NewPoetry

Josephine LoRe

After the castle and steep stairs
where Afonso tipped the crown
from his queen mother’s head
to become first king of Portugal

After the plaque
now bubbled with rust
instructing bucket brigades
which region to attend

—the bell ringing
a set number of times
depending on the location
of the blaze
……..seven tolls for São Paio
fourteen for São Pedro
…….eight for Misericord

After the open arches
of the Romanesque church
and Nossa Senhora da Oliveira
I look down

……………………….and there
stamped in the ground
a scallop
…….a signpost

I find myself
…….on el caminho Português

I had gone expecting to find
seafood and wine
cobbled streets and tiled walls
but not this sanctity of place

Were I to continue this path
…….which winds from the D’Ouro
…………..to Santiago

Leaving the windswept coast
…………..and hugging rugged hills
would I at last find my peace?

Nevada-Jane Arlow

i recognized you first as the queen of love and magic
when you slept upon the dutch u-boat
flippers crossed, all pretty-like. befitting of a lady

sleep and rest, that rest the loud ocean never permitted you
even long after the jötnar perished, this evaded you
your wandering flipper went kingdom to kingdom
and the bourgeois ferryman’s vessels became your jest
freya, shall i wrap your russet body in your feathered cloak?

freya, i cry red gold for you
and i watched the molten pearls fall into the atlantic
down, down into the frigid depths
Fólkvangr awaits you, my beloved girl
i sing your songs while you go
may they cross yggdrasil to find the openings of your ears

freya,because i am weary in this world
i will not taste food again until i dine with you
instead i will push it through my left cheek,
to bypass my tongue and into my throat

the oslo council had a city meeting
“grass is only allowed to be this high
there’s a new bike lane
and we’re going to shoot the walrus”

Dave Hickey

On mornings immaculate with fog,
Marlene clicks the scissor door
open, which disappears

inwards, like exhausted caregivers
everywhere. My daughter
steeple jumps towards her, leaps

steps a third her height,
and swings into the very rst
seat, saved for the lightest of passengers.

The stop sign folds: a minor
mechanical wonder I
watch, still groggy and dazed

as the brakes release, and all
that electricity is set
in motion. A thousand kilometres

west of here, this same bus will burn:
vinyl smoke, unmistakable blue
bookending its length,

billows going up,
and soon nothing is left
but the blame. A hazmat suit

is sensible fashion
these days, and
anyone appearing hopeful

seems disastrously
underdressed.
Still I wave to my daughter,

knowing she is already
elsewhere, and that I’m waving
to my own reflection,

the parts of myself
the world returns and
those that are never not leaving.

Sara Krahn
after Blossom Dearie

As yet, your lamp-lit hands chord
into cool fourths. You sing,
and there is no turning back.
What is strange begins to ache

with the familiar. Around a corner
your eyes castle the sky and cut out
a prince’s beat-up jawline. Your voice
hovers at the easy edges of his hand-

some psychopath, a divine body
spring-loaded to shoot. As yet, a light
song on your lips as you pass by.
Here his mighty oak never drifts

far into your dreams, unlike the willow,
her sylphlike arms swept aside
for you as you sigh from a closer
distance. You’re told only the oak

must matter to you now, as if oak
was always the matter with you now,
his shadow fire between your legs
as you round another wrong turn. You walk

a little faster, as if you could walk
a little faster. Your gaze flickers backwards
into a glistening pillar of seasalt
air and the sea. Like Lot’s wife, you will be

remembered in the other direction,
even as a new vantage point upswells
in the ocean of your mind, saccharine
jazz, vibrato-less soul dissolving time.

Somebody catcalls your name
as if this was always your name.
You sing as a girl to your lover, as yet
somewhere a killer awakens.

Matthew Tierney

The bouquet’s sneaky as
a sunset, night-lit sparks
from the pink roses I gave
my wife last week; roses dying
an expected death, a few
half-closed like the beaks of
fledglings, others breathing
like a galaxy, if a galaxy
could be said to breathe.
Who sees change anymore?
Permeable, unsiftable
sensory cues, the way falling
degrades the dream;
dozens of trillions of
molecules form top notes
of decay, a space helmet
around my head. I inhale,
pure seconds froth into
the white-not-blue light
of substation afterlife. It’s
nobody’s fault this spiral
on sidereal axis, this drift
through a ring of asterisks.

