New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.

Kissed by God at Ski Roundtop

It came gradually

as it might be

expected to do.

The trees, Peruvian green

rise up the slope,

instead of a burning bush,

an agave blue sky

penitent with clouds

and the burdock of chance.

- William G. Davies Jr. 2014

William's collection, "Before There Were Bones", will be published by Prolific Press sometime in 2015.

New Poetry by Grant Tabard

To/Fro

The world will end 

with yellow wolf's death rattle.

The furniture of the universe 

is a bare lightbulb 

swinging to and fro,

to and fro.

To: hand luggage for the wilds 

of the wolf's yawn.

Fro: black tepid ram's tongue,

licking like a Billy goat

in it's gruff weed 

of the stars

pulled across the sky

by a tractor.

-Grant Tabard 2014

Grant Tarbard has worked as a journalist, a contributor to magazines, an editor, a reviewer and an interviewer. He is now the editor of The Screech Owl.

His work can be seen in such magazines as The Rialto, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Bone Orchard Poetry, BLAZE, The Journal, Southlight, Sarasvati, Earth Love, Mood Swing, Puff Puff Prose Poetry & Prose, Postcards Poetry and Prose, Playerist 2, Lake City Lights, Medusa's Kitchen, The Open Mouse, Weyfarers, Miracle, Poetry Cornwall, I-70, South Florida Review, Stare's Nest, Zymbol, Synchronized Chaos and Decanto.

New Poetry by Ivan Jenson

Velvet Clown

My desires

will not be

contained

by the 

fig leaf

of public

modesty

and my 

wants will

not lie

wasted

on the cement

like a cross-addicted

cross-dresser

and my scent

will not be 

covered by

soft soap

and Old Spice

my vibration

is so

sizable it

sets off 

a seismograph

and it will trigger

an after-life

aftermath

long after 

my laughter

turns into 

a chuckle

and then

a trickle

of a giggle

and then

a sigh of

relief

because

this whole

self-serving

self-deprecating

prank 

backfired

on me

when I slipped on my 

own literary

banana peel

- Ivan Jenson 2014

Ivan Jenson is a fine artist, novelist and contemporary poet. His artwork was featured in Art in America, Art News, and Interview Magazine and has sold at auction at Christie’s. Ivan was commissioned by Absolut Vodka to make a painting titled “Absolut Jenson” for the brand’s national ad campaign.  Jenson's poetry is widely published (with over 450 poems published in the US, UK and Europe) in a variety of literary media. A book of Ivan Jenson's poetry was recently published by Hen House Press titled Media Child and Other Poems, which can be acquired on Amazon. Two new novels by Ivan Jenson will be published hardcover and will be available for purchase at bookstores worldwide.  Ivan Jenson's website is: www.IvanJenson.com

New Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Twin Girls, 1948

Beth was always different

marching as she did

to an armless drummer.

Her sister Kate marched

to another drummer,

one with arms on certain days 

but never with a drum 

that caught the sticks Kate 

kept in the air flailing.

When the girls were young

their mom and dad took them out

for walks on Sunday

afternoons in summer.

The girls waved to butterflies

but never to anyone else.

It was hard for other kids

peering from porches

to understand the problem.

When the twins were small

they didn't call it autism. 

It had no name on my block.

Now the illness has a name

and different medications

that sometimes temper

but never cure.

The girls are women now

old and living in a big home

with others in a small band

some still playing instruments

no one else can see.

- Donal Mahoney 2014

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, he has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

New Poetry by Christine Brandel

CINEMATIC

 

O you silly little, just a boy, she can pick you

up and move you across the floor -- there's a mark

there, did you hit it when he pretended to hit you,

like someone once did not pretend to hit her?

You act like you are clever, but she is the one

who solved that puzzle. You act like you love,

but her heart is bound with twine. You act this way,

that way, because you are an actor. She is not. She lives.

She speaks on telephones. She hits glass and it breaks.

She writes. She beats metaphors like corpses until they

no longer breathe, and her poems end like suicides.

- Christine Brandel 2014

WE ARE ALL BIG BOYS NOW

 

On Monkey Island, the mothers groom their young. When grown,

monkeys tend to each other: they clean and scratch and stroke

to maintain good hygiene and to form a bond. Social grooming

releases a chemical that relaxes the monkeys. It's scientific,

you can look it up if you don't believe me.

