Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman Mistaken Identity Pulling into my driveway, I see a willie wagtail beating a skink to death on the pavement and the skink wriggles free and the wagtail grabs the frantic lizard, slams it down down DOWN and I mumble to myself just when you think you know someone. Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman is a poet […]
Read MoreHowie Good Making Love Sometimes it’s like the slow, patient unraveling of the obscure meaning of a passage in a sacred text, and other times more like kids in their parents’ cars doing donuts in an empty parking lot, simple noisy fun, and afterwards, when everything has stopped spinning, we have a floating feeling, as […]
Read MoreBrooks Lampe Village and Town Kids Just look at these children, how their faces make them already old, as if something lodged itself in the caverns of their eyes, except the toddler, who stares at diurnal diamonds beyond the hills. Painting: France Kralj / Kmečki in mestni otroci (Village and Town Kids) Brooks Lampe teaches […]
Read MoreJohn Hawkhead In the confessional he asks to hear her sins in more detail. John Hawkhead is an award-winning poet from the South West of England. His new book ‘Bone Moon’ from Alba Publishing follows his previous publication ‘Small Shadows’.
Read MoreMariangela Canzi Shell From the sea a shell was stolen, in my hand like an exile it deeply sighs. Mariangela Canzi is an Italian translator who tries writing poems in English.
Read MoreAndrew Arthur Fields Out in the fields I have no face. Andrew Arthur is a recent MFA recipient from SF State who will sweat blood to be a successful writer.
Read MoreDebra Murphy Fireflies I want to write about the time I drove by the field in Gettysburg at night and the fireflies filled the darkness with a thousand points of light, as if the Milky Way had descended, stars flying low to the ground. Debra Murphy hitchhiked to Cape Cod over 50 years ago and […]
Read MoreRichard Long Requiem for French Horn and Clarinet The other day I saw Rāfe on the shoulder of a road, holding a pistol like a French horn, not like back in the day when he rode on the rack of my bike, facing traffic, playing his instrument and I would stop to play along on […]
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