Anne Pollard

The rain has given up and a few aching snowflakes
drift slowly from emptying clouds. Past the bare treetops,

past our grey shingled roofs, slowly hobbling, slightly
hunched, stiff-hipped and sore-kneed, they propel

themselves forward, shuffling, stumbling. Now is their time
to glisten, to tumble, to twirl headily towards the earth,

now before the sun leaves, before the summer arrives,
before the doctor goes home for the day. Today the needles

of the neighbour’s pines are brighter in the timid light,
today two quick children in last year’s t-shirts shoot hoops

on their crumbling drive, today the maintenance truck
trimming god-knows-what waits for me to pass.

Yesterday the dog died and I am without him.
The crossing guard in the yellow vest nodded but did not ask,

the large man on the small bicycle did not ask,
the woman in the white ball cap did not ask.

The buds on the red maples did not ask where he,
my companion of everywhere, was. He was thirty-six,

in human years, although I know no human at thirty-six
who serenades the world through closed doors,

pockets a ball in his mouth, sleeps between his mother
and father. Who levitates. I shouldn’t mind

the crossing guard with whom I have not yet spoken
or the dead cat I carried off the road onto the dusty curb

or the periwinkle with one purple flower
at the playground edge as none of them knew him

well. Black locust pods cover the young
grass beneath the swings and slides again today.

They have been trying since early fall and have not
made a single new tree. I used to take bigger steps.

We all live in the small and the large, my friend says.
I can feel the warmth of my dog’s black coat

as he lay dying. How soft. How deep.
……………………………………………………. How still.

T.L. Murphy

Gwen Aube
For Leonie

in the procession
i mutter what i hope
is a french-sounding sorrow

merci says everyone

hi dear, i’m so sorry, i love you
i say to you, i’m so sorry for your loss
i say to your mom

the slideshow of your dad
is the same as the photo album
of my stepdad. habs jersey
instead of leafs. a different lumpy
blue-beige couch.
your dad,

already balding in long-faded film,
holding a baby which i guess is you.

squinting on a kayak, digital trees
crunching into lake saint-louis behind him.

smiling at your mom’s retirement party,
features flat in the selfie camera.

your metalhead friend says
he seems like he was so healthy
and i nod. we agree he looks kind,
which is not an easy thing to look.

an old woman who smells like feces
sits next to me. we pray
and she knows every word.
we stand up and sit down
and when she does either
the stench is renewed.
i love her on your behalf
and also, i suppose,
on my own.

Christ is the only word
which reaches me,

the only other english words:
Time To Say Goodbye

i think the priest sounds like Terminator
when he says it.         i am ashamed
when my incomprehension begets irony.

it’s the name of a song, though,
and i remember it, must have been played
at someone’s funeral—Brian’s?
or Uncle Ed’s, maybe.

it is Mother’s Day.
after this i will have to call my Mom

i was thinking about leaving my girlfriend
and i admit that at your Dad’s funeral
i mostly thought about that.

but when they have you light a candle
i join the mourning chorus.

after, we eat food and you laugh a lot.
you are wearing your ‘trad wife dress’
the blue of morning glories.

i’ve never seen you in black—
we all feel relief we don’t have to.

there is laughter at the table now,
jokes in english for my benefit.
but i am distracted.

i can’t stop looking at everyone
who ever loved your father.

Gary Barwin

I push milk up the mountain of veins
the goat of my brain dressed in tin foil

my wife calls with dates available for my liver test
not the 29th, but yes the 30th, aug 3, 10, 11, 13

let’s coordinate with the eagle
also remember to book

the prostrate follow-up
is the heart like a fist

both clench around a stone
that was never a stone

last week a tree from our yard fell
onto the neighbours’ roof

smashed right through
ok, it’s settled: august 3

Imogene Mahalia

blues reds and browns intermingle
with wet scents spread by the wind.

There is music. It begins to rain:
I’m stood at a cliff’s edge watching

the deep blue waves below, swaying
back and forth, and back and forth.

I hear music. I fall off the cliff.
I’m dancing with a girl wearing

a deep blue dress. We’re swaying
back and forth, and back and forth.

We relish the sensation of sloppy
kisses on the backs of our necks

sunbeams’ saliva
trickling down our backs

we stare at the sky, and beg
the other stars to show themselves.

I hear music. I kiss her.

Linda Besner

I spent my time when it was normal days drawing smoke across the hole.

To blend a softer blackness in the abandoned paddock

they’ve rammed the highway through. I skipped a circle

in the tall brome, sat up on the octagonal fence

out of breath. The horses won’t be back.

Topsy-turvy posts tombstoned the unhayed hay.

We fall in love, you know, with places we don’t own.

