modernpoetryreview

Encaustic Sun
You were told it threw off threads
of flame—coronas—told it was
a roiling star, a ripe orange set to rise.
That its combustion, like your youth,
would never end.

You were shown how, at its heart,
a great store of fusion lay untouched,
the furnace of forever.
A summer’s worth of flies,
blackened swaths burning beside freeways.

Spikes of cadmium yellow,
and plates thrown to break
their china finish. Each new day
like the last, vain for an hour
beneath its fog and frost.

Place of ghosts, of the stick-hands
witches wear when they pinch
to punish children.
Small pane of glassed-in combustibles,
tar-faced grid of fir behind fir behind fir.

Where were you asked to stand
in the picture of your life?
What pose had you to hold?
Who didn’t want to?
Which one had to press a button in order to shine?

Enchanté, you said, on meeting this star
and the sun worked harder
to make you pretty.
Until the earth grew old in its orbit,
years like shells imploding.

Artillery the dirge-song,
a cold-hardened ground
where the shy star stays close
to the horizon, well-behaved
as any mercenary.

About the Poet
Judith Skillman’s new book is House of Burnt Offerings from Pleasure Boat Studio. The author of fifteen collections of poetry, her work has appeared in J Journal, Tampa Review, Prairie Schooner, FIELD, The Iowa Review, Poetry, and other journals. Awards include grants from the Academy of American Poets and Washington State Arts Commission. Skillman taught in the field of humanities for twenty-five years, and has collaboratively translated poems from Italian, Portuguese, and French. Currently she works on manuscript review. Visitwww.judithskillman.com

Pacha*
We fell to the earth
in a reckless body of white fire
exploding in the dark
against the formless pale sediment.

We cut a bowl in its rock
loosing the water from its shut eyes,
carving rivers out of the land
and flooding the world with sound

Years later, we returned to the water to drink;
our fingers traced the tattooed rock, the swirling rainbow of ancient soil,
but we could not recognize the imprint of our body

Because we had become lost in the motion,
in the ceaseless beginning of everything everywhere:
perplexed, we called it time and left.

*In the Quechua language, the word “pacha” means both land and time.

About the Poet
Nick Hilbourn lives and works near Philadelphia.  He writes columns and articles for Defenestration, Pointsincase.com and headstuff.org.  He blogs at largethingslargerthings.tumblr.com.

This Isn’t Just To Say
That I have envied Dr. Williams
His indulgent wife
Who tolerates his breakfast thefts
For the sake of art.
But a suspicion creeps in
On little cat feet
That those extra trips to the grocery
And wiping the rain
From the glazed, red wheelbarrow
Make her weary
When the lights go out,
Which might explain
Why the happy genius
Who couldn’t get his own plums,
No matter how sweet and cold,
Spends evenings dancing
By himself.

About the Poet
Mitch Earleywine was born in California, grew up in Missouri, and currently teaches at the University at Albany, State University of New York. His poetry has appeared in Columbia Review and his non-fiction has been published by Oxford University, Springer, and Hogrefe.

Pluviophilia
My corpse has awoken from its crusade
in the other world of myth and dream,
where I failed to subject gods and beings
to whatever tenuous totalidoxy

I thought I was seeking. To verify
You exist. I suppose this is all for the best.
Infallible ideas tend to lead to holy wars,
which would end poorly, me having no army.

I imagine I wouldn’t like it either
if You were so busy developing
more comprehensive Michaelologies
you withheld this delicate rain –

The world I journeyed toward returns,
the earth a cradle made of water.
Delight of the souleye the only knowledge.
If You aren’t present, neither is the cosmos.

