She had the emotional presence of a toothpick, the personality of a comatose eel…
A woman I desired read Antigone which she encouraged me to do, so I did. When I came upon ‘Teiresias’ I said, “I can’t spell that,” she said, “Look it up.” Somewhere.
She became that woman you wouldn’t expect – out of proportion to everything else.
When she moved her body slid – of a piece – which caused a problem. The ground upon which she walked swayed and swelled people running, different directions up and down the boulevard while the other women – kinder, nobler, gentler with foreign accents showed themselves open, not nearly as dubious – yet this one stuck hardened to her molten core – sad – yet oh so beautiful in a glittering sort of way
beckoning, surreal, blue tourmaline eyes that rolled back into her head as she spoke incomprehensible and inhuman things – enticements thick with ice, this sorry sophist and enigmatic soul you couldn’t poke through though I tried many times.
The skin is thick and deep with grey pleading for a little joy in shades of pink the soul is blank and hollow in darkness asking for a little warmth in tones of stars the heart is silent and still rainbow monochrome begging for a life-giving little jolt of blue the bones are frozen, attached in ice clear aching aloud for a reprieve of flesh of warm red a mind hovers inside in fiery lament wanting only for a bit of hours to exist yet it is only a grunt unheard of the colourful ones in the prison of the lone, the sentence is eternal the death remains of nauseating flavours the living will once again keep safe distance.
Old Fools
The bus will be late again this Sunday under the century mist on a cold winter bench old fools must wait, their gaze upon a gate to a paradise invisible to the passers-by.
The city sleeps still in a shroud of oblivion lives have slipped into their temporary tomb worn to pieces by the inferno of infinite routines while last trees cry dying leaves upon the icy pavement.
The two might sleep for a little while he holding tight onto the shiny tank she dragging on a greyish cloud of ash ancient as the traditions graved on monuments.
Unseen, living in the wrinkly bubble of their age they seek the hesitant gaze of the other memories built upon the fresh bones of infants a smile shy as a fleeting moment escapes the universe.
They laugh no more to the keen eye of the observer the flesh has fallen off the crackling frames leaving senseless messages of passed lives upon the pavement welcoming to their shameless survival.
The decades have built fortresses around their secrets shriveled breasts kindly placed onto an altar still beat with the passion of a single score carrying too many years to count, they love for all times.
Scent of the Ancient Ball
There is a dim ray of a future behind the cracks of the ramparts sounds emanate from the twirling shapes of silken whites while the stone burns with the icy flames of the prison.
To be part of this strange ball but a dream in the depths inhaling fumes of a past reverie poison or elixir aiming to taste what remains of the ghostly dance.
The heavy oaken gate persists in its temerity its lock rusted melts into torrents of a bloody paste no drawbridge will again annihilate the cruel moat.
It is a tower of ivory, mother of pearl, diamond and silver treasure for the hungry to be consumed perhaps too late where she is surrounded by the death-defying maidens.
Centuries go by, she continues in her light genuflection hands joined in a prayer searching only communion one with all, pure of soul as once of body.
Signature
The presence is signed on the old photograph hanging there on the left wall, by the window built of trusted hands, while outside the tree wants attention.
He too can write on the pane of the ancient glass.
Finger prints on the side of the redwood desk, tend to the forgotten elbow, never fully able to rest on the worn-out couch, trampoline for young charm.
It hoped its future would be of leather; but not so.
The room screams with memories it alone keeps safe; the air is filled with sparring souls attempting an accord; freckles of dust, sparks of their little power inflamed.
Wishing they had landed on the feature of a Mona Lisa.
Unwilling to shine, the lamp, secure under her banged shade, would like to jump at them and empower their dying light, while planted on the thinning carpet, they remain quiet.
Waiting for another moment, another time, to become.
Song of the grave
The stone is barren it was once broken slate now it awaits.
Cold it may seem yet warm in truth smooth and perfect it shines as many stars.
The rock draws like a magnet light rains as so many tears.