 

         It is not her job to keep you clean. It is not her job to pick

         the dirt and scales you let cover you. It is not her job

         to keep you protected from parasites and regret.

 

When grown, monkeys tend to each other.

 

         We are all big boys now.

 

- Christine Brandel 2014

Christine Brandel is a British-American writer and photographer. In 2013, she published her first collection, Tell This To Girls: The Panic Annie Poems, which the IndieReader described as a "well-crafted, heartbreakingly vivid set of poems, well worth a read by anyone whose heart can bear it." To balance that, she also writes a column on comedy for PopMatters and rants and raves through her character Agatha Whitt-Wellington (Miss) at Everyone Needs An Algonquin. More of her work can be found at clbwrites.com.

 

New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.

Labor Day

Water in the pool

is murky, still.

The pump off.

Marigold petals flitter

beneath the surface as Koi.

A diving board

splays the end

where once she cleaved

to her freshly risen breasts,

gone, but for clods of grapes

basking, as is their way

in slanted light.

- William G. Davies Jr. 2014


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 Kamaruzzaman

And That Was You Who Saw The World of No War, No Blood

You saw the world

In your own eyes, there was no war

No blood to love you dead

There was no darkness to shed over the roofs of cloud

No begging, no hungry bones collapsed

Into the smoke to break peace, to be in peace with you

With your breads and hone - that was your world

And that was you, and only you to give birth to eternal

YOU, and that was you...

Who tossed the coins

Of capital - who tossed the shadows of fear

Into mist and touched the thorns of flowers

With guts and heart out

To write the epic of little verse

In human chains

Of equal days and nights - you

Who only could write

The epics of no war and no blood

In your own world

You saw in your dreamy eyes and you:

Who had a dream or two - of your own

To create a world of vision

To say goodbye to all and others

To rejoice in cheers, in full

And that was you...

- Kamaruzzaman 2014


Kamaruzzaman is "self-retired, basically a nihilist", writes poetry and essays, at one time edited a polemical journal, and is currently translating the complete works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez into Bengali, One book already published, several others on the line.

New Poetry by Ali Znaidi

An Hour-glass Sonnet

 

I had the fear that

I wouldn’t be able

to write a sonnet

about the glitzy sand

since I have found

an antiquated hour-

glass in the attic.

        

          ***

These days hour-

glasses are difficult

to find, more difficult

than finding sand grains

—victuals for fiery

furnaces of time:

 

The grate of gravel in a hologram of silence.

- Ali Znaidi 2014

Ali Znaidi (b. 1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia, where he teaches English.  He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002 from the University of Sfax for the South.  He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translation.  His work has appeared in various magazines and journals worldwide. He authored four poetry chapbooks including Experimental Ruminations (Fowlpox Press, 2012), Moon’s Cloth Embroidered with Poems (Origami Poems Project, 2012), Bye, Donna Summer! (Fowlpox Press, 2014), and Taste of the Edge (Kind of A Hurricane Press, 2014). Links to his published and forthcoming works can be found at 

aliznaidi.blogspot.com

 

New Poetry by Neil Ellman

The Mood of Now

(after the painting by Yves Tanguy)
  
Now is the time
   that all things happen
Now the beginning
Now the end
     all in this forever once
     as if there were never
     more than just this now
     at once
Now is the center
     of the gyre
     and now the edge
     expanding at the speed
     of when
Now whatever happens
     happened
     whatever will is now
     between the now and then
     the color of now
     is all there is.


- Neil Ellman 2014

Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Rhysling Award.  More than 1,000 of his poems appear in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world.

New Poetry by Brian Beatty

The End of Trouble

Everything my teachers

committed to 

their blackboards

looked to my eyes 

like a chalk outline of a body. 

Mind you, I never saw 

anyone killed

or heard so much as a rumor 

of children

actually murdered

or disappeared 

but bully threats

and that common small town fear 

of being bored to death

I’ll never forget. 

I feel chills right now. 

To my bones. Don’t you?

Bored to death is real.

If nothing more, I learned that much 

from all those unamused

teachers  

I likewise recall 

sending me to stick my nose 

in the corner

for talking to my friends 

Mark and Chris — 

two guys who both wound up dead

before forty for reasons 

I only remember don’t matter. 

 

One in prison, one just 

fucking around.

How did I survive? you wonder.   

By hiding inside 

books where I knew 

I’d never be found.