It was fading out of the useful world for some years already,

even before a girl walked under the red canopy

of the covered bridge in milkweed anklets and army pants,

burr manacles and a peach-coloured camisole

to masturbate, but surprised a young Ursuline in the creek.

She smelled me, lifted her upper body. I ran,

though I could have put a candle wick to her black coat

and taken a flame. My inner voice says it is weak

to resist change. The stable topples, the horses are taken away,

your life is mostly something you encounter like a rock or a tree.

Weeds walk the ramparts of an overturned silo.

The line of crabapples gnashed by the bulldozer.

Weak, the voice says, almost like a drill sergeant inside.

No mourning the mouth of a cow on a daisy’s toothsome waist.

Or the dirt road where monarchs cast their orange to the dust.

Swallows ribboning the warm slats of the bridge rafters.

No doubt my inner voice poorly renders

your reasoning. The bombed-out houses and occupying soldiers,

the tilt away from a first language, a birth name.

To see myself through someone else’s eyes,

I make them cruel.

And for that, Mum, I am sorry.

Patti Lott

my god, it’s dismal
cold, I stumble through rimy
snow, one mittened hand
against my frost-burned face

above me, dark wings cut
through frozen sky. what keeps
that raven going. it gurgles
soft words of what I take
to be encouragement

the baby has died
she is washing the bones
they are tiny, unbearably
fragile, lined up in an order
they will not find again

maybe this is the same raven
who in spring and autumn
brings gifts to my garden—first
a skeletal fragment, provenance
unknown: filigreed, lacy as a doily

but it’s not the baby
who has died, it’s the mother
a half-remembered feeling
above the crib
the shape of an answer

later, a tooth
which, after some consideration
I recognize belongs to Sol
our horse who died here years ago
who we offered to the scavengers:
coyotes, ravens

the mother’s sister loves babies, but only
while they’re small. when the next one
arrives, she sets the first aside
its older brother likes it
too much

a year later
another Sol tooth, and today
always when I’m not looking
a small spine, spiky, slightly curved
a rabbit, maybe a wildcat

each finds its way
into my walled garden, teeth
appear inside the rusted wagon wheel
bones near the gate

she looks out a second story
window. the girls playing below
are magpies, bossy, overbearing
she knows they want
to break her
walking past them after school
she expects everything
and nothing

outside the garden, I feed
birds, which means I also feed
deer. it’s not wise, it habituates
my closest friends: the deer
the crows, the goldfinches

no one else is interested
the townspeople know
whose kids they are
who they don’t belong to
their hand-me-down clothes
uncombed hair
the way they run wild

my husband brings me birdseed,
gunnysacks
stacked against cases of chardonnay
and pinot noir, discontinued chocolate
bars, twenty-pound bags of rice
from his home country

he’ll give it all away—

[I have more diamond rings than fingers]

Joshua Trotter

I used to walk in a garden. I had a great many followers. I knew each one by name and if I could not remember, I made it up: There was Tigertail, Snow-on-the-mountain, All-about-love. There were Simon and Holofernes, there was Drummond-phlox, Turnagain Blossom, Thundergust.

There came a day when I began to feel myself again, walking outside, among all the bright followers which had made such an impression on me—on my inner selves and my outer self—that none of my myselves could now remember or even bother to imagine their names.

That day I caught a glimpse of what might have been a peacock, far off, against a green hedge, displaying the bright panopticon of its tail; all those purple eyes, yellow, orange, against a dark green hedge, unblinking in the noonday sun. All those eyes turned to look at me, for a long instant, then they were gone.

From that day, I began to spend less time in the garden, among my followers, more time at my mirror, within. I would posture and turn, displaying myselves to myself, holding my eyes wide as long as I could—until they began to tear. The once loyal garden beyond my mirror, if I remembered it at all, was emptier every day, emptier and emptier and further away.

Jessica Bebenek

Leigh Kotsilidis

We wade at the edge
of what is beyond us

There is nothing more
than delusion

Men mistake porch bulbs
for moons

A body drifts indeterminately
unnoticed

Every body leaves
over time

We each belong to a search party
looking for ourselves

The signs are never the same
when we return

There is a different word
for sky here

The last breath
belongs to the resolute

If outer space were not soundproof
we would hear the sun as a chainsaw

Space appears empty
even when exploding with wind

We must learn to hold our instruments
without making a sound

What will convince you?

The stars are so distant,
nothing we do will ever affect them

Qurat Dar

I don’t write love poems.
Easier to sing to my suffering.
I am clenched-fist selfish with my tenderness.

