Browsing Category : Poetry

Two Poems by Ejiofor Ugwu


Christmas Party or The Fire-setter in Search of Fresh Vegetables    Lord, wipe away this dust clouding for rain in the last tomb, the grave-rats hate moody clouds, and there is little to water in this season. It is harvest: the leaves are old, the cornfield now beg for fire, they are now feasting their balloons; wearing ribbons for the…

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mouth, unopened by Logan February


after alexis bates the color of these lips, after the grazing, muted. a marble rosary being spat out. a brother’s fist, blood of my blood, my blood running down my chin, my new name sanctified. the healing, and then the bruising. a marble rosary being swallowed. mine is a tongue pagan enough to be severed. this pastel mouth sings &…

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An Island of Water by Salvation Otubu


for E   It will take a great fortune of years after which I’ll be at the edge of a maltreated river, doting, slow ungraceful. I’ll want to steal from this elixir hanging from your lips, merge it with this soil that is your prayer, and sleep hoping the mollusks and octopi will revive and carry your fevered waist before…

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Echelon by Lana Bella


You move above the world into a wet landscape, where light throbs like opaque blood and currents flee the low distant echelon. Harefooted on the old refrains through an ice-crest air, you split and become thirsty, like fish straining for oxygen out of water. The moon climbs, and with it, large pockets of birds toss in the teeth of cold,…

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Rain by Carolina Souto


after Robert Hass’s Late Spring   And then at 7:02 pm, the rains splatter against rooftops, an evening moaned into, roaming living room pets, how your dog-eared blanket cuddles your neck, fleas appear next, as harsh as our accents, mosquitoes, too: a rat gets stuck between bush roots, slowly dying, its contorted body offset by a stringy tail, unlike a…

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Tales of the Untalented by Emoata Ejodame


I wish I know How to write my, into a poem Compressed in the nature of all things green, Driven with poetic license, let anything be As it wants without eyes peering with disdain My imperfection is also a talent   It is a form of creativity I am not very imaginative, that is a sort of name. You have…

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The Death of Something Sweet by Temitope Atunrase


We could have tasted like berries, or something sweeter. I started walking, stomach sucked in, I believed you saw magic as I saw fireworks in you. I tried to touch your fingers, the tip of it was an illusion. Because you never reached out I made you up in my head, calculated all your words to mean something like berries.…

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Credo to Leave by JK Anowe


Do not believe what you see on TV   I’m so afraid of being happy it is the closest thing to shame   ……………The world would still have itself   All noise & no sound/all rush & no reaching   If I wasn’t here   ……………A breakfast club between its teeth   I’m reconsidering dying old   Who the fuck…

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Two Poems by Nandini Dhar


Canticle This city’s neon-crafted eucalyptus branches are spears in the sparrow’s eyes. A walled villa whose mistress can’t remember anything other than her own childhood, a highrise-sized fiberglass sunflower adorns its manicured garden, the petals cupping into a plastic-hole for the sparrow to nestle. To be born with a city on my eyelids– a necessary training to stare at everything…

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Collapses of Breath by Robbie Coburn


Riddled with distance……cannot remember the momentary framing of time without this connection the day palls itself against thoughts consistent drive as the imagination preys on the senses……unceasing recollection again emerges……restrictions pulse along the nerve ends whatever passion has exhausted……cannot be revived skin worn by a harsh distance…in the breath dancing across your face where you rest alone        in your body….I…

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Seamstress by Gale Acuff


…………………….. ….. Xuzhou, Jiangsu, China New trousers. I wear them when I walk to the noodle diner. Old wine in new skins but they don’t rip until I sit down. Right up the seam that divides the lobes of my buttocks. I have them mended–for free, from Mrs. Wang, the tailor. Her English is poor. So is my Mandarin, so we understand…

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what if heaven exists and it is by Harnidh Kaur


what if heaven exists and it is just a place where memory is true? where the smell of home is exactly how you remember it, without the decay of age creeping through where the colour of your mother’s hair is still that of a wet sheet of silk soaked in ink that wrote you where your father’s bones are yet…

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Two Poems by Lauren Camp


Much   On that side of the country, we stayed in a home where everyone was happiest. Everyone played with their hair, talked, interrupted, needed minutes of feet in the water. Needed the water dredged every eight days, and swallowed the plot of five movies, and wanted to wear their white shirts. In the big room, a bird twisted his…

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Meditations on the Angel by Meghan Privitello


When you can shoot the messenger and the messenger bleeds light. What a privileged execution. * The hierarchy of pain starts and ends with the body. If the body can believe in ascending towards some impossible sky, it can mutate pain out of the flesh and into a memory of smoke. * Heaven is a privileged institution. All destinies are…

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