New Poetry by WG Davies Jr.

Death on I-81

The sunset was a patchwork
of discarded shawls
as if a church bus
may have crashed
and all the women
went to heaven together.


- WG Davies Jr 2013


Juxtaposed 

Imagine a sky so blue,
that from the throat
of a saxophone
new silk and Creole musk.


- WG Davies Jr 2013

WG Davies Jr has published in The Cortland Review, Bluepepper, The Wilderness House Review, Diluted Ink, Jellyfish Whispers and many others. He is on the cusp of having a chaplet of poetry published. WG Davies Jr lives on ten acres with his wife, Theresa, of thirty-nine years and in good years they produce some fairly elegant red wine. WG Davies Jr is also 2013 Poet Laureate for Perry County, Pennsylvania. 

New Poetry by Jonathan Hadwen

The Spring

the printer flutters, deals its cards
there is a machine 
inside the machine
it eats with a spinning brush

something is starting
        lifting from a hill
                like mad brothers
                        bird-envious and proud 

I could lift from here
        a word-engine sputtering
                into the sky

summer starts
      on the spring of an ancient clock
            the oldest thing ever wound


- Jonathan Hadwen 2013



One for Li Po

My ritual
     is to sit on the porch with a beer 
          when I get home from work
all the windows open
     the door propped open
          as I wait for the house to cool
a breeze at my toes
     sometimes beside me
          the drunken moon. 



- Jonathan Hadwen 2013

Jonathan Hadwen is a Brisbane poet.  He was recently named runner-up in the Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize for an unpublished manuscript.

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "Save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something has been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . ."

New Poetry by Michelle Seminara

Three Haiku

blood orange skies -
sirens
from burning blue mountains

a wicked westerly 
wind blows in:
we all run for water

black ash blooming
as I swim;
embers falling
on combustible skin


- Michelle Seminara 2013