But here we are, coaxing the moon down through the sunroof.
Cords of jasmine coiled on the dashboard. Soon to soak in the fridge.
Bleed sweetness into our hair.

Come glow in the car with us. The music is too loud
but asking to turn it down feels like a goodbye. The windshield
an impressionist painting. My eyelids are beginning their slow
shutter home but I don’t want to go to sleep. I want the
split-sky downpour of our laughter, the chorus that bathes
every bitterness from me. I keep losing my voice to our sunset spill.

For so long I am desk-bound and empty.
Everything good minnows silver through my fingers.
We stretch our dreams gauze-thin. Across timezones.
Across the road spikes of a dollar sign.
A thousand schemes for a chance at again, again, again.

But here we are: every mouth softening around my name.
A sugar cube surrendering every edge.
Easy, Qurat. Always gulping like a man
pulled from the desert. I am not beautiful,
but my friends think I am, and that is enough.

Robert Priest

The lie no longer needs the liar
The lie tells itself

War declares war
on so-called self-proclaiming ideologies

Last men flee unmanned tanks
Heat-seeking body bags in hot pursuit

Before platoons of autonomous shovels graves gape
Self-propagating bot-made bot-makers target

automatic listening machines
listening to automatic listening machines

Ben Kline

This is the last poem I’ll write about my dead mother
this year. Good gin isn’t cheap, and time is a construct, a mother

to space and myth. My mother insisted we be
on time, early if we had any respect for her. What mother

would encourage tardiness? Time doesn’t want that
mother-fucking nonsense or sour vermouth
I’d say to my mother

if she weren’t coffin rotted,
though never to her face
I can’t remember. Mom said

I got my face from her side. Never mind
Dad’s big nose and blue eyes in mine, his great-
grandpa’s curls and jawline the same. My mother

wouldn’t like the amount of martinis I shake,
wouldn’t like this being my last poem about her
this year or any year she was or wasn’t my mother

in life or ghost space, a mom outside time, a myth
in lemon twist and morning particulates.
My mother didn’t like me

saying fuck or mixing up
stories about her race medals

with poems about her last electrons ascending
the exosphere, the sun another mother

I respected more than her, the mother I didn’t
really know, despite having time and space to mother

a book of poems about both of us giving up
on resolving our matters while we were still matter,

not a myth lineated around the rim
of a black hole or a gimlet coupe, no twist.

Nash Lott

my Dutch uncle’s German wife died from cancer,
disease unloaded malignant non-sentimentality
—a change purse eager to spend its last pound.
it was a familiar tone, if not dialect, like the “ch”
at the end of Bach—a backhoe scuffing gravel.

a card of sympathy sent pianissimo,
the embouchure of a windmill, delicate—no lip
to feel or tongue to hear—much as he gentled
yearling foals to instill safety in presence.

for my equestrian uncle, the emeried face of emotion
awaited the planishing hammer of time
—the compounding polish of faith.

……………………..·   ·   ·

as my German-Canadian father aged, pride of agency
arrived for his downfall. my stepmother would say, “be careful,
Schatz”, “let’s get you some help, Schatz!”

“be careful, Schatz” punctuated all tasks: putting up
Christmas lights, carrying goods to the basement,
shovelling snow—anything ladder-related. as time collapsed,
no more workshop. the final time—an ambulance.

dad never attended church in Canada or Germany.
i weaponized his inconsistency when, as he aged,
he used terms like “god willing” or “if the man upstairs…”

those final days in hospital, i sat with him.
his throat rough, his frame failing, unable to speak.
i pondered our differences. how he and i never found
comfort in the overlap of generations—miscreant
linkages of DNA incapable, or unwilling, to speak
the same language. why waste time in frayed history
when my father was nearing the past tense.

……………………..·   ·   ·

a ship having crossed its final body of water
under power of earth’s lung, unassured by the sextant’s
lead, unassured by the bow of aging masts bent to the howl
of mongrel winds—do life’s whipped and embrittled sails fall
prey, crucified by an end-salted swell of faith?

a distressed safety net
……a virgin hail Mary

……………………………for stepping off the end of life
not wanting to fall, flail, fail to make the supplicant
choice. someone, something, will inhale our body’s
sublimation—a conversion from metrical life
to an imperialism of immeasurable dark.

Hollay Ghadery
For Baby Beluga (with Roo)

go

mama is

deep blue   home

the dive           heaven

the spout     a waking night

warm    moon splash      and

…..wave    song

……………mama is

star spout      waking blue

moon dive and wave      dive and

sing blue     sing warm sing

and go         mama is

this heaven