Nadia Gerassimenko's Blog

Ramiz Dedaković

I cried in the shower this morning, the water washing away my tears but not the pain in my heart nor the vision in my head. The vision of you, when they said you were no longer with us, that you were at peace, asleep. Asleep, yet with eyes still open, searching mine, not understanding what was happening, or were you?

Were you upset that I was letting go, while you were not? Or were you telling me that it was okay—that I would be okay and we would see each other again?

Last night I woke to a thunderstorm, the lightening illuminating the house that trembled in the wake of the thunder. I lay still, listening for your voice in the space between, longing for your soft tapping at the door, a sound I know I will never hear again.

While the world suffers from the onslaught of pandemic and the pervasive fear that death will come calling, I selfishly can think only of you…of us. Of the way your whiskers tickled my cheek as we danced and the way you would sit next to me, holding my hand while we watched a movie. How I will never hear your voice again, see your face, hold you in my arms.

I know that time will heal this wound, lift the heaviness from my heart. But I pray that it will never diminish the love I feel or the memories I have of you.

 

Operations Manager by day and daydreamer by nature, Tom Gumbert and his wife Andrea live in a log cabin in the woods of southwest Ohio where they’ve practiced social distancing since 2006. Tom has been fortunate to have previous work published in various journals, reviews and magazines alongside his literary heroes.

Aldebaran S

Trigger warning: self-harm, depression, and anxiety. Be gentle with yourselves.

Khaalida finds the stars fascinating. Stars form constellations, shapes. The shapes rotate through the year. Aries, Taurus, Gemini. Cancer, Leo, Virgo. Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius. Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces. Repeat. Some people believe the stars affect human characteristics. Khaalida is not one of those people. Yet, she keeps an astrology book under an astronomy book. She doesn’t want to believe stars can affect behavior. But it seems as if they may. Within the stars, she finds bright chaos. She finds order and beauty. She finds imagination. In the back of her mind, she wonders if something so marvelous could be more than just hot dust.

Virgo is an Earth sign. Earth signs are considered imaginative, flexible, in control. — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida wakes on her balcony—again. She unfolds her body and her muscles mutiny. She thinks they will get over it. She thinks falling asleep under Leo is worth it. She looks at her fitness tracker and it’s 7:06 AM. Khaalida is delighted. She hasn’t missed her favorite part of morning. She stares at the lawn directly across the street. The guy-who-lives-two-doors-down-with-the-great-dane finally materializes. She grins. He crosses the street and lets his dog shit on the annoying PTA mom’s lawn. Khaalida doesn’t know either of their names. She knows the dog owner is her hero. And, the PTA mom is a total pain in the ass. At least according to Khaalida’s mother and the-guy-with-the-great-dane. Whether she is or is not, Khaalida is tired of hearing about her love of all things vegan and gluten free. She is not tired of the guy and his dog and poop on the lawn.

Virgo: Wear yellow to cheer yourself up — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

She cranks the shower just shy of scalding. She lathers and rinses and stands there. She feels heavy and tired. Like she has become Osmium, the densest element. Like gravity holds her hostage. She knows today will be a bad day. This knowledge makes her stomach cramp, quickens her breathing. 3-point-1-4-1-5-9-2-6-5-3-5-8-9, she rattles off the first thirteen digits of pi. She searches her closet for that yellow top she forgot she owns. The top is mid-day-sun-bright. Khaalida wears the shirt. The color pisses her off.

The Sun is the closest star to Earth — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

She shuffles her feet too much, she knows. Shocks from metal surfaces do not deter her. Neither does her mother’s reprimanding. She feels she doesn’t have the energy to walk like a person.

Stars convert Hydrogen into Helium — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Her mother doesn’t understand. Khaalida doesn’t know how to explain. If she could, Khaalida would say there’s a sadness that hurts her. Sadness is too weak a word for what Khaalida feels, but will do, she guesses. It feels as if her soul is freezing—like her organs have frostbite. She’d tell her there is a panic that overwhelms. That the sadness paralyzes and the panic drowns. But, Khaalida is a girl of facts, of numbers; she is not a girl of words. Her mother doesn’t ask for an explanation. Her mother thinks she has a bad attitude, thinks she is just fourteen. Khaalida wants to care. She can’t care.

