I tried to give The Universe a nudge, packed a few boxes. Just things we could do without: tchotchkes, reference books.
I needed to prepare for something.
Now boxes with no destination line the hall, reminds me of late summer in Chillicothe,
packing up Suzanne’s life: her cherrywood pipe, the glass eye of a man she’d wanted, a pistol, and love of books. I herded together stray tarot cards; a psychic’s closure.
Cicadas said Kaddish with mermaid sisters, beautiful creatures from LA, beached in a second-floor apartment alongside cardboard shells. All of us out of our element.
I padded the painted urn, crumpled newspaper, back page sex ads (to make her laugh). An outer layer of t-shirts; ¼ of her ashes formed the nucleus of my bag.
Still, I return seashells to The Pacific, smooth stones from her pocket.
What comes next? Her altar will be the last thing I pack.
Cedar Park, Seattle
How can you be nostalgic for a dirt hill and cruel boys, but they were the only boys I knew. Twilight, hunting rats in an empty lot.
Before Mr. Coffey lost his house to a Starbucks exec.
Red Cedars, hemlocks, kept watch, with nodding heads. Dark green, the color of patience.
Only the boys were allowed to sled down Sunrise Hill. I didn’t want to, but felt I should.
Sometimes people on horseback rode by; enough to make me wonder about time.
At the top of the hill, The Tootsie Roll Lady gave just one a day, if you asked nicely.
Pops Jones let me roller skate on his driveway. Said, girls can go to college now. I didn’t want to, but wish I had.
The old apple trees still grow there, but I can’t pick ‘em. I had assumed their pale fruit my birthright.
After a Wedding
The welders moved in unison, leaving behind the pier.
Wordless and smudged they approached me.
Searching stained pockets, on beds of pink and black palms, they revealed gold rings.
A journeyman knows to cherish.
M.S. Evans is a writer and visual artist living in Butte, Montana. Her work has appeared in Black Bough Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, The BeZine, Ice Floe, and more. Twitter: @SeaNettleInk Instagram: @permacrust
Ghost riders. Their particulars printed to the flesh, bound to living bone.
Origins forgotten, dying revenants in their crumbling towers: civilisations long dead.
Thought weavers bait as restless dreamers thrash and buck, bound in twists of linen.
Awaking only to sleep.
Life’s time travellers nihilist clawed, reaching beyond meaning, tearing at the vacuous godhead.
We live as wasps do. Angry, buzz-busy, wrapped in our nest led lives.
Stirred back and fore, this slow grinding mill, a spiral of stars.
In a night’s quiet sense a rising. The galaxy’s eerie cry, it is Laniakea’s wind.
Eternity’s span this arch of stars, counts time beyond ten fingertips.
Into wicker’s rest. Fill this grave with a crush of wildflowers.
Mixed meadows delicate pastels and fine perfumes, grace your memory.
Unbearable grief and beauty speak under the voice. Why must our ways always be run, through a curtain of dying flowers and falling tears.
Billow-shakers hold tight to the corners of cool winds, in this season of forever.
And in far reaching fires, we wait for Khamsin winds and desert grains. To fall dry as stinging rain.
Conceived in failure and nurtured with self-doubt, amarulence grows.
A corkscrew of pain, as vision tunnels to eye the heart of a malcontent.
An anthem of injustice rings. Mighty bells of beaten copper and tin.
Out here in this static heat a threat is annunciated. Tremble as gentle anger whispers your name.
Dai Fry is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter: @thnargg Web: seekingthedarklight.co.uk
Vituperative voices, choral singing can’t bring any of it back broken backs
“What is a snow-blinded fact — the river burns.”
Sometimes I want to scream sometimes I just want cash and carry (echoes) of the summer lawn
Carry buried tropes out in mail sacks on hardened backs carry buried souls out, the souls of the buried, alive and dead
Carry the fine tuned tooth comb with drum brushes covered in earth to brush myself off in the horizon of new rising
Wake up and scan the rippling fur the destitute river with sores calling out casinos of the scalding numbers,
To dream those who fall asleep in parks of sleepers. The night carries their fears, ferrying fallacies of insurance policies away.