- Brian Beatty 2014

Brian Beatty's jokes, poems and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online publications, including The Bark, Conduit, Elephant Journal, elimae, The Evergreen Review, Gulf Coast, Hobart, McSweeney's, Opium, Paper Darts, The Quarterly, Seventeen and The Sycamore Review. He sometimes performs as a storyteller.

New Poetry by Michele Seminara

Ultrasound

They used to be joyful 

the pictures of babies 

used to pertain to me.

But today my belly is swollen with portent 

and I note with unease

that my haruspex is a man. 

Female seers are reserved for life

and I am an obedient bag of death, 

viscera spread on the gritty screen

waiting to be read.

The ancient technician gives no indication;

although he seems a little kinder 

on the way out than 

on the way in...

Later — the children rolling 

like pups in the ocean of my bed —

we point at the funny photos 

of mummy's insides and say — look,

it's those black spots that are the problem.

- Michele Seminara 2014

Michele Seminara is a poet and yoga teacher from Sydney. Her writing has appeared in publications such as Bluepepper, Tincture Journal, Regime andVerity La. She is also a poetry reader for Verity La, as well as being the journal’s incoming managing editor.  She blogs at http://micheleseminara.wordpress.com/ and is on twitter @SeminaraMichele

New Poetry by Howie Good

The Heavy Shadow of Prior Encounters

I keep my voice low,
like a spy passing secrets.

When they ask my name,
address, date of birth,
I answer as if answering
might mean something.

Somewhere near here
there must be a leaden sea
and someone unknown
to me walking beside it,

carrying a blank page
for the lives I’ll never lead.


- Howie Good 2014

Howie Good's latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He has several poetry books forthcoming, including Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press) and Buddha & Co (Plain Wrap Press)

A new piece by Phillip A. Ellis

Interview with John Ashbery conducted by Daniel Kane

DK:‭ ‬In‭ "‬What Is Poetry‭" ‬you write,‭ "‬Trying to avoid‭ ‬/‭ ‬Ideas,‭ ‬as in this poem‭ ‬.‭" ‬Is it possible to avoid ideas in poetry‭?

JA:‭ ‬Come on,‭ ‬Lieutenant,‭ ‬let's get out of here.‭ ‬Young man,‭ ‬run along and play.

DK:‭ ‬This makes me think about some student poetry I've read,‭ ‬in which students decide before they have put pens to paper that they will absolutely write poems about,‭ ‬say,‭ ‬their fathers hitting them on the head.‭ ‬The results are often rather predictable narrative poems that describe what happened and petition the reader to feel a certain emotion.‭ ‬I like your idea of beginning a poem without really knowing what's going to come out of it.

JA:‭ ‬No illusion.‭ ‬Lieutenant is dead.‭ ‬Kirk to Enterprise.‭ ‬Come in.‭ ‬Lieutenant,‭ ‬can you be prevailed upon to bring them the news‭? ‬All my senior officers turning against me‭? ‬Even a starship captain appreciates a compliment like that,‭ ‬Lieutenant.

DK:‭ ‬Can you tell us a little bit about the writing process behind‭ "‬What Is Poetry‭"? ‬For example,‭ ‬we've got a‭ "‬frieze of boy scouts from Nagoya.‭" ‬There is also a mysterious‭ "‬they‭" ‬in the lines‭ "‬Now they‭ ‬/‭ ‬Will have to believe it‭ ‬/‭ ‬As we believed it.‭"

JA:‭ ‬Not really.‭ ‬He seems he's overcoming his resentment.‭ ‬Kirk to Enterprise.‭ ‬Lieutenant‭?

DK:‭ ‬I'm glad you told us about the medieval town with the frieze of boy scouts from Nagoya,‭ ‬because learning that you basically made this image up out of a variety of events lets people know that they can make things up in poetry.‭ ‬This way,‭ ‬one knows one doesn't have to rely on fact all the time.

JA:‭ ‬Coronation‭?‬.‭ ‬You did what you could.‭ ‬And the great misery which you now face.

DK:‭ ‬I'm not so sure a lot of students do think that way.‭ ‬I remember having writing teachers insist,‭ "‬Write what you know‭!"

JA:‭ ‬How many‭? ‬We didn't do anything like that.

