You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2011.

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Other notable works by Lynn Levin and Jude Goodwin.

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Antonia Clark-

Comedian

This is serious, they keep saying
no laughing matter. But he can’t stop.
Even when it hurts to breathe. Irony
being both beautiful and humorous.

He lines the bottles up on the sill
over the sink, the pills in a row
on the table, pushes them
into a a smile, then a scowl.

Most are small and pastel. Only
one that’s hard to get down,
huge and oblong and furious yellow.
I can cut it in half for you, she says.

But he says, leave it. Let me
choke on it. Killed by the cure–
Now that would be funny.

_______________

Northerly

The wind’s out of the north,
no mere breeze or flurry,
no whistling gypsy.

No white-faced, puff-cheeked
cartoon blowing up women’s skirts

breaking up the party
with a phony tornado warning

or a shrieking banshee
spreading bad news like smoke.

Not even your everyday guster,
whipping dry branches
to tinder, their oaky havoc thrown
in the face of a gunmetal sky.

It’s a wannabe wind, a would-be
ripper that gallops, charges,

slams.

A big-mouthed blowhard,
a boorish and unwelcome guest
who stirs everyone into a frenzy
and then leaves, all in a huff.

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We Agree to the Deal

Despite carping
and complaints —
the high cost
and low coverage,
loopholes and
hidden agendas,
illegible devils
in the details
of fine print -—
we nod, accept
the weak handshake
of the future
without comment,
hoping against
hope that tomorrow’s
no false promise,
dawn more
than a mirage
on the horizon.

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Antonia Clark works for a medical software company in Burlington, Vermont, and is co-administrator of an online poetry workshop, The Waters. Recent poems have appeared in The 2River View, Anderbo, Apparatus Magazine, The Cortland Review, Soundzine, Umbrella, and elsewhere. She loves French food and wine, and plays French café music on a sparkly purple accordion.
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Lynn Levin-

Idylls of Mayfield

America during the days of Leave It to Beaver
was so gentle: even the war was a Cold War. Wally
never worried about finding himself, and Ward
knew he was blessed with well-adjusted kids and beautiful June
who always looked up to him. Oh orderly suburbs! Oh Mayfield!
whose major troubles came from the mind of Eddie Haskell

who wouldn’t quit giving Beav the business. Eddie Haskell
who got Wally to break curfew and urged Beaver
to sign up for the modeling agency. Remember Mayfield’s
soup bowl billboard? Beaver scaled it the night of Wally’s
teen party and got stuck in the bowl. I bet June
was hysterical. “Next time don’t take foolish dares,” counseled Ward

who parented per Spock, spared the rod. And Ward
never forgot that he’d been young once. Eddie Haskell
wasn’t as lucky in the dad department, but did he flatter June,
“You look lovely today, Mrs. Cleaver!” Sure Beaver
understood that Eddie was two-faced, but he was Wally’s
best friend. I never figured out why in all of Mayfield

Wally couldn’t find a better best friend. Anyhow, life after Mayfield
wasn’t easy for Ken Osmond. He could only look forward
to smarmy-guy roles and finally became a cop on the LAPD. Was Wally
scratching his head about that, thinking how ironic that Eddie Haskell
was making other people follow the rules? After Beaver
Jerry Mathers earned a B.A. in philosophy and a bundle in real estate. June

would have been proud. And Eddie was right. June
was a vision in shirtwaists and pearls, always dressed to go out in Mayfield
though she never went anywhere. Staying home for Wally and Beaver
seemed to fulfill her. She had that kind of grace and in Ward
a decent guy who managed a smile whenever Eddie Haskell
came to the door. Yet how could that boy not envy Wally?

Clean cut, smart, well liked, a letterman in sports, Wally
was ripe for Eddie’s corruption and certainly June
kept an eye out, maybe pitied him too, for I suspect Eddie Haskell
felt bad about himself the way the less loved, less talented may feel
bad about themselves. The Cleavers found fate kinder. They had Ward
who listened and fixed what he could fix so that Beaver

and Wally could have a happy childhood in Mayfield.
Sometimes I wished my parents were like June and Ward
but I always laughed when Eddie Haskell messed with Beaver.

