Poetry Winter 2013 fiction all issues
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Alysse Kathleen McCanna
Pentimento
& other poems
Peter Nash
Shooting Star
& other poems
Katherine Smith
House of Cards
& other poems
David Sloan
On the Rocks
& other poems
Alexandra Smyth
Exoskeleton Blues
& other poems
John Glowney
The Bus Stop Outside Ajax Bail Bonds
& other poems
Andrea Jurjević O’Rourke
It Was a Large Wardrobe...
& other poems
Lisa DeSiro
Babel Tree
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Reptiles
& other poems
Michael Berkowitz
As regards the tattoo on your wrist
& other poems
Michael Brokos
Landscape without Rest
& other poems
Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
& other poems
John Wentworth
morning people
& other poems
Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
& other poems
Catherine Dierker
dinner party
& other poems
William Doreski
Hate the Sinner, Not the Sin
& other poems
Robert Barasch
Loons
& other poems
Rande Mack
bear
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Red Bird
& other poems
Anne Graue
Sky
& other poems
Mariah Blankenship
Tub Restoration
& other poems
Paul R. Davis
Landscape
& other poems
Philip Jackey
Garage drinking after 1989
& other poems
Karen Hoy
A Naturalist in New York
& other poems
Gary Sokolow
Underworld Goddess
& other poems
Michal Mechlovitz
The Early
& other poems
Henry Graziano
Last Apple
& other poems
Stephanie L. Harper
Unvoiced
& other poems
Roger Desy
anhinga
& other poems
R. G. Evans
Hangoverman
& other poems
Frederick L. Shiels
Driving Past the Oliver House
& other poems
Richard Sime
Berry Eater
& other poems
Jennifer Popoli
Generations in a wine dark sea
& other poems
A Naturalist in New York
I cannot see the buildings
of Manhattan in the dark,
though at a far journey’s end
as we cross
(yes it is,
confirms the driver)
the Brooklyn Bridge
towers of window lights are rising
in the buildings’ negative space.
It’s the way each
illuminated giant facet turns,
revealing more as we approach.
Transitions of galaxies,
oblong astronomical bodies
in a moving geometric display;
metropolitan northern lights,
and I am in awe.
I’ve seen things as stunning before:
the terrace of salt-white
pools at Pamukkale;
the cap of Kilimanjaro
afloat on African clouds;
stalactite ballrooms in
Carlsbad Caverns;
a neon-red sunset
on the Serengeti.
I feel my own turning,
my marrow re-engaging
in ways I didn’t know
my insides could fit.
I’m not a city person
is no longer available
as I adapt and rearrange;
a discontinuation
of a former stock phrase.
Nan’s Photographs
That one, that’s my favourite,
of my mother in a tutu,
age sixteen, on points,
with her raven hair straight
from a white hairband
and her hands arched above her.
of all your photographs
of even that one of me
with my brothers
when I wouldn’t keep still
at the photographers,
and Darryl is smiling
and Kevin has been instructed
to keep me on the seat
I’m already half off,
as if at any minute
eighteen month old me
will slither to the bottom
of the round frame
and drop, gurgling
onto your hall carpet.
more than the scattered ones
in little straight frames
around your bookshelves
and the dresser;
a collection of cousins
in the dull plumage
of successive school seasons.
This photo,
my mother; your daughter;
the family’s only dancer.
Look at her—
our loose-tendoned
connecting icon
in her own space,
owning the frame.
I love this photo,
how it shows excellence
pursued, found,
redelivered on demand
for the camera’s exposure;
her talent in black and white,
en pointe in a silvered
chemical capture.
For Peter in Memory of Jo
Meteorites land mostly
in the sea
or in forests
far from our eyes.
Sandcastles are always
washed away
by the tide—
they don’t survive.
But in between
these statistics
are things we risk
by being alive.
By survival
we’re defined by
losing people,
precious people,
lost to us,
the ones behind.
Somewhere on earth
a meteorite.
Ankles are lapped
by sand
sent swirling
into flower-shaped fractals:
a million tiny rocks
in the tide.
Mrs Bing and Mrs Bailey
and the list read
Bing Bing Bailey Bailey
Bing Bing Bailey.
Visiting you, we waited
with the suitcase, by
the noticeboard on the lobby wall,
while Mum brought in
the rest of our stuff,
letting the double doors close off
to the hot ice-cream-dripped tarmac
of an English just-a-half-season
or the rest of the year’s
straight-off-the-sea wind.
and the list read
Bing Bing Bailey Bailey
Bing Bing Bailey.
It always amused my sister and I—
seven days of warden shift
in a rhythmic, onomatopoeic
can’t-help-itself-but-be-a song.
Bing Bing Bailey Bailey
Bing Bong Bailey.
We hurried along the hall
and sang it to you, giggling,
at the entrance to Flat 4,
where you were
officially sheltered
from live-alone danger,
but independent
with your own front door
and wardens, on duty,
at your every red-cord-pulled call.
Bing Bing Bailey Bailey . . .
don’t finish it . . .
leave the song hanging
in our grandchildhoods
among the sandcastles.
Karen Hoy
lives in Bradford-on-Avon in England and has a Creative Writing Diploma from Bristol University. Her poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies including Another Country: Haiku Poetry from Wales (Gomer) and My Mother Threw Knives (Second Light Publications). Karen works as a Development Producer in international TV documentaries. She also helps at With Words, co-designing writing courses. For each “difficult” poem, Karen aims to write at least one joyful one.