Let fall come and a palette of colours in oils and pastels it will glow in the fog.
Winter snow flakes glitter and blind forever lasting chagrin a wonder smooth as granite.
The river runs near singing it melody murmur of hope in eternity renewed.
The sun returns lighting its fire life is reborn on a single tomb.
Isabelle Kenyon (Freelance Editor, Book Marketing Consultant, and Managing Director of Fly On The Wall Press) interviews Elisabeth Horan on her new book, Was It R*pe (Rhythm and Bones Press)
How do you brand yourself as an author?
Experimental, feminist. I write about women for women. I would say I am an advocate for mental health and I’m brave in my writing – I say things to the world that I’ve never been able to say without my pen and paper. I write to increase awareness – for example, my debut collection, Bad Mommy Stay Mommy, with Fly on the Wall Press, increases awareness of postpartum depression. I feel like I am a loving and caring poet and that when I write it is a gift, I want the poems to do a job and make a difference. They express my identity as a mom and the mistakes I have made in my life are part of who I am.
What drove you to write Was It Rape?
I started writing it
during the week Christine Blasey Ford was giving her testimonial to
the court. It brought back memories of when I was 16 and was a victim
of sexual assault. It was hard to hear – the pain of watching led
me to an intense period of writing. I realised if she was brave
enough to stand up in court and give that testimony that I could
write a book about my experiences.
Do you think your
poetry stands alone or is it essential to know something of your back
story?
I think it can stand
alone. But if you know personally, it becomes more intense – If you
know my vulnerability the experience digs deeper. Often I have
friends who find it too painful to read my work. But I have to write
my truth. I like to think the message I try to share with others – to
hold on keep hope alive, and that sense of solidarity is universal
and can stand alone.
Do you think it is
important to speak publicly about personal traumas?
It’s important to write
so that readers know they are not alone in their experiences. So much
of my life I allowed to be dictated by my past trauma. I’m not a
person who deals with trauma well – it’s not a choice – it’s
led by my sensitive nature. I see the beauty, but life is interwoven
with pain. This comes out in my writing. It’s just who I am. It’s
what I know about and feel the most.
Which writers and
artists influence you and why?
I have always admired Frida Kahlo since I became aware of her in college. I studied in Mexico for a time and connected with her deeply. I endured a miscarriage, and ensuing hysterectomy and equally, Frida survived so much pain but continued creating art. I just have huge admiration, respect, love and care for her. I have undertaken to write ekphrastic poems about her art and her life as a tribute to her.
Inpatient
I think my room was No. 14 one time my pastor came
I think his name was Mark he came to visit I suppose to bless me and the nurses, they asked me
May he come in
And I didn’t know what to do so I said no he cannot but I have wondered all these 24 years since
Might I have succumbed to Jesus; might I have been reborn, maybe even saved on the life raft that religion has the propensity to relay
I would’ve saved all that disgusting food the hangovers –
All that wasted energy from trying to kill myself so stupidly, so slowly.
Mark, the pastor came to visit and in fear of Man/God’s eye on my – body
Our ayatollah looks at me with contempt He put me in charge of stoning an adulteress
I found a good wall to set her against but I’d forgotten to see to the stones Someone had come and taken them to repair the wall that surrounds his olive grove
So there we were all ready to execute her and no stones
The ayatollah looked like he wanted to beat me to death with his bare fists but he was old and frail
Instead he exiled me and the harlot too The villagers took hold of our arms and legs and tossed us out the village gate slammed it shut behind us
We looked out at the desert turned and looked at each other
A box of old record albums – Billy Joel, Donny Osmond, The Eagles, Partridge Family – ugh.
And the covers are worn, the vinyl is scratched – no one’s going to buy these even at 50c apiece.
Same as that ratty Cabbage Patch doll. Or the Miami Vice lunch box. Or those clothes – so 80’s. And the invisible dog – please.
No
wonder there’s been no sales.
