poem by Rick Hartwell
Three Forms of Mind (For his soul melt and his mind flow like water. Ivo Andric, The Bridge on the Drina)
War
by Jonathan Vidgop translated into English by Leo Shtutin My room is very small. I can traverse it in five steps, turn right or left, depending on what wall I’m walking along, and take three further steps. My room thus resembles a Christian coffin or an antique pencil box with a fitted wooden lid. But […]
poems by Bobby Z
The American Dream with streets once paved with gold, now filled with detours, the dream has been put on hold.
Exaiphnes
by Ștefan Bolea I. WORLD You are from this world, not from above, not from below. Here and now, you are experiencing your salvation, your damnation, or both. II. GODS What I have doesn’t come from me.
The last Three Weeks
by Chris Gartland Nice, Nice, Very Nice – 12/23/2022 Despite planning a solstice break, scribblings on paper, persistent as paintings on cave walls, do not allow it, it, it, it’s not a real word in the sense of understanding offsides if never having played the game – perhaps a proof in the form of an […]
poems by Robert Beveridge
Blockage this feels like a lot more than ninety-eight point six but there’s always something to be said
Microfictions
by Elizabeth Bruce Daughter I ask, you waver. The questions linger there behind the lace curtains passed down from mother to mother to you, Daughter. Your teacup trembles, its lilac flowers basking in the timidity of your embrace.
Effervesce
[A ten-minute play] by Cătălina Florina Florescu, PhD CHARACTERS: Grandpa, 70’s Grandson, 23 TIME: A summer day with clear sky LOCATION: A forest by a lake
“Poetry is the underground water we all need”
[interview with Simon Fletcher] by Monica Manolachi Monica Manolachi: Last autumn you were one of the four commended poets in the Michael Marks Environment Poet of the Year Prize. What does this recognition mean to you? Simon Fletcher: It means a lot, frankly. I’ve been writing environmental poetry for years and getting a few poems […]
poems by John Grey
Two sides to my waking I awake in the room next to your sick-bed. Through the thin wall, I hear grunting sounds, sandpaper coughs, your rough imitation of your own voice.