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Archive for the ‘New Classics’ Category

Dressing, on The Side

August 12, 2010 2 comments

by Lori A. May

She is not yet comfortable
With Botticelli
Thinks it is something to be forgiven
Like Beta tapes left to dust

Sipping juice from the unpeeled orange
Searching for the daintier flesh
Within the folds of restrained citrus

She drapes shame
Over the weight of her heart
Heavier than her shell
Covering sins and regrets

The roundness of her
A barrier
An obstacle
Thick rind sheer with exposure

Away from him
She slips into something
Unlike her
Out of sight
Hidden to the side


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Lori A. May (website, blog) is a poet, novelist, and freelance writer whose work has appeared in publications such as The Writer, Tipton Poetry Journal, and anthologies such as Van Gogh’s Ear. She is the author of stains: early poems and two novels. May is also Editor-in-Chief of PoetsQuarterly.com and Founding Editor of The Ambassador Poetry Project.

Categories: New Classics Tags:

Zinacantan Woman

August 11, 2010 5 comments

June Cleaver Considers Divorce, or: Ward, Why is This Ring Slipping Through My Skin?

August 10, 2010 3 comments

by Jill Crammond Wickham

There is no further need for disguise.
Husband, we have been found out,
revealed for frauds,

stripped naked, bones hung out
like a shop-keep’s hopeful shingle.
We are the undead.

When we walk into a room—
nothing. Sinners, cross-
lovers, strangers, stare, pray,

witness the ripple of our beating hearts,
exposed muscles, raw truth:
together we are a dead man

and his mortician.
One breathing, one wax-faced.
No beat. No pulse. No life.

With this truth, freedom.
Free of flesh, bloody muscle,
husband, we may drop pieces

of ourselves where we walk now.
We are free. Let us step
from our graves, trip

the half-light fantastic—first date.
I don’t know whether to run
hand in moldy hand

in front of a car
or send the worms of my lips
down your throat.


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When she is not teaching young artists to paint blue horses (ala Franz Marc) Jill Crammond Wickham masquerades as your average poet/artist/mother in Upstate NY, funding her writing habit by running a children’s art studio. Her work has appeared in Crab Creek Review, Naugatuck River Review, Weave, Wicked Alice and others (and sometimes in progress on her blog: jillypoet.wordpress.com). She is an editor for Ouroboros Review and a reviewer for Poets’ Quarterly.

Birth, Labor

August 9, 2010 Comments off

by Dawn Manning

Even Pegasus wasn’t born standing on his feet.
He fell out

in a pustule of embryonic fluid, the first breath
relayed through

the Minotaur’s maze of biology to the sponge can of his lungs
drying out inexperience

with dangerous use. He landed thrashing the featherless wishbone
against minutes panged by

his legs unclenching from the tight fist of the womb—
the inertia

of having not yet imagined what limbs are for.


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Dawn Manning (website) is a writer, photographer, and anthropologist living in Philadelphia. She won the Edith Garlow Poetry Prize in 2003, but took another five years to realize she might just be a poet. She is currently working on her MFA in poetry through the University of New Orleans and plans to wander through Venice before the year is out. In the mean time, she is perfecting the art of insomnia.

Categories: New Classics Tags:

god    is a poet

August 8, 2010 7 comments

by Daniela Elza

Metaphors evoke one another and are coordinated more than sensations,
so that a poetic mind is purely and simply a syntax of metaphors.

—Gaston Bachelard

Literature… is the Promised Land in which
language becomes what it really ought to be.

—Italo Calvino

the language of god

(the burning bush
(the stone tablets
(the serpent

that made us
women
f all like a ripe apple.

(the elevation
of the mountain

parables of

(the seeds
that take root in fertile soil
(I didn’t make this up)

or those un fortun ate ones that fell on the rocks.

(the lamb.

do we forget we speak in tongues of
metaphor?

between the image
and the lack of a tangible presence

there is a gap
through which
man
rises

to meaning

(in metaphors.
neatly folds

his mortality. and language becomes
what it really ought to be
.

the mistake

(he can make) is to take
the making of the world in seven days

lite r ally.


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Daniela Elza has released more than 120 poems into the world in more than 40 publications. Most recently her work appeared in Vallum, Matrix, ditch, educational insights, BluePrintReview, One Ghana One Voice, 4 poets (Mother Tongue Publishing, 2009) and is forthcoming in The Trumpeter and The New Orphic Review. Daniela lives with her family in Vancouver and sporadically blogs at Strange Places.

Categories: New Classics Tags:

La Guadalupe de Juan Diego

August 7, 2010 1 comment

by Katherine Durham Oldmixon

after Tepeyac

In the way of saints, disproportionate—
clay-colored skins, icon haloed in flames

of indigenous red-gold, the woman
wears a veil of stars on a Mexican-blue sky,

its underside like rare grass, her robe spun
cotton of red roses, and the man sprouts

green wings, arms emulating the native
moon, his hands clutching her gathering hem.

He is only half a man, with no need
for anything below waist to hold her.

Her eyes look aside, as if she’s ashamed
of religion’s power, but so seems he, his vision

cast on earth below, his head bowed down,
bearing her above their up-cupped crescent.


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Katherine Durham Oldmixon (website) recently edited a special issue of Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review dedicated to ekphrastic poetry. Her chapbook Water Signs, a finalist for the New Women’s Voices Award, was released in January 2009 by Finishing Line Press. Katherine lives healthily and happily in Austin, Texas, with her husband, Arturo Lomas Garza.

The Adam Rose

August 6, 2010 1 comment

by Clarissa Jakobsons

It is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time,
and then vanisheth away.

James 4:14

Verdant blades carpet
his walk. It is good.
Cobalt waters gather in the Baltic
under Vacarinė, Evening Star,
he quivers whispering her name.
She appears and knows.

Did they know
that the whisper would lead
to fallen holly oaks and ash
trees, and the demise
of an age birthing seed and sword.
You and me.


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Music: “raven’s dissipation” from the album Ore by darwinsbitch (A.K.A. Marielle Jakobsons), released by Digitalis Recordings, 2009. Used by permission.

Clarissa Jakobsons teaches art and writing classes at a community college, authored A Poet Traveling Incognito, several chapbooks, is the winner of the Akron Art Museum New Words Competition and associate editor of Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal. Her paintings and artistic books have been widely displayed. Don’t be surprised to see Clarissa kicking sandcastles, painting P’town blues, climbing Berkeley hills, lifting weights on Treasure Island, showering Tai Chi blessings from Notre Dame, or igniting Parisian lights reading her poems at Shakespeare and Co.

Categories: New Classics Tags: