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pages poetry about submissions poetry swindon richard jefferies thursday, 26 july 2018 a poem by daryl sznyter catching my reflection in a crucifix i see more of myself in you than i’ve ever seen in any mirror & my face is a chemical exfoliation & my face is made of tear gas my eyes are lined with shrapnel & i refuse to bathe god forgive me for only owning one decent wine glass forgive me for the lipstick embedded on its rim & please for licking the bottom clean when you’re not around for wishing you were handsomer to me wishing you were the neighbor boy across the street always reeking of moss & lemongrass always so easy to worship daryl sznyter is the author of synonyms for (other) bodies (new york quarterly books). her poetry has been nominated for a pushcart prize, and has been published or is forthcoming in harpur palate, poet lore, folio, gravel, phoebe, best american poetry blog, and elsewhere. she received her mfa from the new school. she currently resides in northeastern pennsylvania, where she works as a content writer and seo analyst. contact her directly at darylsznyter.com . no comments: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest monday, 23 july 2018 a poem by joan mazza in the afterlife i imagine my mother walking up the final path laughing with lucille ball. they died a day apart, but surely chatted in those throngs of dead, jostling their way to the gate i see open for every caste. when my father took his life at the height of summer 1987, the husband of joan rivers did the same—one day later. did they discuss what drove them to see death as spite? did they have regrets? speculate on the impact for their children and grands, who might view this as a model for desperate times? in fact, i don’t believe in an afterlife in heaven’s stars or its flaming alternative for all eternity. childhood indoctrination left its mark, if not a scar, so i can sometimes hear my ex-husband, dead before his parents, welcome their arrival, offering a beer. his mother, wits re-stitched, will no doubt say, you’re here first? i heard said not long after, their other son was dead from cancer. too soon! ancestors cry. the temptation’s strong to have fantasies of reunions, gatherings in some rosy, great beyond, all questions answered. joan mazza has worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, seminar leader, and has twice been a pushcart prize and best of the net nominee. she is the author of six self-help psychology books, including dreaming your real self, and her poetry has appeared in rattle, the macguffin, valparaiso poetry review, and the nation. she lives in rural central virginia, where she writes poetry and does fabric and paper art. www.joanmazza.com no comments: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest thursday, 19 july 2018 a poem by kitty coles goats for stella the goats always come to us, sooner or later, if we stand long enough calling to them. they range themselves along the fence’s edge and, stony-eyed, stare out at us and wait. the wires buzz, waspish. their horizontal pupils, on those pale irises, meet ours unblinking. we have nothing for them. they realise it slowly and begin to bend to crop at the grass, or stretch on hindlegs to tear down the yellow flowers of the broom and gorse. their teeth rip crisply. once, we watched two bucks fight, clashing their horns, with sounds like dry bone banging on dry bone, their curled beards wagging, hooves tumbling the dust. the others didn’t raise their heads to look. kitty's poems have been widely published in magazines and anthologies. she was joint winner of the indigo dreams 2016 and her debut pamphlet, seal wife, was published in 2017. www.kittyrcoles.com no comments: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest monday, 16 july 2018 a poem by nick compton portrait: paige in san francisco take bronze and let it bleed complete. flood the pupil with hues of copper and marigold to ignite the suns of her eyes. a silver shadow running just below the ball. we had been awake for hours; turtle-shelled with rucksacks and sweet american heat; our adventure doubling to a tour of the cheapest drive-ins and dives; the real american dream. i sip iced tea and drown somewhere between the rose of her lips and sleep-requesting smile. a vein pulses blue from her elbow, maps the interchange of routes from avenue to avenue. i dot-to-dot her freckles. nick compton is a writer, traveller and poet. he has been published across 3 continents including canada and hong kong, with alex culotta phd describing his style as ‘bold yet unassuming, a refreshing voice in a handful of powerful stanzas.’ in addition to writing for the huffington post, he teaches poetry in workshops and lectures and is a member of the rhyme and reason poetry collective. a musketeer at heart, you can normally spot him with a trusty cup of tea by his side no comments: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest thursday, 12 july 2018 a poem by chella courington the pond heron the dead don't write but my cousin's letter arrives three days after he's blown away by some kid in his own platoon. maybe another georgia boy who's never been so far from home so scared he shoots at anything moving in shadows. the letter feels light for my cousin's voice. he speaks of sheer petals rising out of muddy fields spreading before the sun. of a copper heron in shallow water who dips his black-tipped beak to spear his prey. chella courington is a writer and teacher. with a ph.d. in american and british literature and an mfa in poetry, she is the author of six poetry and three flash fiction chapbooks. her poetry appears in numerous anthologies and journals including non-binary review, gargoyle, pirene's fountain, and the los angeles review. originally from the appalachian south, courington lives in california with another writer and two cats. 1 comment: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest monday, 9 july 2018 a poem by al ortolani wally sings amazing grace in an arkansas cave the old timers drew arrows with carbide smoke to mark their return. two caves, they used to say, one going in, one going out. you stop for granola, raisins, apple slices. you wander the deep transept, searching the source of breeze on your cheek, hunting new cave, tight spots, wiggle room. the darkness becomes more personal, pressing— brown bat, albino fish, blind to sun. wally begins amazing grace. the rope of his voice belayed through the darkness like a bowline at your waist— the mist in your lamp, the scalloped walls curving on. when you leave work today, you walk through snow melt, your truck parked at the bottom of the corporate lot. gray drifts run in small creeks to the gutter. at the storm drain, the water sluices through concrete to a distant spillway. this too is cave, piped below the streets, subterranean, serene, even rat trod, it’s a river to the sea. al ortolani’s poetry has appeared in journals such as rattle, prairie schooner, and tar river poetry. his newest collection, on the chicopee spur, will be released from new york quarterly books in april of 2018. ortolani is the manuscript editor for woodley press in topeka, kansas, and directs a memoir writing project for vietnam veterans across kansas in association with the library of congress and humanities kansas. no comments: links to this post email this blogthis! share to twitter share to facebook share to pinterest thursday, 5 july 2018 a poem by richard biddle gone spotting a wren is being let in on a secret. she shuttles hedgerow to hedgerow; becomes twigs. richard biddle teaches creative writing at chichester college. he has poems forthcoming with @threedropspoems and most recently published with burning house press @thearsonista. his work has also

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