Harbor Mandala

.                                             i have come to you harbor
.                                             this morning after a nightmare
.                                             has absconded only its anxious
.                                            wake still within me

beyond the shoreside minnows                       demanding I apprehend
below the gulls perched on buoys                   an amorphous dream
the small boat trolling depthward                   subject it to reason
to beg for what it cannot see                          force it to signify something

.                                             your surface a canvas
.                                             where the cloud muted sun
.                                             paints abstract patterns
.                                             of deep blues shaded with greys

whatever i thought i was                                 i could have come empty
going to see was not this                                 handed silently greeted
wind brushing across                                      an old friend opened
your skin creating visions                                my eyes invited you into my soul

.                                             ducks float napping silently
.                                             in the oak shade i wander by
.                                             my sandals quacking with
.                                             each step on my way home

Morning
The tiny harbor ripples            did not begin               when I happened

upon them.  The breeze           breezing them towards            me does not symbolize

any Spirit uniting        us.  Ducks cluster,       scatter, squawking      like ducks.  This is not

a performance                                     for my eyes; I’m a human                   being, taken

on a stroll by               his soul through his                 soul as each of these

souls lives its image                 solely for this tethered            pleasure: being.  I’ve finished

losing the world          I thought I controlled,                        and the tiny flecks

of light on wavelets,               where dawn and                     haven face one another,

remind me you speak              in visions, promising               prayers harmonize deeper

than soliloquies, even                          as the water-                sparks’ patternless dancing

duets its endpoints,                 lineless pictograms, strange                 succorous listening

to a language sung      in figures, one             I no longer have                      to master.

About the Poet
Michael Collins’ poems have received Pushcart Prize nominations and appeared in more than 40 journals and magazines, including Grist, Kenning Journal, Pank, and Smartish Pace. His first chapbook, How to Sing when People Cut off your Head and Leave it Floating in the Water, won the Exact Change Press Chapbook Contest in 2014. A full-length collection, Psalmandala, was published later that year. Another chapbook, Harbor Mandala, is forthcoming in July of 2015. Visit http://www.notthatmichaelcollins.com/ for more

Portland to Barcelona, Winter to Spring
I. Portland
The snow drifts block my view of the water.
Waves and waves of white, but no push and pull,
no give and take. Spring eludes, birds huddle.

II. Barcelona
The seagulls caw and wheel, while cold days linger
on, despite a clear blue sky. From the mountain,
the tramontana bares its teeth anew.

III. Barcelona
On a park bench, we sit as he unwraps
the old blue bottle, thick with a relief
of Catalans dancing the sardana.

IV. Portland
In front of City Hall, his mittened hand
reaches for a woolen purple hat, left
there by a neighbor, a knitter, a friend.

V. Portland
The smell of hops claws the air, fights for space,
rises above the wind. It is winter.
We drink Allagash Black and toast the sun.

VI. Barcelona
In front of the old stone masia,
a tree stands solid, fisted with white blooms,
a soft spectre against a concrete sky

VII. Barcelona
With the first rains, they petal down, pasting
themselves to the sidewalk, a sudden riot of spring,
while the scent of salt shakes out on the wind.

VIII. Portland
The days are getting longer, the sky pinks
early, lingers in the gloaming. Robins
alight, their red bellies promising spring.

About the Poets
Tasha Graff used to live in Barcelona, Spain but now she lives in Portland, Maine, where she teaches English. Her poetry has appeared in such places as Word Riot, Epigraph Magazine and From the Fishouse. Her latest projects include writing poems about wrens and learning the uke.

Melissa Leighty used to live in Portland, but now she lives in Barcelona, where she is a freelance writer. Her essays and poetry have appeared in Salt, Colloquium, and English Journal. Her latest projects include a book imprint and a cookbook about Catalan cuisine.

All Comets Welcome

Thoughts stream through the streets
with air on fire, ride neural networks,

streak by in a hurry, leave
tales fuzzy and images blurry.

(Cable is laid from here to Mars
but yesterday’s futures are expired.)

In another hub, messages queue
burning with importance, anxiously

ready to spin their quotes
in lasting anagrams good for the cryptic.

(Please do not ask What is Truth?
Our answers are unbelievable.)

