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The Journey

Dominic Bury

Sea Lore

Mona Arshi


  This Rain brings with it the scent of rain-soaked lilac, lemon lily. Bruised skirts of thunderclouds drop their wet hems over this prairie. It rains and the ditches brim, rains and the water rises like ire amongst the willows. What we say and do not say. The heart incandescent, riverine with distance.   ***   lilt like this: sound of droplets from leaves aaaaaa gift   gift         gift     (Shortlisted for the International Salt Prize for Best Individual Poem, 2012 Published in The Salt Book of New Writing 2013, UK.)   _______________________________________________________ Jenna Butler is the author of three books of poetry, Seldom Seen Road (NeWest Press, 2013), Wells (University of Alberta Press, 2012), and Aphelion (NeWest Press, 2010), in addition to a book of ecocritical [...]

PARADOX The hand that draws the bowstring has faith that the deer will die. The longbow bends, the arrow points, the deer stands frozen in the curious pose of prey before its doom. But Zeno suggests that once the arrow flies, it covers half the distance to the deer’s heart first, then half the distance left and half again and again and half again so the deer will live and the arrow will never find its one true home.   A woman’s faith is different than a man’s. She believes his strength is bowstring straight, his heart like longbow yew, flexible but taut. A man believes that he is not a beast-- until the string snaps, the tortured bow splinters and his fist is arcing through the air toward the [...]

Driving       under drying skies, north, passing fields the summer has been too wet to turn brown, i wait for God to appear, for poems to rise like mists, for some sort of ever   that doesn’t sting. croon to me like a wild road, sunlight spider-webbing across a cracked windshield across strange arms across a morning we can all afford to spend and live and live. ________________________________________________________ Joanna Suzanne Lee earned her MD from the Medical College of Virginia in 2007 and a further MS in Applied Science from the College of William and Mary in 2010. Her ppoetry has been published in a number of online and print journals, including Caduceus, Contemporary American Voices, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Her second full­-length book [...]

Vital Desert Lesson Number One Nothing can be more useful to a man than a determination not to be hurried. – Henry David Thoreau   Living on beans and bread in an abandoned cabin no larger than a tool shed, I’d be happy,   I once said. If I could just remain immobile, silent. No place to go, I’d read Dante’s Inferno and ponder   the nature of mass movements, the building of Babel’s tower, the steam locomotive.   Dawn and dusk I’d thank sun and moon that I’d escaped the grinding bustle, that nothing disturbed my dreams.   Oh, I know it all seems too idyllic, but one vital lesson this desert’s teaching: let nothing rush me—not the heat   I try to keep out of, not the man [...]


TheThe Poetry Blog's Infoxicated Corner has nominated the following poems (and poets) for 2015's Best of the Net:   Annie Won's "The Nine Circles of IKEA" Jezmina Von Thiele's "Transfiguration of the Black Madonna: Gypsy Goddess, Gypsy Saint" Leigh Anne Hornfeldt's "Dilemma" Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie's "Blue Libation" Margaret Bashaar's "There Is Really No Such Thing As Winning" Saba Razvi's "Gingerbread Girl"   We were privileged to give these poems a home, and wish only that we could have nominated even a bit more of the amazing work with which we've been graced in the past year. Looking forward to 2016's poetry features! Until then: onwards, and with love.

Some Men    Men who’ve kissed with passion the full lips of women they didn’t love, men   who’ve grown too reticent for the confessional, who’ve cleaned public restrooms,   wiped menstrual blood from their walls, who’ve written— then scrubbed off—vile graffiti from the rusting doors   of shithouse stalls. Men who’ve grown enormous with disregard, rolls of it bellying over   their wide belts. Men who’ve been barbers of the dead and were happy for the work,   men who’ve become what they’ve microwaved, who overvalue the quality of their erections   and fawn over them like the town’s new Wal-Mart. Men who look awful in suits, who’ve been there   and back yet grew impatient, men who go to wakes to keep up appearances, who’ve made a deal [...]

The Bride I met her on her wedding day Walked up to her, and smiled, No one ever talks to the bride I thought it might be interesting to try something new, Break tradition Henna patterns wrapped around her wrists climbed up her arms Spreading blossoms on tender flesh Her lips were a wilted crimson Tilted ever so slightly to the side, A perfect almost smile The first thing her mother taught her was to wipe the tears before the blood dries, Shredded knees heal, but shame never fades away, Don’t climb trees or ride bikes, That’s how little girls lose their virginity She sat on a porcelain throne beads and bows holding plastic flowers to the arm rests “are you alright?” I asked “I shouldn’t cry” she said, fingers [...]

emily vogel

There's a tenderness and intimacy beneath the book's howling winds and snowfall, a celebration of love between the narrative's speaker, her husband, and their firstborn daughter.

'Seaglass Picnic' has the beauty, vibrancy and whimsy of sea glass, as well as the unpredictability and destabilizing force of rape and PTSD

  Father took a hand saw to the rain gutter, but doubted my garbage bin would fill. How do I explain that there is no     water?   The bin filled in five minutes and we bought three more no fancy DIY spout nozzles, just hacked gutters, trash bins and screen for the worms/leaves/debris   I’ve watched the fog, but it’s more than fog -- I’ve watched the ocean’s selfie, haha, an imprint of itself: imagine the Pacific CRASHING against rock, the spray, the sonic boom of it all, now imagine that spray collecting - grabbing on to each other and pulling the marine layer from just above our heads and running, like bodies screaming for justice on the highway, for the mountains. I’ve watched the fog crash over the [...]

Rest Stop We are all the year’s worries tossed into the dark dustbin of the sea. Swirling plastic returned, reared on its haunches. Let’s live slow and die when we do. Below the mess, kids are walking home from school. Gash the screen door to let the bugs in–– let them pinch my skin. I’ll coo investment tips in your ears. Anchor me to the all of our lives nestled in the hollow of this lake. Unbuckle my seatbelt. Unfasten my tongue. ___________________________________________ Devi K. Lockwood is a poet / touring cyclist / storyteller currently traveling the world by bicycle and by boat to collect 1001 stories from people she meets about water and/or climate change. You can keep up to date with her travels at

For Emmett   And if you are a boy, you might imagine the hairline that crawls backward without resistance.   The barber was a good barber. Give him a blade and his grandfather emerges from the palm, like a slave that was a good slave, raking the weeds back until all you see is a shaven field of grass, ready for eyes to bear witness to this marvelous thing. The barber might’ve talked to Emmett about his grandfather, the hands that grooms the America black folk always attempt to believe in. I’m sure Emmett would’ve cracked a joke, light- ened the mood for the body to settle in and humor toughens the skin, I am told. I know he could not have bled even if the razor wished to carve [...]

Cynthia Atkins opens her second collection of poetry with a meditation on family love by early twentieth century poet, T.S. Eliot, who writes of such unions as “love that’s lived in, but not looked at, love within the light of which all else is seen, the love within which all other love finds speech.” “This love,” continues Eliot “is silent.”