Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.
In Sunday school we were taught
that the bodies of some saints
were incorruptible. After death,
their bodies lay for days,
weeks, months, with no change;
they only slept, so the story
went, until God called them home.
At eleven, I dreamed of tombs
around the world, sleeping bodies
in repose, waiting for a chance
to rise again. I woke each time
drenched, screaming. I knew,
inside, that saints were hungry.
Now, I cut through graveyards,
tombstones weathered to smooth.
On one grave, a ring of pebbles.
I nudge one back into place, moved
by wind, or curious bird; wonder
who is under this stone, who left
a memory. Then turn and walk away.
Chariklia Martalas is a young writer studying Philosophy, Politics, English and History and the University of the Witswaterstrand in Johannesburg South Africa. She has been published in Odd Magazine, The Raw Art Review and the undergraduate literary journal The Foundationalist, among others.
She Wore A Lost Horizon
She wore another face
Like cloth on the body
Hand on hip
As if wiping
Pieces of dirt
From the eye
Adam and Eve were an image
Before the great drop
From the edge
Of the horizon
Humans were two pictures
Matched in symmetry
(A madhouse ecstasy)
A wish for
For a Golden Hour
Shruthi Shivkumar, 18, is a lover of poetry, teaching herself to step outside of her comfort zone. She is an undergraduate at the University of Pittsburgh where she is a double-major studying English Writing and Biology. Her work is forthcoming in Nine Muses Poetry and Impossible Archetype.
bones in the human ear,
books in a trilogy,
feet in a yard,
strikes to be out,
your face and your heart-
sorry, did i say
i meant the plural.
Frances Holland is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University. Her work has been previously featured in Mslexia and Horla Horror.
I knew them by their scent,
those proud specimens
ring-fenced by terracotta,
buried in the earth.
French demanded blood and glory,
its lovely alien heads eager to be paired
with flesh, spit-roasted,
Hidcote took and took;
it drained the life of the other,
stood tall and purple,
regal, sickly-sweet and brazen.
Rosea wilted, stems broken and grey,
And yet her pale flowers bloomed.
Her scent the sharpest,
It clung to fingertips,
drew insects in.
The honey that year would taste of it.
It would seep into us through bread
and out of us into the night-air,
To mix with pollen and starlight.
We would find our dreams perfumed by it,
Cleanse our bodies in its water,
and watch and wait for next year
When its blooms would claw back,
Claw back through the deep dark earth.
former contributor Anna Scotti has a wonderful poem in The New Yorker, here:
for the title alone, and for more than the title alone, please read this piece that former contributor Rax King wrote for Catapult:
poems, Rebecca Kokitus
Thirty West Publishing House, 2019
In reading the poems of Rebecca Kokitus, I can often see the jigsaw puzzle no one saved from the fire. Can feel the pulse of a mother as taken by a rubber band. Can hear the blip of a sporadically working radar and can match it to the click that sounds itself out in the knee. Knee over which a walking cane was long ago broken within earshot of those familiar with brevity’s limp. If Blue Bucolic is here a return to tiny and frostbitten things, then it is there a reheated examination of anti-smallness. It leaves. It belongs.
reflection by Barton Smock
book is here: