modernpoetryreview

Copy Right
I hope someone tries
to steal my words
and pass it off
as their own.
This poem is yours
if you grab first.
I don’t want
to be the only
crazy one.

About the Poet
E.T. Milkton writes from the clouds beyond the horizon. He enjoys hiking, fishing and eating meat.

Cutting Edge
Note: This poem is written in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin.
Dere’s wun invisible razor
slashing through da ages

forevah sharp
and constantly in motion.

It wuz always moa
den just wun passing whimsy.

It wuz wun ascendance
from biological servitude.

Da progression has been moving along

evah since da big bang of da mind
wen explode into da brain.

Take wun look
at all da accumulated knowledge to inherit

in da awakened realm of homo sapiens.

While da earth spins on its axis
and da universe keeps expanding

it’s amazing to realize
dat evolution is wat you make of it.

Units of culture
and replicated means

passed along in wun baton
can now double as wun scepter.

King of da apes
is presently emperor of da solar system

and to tink
it started somewheah back wen

aftah our simian ancestors
left da safety of da trees.

Wit one slice into da darkness
all da neurons wen flash

and consciousness wen advance itself
to set da world on da cutting edge.

About the Poet
Joe Balaz writes in Hawaiian Islands Pidgin (Hawai’i Creole English) and in American-English. He edited Ho’omanoa: An Anthology of Contemporary Hawaiian Literature.  Some of his recent Pidgin writing has appeared in Otoliths, Snorkel, Juked, Hawai’i Pacific Review, and Revolution John, among others.  Balaz is an avid supporter of Hawaiian Islands Pidgin writing in the expanding context of World Literature.  He presently lives in Ohio.

Candlelight is a Form of Good-bye
This is my caged bird, that’s roasting night sounds,
measuring secrets. In the meadow, a wicker-haired

godmother waits with clear eyes, taking slugs of the
overripe darkness. We dive headfirst into a steel

canyon, distend to a sky-worn quilt. Prince watches
from his balcony; wants to say forever, or till I

break the spell.  But lies rattle on branches, erase my
candlelight. At the birthplace of our de-creation, the
sky leathers clay furrows.

I offer cinnamon thrushes. He already knows. Memories,
just as hearts, became ungenerous with time.

About the Poet
A Prundaru is a visual artist, writer and translator, who lives a stone’s throw away from the birthplace of milk chocolate. Her work is forthcoming in Litro Magazine, 3 AM Magazine and Rattle. She has a photo blog at https://socksinflipflops.wordpress.com/.

The Forgiven
It must be a distant place,
beneath notice, far beneath
the zone where the despised
triumph by despising.
And where the masters, who must have
something of everything and believe
that victims are admired,
proclaim themselves in some way victimized.
They never notice us
and therefore do not envy. There is
an outside, but so compromised
by what’s within, drafty and damp,
that even when we can we seldom
go out into its endless curtailment.
Meals are our seasons, and the expressions
of those who ladle them,
neither kind nor interested nor hostile,
are what we have of nature apart from time.
We eat, and meditate
on what asparagus gave up for us,
the community of soup,
the rumors borne by even the weakest
coffee; then linger
until we’re told to go, and are equally
satisfied with leisure or the command.
There’s a room with books and games,
and an old broken medium whose green-
grey screen shows all we need to see.
Pieces are lost, the cards
have passed through many hands;
the books as is their habit came from elsewhere,
and move too fast, so that no one can catch them
or if we do we let them go.
Sometimes sun breaks through the frayed
curtains or bars. Then on the yellowed
paper in every drawer, somebody writes
for hours, mumbling, bringing
pen to lips, then crumples what was written,
which is what it was for. And sometimes, two
pair off. It’s always obvious,
and we, as subtly, applaud them for it.
When they don’t show up for dinner, breakfast, tea,
we discuss the efficacy
of love. It offers
a world beyond the world beyond our own,
escape, a motive for escape,
a fantasy of the first person plural.
Deliberating which, we fall
silent as dreaming
functionaries in gaudy white
pass through. For they themselves are dreams,
and normally don’t bother us.
But “we” is the most sacred word,
even when casually, unworthily
invoked in kingdoms of the I,
or whispered to oneself behind a wall.

V-Letter
Badiou compels agreement
when he says that the epic
corresponds to the age of the warrior
(king, feudal thug)
while lyric is the art of the soldier,
whose allegiance must be bought, and bought in bulk.
Whatever I wrote, I wrote
on a bunk in a troopship
amid the smell of feet
awaiting a torpedo.
Whoever I was, the “I”
in every other line
was mostly a matter of luck.
And you, who I hoped would read
the words found beside me
in trench or bunker
(they would be handed to you like a flag)
were always the one real thing.

About the Poet
Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure and Happiness, both published by Story Line Press, and the author of a collection of shorter poems, A Poverty of Words (Prolific Press, 2015). He has appeared in Hudson Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), The Fish Anthology (Ireland), Representations, Magma(UK), Iota (UK), Bateau, Main Street Rag, Fulcrum, etc.  His poems have appeared online in Big Bridge, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire  Review, Mudlark, Occupoetry, Faircloth Review, Triggerfish, Thunderdome, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, etc. He is currently adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University.

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

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.

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.

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).

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.

 

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.