Greyhound bus terminal locked tight with chain link fences and linens, Mississippi duo with rucksacks roll out, the change in jean pockets frayed.
Bang my head against a wall mother’s ghost an upper cut & claw hammer where arms and legs make way for scar memories of Nineveh at Aberdeen and Nineth.
Waiting for factories to re-open shimmying windows paint can lids pop open mournful train whistles weep dioxide tears stymied under milk-curled silos, silence –
What does tar do – what smoke indices show insect thorax catch choke wing in throat, thunk and hork.
Everyone’s eyes gone dry with blurring and tremolo tornadoes roadside cameras slam-corral listeners to hiss of radio steam
It goes on forever, this surveillance radiant radiation on butterfly wing it goes on, a Lazarus cinema, a shower show of a film,
Falling snow embers a marquee made by Last Words: Blast Furnaces Will Live Forever.
The Relationship is Mystical
Everywhere you live, subject to military boots. I hear soldiers stomping through your things, looking through cupboards and opening drawers with gun barrel, opening boxes and measuring with tape.
Taking you out back with cutting shears. Dug out stockades, handcuffs made from wire and plastics placed in the garden, hollowed with dirt to grab you by your wrists, to gas the wings of the dove, feathers spread open in full wing-span below your shoulder blades, pinned back.
Changing the nature of meaning. To suit the purpose of the wall, saying the subject, dreary readers, is freedom is actually this: An orchestrated psychosis, measured, illustrated, disappeared.
Confessions of a veiled Starvation
welcome to the hard sinewy understanding you’ll only find in this hotel is it truly closing time a thin man asks his body an encyclopedia of scars is it really time to confess to carry my tortured body one more block to the house of neon lights I’ll wrap my hands around your broken body and feel you shake and tremble there are no heroes left even the police have itchy fingers that come forward on the beat to pulverize the blind I’ll be your escort into this private nightmare the groom to public discontent truly wild, my eyes will devour the naked angel’s back as I lift you up lick alcohol tears from my face
Two Seasons form a Single Year
To look down on one’s body from a height above Night’s ceiling fissures the industrial wallpaper’s manufacture of mute flowers scentless two hands form of a trellis over the body sceptre of incense and concealment single bulb’s crackling jitter the on and off filament of consciousness To rise from the pool of sheets the terrible burning langour To rise longing for first ice of an idle night’s cold winter The itch of the radio voice announcer’s Imperial Marching Music an imprint of noise volume of porous static pouring in the cavity layers of skin usually cover parched skin, dehydrated and brittle-dry
Fingertips ache trace neuro-electricity they took me off these drugs there is an after-image let’s call it Rising from numb to jolt in toes, in spine in the soles and heel under foot my body wants nakedness not clothing no skin covering skin the vertebrae’s own dendrite branches no flowing signals from the brain stem Some one wants to cut me down chop at my neck Gouged, but no break of skin No blood falls like rain Standing next to the dead tree rain does not revive No buds No blossoms
No new leaves
Robert Frede Kenter is the publisher and EIC of Ice Floe Press. A writer, editor and visual artist, poems, stories, theatre works, and songs have been published and performed widely and exhibited internationally. Recipient of grants and awards from Ontario Arts Council and Toronto Arts Council, Robert is a 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee, and author of the recent hybrid Audacity of Form (2019) from Ice Floe Press.
there was an old black and white photo of him he was sitting in a boat a small boat, the kind with oars and he had a great smile upon his face like the fishing pole in his hand was the greatest joy in the world there was, I will admit part of me who wishes I could have been there but I have no patience for sitting in the boiling sun perfectly still for hours waiting for something to tug on the line I have no patience for that And who would have the patience for me even if they were on top of the world at the moment
Ken Tomaro is an artist and writer living in Cleveland, Ohio whose work has been published in several literary journals. He has also published three collections of poetry available on Amazon. His writing reflects an open, honest view of everyday mundane life living with depression
Feet swing above a blue tiled wall of a piscine / sans l’eau as if the world has cried up all the water on the planet.
