Books to Read in 2021: Spectrum of Flight by David Hanlon

This review was in the Anthology Fevers of the Mind Presents the Poets of 2020 available on Amazon in Deluxe Edition, Split Editions Vol 1 & 2, and on Kindle.

When opening up David Hanlon’s “Spectrum of Flight” you immediately notice David’s very diverse, quaint, very knowledgable on poetry style and themes. Every word, every sentence, line, and stanzas are thought out.  Every word is read to you by the writer’s voice.  You feel trapped for awhile in the soul of the writer. What he felt, what he has had to persevere through, the depression, the loneliness, the questions, to truly begin to feel a whole self.  You are on a long walk listening to the pouring rain in a cool Autumn month, You can do nothing but think.  This is the book.  All of those cold rain walks on your own, what does the thunder mean for me?  Is this the same thunder heard by others? Is it even raining where they are?  The distancing of others that miscast you. Severs you into their ideal.  Why doesn’t it rain on them?  Why are they exempt? And why can’t they see me?  “A Taste of Showmanship” reflecting toxic masculinity that overcomes, a societal stamp.  To wash away that ink.   The imagery of poems such as “Dream in Which My Teeth Rot and Fall Out” gives you a ride in the circles and to obtain the answers within the spin.  As like in dreams we sometimes find the answer to our being, our true self, the hope to be whole, to change, and conquer the storm. David Hanlon’s “Spectrum of Flight” is brilliant both in style, imagery, and a must read for someone in search of themself.

David Hanlon is a welsh poet living in Cardiff. He is a Best of the Net nominee. You can find his work online in over 40 magazines, including Rust & Moth, Icefloe Press & Mineral Lit Mag. His first chapbook Spectrum of Flight is available for purchase now at Animal Heart Press.

Poetry: No Miracles to Come by Gerald Jatzek

photo of clouds covering the sun

Were three kings came from the west,

one had stars burned in his chest,

one was cursed, one was blessed

Three kings.

Were three kings came in a tank,

names were bombs and bread and bank,

played the fool, the freak, the crank

Three kings

Were three kings, their songs were sung

by someone who had lost his tongue,

on laurel garlands they were hung

Three kings

Photo by Trevor Gerzen (Unsplash)

Poetry: Wolf-Lieberman by Stuart Buck

silhouette of wolf standing on ground

wolf-lieberman

as the news anchor tells us it is time, we can think of nothing better to do than to watch deep impact

the sky drops to an awful stillborn pink          tia leone refuses a seat on the last helicopter
a man burns alive in front of his daughter    elijah woods winds through traffic on his bike
we are thrown across the living room

morgan freeman asks us to remember the fallen

there is a redness. aching. birth.                                 endcredits.

i am turning to you as the softer parts of me blend with the wallpaper
i am turning to you as we clot in each other’s throats

Stuart Buck is a BOTN/BIFFY50/Pushcart Prize nominated poet and artist living in North Wales. His second book ‘Become Something Frail’ was released to critical acclaim on Selcouth Station Press in 2019. When he is not writing or reading poetry, he likes to cook, juggle and listen to music. He suffers terribly from tsundoku – the art of buying copious amounts of books that he will never read.

Twitter: @stuartmbuck

An interview with Stu Buck of Bear Creek Gazette

photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash

Patience of egrets a poem by Peach Delphine

This shore of conch and mangrove,

Rain, our mother tongue,

Cast down as glyphs beaten into sand,

It requires the patience of egrets

The long glide of pelicans

To endure the loss of your hands

Weight of your body in the warm night

As clock light breathes against the ceiling

 

This weather of absence, so much moonlight

Contained by scars, delicate

Tracery of struggle, cartography of dreams, your words still summon to this shore,

Congregation of spoonbills gathered for tide

 

The shyness of alligators,

The call and response of owls,

A world not yet fallen into shadow

The plumage of night folds into palms,

It requires the roots of mangrove

To weather these waves, long fetch

Of sleepless absence,

Each day a shell curving upon itself

The sound of emptiness 

Coiled within my ear, the sand of loss

Pouring from my hands

 

Follow @peachdelphine on Twitter

Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

Poetry: On Being Awake at 5 A.M. by Stu Buck

On Being Awake at 5 A.M.

some days my sadness is so magnificent
that an acrid taste lingers in the mouth of the night

and i think about the thousand ways
that i might die and i think about the birds

Stuart Buck is a Best of the Net/PushCart Prize/BIFFY50 nominated poet and artist living in North Wales. 

His second book ‘Become Something Frail’ was released to critical acclaim on Selcouth Station Press in 2019. When he is not writing or reading poetry, he likes to cook, juggle and listen to music. He suffers terribly from tsundoku – the art of buying copious amounts of books that he will never read.

An interview with Stu Buck of Bear Creek Gazette

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