Virgos are most likely to be depressed — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Her mother asks, “Which Lida she’s getting today?” Khaalida snarls, “Guess.” She wants to apologize. She doesn’t apologize. Her larynx becomes a vacuum. Her eyes close as the kitchen spins. She thinks her heart is impossibly loud. Khaalida wills it to shut up. She lists sharks from fastest to slowest: Shortfin Mako, Longfin Mako, Salmon, Great White, Blue, Basking, Whale, Greenland. Khaalida’s heart slows. She feels more tired. She feels restless. 

Virgo: You will find peace in the worn out — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida walks without a purpose. Trees and houses and people warp at the edge of her vision. She ends up at a park. Khaalida has never seen this park. She stumbles across the jungle gym. She twists on a swing. She kicks those things on springs—watches them smack the ground in circles. She looks around the park. The park is faded and derelict. The park is rusting and crumbling and moss covered. It is comforting. Khaalida wonders why no one else is here. She is grateful for the emptiness. Her eyes rest on the roundabout. She grabs a handle puts one foot on the disk, and uses the other to turn it. She gains momentum, puts the other foot on the roundabout. Khaalida lays in the middle. She watches the sky spin. It makes her dizzy. She lays there. Swallows down bile. Closes her eyes. She races through the multiplication table: 1×0, 1×1, 1×2…12×10,12×11,12×12. Tears leak onto the roundabout anyway. Khaalida lays on the hot metal until her eyes dry out. She lays there until her tears evaporate.

Stars are in constant conflict with themselves; they try not to collapse — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida is suddenly furious. She thinks she’s stupid for crying. She thinks there’s no reason to feel like this. She thinks she has things to do—like summer reading—like laundry—like that knitting project she hasn’t finished. She does not get up. She feels she has become one with the roundabout. Which is to say: warped and creaky.

Virgos tend to think they don’t have time for depression — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Eventually, Khaalida forces her limbs to move. She figures she should respond to her mother’s forty text messages and nine missed calls. Khaalida languidly types, “I’m alive,” and hits send. Her phone vibrates seconds later. She stares at the screen until it goes dark. She sticks the phone into her back pocket. Khaalida tries to remember her way back.

Virgo: Be grateful for small things — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida takes one wrong turn after another. She is determined to get back on her own. She refuses to ask her phone, or a person, for directions. Clouds creep along the sky until the sun is smothered and the wind  begins to moan. Thunder and lightning stomp and scream in protest. Minutes later, rain inundates the suburbs. People scramble to gather children, dogs, possessions. They rush into dry, cool homes. Khaalida stops walking. She rotates to face the rain heavy wind head on. She closes her eyes, enjoying the deafening thunder. She relishes the heady electric feeling of ions kissing her skin. She is content for the first time in awhile.

Virgos are mutable, which is to say: they look forward to new seasons: new beginnings — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida feels lighter. She feels her sad was washed down the gutter. She feels she can breathe. She wonders if the day, Wednesday, has anything to do with her change in mood. After all, Wednesday is a Virgo’s best day. Khaalida shakes her head and thinks that’s stupid. Wednesday is just the middle of the week— a label used to track time. She wonders if it was the yellow shirt. She looks down at the shirt. She laughs. She still hates the shirt. She wonders why she keeps following those silly horoscopes. Khaalida guesses they do no harm.

Virgo is the second largest constellation — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida recognizes a purple house. She easily finds her way back home. She stands in front of the kitchen door, rocking from heel to toe. She knows her mother will probably explode from anger. She steels herself and decides she can handle it. Khaalida feels good. Not even punishment can ruin this good. She opens the door and the kitchen is empty. She grabs a strawberry soda from the refrigerator and chugs half. Her mother sits on an arm chair, in the living room—like a movie or a television show. Khaalida thinks her mother is so dramatic. She thinks she’s such a Scorpio. Khaalida grins and says, “What’s up, mom?” Her mother is thrown off. Her mother was prepared for conflict; she was not prepared to see her daughter’s sweet smile. She has not seen Khaalida smile in almost a year, it’s nice. She can only smile at her daughter. Khaalida kisses her mother and skips to her room. Life does not feel like a prison sentence.