DK:‭ ‬Yes,‭ ‬that is the problem.‭ ‬I think orders like‭ "‬Write what you know‭" ‬get interpreted to mean‭ "‬Write only what you've actually experienced in real life in real time.‭" ‬It's nice to know from you that we can pick and choose among time,‭ ‬history,‭ ‬and imagination so that we can write a poem that sounds good and feels good.

JA:‭ ‬Why shouldn't they answer our questions‭? ‬They don't think we can do anything to stop them..‭ ‬Quite an enigma,‭ ‬isn't it‭? ‬Try another channel,‭ ‬Lieutenant.‭ ‬Yes it is good.

DK:‭ ‬If a teacher stopped you on the street one day and said,‭ "‬Mr.‭ ‬Ashbery,‭ ‬whether you like it or not,‭ ‬I'm going to assign‭ '‬What Is Poetry‭' ‬to my high school students and tell them to write variations on it-help me find a way to do this,‭" ‬what would you say‭?

JA:‭ ‬What happened to him‭? ‬I did,‭ ‬Gorgan.‭ ‬My beast is gone.‭ ‬It lost its power in the light of reality.‭ ‬I command again,‭ ‬and I ordered you here.

DK:‭ ‬Can people still write about flowers without sounding flowery about it‭?

JA:‭ ‬I place you in the hands of our chess master.

DK:‭ ‬I read‭ "‬the thin vertical path‭" ‬as representing predictable poetry.‭ ‬I thought you were making a funny kind of editorial comment on poetry that gives us the obvious-the‭ "‬flowers‭" ‬of conventional poetry.

JA:‭ ‬What was your impression‭? ‬No,‭ ‬what are the ingredients‭?

DK:‭ ‬Are there such things as wrong interpretations,‭ ‬or do you distinguish more along the lines of imaginative interpretations versus dull,‭ ‬unenthusiastic interpretations‭?

JA:‭ ‬Yes.‭ ‬They may walk into a trap.

DK:‭ ‬You ended‭ "‬What Is Poetry‭" ‬with a question mark.‭ ‬Are there any virtues in ending a poem with a question mark or some other sign of indeterminacy‭?

JA:‭ ‬Lieutenant,‭ ‬if I'm to be the Captain,‭ ‬I've got to act like one.‭ ‬Yes.‭ ‬They may walk into a trap.

DK:‭ ‬Is there anything you want to add to our discussion of‭ "‬What Is Poetry‭"?

JA:‭ ‬Yes.‭ ‬My ship.‭ 


- Phillip A. Ellis 2014

New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Saudade (for Marina)

At first I was trying to make my mind up where to go as I had no place to be. Initially, I was slowly swaying from side to side. Had anyone caught me, I could have pretended to merely be shifting from one foot to the other. Then my head would move diagonally to the right, my neck pulling the rest of my body after it. When everything was caught up, my head would then go to the left. This back and forth gave my body the slowed down locomotion of a tadpole swimming; both my hands, thumbs hooked on the outside were tucked into my pants pockets.

I had to cross the dance floor, no one except the bandoneon and guitara seemed to notice me so that I had to weave among the moving couples; a vast richly colored, crillion hedge maze which took me the length of one song to complete.

I look up; there were two layers of stars out tonight. The ones which dotted the green and black cords that were strung from one tree to the next all around the plaza and then those that were higher up. Higher than where even the angels swim, faintly dotting the ripe stone fruit skin colored sky. Those others were too far away and tiny to be real. Beauty too can be like that.

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2014

www.waynewolfson.com

New Poetry by Scott-Patrick Mitchell

a roman matron

! sisters of sabine, listen: all men
are weak when disrobed of state
(& composure. it is we, daughters
of the she-wolf, who shall bring 
him to his knees

   . come, we say
, rest that handsome nose on the 
bosom of our pillow & weep us
your insecurity: how what you 
feel is, by your own creed, not
real; that you know all empires
must die; why you are secretly 
guilt embodied for your theft of
the dead, battlefield's bowerbird
, a carrion of all culture, adjunct 
, an appropriation of everybody 
     
     . nothing you 
have is truly yours , & you have
the whole world in love with 
your roman nose

  . even we, the 
sisters of sabine, are borrowed

? your downfall: believing that 
we believe in you, are bound &
honour you true. that we are oh 
so dutiful

    ! ha, no, dear roman
fellow, we are just suckling an
opportune colosseum to bring 
you your fall

. rome wasn't built in 
a day, but it will burn to the 
ground in just one night, like 
everyman can ignite: we’ll
make you burn in more than
just one way

        . now come &
succumb & we’ll let our kin
-dling through the gates to
make night burn as day


- Scott-Patrick Mitchell 2014

Scott-Patrick Mitchell (SPM) is a performance poet and fashion blogger from Perth, Western Australia. His work appears in New Poets 1 and Performance Poets: Fremantle Poets 3, both published by Fremantle Press. At current SPM is Australian Poetry's July online poet-in-residence. For more on SPM, visit either www.scott-patrickmitchell.com or www.outrageous-adventures.com, or even check out his Facebook fanpage.

. 

New Poetry by Rico Craig

Suvorov Square

At night, novels stroll on gravel 
pathways; whispers and powdered 
cheeks lifting with each white 
breath. Their confessions are fur-lined, 
necessary, worn to the thread. 

Eugene tears a letter into wishes that trail 
at his feet, Pushkin follows aiming 
his quill. Anna Karenina sits with her daughter, 
picking strands in a cats-cradle; Tolstoy nibbles 
a banana and tries to ignore their laughter. 
Raskolnikov badgers his shoe laces 
thinking of the coffee house where 
Dostoyevsky waits, texting rhapsodies to his bookie. 

In the morning, their mute footsteps 
are raked over by sturdy women. Nearby,
oblivious children parse the ribs of fallen
leaves, collecting handfuls to flutter and crackle 
at the hush between each rasping scrape.


- Rico Craig 2014

Rico is a writer and creative writing teacher, currently sharing his time between poetry, prose and working on pantomime scripts with school students. Recent work has been published at Cordite and Doctor T.J Eckleburg Review, and is forthcoming in Meanjin. For links to publications please visit:  http://ricoandhisroboteye.wordpress.com 

New Poetry by Robert Halleck

ROTARY CHRISTMAS PROGRAM

They came from the

school next door.

the Thursday before 

Christmas Eve.

Boys and girls of

color in a hotel

of lily white.

Eyes wide they

gazed upwards.

White shirts

White blouses.

They sang like saints

and left silently

taking Christmas 

with them.

- Robert Halleck 2014

Robert Halleck is a retired banker living in Del Mar, California with two retired racing Greyhounds. He has been writing poetry for over 50 years and has published two volumes of his collected works. His recent poems have appeared in The Camel Saloon, The San Diego Annual Poetry Anthology, The Scapegot, The Boston Poetry Review and other publications.

Tail lights Fade

It has been quite some time since I graced the world of blog with my pickled observations, and for that I apologise dear reader. To be honest, events of both a private and public nature have overwhelmed me somewhat, but after a difficult twelve months I feel the old fire returning.

I probably don't need to point out that the world, like my garden, has got a lot less tidy in that time. Australia has morphed from something of a geo-political backwater to the sun-parched Belgium of a new Asian paradigm. The word "Caliphate" is back after lying dormant for almost 100 years, ensuring a widening rift between Sunni and Shia the world over. Israel Israel Israel, the background static of my life, like my crazy neighbour's un-tuned radio.

Need I go on?

But the great buzzword in this country at present would seem to be "fairness", an almost quaintly archaic concern with the widening gap between rich and poor in both income and opportunity. What has prompted this sudden shift from "me" to "us"? Well,  Bluepepper is yet to be convinced there has even been a shift.

The ideological position of the current Federal government should not be a surprise to anyone who has taken even a passing interest in politics over the past 20 or 30 years. They are merely the pointy end of the Thatcher/Reagan "revolution" of the 1980's, an untiring and ultimately successful effort to reverse the trend toward a more re-distributive society in favour of unfettered opportunity for the individual. That this happened to coincide with the rise of the so-called "Me" generation of cashed up boomers is no accident of history. As Thomas Piketty recently highlighted in his book, "Capital in the 21st Century", much of the "equalising" of the 20th century was the result of the dissipation of capital by two world wars and the recognition of a "shared ordeal" that propelled governments to take measures to distribute wealth and opportunity more evenly. It was, after all, that great Prussian militarist, Otto von Bismarck, who led the way by founding the first welfare state back in the 1870's, realising that by so doing he was stealing a march on the socialists. But memories fade. The "us" appears to have become a "them" versus "me".

In this "society" atomised by competition between autonomous entities, any sense of a shared identity is difficult to find. What has come to be known as "Identity Politics" has run parallel with a widening gap between the haves and the have nots, as those unable or unwilling to organise to promote their interests fall further and further behind. That racism still thrives in such a context should really be no surprise to anyone who has even the most rudimentary understanding of human nature. Either we yearn to be considered exceptional, singular, or to belong to a group that considers itself as such. Rather than accept, and revel in, our universal heritage and destiny, we seek to rise above, either individually or collectively. Empathy in such circumstances, like truth in war, would appear to be the first casualty.

I am not so blinkered as to advocate a return to the old politics and old economics of the last century, paired as they were with rampant nationalism, racism, imperialism, etc. But I am just old enough to remember a time when matters of justice and equity were at the forefront of political debate, when the economy was there to serve the people rather than the other way around. Although limited in scope by many of the "isms" alluded to previously, there was a sense of the collective good and a detestation for elites that many in this country now find risible. In its relentless pursuit of surplus value, capitalism continues to present a challenge to democracy which is, after all, nothing more and nothing less than the tyranny of the majority. Neo-liberals chafe at this definition, and in their effort to circumvent it have allowed oligarchy (the expression of minority will) in through the back door, and we have become entranced by this minority of glamour and wealth even as it robs us of our birthright.

This is where the role of the artist, and especially of the poet, is crucial. For poetry is above all the art, perhaps even the science, of empathy. The poetry of identity is not what I am talking about here. Such poetry is merely advocating tribalism by another name. It may capture the imagination of journalists for whom empathy is rarely a governing instinct, but it is not poetry as I understand it. Great poetry speaks to a universal sense of inheritance and destiny, and as such should serve as a counter-weight to the increasing influence of a wealthy and powerful minority.

In the words of the Persian poet, Rumi:

This being human is a guest house. Every morning is a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor...Welcome and entertain them all. Treat each guest honorably. The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

In other words, raise your head from the trough, dear reader, and look around.

New Poetry by Juan Pablo Duboue

Doleō

Pain is a part of me as much as writing is a part of me

Sometimes it’s bloating and unbearable,

Though at times it is quite manageable.

Migraines come and go like the jasmines in my garden.

Summer intensifies and 

Winter harbours grudges. 

Blame it on the rectified cervical lordosis

Blame it on my insomnia 

Blame it on you, on me, on them

On them, on me, on you.

Psychosomatic disorders 

you name them.

I know the Rorschach by heart 

and the inkblots dye my mind. 

Imagination’s running wild

as the oil spills on the butterflies.

Not a penguin, but a butterfly 

Not a penguin, but a butterfly.

Haunting crows circle 

my sheets, an orgy of feathers 

and cawing at midnight.

They tear my limbs apart

My intestines open 

My aorta bleeding poppies in July.

I do not see myself as fat

I am not overweight 

It’s the eating that I dread

For food makes me gag

I cannot seem to hold it.

Body rejects what mind decides is past.

Bags have transmuted from a grayish green to black 

People seem to stare at me

As if I were a terminal patient

There’s nothing terminal in me 

My conditions are chronic 

They let me rest 

They let me have my days

And then the cycle starts

Again and again and again.

An episode here and there 

When life’s good it’s every four months

Otherwise it’s every month

A cramp 

A shock

A needle stuck into my neck 

A syringe plunged into my back.

It’s dying and resurrecting every time

Every four months, lucky me.

Doctors say it’s in my mind

Shrinks say it’s in my blood 

Daddy says it’s on his family’s side

Mother says just stop the nonsense 

You’re fine.

Thank you for your insights

But the pain is still concrete

I can touch it 

I can grab it

I can chew it

Feel it twisting me

From the inside out 

A thousand claws 

Toying with my insides.

Feasting over me.

A common depersonalization,

fear of a heart attack,

a nervous breakdown.

The acute onset

cradles me to sleep.

I am one with the attack,

a sisterly feeling

of impending death;

Pain is a part of me as much as writing is a part of me.

I know the Rorschach by heart 

and the inkblots dye my mind.

- Juan Pablo Duboue 2014

Juan Pablo Duboue was born in Mendoza, Argentina in 1986. Currently pursuing a masters in Contemporary English Literature, he works as a teacher, interpreter and translator. Apart from writing poetry and short stories, Juan Pablo is also a singer and a ballet dancer.