This is your past. The present’s not buying it.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
Play no sad songs for me. I’ve lived for the last moment. It’s been gone and come again And yet, you come to me A little too late for a love campaign. When do we love tomorrow?
The sound of an orphan saxophone Argues with the early marsh morning. “Go away with more than a kiss.” Select your argument with the insane.
If you cannot respect a sole dancer Then know the words to the song. So many of the poor, cold pretenders In habit the hour against the minute. Do not seek quiet bashful advice.
In an explosion second of sunrise The drunken sincere pale graduate Offers you the scent of dew lilacs. Resurrect the final lost late movie As you imagined the fast hot dialogue And encompass the dual possibility.
If the satin mistake is of the desperate Then you will hear it repeated in radio popularity. To pretend is a stubborn, stale reflex That is suddenly discovered as an ash cigarette Gone like the push button radio disc jockey.
With a flick of a smile Tossed like a fifty dollar littering fine In the caution lane of a super highway I’ve seen the wrong side of a summer full moon And the high tide has pulled the depth So that I find one last jukebox dollar And taste the after hour bitter liquid In the reflection of your So often visited …once in a lifetime Terminal memory.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.
settling in for a quick one: evening, and the sun is coming down with the birds flapping to roost, heads underwing and feet sunk into bellies like water in a sponge. and we are having drinks together, eating fried and salted whitebait (6 for 2 euros, dip on the side) and we are happy. your perfume smells like flowers and strawberries and your heart goes like a little drum. I can hear it from here, tapping a rhythm like an impatient man with a coin at a shop counter. sweet little heart spilling with love, happy and swooping with the sunset.
D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
On a day like any other, No clouds sweep the skies, Yet my mind turns again, My head whispers lies.
A mistake sits within me, It grows and it grows, I try to ignore it, My fault again I suppose.
No suppose about it, It’s all your fault, My brain works against me, A slug amongst salt.
I try to ignore it, Yet the voices grow louder, Motivation all but gone, As it is ground into powder.
I sit and I fret, I cry and I scream, This sickness within me, That cannot be seen.
How did it feel, To be me yesterday? Now it has re-emerged, It is but a distant memory. I know that in time, These instincts will fade, But a life that is normal, All I have I would trade
On a day like any other, Clouds darken the skies, But who was that person, That was telling me lies.
The sickness dies down, I resurface again, The whispers now silent, The cycle begins.
‘Hold your hand
still.’ Peter held the candle out.
‘I
don’t want to,’ Kevin replied. He shivered despite the summer
evening. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. It was getting
late and his mum would be wondering where he was. The afternoon spent
playing in the field had slipped by. Peter had led the way through
the twisted path to the ruined church at the edge of town.
‘Don’t
be a baby,’ Peter said. He placed the candle on the bench and
stared at Kevin. ‘Do you want the Stick Man to get us?’ He pulled
up the hood on his parka jacket.
‘What’s
the Stick Man?’
‘There
was a priest that lived here, on his own, years ago.’ Peter touched
the doll-like collection of branches that lay on the bench. ‘He
used to catch kids playing in the graveyard and lock them in here.’
Peter picked the twig-doll up and held it close to the flame. ‘He
used to punish them, by pouring hot wax onto their hands.’
‘That’s
a stupid story.’
Peter
put the doll back. ‘One day he caught two boys who fought back.’
‘What
did they do?’ Kevin asked.
‘They
pushed the priest, who fell back into the candles.’
Kevin
looked at the rusted rows of metal around them and shuddered.
‘The
wax from the candles fell onto his face, while he was knocked out.’
Peter tipped the candle, which dripped onto the head of the stick
doll.
‘’Bloody
hell!’
‘Don’t
swear in church.’
‘Sorry,
amen.’
‘The
priest jumped up, blind and screaming. His gown was on fire.’ Peter
kicked a piece of wood. ‘He chased the boys down to the door. The
fire spread quickly.’