The biggest stars die quicker — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida spends the week drawing birds. Carolina Wrens, Blue Jays, Canadian Geese, Hawks. She fills two SD cards with bird pictures. She fills four drawing pads with sketches. Khaalida sets out bird feeders and bird baths. She stares at them for hours, cataloging various avians as they frolic. Khaalida whistles as she washes dishes or takes out the trash. She mimics bird calls. Occasionally, birds sit on her window sills. Once, a bird harmonizes with her whistling. She thinks stuff like this only happens in cartoons. Most of the time, the birds watch her. This watching calms Khaalida. This watching worries Khaalida. It reminds her that some cultures consider birds omens. Fear gnaws at her contentment. She thinks it’s silly to let superstition bother her. Then she remembers Mercury is almost in retrograde, her governing planet. Fear scratches at her throat. She bats it away. Mercury in retrograde is just an illusion, inhale. It does not actually stop and rotate backwards, only appears this way three to four times a year, exhale.

Virgo: Today the unexpected will happen, be happy — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida spreads a blanket over the grass. She lays on her stomach. She reads a book in her backyard. Her mother sips tea and begins a quilt on the patio. Khaalida enjoys the smell of warm paper. She is content. But remembers school is quickly approaching. Khaalida is terrified of going back. What if she has a panic attack? What if she can’t stop the tears? Khaalida feels like a freak. She thinks that she does not need her classmates thinking she’s a freak. She always hopes the fear and the sadness will leave. She thinks they make no sense. She feels like an anvil is sitting on her back. She feels she is sinking into the ground—like being buried alive without dirt. Khaalida cannot breathe. She struggles for air but there is not enough. Her mother asks, “What is wrong?” Khaalida can’t say. Instead she scrambles to the bathroom and vomits. She lists: Azalea, Bachelor Buttons, Cosmos, Dahlias, Evening Primrose—there is no calm amongst the flowers. She doesn’t go back outside. Khaalida sits in the bathtub and cries.

Virgo is known as the Disappointed Goddess — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida watches the stars. Virgo jetés gracefully across the sky. She thinks about how even stars that form constellations are far apart. She wonders if they are lonely. She sees her mother pass in front of a window. Khaalida wants to hug her mother. She hugs her legs instead. She stares into the darkness until her absence of light melts into the shadows.

Most of the stars we see are dead — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida wakes up. She stares at the ceiling and listens to her heartbeat, her breathing. Irritation crashes through her body like high tide. She thinks she’ll burst. She reaches out and throws the first thing her fingers encircle. The lamp explodes against the wall. Her mother comes to check out the noise. She asks, “What is wrong with you?” She says, “Clean that up.” Her mother leaves and Khaalida gets up. She shuffles to the broken lamp and drops to the floor. She picks up the biggest piece of glass. Khaalida watches the light exaggerate the sharpness. She does not think, she drags the glass across her thigh. Her chest hollows. Her spine prickles. Blood beads and drips and Khaalida is oddly relieved. She does this nine more times. She lays back and bleeds and glass shards float in pools of her blood.

Khaalida means Immortal, Deathless — Khaalida’s mother

Khaalida feels lethargic. She feels like a Greenland shark in molasses. She goes through the motions of school. She is not paying attention. Her focus is on her eyes and their warm full feeling. She is willing herself not to cry in public. Khaalida knows when she cannot stop it. She hides—usually in a bathroom. She leans against the wall. She bites the sleeve of her sweater and tears drip, mixing with her lotion.

Red giants make the sun look small — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida lumbers to the worn out park. She uses up her energy getting there. She lays on the roundabout and stares at clouds. They all look like lamp shards to her. She imagines putting the pieces back together. They don’t quite fit like they used to. She rubs her sore thigh and that makes it throb more and she is glad. She falls asleep counting glass shards.

Virgo: Today you will want to implode; don’t — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

Khaalida knows she can’t exist like this. She tries to tell her mother how she feels. Her words are clumsy and hard to understand. Her mother says she is fine. Her mother says she needs to be less angry. Her mother suggests she doesn’t wallow. Khaalida says, “Nevermind.” She says, “Thanks.” She decides she already has a solution. She trades a glass shard for a razor.

Most stars come in multiples: they orbit the same gravitational field — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida is desperate to dull the ache. She wraps herself in a blanket and sits on the balcony. She craves the company of the stars. Sagittarius taunts Khaalida. She is disappointed. They make her feel more lonely. The stars make her feel hollow—as if she is all the space between them.

