September 22, 2022

“The Day I Thought I Would Die, ” by Mini Babu

“The Day I Thought I Would Die, ” by Mini Babu

The Day I Thought I Would Die The day I thought I would die the woman who accompanied me to the hospital said, she needs cooking oil for, “tomorrow,” I used up a little of my valued time, to contemplate on, “tomorrow.” Coffee houses, supermarkets and theatres drove past me, coffee, bread and rice were found unseasoned . . . And they went on talking of “coffees” while I rode in a vehicle called, “now.” All things, other than me were yesterdays and tomorrows. ** Talcum Powder The first time I powdered my face, I imitated the manner my father did, tender strokes on the brow, cheeks and chin, and a mellow even rub, from that time on, I thought of him, twice a day, at no unusual hours, later on, I gave up using…

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August 25, 2022

“Blue Ridge Autumn,” A Poem by Reed Venrick

“Blue Ridge Autumn,” A Poem by Reed Venrick

“Blue Ridge Autumn” ONE On a cold but sunny afternoon, late autumn, Wendy hurries up a chilly, pine-shaded sidewalk. And as she hurries, she memorizes her favorite poem from that semester’s study and strife; she, sounding out dee-dum, the stresses of iambic rhythm, while inhaling the rich aroma of pine boughs hanging over her ascending walk. After another week of classes, just a few weeks more, at the university across the ridge, but now Wendy hurries on up to her waitressing job at the restaurant and hotel called “The Grove Park Inn,” where Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda dined, where Thomas Wolfe rushed to write—gazing out to Mount Pisgah. Hopkin’s “Spring and Fall,” the sounds stepping inside Wendy’s fresh-air brain, as she recites the lines on an autumn day cold enough to need a woolen sweater,…

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August 4, 2022

“I’ll Have Water Overnice,” by Kaeli Dinh

“I’ll Have Water Overnice,” by Kaeli Dinh

I’ll have water overnice Freedom was getting to sleep over at our uncle’s. Fridays consisted of squirting ketchup into our waters and Saturdays with blankets over our eyes from the late-night horror films. We were three spoiled children that slept with sugar running through our veins and nightmares we didn’t tell our mother. Then the pencil marks on the wall got higher and our hands started to grab more. But uncle was still squirting ketchup into his water. Freedom was forgetting to answer his calls and taking cash out of the birthday cards he made. Keeping us healthy costs more than his insulin shots. But his hand kept feeding until he lost his sight. He was fooled humbling himself a Giving Tree. We took his only good apples and now his eyes. When he wanted…

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July 26, 2022

“Spare Parts,” Poetry by John Kucera

“Spare Parts,” Poetry by John Kucera

Spare Parts I like best the ones that change: Elephant. Tiger. Bear. Old books on the shelves reflecting every self I’ve ever been. The boy who thought he’d do much better to the man who got fired for correcting his boss. The trips to the zoo and the trips to Europe and the trips back home during midterms where I carried the books in cardboard boxes up staircases to rooms that were long ago abandoned. I’ve outgrown this old house and want to let my old selves breathe. I can’t stand to leave them stacked on the shelves. Or in boxes. I open the small ones last and count the contents. I recount them later because if one went missing it would leave a hollow space. ** Determinism Boxing isn’t really about pain. To hurt…

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July 14, 2022

“What You Said About Me,” Poetry by Eric Forsbergh

“What You Said About Me,” Poetry by Eric Forsbergh

What You Said About Me The first two sips of beer are the best, you tease good-naturedly as we huddle on a second date -the dark eddy of a railway station bar. First, foam annoys the upper lip. Then bubbles bristle in the throat. On brew, the stomach bloats. But, oh, those first two draughts. A river of passengers flows past, head-on toward destinations, delays, side-tracks, cancellations. How we like to overlay our futures onto those of passersby, guessing at their plunges into rapids, cascades, often jutting rocks, hoping for a pool of calm. How are they a match? you laugh. A season on, and now you banter with me smilingly. Maybe this is more like wine, slow to unfold complexity in the us we’re tasting every day. ** Pursuit of Food The sea breathes…

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July 6, 2022

Student Poetry by Anai Gonzalez

Student Poetry by Anai Gonzalez

my hoodie reeks of depression it has food stains and maybe tear stains too my scalp flakes from excessive stress regardless of how often i shower my hair isn’t even as beautiful as it used to be it doesn’t shine anymore and i’m losing handfuls of it and of course, my mother is right beside me to remind me of all this my smile is shadowed by my saddened eyes needless to say, it’s faker than ever these days my body isn’t anywhere as fit as it was just months ago i’m losing all my muscle fat, i don’t love my body anymore my skin consists of red dots spread across my cheeks exposing my imperfections, embarrassing me to tears my mind is way too troubled to develop concrete thoughts and translate them into decent…

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June 13, 2022

“Ideology as a Way of Life,” Poetry by Tali Shabtai

“Ideology as a Way of Life,” Poetry by Tali Shabtai

“Ideology as a Way of Life” Women like me, yes have been added over the years to overshadow what preceded us that is mostly not in line with our agenda. The accepted wording is not what will satisfy our desires – Desires? Ours? Well then, I write in the female first person plural so as not to sound as one who sins with pretension as an individual woman, however I do not have many female friends for this journey and those who have already passed through a station or two according to the fixed rules of society A woman like me tries to stay free from society and at the same time to be in it with boycotts in double-digit ages until the arrival of the adolescence age and beyond I bear this bitter insult…

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May 23, 2022

“Lend Your Ears,” Poetry by Tapeshwar Prasad

“Lend Your Ears,” Poetry by Tapeshwar Prasad

Lend your ears I have other ways To enamour your heart Hark! My calligraphy Lending your ears On the wings of a butterfly – One flower to the next ** Colour of my grief I puff up the earth A little more, from Under my grave To see you blooming Colour of my grief  – The blood of my poppies Rooting the nerves, inside ** Scarecrow of the night You have been So easy upon me Like a butterfly of my dreams Yet, the reality; outside was maintaining an eerie silence in this turbulent night I settled down With an imagery of the fore Cozy in my sleep Yet the evil spirit of the night Was hell bent over frightening me, with its Scarecrow imagery ** Trollybag I was all seeing – You, that were…

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May 12, 2022

“Pain of the Poet,” Assamese Poetry by Guna Moran

“Pain of the Poet,” Assamese Poetry by Guna Moran

PAIN OF THE POET Original: Assamese: Guna Moran Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury Creator means poet So many innumerable poems did my mother write In the fresh leaf of the heart From the date she conceived me in her womb Who has bothered about the silent poet? I don’t know how much help I could be Having now understood the value of labour of the creator At least I could discover my sangfroid brother As I write My mother lovingly serves a cup of tea And says, looking at me From the corner of her eyes “Poem is one only Only writer is different But the pain of all the poets are All the same” The sun is burning to light others— Fuel cannot give light to others Without burning itself Don’t write much My darling I…

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May 2, 2022

Carolyn Adams — Art and Poetry

Carolyn Adams — Art and Poetry

“Epiphany” In the Absence of Red Alarms My blood sisters remember what I’ve almost forgotten, the menses that measure our time. I’ve lapsed my membership in that club, I travel free from the 30-day clock. My time is counted differently now. Days are years, years are millennia, millennia are without measure at all. There is no monthly debt; all accounts have been balanced. I spend myself as I wish now, with no child or threat of one. I’ve reached a bargain with the planets, their moons, the sky and all of its diamonds. I won’t wish on anything anymore. I have what I need. Days pass quietly here in the corner of the universe where I savor the slight air of a spring night, where my steps have taken 60 years to make sense. I…

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