Click the icon to send your comet
into the ether. It will fly

never to be seen or heard
in this lifetime. Roger, over, out, away …

Don’t wait up for a reply.
(Mail sent to important people

will be misplaced without a trace.)
Ever so happily, after

you pass, your star might cruise
the main drag again

and moon onlookers
while they stare into the space

devoid of a comma.
Your caesura will have caused

a longer pause
than you ever intended.

 

About the Poet
Cathryn Shea’s poetry is forthcoming in Absinthe and Permafrost, and has appeared in MARGIE, Gargoyle, Blue Fifth Review, Quiddity, Sierra Nevada Review, Soundings East, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. Cathryn’s chapbook, Snap Bean, was released in 2014 by CC.Marimbo of Berkeley. She was a merit finalist for the Atlanta Review 2013 International Poetry Competition. Cathryn is included in the 2012 anthology “Open to Interpretation: Intimate Landscape.” In 2004, she won the Marjorie J. Wilson Award judged by Charles Simic. Cathryn served as editor for Marin Poetry Center Anthology, and worked as a principal technical writer at Oracle.

 

Eco Echoes 83
Reproductions, cardboard, of Gauguin’s
Native sarong’s colors have become bleached
Blank by Patio Florida sunlight, and
Have grown longer to cover kneecaps.
Tahiti simulation has been maintained
By coconuts and tattoos. The tiles, white,
Have become mirrors that reflect the bottoms
Of protruding chins. Since most of the chins
Have white beards, the result is white on
White, and the floor is a collection
Of Malevitches. Pots that once had
Plants, now only dirt covered with
Crumbled-up scrapped lottery tickets.
All the tickets looked homesick, old, their faces
Wrinkled by fingernails. The enigma
And monument of their lives is the
Suitcase by the barbeque grill
With its mildewed charcoal.
Someone came to move in, and help
Pay the mortgage, but when he
Saw the life-style, the ping pong table,
Spoons used to flip jam on each other,
And the underclothes of baby sitters
Crowded in the bronze-wire garbage bin,
He left the suitcase with all his belongings
And ran away to find, if he could,
A forest. While running, he shouted
All the way, “Where are you, Pan?”

About the Poet
Duane Locke’s poem that appears in this issue is his 7000th poetry publication. He has 33 books of poems published including Visions and Terrestrial Illuminantions, Second Selection from Kind of Hurricane Press, forthcoming in 2015.  My main book publication is Duane Locke, The First Decade (Bitter Oleander Press, 1968-1978).

Prosthetic
Overhead, the night geese search
the frozen surface

.              In lotus pose, marble Buddha,
.              left hand resting palm up in his lap,

below. A woman struggles
to remind herself

.              his right hand reaches downward,
.              fingers chipped off by vandals.

it could be
so much worse.

.              He sits intending
.              to touch the earth and call it to witness

Be mindful,
practice detachment,

.              in a winter garden overgrown with ivy.
.              As geese overhead continue

she struggles to remind herself—
unhooking her bra,

.              to seek, he can never
.              reach the ground.

she sets her new breast
on the nightstand.

Song of the Spores
Tabernacled deep within the forest, cloistered
in fern, I listen while two wrens
lob ontological proofs across the no-man’s land.

Loam is Lord

A half-hearted drizzle in half-light plays
patty-cake with maple leaves in rhythms
encrypting the oracle of chlorophyll.

Loam is Lord

The pond proclaims an epiphany—baby
wood ducks—no one explains why the wind riles
its perfect surface, rekindling our addiction to mirrors.

Loam is Lord

The trail serpentines through old growth fir, and the State
plantation, trunks ribbon-tied with empirical questions,
tagged graffiti orange, like boxcars.

Loam is Lord

I dare not speak the Latin name of the poseur,
the red columbine, pretending—“hey, look at me,
I hang like a Tang dynasty lamp.”