Stars are light years away from each other — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida’s appetite is further away than Pluto. She knows she should eat. Trying to force herself to eat makes her choke, makes her stomach hurt. So, she doesn’t. This adds to her tired.

Event Horizon: the invisible boundary around a black hole; nothing can escape its pull — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida is restless. She is aimless. She is consumed by the heavy void. She takes a walk and it is cold. The wind claws at her skin, tries to rip it from her bones. She thinks it feels nice to feel something—other than restless and aimless and the heavy void.

Interstellar medium: the gas and dust between the stars — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida lays in bed, under her thickest blanket. It seems to be the only thing that can hold her heavy. Khaalida’s mother says her phase isn’t funny or cute. Her mother says if she wants attention, all she has to do is ask. Khaalida does not want attention. Khaalida wants her mother to shut the door.

The biggest stars could engulf Saturn — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida’s mother gets her stars. The ones that glow in the dark. Khaalida watches her mother stick them to the walls. She hugs her mother too long and too tight. She lets go too abruptly and sits on the bed—staring at the stars. They make her tears look fluorescent.

Most stars are red dwarfs — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

 She feels like she’s standing on wet shore sand: all the time. She is slipping, sinking. She feels the air has been replaced with something the consistency of roux.

Virgo: The sky beacons, answer — Madame Nixie’s Guide To The Elemental

She goes for a walk and it’s cold. The wind claws at her skin. It does not feel nice. Khaalida feels cold and heavy and lost. She feels lonely. Khaalida is tired.

 Escape Velocity: the speed needed to exit a body’s gravitational pull — The Science Behind Celestial Bodies

Khaalida walks to the old park. It is faded and derelict. It is comforting. Snow, like glass shards makes everything glitter. She sits on the roundabout. Khaalida thinks about how brown dwarfs, or failed stars, take 10 trillion years to deplete their hydrogen. She thinks that’s too much time. She removes a folded cloth from her pocket. She unfolds the cloth and takes the razor. The stars keep her company.

Originally published in Underwood Press

 

Poetry Editor, Jazz Ellington, lives in Lakewood, Ohio and is a third-year in the Northeast Ohio MFA program. She was a 2019 fellow for the Baldwin House Residency with Twelve Literary Arts, and her work has appeared in Entropy, Moonchild Magazine, Sea foam Mag, and elsewhere. She likes blending genres and experimenting with form. If she’s not playing Sims or Animal Crossing, she’s probably reading. You can connect with her on Twitter: @GreatGiggles22

DeMorris Byrd

when i am asked to define
what makes a woman as she is,
seraphic in nature and blossoming -- flame-like,
what causes the moon and the stars to align and
fashion a creature with the very grace
of God, of Ishtar, of Gaea, herself...

i am often at a loss for words,
for there is no such way to describe
the divine tenderness i feel when i hear her name,
no such turn of phrase to articulate the
sheer grace she wields, the pure serendipity one feels
when she laughs, the awe-some power she exerts
on humanity, on earth, on life itself

to utter the word ‘woman’
is to speak the very name of
every    single     sacred     deity
we seek to find purpose and salvation from
in our time of life and death.

Teacher. Martyr. Mother. Whore. Sister. Lover. Pillar. Her.

these are her ‘roles’, that is her ‘legacy’
given unto her by man and all alike

with every breath you take, every road you walk
every time you love, every time you hate
 every time you breathe, every time you fuck
 every moment you walk the earth
  began with her call to the Heavens
and will end at the exact moment
       she smiles at you

 

Feral Kenyon, author of Phoenix: poetry and prose, is an Atlanta based author and poet. Her work stands out among other female contemporary poets by focusing on the darker sides of feminism, mental illness, and the horrors (and blessings) of everyday life as a woman.

Ergita Sela

You bought us a paper cone
of strawberry cotton candy

and we ate until our fingers
stuck together,

welded into a sculpture
of sugary pink glue.

And I tried not to notice
the rising ache in my stomach

or how you rocked us
back and forth

on the ferris wheel
or how you leaned in for a kiss

while I grasped the edges
of our little metal coffin

and prayed with my faithless heart
for solid ground.

But when we landed at last
and I stood shakily by your side,

I began to wonder
if perhaps

you were not someone
I wanted to be glued to,

even with something as sweet
as spun strawberry sugar.