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Mooncakes

As one keeps piecing the lone star
or pounding the 5K
declaring after lengthy self-application
a kind of enthusiasm
for those things, so I have eaten
and learned to love mooncakes –
the sweet satiny mucilage
of their amber goo
centers filled with lotus seeds
boiled, mashed, cooked
with much sugar and oil.
Fashionable not to like them
yet I admit to mooncakes
a mild addiction. I buy them
during the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival –
ingots in their cellophane sleeves
lined up on the counter
at the bakery on North Tenth
their delicate pastry skins pressed
with the flowers of wealth
the ducks of happy marriage.
I slice one with a bone knife
eat it from a black plate
alone, no one else
complaining of my taste –
I have taught myself that small pleasure.

(“Mooncakes” was originally published in Ping*Pong.)

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Lynn Levin is a poet, writer, and translator. Her poetry collections include Fair Creatures of an Hour (Loonfeather Press), a Next Generation Indie Book Awards
finalist in poetry, and Imaginarium (Loonfeather Press), a finalist for ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Award. Her poems and essays have appeared in Boulevard, Ploughshares, Southwest Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, and other places. She teaches at Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania.
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Jude Goodwin-

Love, and the kicking of it

It took years, starting in detox
many times into detox
holding different hands
sneaking out for a smoke then run
run across the wet lawns
find a bus. After that it was rehab.
and groveling (my
father’s word). Rehab
then off to Half Way,
dragging a duffle of
journals, New Dawn,
New Day – I carry polaroids
of it all on a key ring,
next to a fob inscribed
with the number seven.
It’s a new number
every year, and a cake.
And I’ve learned things:
how to walk along the Squamish
River, ride my bike
straight down The Plunge,
I’ve learned about sashimi salad
and there have been
some good books, very good
books. At night as I lie
awake I remember the feel
of their pages, their rough
edges, the smell of their ink.
It took years but I believe
I’m over it all now, the phone calls
have stopped, I’ve lost track
of the old gang. In Recovery
they gave me a grey blanket
and I still have that today.

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Murder Wrinkles

I’ve read recently
about murder wrinkles
and think I saw them once
on a woman about my age.
We’re always pictured
either desperately content
or desperately not,
either wearing bird watching
jackets and gardening gloves,
or red lipstick and long
cigarettes. And dark glasses.
I think about that one
while wandering the parking lot
looking for my car. And about
Leonard Cohen. How did he love
all those women and end up
alone? All those breasts,
and red mouths, and bird
analogies, all those rivers and
petals. Seven decades
and there’s still no one to say
“Why don’t you turn on the radio
Lenny, and sit by me awhile.”
I’m looking for Leonard
Cohen at the new Bookshelf
but it’s Monday and the place
is usually empty like this,
just a few robins around
the self-aware section,
clutching their cloth shopping
bags. I forget I’m not wearing
bellbottoms and tie-dye
anymore, with a flower
in the buttonhole of my blue
sweater. Murder wrinkles.
I googled it of course.
Turns out, everyone wants
to know.

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Because of the falling

she tied long yellow
ribbons to her fingertips

added white linen with a high
thread count, and

on an afternoon when the sun
tilted across the park

she spread her arms
and the earth let go

at last, while her family
swarmed the grassy areas

raised their glasses
in celebration

watched her become smaller
through the amber lens

of champagne. She’s gone
to a better place. They all agreed,

and waved. The message spread
like wind along the river

and people looked up, folded
their papers and lunch bags

lifted their hands from their cats
and shaded their eyes.

It was a long time before she dared
to land, with only a few friends

available to wrap her,
and bring her tea.

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Oh Couch

I love this couch –
ugly,
but long enough,
it fits me.
People with kids need
couches like this one
for naps
during cartoon hour
and dogs
need couches like this.
And blankets
like to gather here,
the fleece, the ancient knitted.
It can be crowded
when something good
is on the telly or on the hearth,
it can be
orange
when something pumpkin-
like is lit and glowing
near the far end,
but it can’t be angry.
This couch
can’t make its pillows hard
or fold its arms
against us.
It’s the thankful couch
and it takes me
lazy, fat, or drunk,
in tears or wrestling
for the perfect spot.
It takes me
and we wear plaid together,
share the smell of paraffin
and patchouli oil.
Oh couch of couches,
mud coloured, dog
haired, coin
thief, remote
concealor,
all things end
with couch and I.

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Window Party

There’s a window party
tonight, the women laughing
must be made of glass.
There are men shouting
like mud men
across the garden
in number twelve
hands on each other
and breaking chairs.
Sleep doesn’t care
sleep says this
is now a pool party
all wrestlers and red
lipped Bettys down
below sound, deep
green and round
their noises jiggle
the face of the moon
and now they’re gone.