Loam is Lord

Yea, though I find no taste to snowmelt filtered
through volcanic rock, I still wonder who
first tickled the spores on the private underside of a fern.

Loam is Lord

About the Poet
David Hargreaves is a poet/linguist living in Oregon. Most recently, he translated a collection of poems, “The Blossoms of Sixty-Four Sunsets,” by Nepal Bhasa poet Durga Lal Shrestha, which was published in Kathmandu in the fall of 2014.

Letter from Amsterdam
As I write, three boys are playing poker
in the corner with a deck of nudie cards.
The naked women shush over each other
as they’re shuffled, whisper secrets

from other lives. Can you imagine? Playing
cards when the real thing is out on the canals,
beckoning for their attention, their wallets
and bulges. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so

crude. Is that why my letters return unopened?
The prostitutes in the Red Light District
call out to me when I walk in the morning,
but I’ve been good. They swat at the glass

like manatees at the aquarium. You told me
once that sailors mistook those for mermaids
long ago. I think that happens here, too,
when night falls. Beggars, so far, leave me

alone. Maybe they sense that I am broken,
like them. You wouldn’t like me saying that,
I know. Yesterday, I opened the hostel door
and a cat sauntered in as if it had a bed

reserved. It smelled of burnt lemon
rinds and blood and I thought about the night
you perfumed yourself for me. The owner’s
daughter shrieked and chased it with a knife

that cut the air in front of me into thin ribbons, all
the way from the kitchen. I know even a single flea
could be the end for them, but I wish I could stop
thinking about what happened next. That whole night,

a German fellow on mushrooms kept asking
me if I saw colors and faces in my dreams.
Then, without pause, he asked if I dreamt at all.
He drove me crazy with his questions

and fractured English so I read my braille
mathematics textbook for six hours, to anchor
myself in its numbers. I was on mushrooms, too.
I wasn’t going to tell you that, at first.

I was going to pretend that this trip was all
about tulips, Van Gogh Museum audio tours,
and wooden shoes. You would have believed me, too,
or acted like it, at least. But I’m tired of that.

I’m composing this letter to you in my mind
because all my notebooks have been stolen
from my bunk. It doesn’t matter. This is the only way
I can reach you anymore, anyway.

About the Poet
Ross Losapio is a graduate of the MFA program at Virginia Commonwealth University, where he served as Lead Associate Editor for Blackbird. His poetry appears in Copper Nickel, Hayden’s Ferry Review, the minnesota review, The Emerson Review, and elsewhere.

Small Pond
Look through the window.
Trees have a singular purpose
and it’s not to be beautiful
or to shed leaves, like tears,

into the pond (which knows many forms)
once more lapping against its muddy borders,
once more housing hearts, heartbeats,
heart leaks.

Yesterday, a month ago, two seasons ago, a year ago,
six-hundred full moons ago, eons ago, star-births ago,
now minus X ago—it was a solid as cinder
and the children were playing hockey—
falling, fighting, learning physical laws.
A nose bled freely onto the ice;
the reeds shivered and bowed.

Nothing is temporary; everything is forever.
Though we must forgive ourselves
for our misinterpretation of time.

At some point along liquid infinity,
our atomized hearts will coalesce again
to pass along one last throbbing missive:

submit sooner—sublimate with grace

and then break apart once more
scattering their quarks
out to the milky perimeter,
the ineffable border of the stretching plane

where they will glide across the black gulf
like pucks slapped towards the net.

About the Poet
Amir A. Tarr is completing his M.D. at University of Miami with a focus on psychiatry and gender identity. He received an M.S. in bioethics from Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai and a B.S. in psychology from UW-Madison. His poetry and fiction has been featured or is forthcoming in Chiron Review, One Throne Magazine, Rust+Moth, The NewerYork, and elsewhere. His work in the field of medical humanities has been featured in the The American Journal of Psychiatry, Academic Psychiatry, Medical Encounter, Neurology, Psychoanalytical Perspectives, The Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, and JGIM.