I rest my head on your shoulder and you lean in /to my support as if we were both armbands to each other.
Somewhere behind a day I made into a memory / in my mind you fake swim in that pool of dried tile / cracked sunshine
and our laughter reverberates between the stain at the bottom and the gulls flying overhead / in circling sways
in case we chose to be bait for their beak.
Behind us / a taxi rides away / and we are left to decipher how life drowned in that place / sans rêve.
Sometimes we sleep to dream / other times we slip our feet into the emptiness / to dream of what we might have found
in its place.
Feet swing above a blue tiled wall of a piscine / sans l’eau et on ferme les yeux / to lean into that which isn’t really there.
At Least in a Cup of Coffee We can Hold a Caramel of Comfort
In the kitchen / breaking noise before dawn you grind grains into something more sippable, stilled / under a shadow of something unsettling,
I shift position / too naturally / while still snoozing, setting my sleeping skin into that soft spot your body has since shed
as your tongue lets the caramel of coffee tingle across taste buds / slowly changing
in that kitchen / swallowing simple warm things in the morning / before day comes to choke us.
Knowing how Long to Leave Wool in the Water
Spring has left us shy.
We flirted like sheep / cute / clumsy constantly caught before coming / folding a season into forever.
Words come / cumbersome you can only swallow so much of a wave of seductive / before you drown.
Sheep don’t swim / wool doesn’t do well in hot water. Be careful with the laundry.
Spring has left us shy.
We never unfolded another season / no more flock to the flirt, you do / or you die / the tide isn’t ours to play with.
Sink / swim / shrink /drown / and I was never good at lengths length of time / length of hold / length of hope.
Sheep need a shepherd / or get washed away.
The Dissolving of Emptiness
I lay down this lake of loss / hope for soil to soak up sorrow, by side sedge / wedge myself up / all this waste, bury what turned base at the bottom / this bed no longer silken sheets / but sludge / to be swept
under / asunder
I lay down this lake / this lough of loss / lost, waiting for the tide to wash over /the emptiness to dissolve, waiting for time to refine me / re-find me as buoyant
Please describe your latest book, what about your book will intrigue the readers the most, and what is the theme/mood?
Damien: There is certainly a flow of connecting colours throughout the collection; rickety reds, shades of blue, scarlet rising, grazing greens, purples clouds and cerulean skies. I like painting as a pastime so that often trickles out through the pen. I love wandering around galleries to see the tales painters captured on canvases and wondering how to capture them onto pages. Black is only shadow is a line that comes up more than once in the collection and I think that is where its identity lies, an acceptance of the darkness and a hope that it will not be forever, a line chanted like a mantra to get through to the next burst of light. The collection is not necessarily about easy moments in life but I hope the reader can appreciate the rise after each fall.
2. What frame of mind and ideas lead to you writing your current book?
Damien: I had my first panic attack a few years ago and many of the poems in this book stem from that, looking for ways of remaining light and bright and bouncy while accepting, concurrently, that state of anxiety, fear and sometimes loss. I was searching for balance, we cannot always remove the darkness or the weight or the panic and so I wanted to find a way to hold both at the same time so there was not always a fight between the two but an acknowledgement of each other.
3. How old were you when you first have become serious about your writing, do you feel your work is always adapting?
Damien: I wrote when I was a kid, a cathartic release before I knew there were people called therapists. But I had a dream of being a fashion designer from a young age and therefore the attention was always focused on a degree in fashion and a life in the industry which overshadowed the writing, even though it was always there. When I moved from London to Amsterdam in 2006, I began to focus more on writing and that was when I started my blog deuxiemepeaupoetry.com, a combination of poetry and photography. I think there was something about the ease of life in Amsterdam that made it possible to do more than one thing in a day, London, for me, was far too demanding for that. A few years later, my grandmother passed away and I was asked to write and deliver her eulogy and that was the first time I saw people really listening to what I had to say and relating to it and from that moment it changed, as if she instilled in me a confidence that this was something to be explored and needed time to develop. Looking back now at notebooks from childhood and even early poems on my blog, my style has changed completely. I started off by telling whole stories and have now fine tuned that into telling a story, not the whole, not always the complete truth, but exploring their essence.