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Red

We stood in the rain today,
the November rain,
probably together although
I couldn’t find your face,
didn’t recognize you
in uniform and away
from the dance floor.
People carried wreaths
to the cenotaph, I held
an umbrella for someone
elderly. The pipers played.

Is this Canadian? The pipers
in their red plaid kilts, the red
poppies on all our breasts,
the red combusting maple trees
above all our damp heads,
you in your red tunic
and stiff boots, not looking for me.

We stood in the rain today
and any one of you
could have walked up to me,
slipped your arm around my waist
and I would have fallen a bit
to feel you there – so I held my place,
a woman alone, believing
that peace might come
to the world someday, and if it does
we’ll be standing together like this again,
listening to the pipers play.

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Jude Goodwin is an internet poet whose poems can be read in print journals including Cider Press Review, Burnside Review, Comstock Review, and CV2. Her poems have repeatedly won and placed well in the IBPC: New Poetry Voices competition, were twice shortlisted in the CBC Radio Literary Awards, and can be found online in journals such as Eclectica and the Pedestal. Jude lives in Squamish BC, Canada where she runs a small publishing and design shop.
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Masthead

Editor, Lisa Zaran

ISSN: 1095-732x

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2007

January - Roger Humes
February - Jimmy Santiago Baca
March - Graham Burchell
April - Ruth Daigon
May - Anne Fraser
June - Corey Mesler
July - Scott Malby
August - James Keane
September - Maurice Oliver
October - Robert Pinsky
November - Louis Daniel Brodsky
December - Bill Duvall

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2008

January - Kelley White
February - L. Ward Abel
March - Maura Stanton
April - Dr. Charles Frederickson
May - Peter Magliocco
June - Penny Harter
July - Gary Beck
August - Jéanpaul Ferro
September - Fish and Shushan
October - Kenneth Gurney
November - John Gallaher
December - Carmen Alexandra

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2009

January - Karen Rigby
February - A.D. Winans
March - Donald Illich
April - Stephen Ferreira
May - Tracee Coleman
June - Ernest Williamson
July - Sally Van Doren
August - Nanette Rayman Rivera
September - Gianina Opris
October - Judson Mitcham
November - Joel Solonche
December - Peycho Kanev

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2010

January - Louis Gallo
February - Buxton Wells
March - Labi Siffre
April - Regina Green
May - Howard Good
June - Carol Lynn Grellas
July - William Doreski
August - Sari Krosinsky
September - Ben Nardolilli
October - James Piatt
November - Robert Lietz
December - John Grey

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2011

January - Robert Philbin
February - iolanda scripca
March - Tad Richards
April - Katie Kopin
May - Jacob Newberry
June - George Moore
July - Rae Spencer
August - Jim Richards
September - Antonia Clark
October - Tannen Dell
November - Christina Matthews
December - Charles Clifford Brooks III

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2012

January - Anniversary Issue
February - Jim Davis
March - Ivy Page
April - Maurice Oliver
May - Lori Desrosiers
June - Ray Sharp
July - Nathan Prince
August - Robert Klein Engler
September - Jenn Monroe
October - John Grey
November - Andrea Potos
December - Christina M. Rau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2013

January - Maria Luisa Arroyo
February - Journal on haitus

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2014

April - Rebirth
May - Timothy Walsh
June - Brian Fanelli
July - Carol Smallwood
August - Elizabeth P. Glixman
September - Sally Van Doren
October - Sherry O'Keefe
November - Robert McDonald
December - Gerry McFarland

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2015

January - James Keane
February - Liza Hyatt
March - Joseph Reich
April - Charles Thielman
May - Norbert Krapf
June - Lynne Knight
July - Sarah Brown Weitzman
August - Tom Montag
September - Susan Palmer
October - Holly Day
November - A.J. Huffman
December - Tom Pescatore

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2016

January - Richard Perin
February - Linne Ebbrecht
March - Sheri Vandermolen
April - Molly Cappiello
May - Caleb Coy
June - Paul Lubenkov
July - Domenic Scopa
August - Adam Phillips
September - Timothy Gager
October - Bruce Lader
November - Holly Day
December - Al Rocheleau

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2017

January - Robert Lietz
February - Jocelyn Heaney
March - David Brinkman
April - Lana Bella
May - Kaitlyn O'Malley
June - Ruth Kessler
July - Chanel Brenner
August - Darren Demaree
September - George Moore
October - Joshua Medsker
November - Ralph Monday
December - Howie Good

Confirmed Featured Poets – 2018

January - Simon Perchik

Artwork

Image of bird by contemporary artist, Courtney Smith
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