 

Emily Uduwana is a poet and short fiction author with recent publications in Miracle Monocle, Rubbertop Review, and the Owen Wister Review. She is currently based in Southern California, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in American history.

Tamara Gore

Alien

He struggles to keep
his legs still

The pilot whispers to him:
“¿Bien, amigo?”

The cargo presses against
his shin

He thinks of his family
starving secretly
back in the Valley.

He doesn’t remember how to work
his stolen suit or helmet

Starship V rumbles, finally
exploding into the Houston sky

Towards the flashing dot
he hopes will save them all.

Touching Season

When the weather is right
we can take off our masks and suits
and touch. Without fear of
freezing to death.

To smell you--oh my god. It's like I'm
smelling you for the first time. Do you remember?
To feel your breath, so close, and to taste your
sweet tongue. It's almost too much.
Touching season was too short this time.

A month?

687 long sols until next year.

 

Josh Medsker was born in the back of a boxcar, en route from Alaska to the lower 48. He learned to read by memorizing billboards and Archie comics discarded on park benches. He has written for his supper in magazines and newspapers from Alaska to Antarctica, and many continents in-between, and currently lives in New Jersey. Site: www.joshmedsker.com

Rob Curran

staring an awkward glance    

the cruel way they speak

“a helpless cripple” if not worse

something to amuse

[a misfortune in the spine—something inherited]

but what they did not see

would surprise them—

strong and not unhappy,

she shook it off.

Source: Remixed poem from Chapter II of The Little Lame Prince, by Dinah Maria Mulock, rewritten for Young Readers by Margaret Waters. (Project Gutenberg E-book Version.)

 

Grix (they/them) is a chronically ill and disabled nonbinary trans femme who writes and creates visual art. Their work focuses on disability, gender, trauma, and systems from a neurodiverse perspective. They are the managing editor of Human/Kind Journal and associate editor at both Sonic Boom and Yavanika Press. Twitter @metagrix metagrix.com 

Dr. Kimberly Campanello is poet and writer, lecturer in Creative Writing, University of Leeds

Do you recognise that? The Walrus and the Carpenter from Alice In Wonderland? It’s a poem that is in fact, sealed onto my consciousness. I know the words better than any other poem. I mean, I have spent more than two decades on this earth now, in this Sascha-named body. That poem has stayed with me. I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but I can tell you why magically.

Or esoterically as opposed to the exoteric. It is quite simple: It has meaning to me that transcends all ‘rational,’ explanation. The manner in which is it crafted with the images, the cadence, the struggle of the prey vs. the predator, gives it power.

And why the sea is boiling hot & whether pigs have wings

It is also full of odd occurrences—whimsy.

You see the very origins of ‘poetry,’ are in magic. If we look outside the constraints of say academia, the Western conventions, the Eastern conventions—all conventions and look at the pure heart of poetry from the most ancient origins of us as humans—we find poetry is the language under will, of shamans, seers, priestesses, magicians, witches, all manner of beings who believe in the Unseen.

If you were to ask me for one definition of magic it would be this: Magic is the conscious wielding of power through Intent and Will in order to affect change or transformation. All magic is about transformation. Poetries usually channelled in the moment by shamans were meant to anoint, celebrate—heal. 

Sascha Akhtar The Natural Performer

Words are power. Each one contains a multitude of ideas, meaning, frequency and vibration. Wielding this power is the art of the magician. What is the change you want to affect?

I have found above all that the change I have always wanted to affect, even when I was not conscious of it was healing. The healing has been both mine and of others. It has also been a desire to create a space of transcendence—a magical space.

Meaning is where many struggle. This is because we are trained by society to work more left-brained. Magical thinking has not been supported. And it is the Mind’s natural inclination to find meaning, but that is the crux of it. Your magical act must have meaning to you. If it has no meaning to you, then it will have no meaning to anyone—not on any deep level, where change really happens.

I ponder the actions of the Walrus and the Carpenter. I ponder the innocence of the Oysters. So many years after reading it for the first time, and each time it reveals something more to me.

That is what I consider poetry. It can live with you, through the ages. It is a balm. It is a space in-between. It is where units of meaning, thrumming with vibration and frequency thrive. It is secrets that we cannot explain in our daily language. It is born of the Mysteries. Like Magic. It is magic. Poetry is magic. 