4. What authors, poets, musicians have helped shape your work, or who do you find yourself being drawn to the most?
Damien: When I was 23, I lived for a year in a one bedroomed, viewless-windowed apartment in Le Marais in Paris with an Irish girl who played piano and Irish drinking songs in bars around the city but late at night, or after Sunday strolls through the Jewish quarter and lugging home sugar-laden treats from the bakeries on rue des Rosiers, she would play me her favourite Joni Mitchell songs before we put the album Miles of Aisles on repeat on our little Cd player. Later it became the Tin Angel and Blue albums on my Walkman, sitting at the table after coming home from work at the bar at 3am, playing Solitaire and listening to her paint words over cords, about living in places and missing others, kissing men and moving on. The influence from Joni has never strayed.
5. What other activities do you enjoy doing creatively, or recreationally outside of being a writer, and do you find any of these outside writing activities merge into your mind and often become parts of a poem?
Damien: Photography is something I love. I can take over 100 photos a day, just trying to capture things that might get overlooked, a twig on a lump of concrete, a bag in a tree, a shell sinking back into the sand. I also use those photos a reference points later when writing, the visual falling into the structured lines of a poem. Painting is also something I enjoy though it takes much more time but it is the same thing as writing, taking a blank page or canvas and putting a mark down onto it and following the flow of that first mark. Cooking or baking are the things I do as much as writing because I find it so relaxing; hours, days spent in the kitchen is a dream for me, listening to music or a podcast and smelling the flavours come to life is incredible. And then there is the eating.
6. Tell us a little about your process with writing. Is it more a controlled or a spontaneous/freewriting style?
Damien: I write every day, whenever I can. When I lived in Paris it was on the way to work on the metro, during lunch breaks, at night on terraces of cafes, always in between the job or the duty or the relationship. Now I write constantly, all day. The earlier part of this year was very much taken up with a fictional novel I am now sending out to publishers. During the first lockdown in Ireland, which began in March, just before our famous cancelled Saint Patrick’s Day, I had two main focuses- the garden and its 45 trees that needed chopping with an old rusty hand saw and poetry prompts on Twitter from both the Cobh Readers and Writers group and Catherine Ann Cullen, an Irish Poet, who ran a daily poetry prompt, the pair of which resulted in me writing over 300 poems in about 4 months, after which I focused on the next collection which will be a full poetry collection about my life spent living with Paris, a combination of poetry and photography. So it really never stops. My phone is never far from my hand to scribble down lines that come into my head that will be worked on later, I am very forgetful so never like to lose a thought that might become a treasure.
7. Are there any other people/environments/hometowns/vacations that has helped influence your writing?
Damien: Paris definitely, I moved there when I was 22 and it changed who I was, suddenly I was completely alone for the first time in my life, in a larger-than-life city, a formerly shy child who’d never studied a word of French. I grew up there and so it will always have a huge influence on my identity, my life and my writing. Now that I have returned to Ireland, this little island has become the influencer. In earlier days, I spent so much time trying to get away from this place and the shy child it still wanted to identify within me but now, coming back after 23 years, it is a foreign object and I am enjoying examining all her sides while she accepts me now for who I became and has given up looking for the shadows of my former self. Family come in and out, of course, in terms of influence, I recently had a short story in the No.1 Irish bestseller A Page from My Life, an anthology of short stories published by Harper Collins Ireland and my story was about my Mother’s first experience in shopping at the supermarket chain Aldi. It was a comedy piece which made it a welcome change from the more serious tone of most of my poetry. And then there is always the constant rise and fall of relationships which ignites the pen. I write a lot about love and all that lies in between beginnings and endings. Torture can be exquisite, on the page, at least
8. What is the most rewarding part of the writing process, and in turn the most frustrating part of the writing process?
Damien: For me it’s that sense of achievement, when you find the right words, the right order, the right atmosphere and you read it back and it pops and you just want to jump up and say yes- I did it. The most frustrating? Having to do it all over again.