Kevin
noticed the blackened walls and charred pews surrounding them. The
air smelled heavy and musty. He tried to laugh, but his throat was
tight. ‘As if,’ he said.
‘They
found his body under this bench, covered in wax and splinters of wood
from the rafters.’ Peter looked up at the shattered roof. The sky
was an orange glow. ‘One of the boys was never found.’
‘Shut
up!’ Kevin pulled away from the bench and turned toward the door.
Peter
stepped in front of him. Streaks of wax lined his sleeves. ‘Where
are you going?’ He pushed Kevin back towards the bench.
‘We
need to keep the Stick Man away,’ Peter said. ‘It’s just a drop
on each hand. Look.’ He dripped a bead of wax onto his skin. The
wax hardened quickly. He rolled it into a ball and flicked it into
the dark.
‘Your
turn.’ Peter grabbed Kevin’s hand. He held the candle closer.
Kevin
pulled free and pushed Peter’s arm away. Wax splashed onto the
bench. The candle wavered, but stayed lit.
‘What
did you do that for?’ Peter placed the candle back down. The stick
figure was completely covered in wax.
‘You
bloody weirdo,’ Kevin said.
Peter
pulled his hood down, ‘It was just a joke…’ he paused.
They
heard the tap, tap, tap, on the door.
Kevin
glanced at Peter; who stared back, eyes wide, mouth open. He heard
Peter’s ragged breathing, mingled with his own.
Kevin
shivered. ‘Who’s that?’ He whispered. He heard the snapping
sound of branches from outside.
‘It’s the Stick Man,’ Peter uttered.
‘Shut
up,’ Kevin replied.
The
snapping ceased, leaving silence outside.
‘I’m
going home…’ Kevin said.
‘Who
is it?’ Peter shouted, which made Kevin jump.
Then,
thump, thump, thump, on the door.
Kevin
stepped back and stumbled back over a piece of wood. The sickening
twist of his ankle made him yell.
The
thumping stopped. Peter took a step towards the door.
‘Don’t,’
Kevin rubbed his foot.
Peter
ignored him. He pushed the door open. Dusky light flooded the church
interior. The long shadows of the graveyard lay before them. Peter
stepped out of the church. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll
run for help.’
‘No!’
Kevin replied. ‘I’m coming with you!’
‘You’ll
slow me down.’
‘Peter!’
Kevin leaped up on his good foot and grabbed the back of Peter’s
jacket. Peter lurched out of his grasp. The door slammed shut.
Kevin
pushed the door. It wouldn’t move. ‘Let me out,’ his ankle felt
swollen.
‘You
idiot. You ripped my bloody coat!’ Peter hissed from outside.
Kevin
heard the snapping of branches.
He
heard a sharp intake of breath, then the thud of something hitting
the ground.
Kevin
shivered. ‘Peter!’ he whispered.
He
heard the snapping of branches. Then; tap, tap tap, on the door.
The
door swung open.
Kevin
saw the tear he had made on the back of Peter’s jacket, which
flapped open like a crooked smile. The hood was up. Kevin looked down
and saw the streaks of wax lining the sleeves of the parka.
He
shuffled forward and grabbed a shoulder. ‘That was a really stupid
joke…’
He
stopped. He felt the brittleness beneath the jacket. The branches
snapping.
The
figure turned around.
Colin Gardiner lives in Coventry. He writes short stories and poems and is published by The Ekphrastic Review and the Creative Writing Leicester blog. He is currently studying a Masters in Creative Writing at Leicester University.
In the belly of sentient beings are black holes and worms, Postures; worthy and unworthy gestures, raisons d’etre, longings, tentacles of regrets, fuselages of desire below puffed-up bloated hearts poked-through with sticks and twigs; red and blue blood wrapped in twine hanging from meaningless empty bottles of preparedness.
This is where the soul sits and rests hanging from the nearest cavity wall until the last chime rings announcing, “Times up!” where the door slams and the whistle blows.
Suddenly there are no plans to make, no hearts to break, no solemn longings half-baked.