Some Books By Sascha Akhtar

















































































































 

Sascha Akhtar is the author of six books of poetry, including a deck of poems Only Dying Sparkles in tarot-form with transcendental art by Portland artist, John Alexander Arnold. Her latest book Astra Inclinant is an amalgamation of magical works containing full colour astrological charts created for specific dates when certain poems were written. It is a journal of change and claircognizance with an introduction by astrologer, healer and poet Francesca Lisette also know as the Glitter Oracle. The book has been published by Contraband Books, UK.

Sascha tutors and mentors internationally utilising the glory of the internet. In Summer 2020, she will be teaching a two-day workshop at the Poetry School London on Poetry and Magic. She is always available to seekers and has mentees all over the world that benefit from her teachings via video chat and telephone (and psychic messaging).

In her debut chapbook, The Uncertainty of Light, Alana Saltz unveils the struggle of chronic illness with avoice that belies the pain she carries with her. Inevitably, it’s Saltz’s hopefulness that slips through the ache and lays the foundation for a poignant collection that never fails to find beauty in the world outside of her own turbulent orbit, even when the urge to sink in the depths of it becomes something of a comfort. All of the highs and lows in this stark chapbook are outlined with gentleness and lend the reader an open window into an unseen conflict within her skin. Ultimately, it is the ability to understand and overcome her body’s conflicts that drives her to keep pushing through the fog. This is an affecting and thoughtful collection worthy of multiple reads.

Synopsis

The Uncertainty of Light: Poems by Alana Saltz explores how it feels to inhabit a body that is misunderstood. This evocative poetry book captures snapshots of a life with chronic illness while tapping into universal experiences of searching for meaning, seeking acceptance, and falling in love.

Readers will be taken on a journey across oceans and forests, night skies and city streets, dreams and nightmares. These poems examine urgent matters of life and death, pausing to reflect on the deceptively small moments we tend to take for granted.

The book is published by Blanket Sea Press. Discounts are available to bookstores, libraries, and anyone in need of a reduced price to be able to access the book. Please contact blanketsealit@gmail.com for more information.

You can purchase your own copy of The Uncertainty of Light by Alana Saltz at Blanket Sea Press store or on Amazon.

ExcerptsRift

Enveloped by forest,
a perfect path beneath my shoes.
The voice, soft like sand, speaks in my ears
and tells me to take a deep breath.

                    In.
                           Out.
In.
                                      Out.

The air smells of lavender
and peppermint.
There's no end to the path.
The trees won't stop.

Counting inhales
and exhales.
There's a rhythm
I can't locate
in my
chest
or my footsteps.

This is meant to pull me into
another universe where
there are
no more questions.

I ask
too many
questions.

The voice bends into a murmur.

What if this
doesn't work?

Nothing works.

But I'm here.

 Originally published in Kanstellation

Stargazer

The nebulas in my neck
are black and white

            alight with bursts of red, blue, and yellow.

I roll my eyes back
to watch my personal astronomer
make marks in my sky
with clicks and lines.

The probe soars
like a spaceship, venturing boldly
into unknown depths.

Technical and beautiful
and I don't know
what any of it means,

what has grown,

what my future
holds.

Originally published in Yes Poetry

 

Kendall A. Bell's poetry has been most recently published in Dark Marrow and Crepe & Penn. He was nominated for Sundress Publications' Best of the Net collection in 2007, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2015 and 2018. He is the author of two full length collections, "The Roads Don't Love You" and "the forced hush of quiet" and 25 chapbooks. He is the publisher/editor of Maverick Duck Press and editor and founder of Chantarelle's Notebook. His chapbooks are available through Maverick Duck Press. He lives in Southern New Jersey.

Alana Saltz is the author of the poetry chapbook, The Uncertainty of Light (February 2020). She's the editor-in-chief of Blanket Sea, an arts and literary magazine showcasing work by chronically ill, mentally ill, and disabled creators. Her poems have appeared in Occulum, Five:2:One, Yes Poetry, Lady Liberty Lit, and more. You can visit her website at alanasaltz.com and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @alanasaltz.

Patrick McManaman

Pluto and Jupiter are coming together
to tell me to watch rolling gems;

centaurs have a way with horns:
they pluck them from their heads

like piscivores growing like flowers
on a mountain, lay them to their lips

and find air to carry a lazy whistle into space.