9. How has this past year impacted you emotionally, how has it impacted you creatively if it all?
Damien: I have never written so much as I have this year. As I mentioned I wrote over 300 poems during the first lockdown thanks to Poetry Prompts on Twitter while also editing my novel. I moved back to Ireland with a dream of setting up a writer’s retreat on the west coast but, at first, I said I’d stay at the family home for a few months to make up for being away for so long. Then Covid hit and it is now one year later and I’m still in that family home on the east side of Ireland. I think I’ve left this village about 6 times in the past 9 months. It has been an extremely strange year from being basically housebound, which is not normally in my comfort zone, to also being a non-stop year of writing, being published, winning writing competitions, starting a podcast and interviewing other poets as part of a series on my blog. I was given the rare opportunity this year to focus solely on writing and am thankful that I will not look back at this year as a wasted opportunity
10. Please give us any promotional info for your work, social media, blogs, publishing company info, etc that you’d like to shout out.
When did you get the idea to start the “Eat the Storms Podcast”?
Damien: I first came up with the idea of the podcast as it came close to the launch of my collection and I realized that because of lockdown restrictions I would not be able to have a normal book launch in a library or a bookstore and there would be no interaction with people. The focus would have to all take place on social media platforms and I was already on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram and had a pretty good following but I wanted to find more ways to get my voice out. I started by using TikTok to make short video poems and then someone suggested a podcast but I was worried about setting it all up on my own as I’m not the most technologically minded person even though I’ve used computers for 25 years in terms of creating patterns for clothes but then I discovered the app and podcast platform Anchor which let you produce your own podcast and it was so simple and easy that by the next evening I had the first episode already recorded with jingles and introductions and pauses. It started as a platform just to share poems from my debut collection Eat the Storms, but that changed immediately as I realised everyone was in the same boat, all looking for outlets to be heard and so I opened the show up to have guest poets each week and it had taken off from there and it is showing no signs of slowing down as the audience is picking up more listeners each week so I am very happy to say that I was able to offer connection in a time when we were being told to stay away.
2. What have you found most interesting in the poets that you have interviewed? Are you ever surprised by what the poets have to say when on the podcast?
Damien: For me, personally, I think the most interesting thing about the podcast and having guests on is hearing poems that I know I’ve already read myself, read to me by their author and hearing their original idea instead of my understanding because of the tone of their voice, or a giggle or a pause when perhaps I had missed that moment of stillness that was so vital to how the poem would be. When you hear a poet read their words I think that brings us to a whole other level of understanding
3. How do you scout out a poet to have on your own show?
Damien: Sometimes I have themed episodes which makes it easier to put the content of the show together, like the LGBTQ+ episode that recently went down a storm or the Irish episode I am currently planning. At other times it’s just a question of who’s in my line of sight, who’s the most popular name of the day on Twitter that I happened to hear of, who were the people that I dreamed of taking part and so I just drop them a little message and cross my fingers. Sometimes, with age comes bravery
4.Where can one find episodes of “Eat the Storms”?
Damien: At the moment Eat the Storms, the poetry podcast, is on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, Breaker, Pocketcasts and of course Anchor. A new episode drops every Saturday around 5pm but all the shows are there to listen to whenever life needs to be a little more poetic
5.Who helps you with the promotional vignettes for the show? I feel like I’m about to go into a “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” style show, but with the souls of poets instead of Rich people’s homes.
Damien: The promotional vignettes for this show are all homemade, its me with my camera positioned somewhere halfway into the sand and resting against a shell while I walk across the beach or me with a tiny tripod because I don’t want to look too much like an idiot or in the garden, or a field or down a country lane or me and the back bedroom here in the family cottage that has been home to my family since 1904. I don’t have any extra help, I’m a fumbling, giggling one man show trying to figure it all out and occasionally calling on the 80-year-old mother to focus the camera.