they form an oval around my mouth and nose,
and that if you connect the pocks, the outline of a dust
respirator forms, and so like everything else it
all goes back to breath and what I shouldn’t have been breathing,
those summer nights up in the loft of the chemical
mixing plant, left alone while the foreman took a snooze.
On break I’d been reading the autobiography
of Aleister Crowley, something like Do What Thou Wilt,
about how one of his enemies sent a vampire to him
in the guise of a beautifully bewitching woman—
that Crowley transformed into a bent decrepit hag,
the sack I wrongly dumped in the mixing machine.


Leonard Kress has had recent fiction and poetry in Massachusetts Review, Iowa Review, Another Chicago Magazine, and Crab Orchard, Atticus Review, etc. His most recent collections are The Orpheus Complex, Thirteens, and Living in the Candy Store. He currently teaches philosophy, religion, and creative writing at Owens College in Ohio.

Issue No. 6, Autumn 2013

Once Upon A …
Adele Kenny

Lost in the woods, they feel (as much as see) the way trees darken before the sky. In faded light, they crawl through weeds (poisonous sumac, false strawberry). Lichen and moss stick to their knees. They are not Hansel and Gretel, not brother and sister. They don’t know about witches or metaphor (which, of course, this is), but they understand that the air is colder than it was when they entered the forest. Darkness wells around them and creates new shadows. They feel the prickle of briars and stars—splinter and hiss in the underbrush—something goat-footed behind them. Cold, pale—their lips taste like moonlight. When the witch appears, they will follow her. They will live in the cage. They will eat gingerbread and grow fat. They will both be angry and sad.


Adele Kenny is the author of twenty-three books (poetry & nonfiction) with poems published in journals worldwide, as well as in books and anthologies from Crown, Tuttle, Shambhala, and McGraw-Hill. A former creative writing professor, she is founding director of the Carriage House Poetry Series and poetry editor of Tiferet Journal. Among other awards, she has received two poetry fellowships from the NJ State Arts Council and the 2012 International Book Award for Poetry. She has twice been a featured reader at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival and has read in the US, England, Ireland, and France. adelekenny.com