This is exactly what planet
readers say to fire:

tongues don’t grow out of amethysts
on a unicorn’s pike – it’s a close waltz –

I can read through scores of candy-
packed metaphors,

yet on a day when in need of wisdom,
Neptune sends a plumber to warn

of floods, right when my mouth
must not lo(o)se its water.

Originally published in Mytho Anthology (Poets, Artists Unplugged) by Authorspress India

 

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. She likes to refer to herself as a squirrel perpetually caught at crossroads. With no vivid memory of her ancestral home except for the large corridors and rooms that echoed of ghosts, she only remembers of her life growing up in UAE. She still believes herself to be haunted but has, now, found a portal of release through poetry that has helped erect safe boundaries from feeling a sense of homelessness from not knowing where she belongs. Recent publications have been Strange Horizons, Pedestal Magazine, Atlantean Publishing, Alban Lake Publishing, and elsewhere. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Arabic and Persian. She has also appeared in Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love anthology that has been nominated for a Pulitzer. Her published works can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com.

Synopsis

Gravity is a collection of poems that explores the rise and fall of an intense relationship. The kind where the other person is the Gravity keeping you anchored to the planet and you worry that without them, you may float off into space.

And then it is finding the strength to realize the relationship is not what you want, after all. It is several years, several breakups, several attempts to turn yourself inside out only to find maybe this isn’t the person you’ve been waiting for your entire life, and that you are the only person who can heal you.

ExcerptsThe Last

This is the last fuck you that I can offer
The one that screams into the night—
Why didn’t you pick me?
Why did you let me slip through your fingers like melted ice?
Why wasn’t I good enough?
Why didn’t you ask, at least once, why is this over?

This is the final plea,
That gravity in the universe will bring you back to me.
Because planets rotate
And moons eclipse,
And I'm not ready to let go of this.

This is the seventh trumpet sounding
Letting the world know the sky is falling,
The end is near
Ring your bell, pack your bag.
The shores will rise to take you away.

This is the final march
The landslide sweeping away the historic remains
The last kiss
Last sleep
Last poem.

Because after this,
There's nothing else.

What I Want From Love

I don't want calm and gentle
Or the kind of love that comes in
When the tide is high
And fades out
With the moon light.
I want earth shattering.
A car accident
And broken glass
That takes weeks to vacuum out.
An aftermath so catastrophic it takes
Months to recover from.
I want gravity that pulls me back
To earth and drowns me in the sea.
I want black coffee
Straight whiskey
And moments that make your breath catch.
So much so I refuse to settle
For calm skies,
Or easy sailing.

Breathing Patterns

I learned to breathe in your arms,
pressed against your chest,
your heart setting the tempo.
Two beats in,
two beats out.
Your skin became a compass
used to navigate life;
A bad day meant palms fused together
like two cars in a collision,
metal and shrapnel so intertwined
paramedics couldn't tell my car from yours.
A good day meant finger tips on throats
pressure, patience, and patterned bedsheets that
needed peeled in the morning.
And so it makes sense that when your skin settled into
someone else's,
I was gasping for air.

To Make You Love Me

I should not have to plead to you,
to cut off my hair,
bleach it,
color it darker,
to get you to see me.

I should not have to scream
so that your head turns in my direction.

I should not gut myself
with my own knives
and wait, bleeding on the floor
until you come back to me.

I should not,
but I would have.
And I will not.

Now.

Gravity (Nightingale & Sparrow Press, 2019) is available for purchase on Amazon. 

Lynne Schmidt is the author of the poetry chapbooks, Gravity (Nightingale and Sparrow Press), On Becoming a Role Model (Thirty West Publishing, Spring 2020), and Dead Dog Poems (Bottlecap Press, Summer 2020). She is a mental health professional in Maine writing memoir, poetry, and young adult fiction. Her work has received the Maine Nonfiction Award, Editor's Choice Award, Honorable Mention for the Charles Bukowski Poetry Award, and was a 2018 and 2019 PNWA finalist for memoir and poetry respectively.

Lynne is a five time 2019 Best of the Net Nominee, and regular contributor for Marias at Sampaguitas. In 2012 she started the project, AbortionChat, which aims to lessen the stigma around abortion. When given the choice, Lynne prefers the company of her three dogs and one cat to humans.