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Poetry - page 2

Here’s a list of our recent selected poetry. We prefer poems with these qualities: innovative, electrifying, and thoroughly intoxicating image, subtlety, and point of view; a surface of worldly exactitude, as well as a depth of semantic ambiguity. Before submitting, please read these poems and our submission guidelines.

The Unemployment Of My Soul & How Lola Became A Vegetarian

in Poetry by

THE UNEMPLOYMENT OF MY SOUL

I can march on a picket line
in front of God’s Home Office
or sing: brother can you spare a dime—
trudge up and down the avenue
looking for work— anything will do,
a shoeshine box, or dishwashing hands
ready and able to perform God’s work.

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Lust, Invasion and Other Poems, by Stuart Bartow

in Poetry by

LUST

Love or lust, she declared from the back
of the classroom, What difference does it make?
And, after all, isn’t it only words, parsing.
But that back road I often travel, that
fist of sparrows between the fields, their

sister or mate gliding too low, car-clipped,
stranded in the road’s middle, still singing
to her flock as they fretted around her,
scattering back to the bushes between
passing pickup trucks, then returning,
trying to levitate their love through song
that their urging might make miracle,
and I thought, maybe, that’s the difference.

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Mountains, poems by Sébastien Doubinsky

in Poetry by

The barbarians bang on their shields
while the Greek poet sips his ouzo
and gives the kids a few olives
“ah money,” he thinks, “money”
then he looks at the sea
and doesn’t think anymore

night falls
poet rises
temporary balance

the moon fell on the mountain top
and rolled down to the bottom
like a small sliver coin
the poet pocketed it
while nobody was watching

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Painlandia and Other Poems, by Barbara Ungar

in Poetry by

Painlandia

Language is the only homeland.
—Czeslaw Milosz

you want only to escape,
barefoot, schlepping

your bundle. If you’re lucky
and do, you lose the lingo

we all want only to forget.
Cross the border and no one

gets that primitive tongue
that sounds to them like barking

or moaning. Who could guess
the tenderness of its ten thousand

untranslatable ways of saying
Feel.

P comes from the 3,000-year-old Phoenician and Semitic sign pe, mouth.

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The Man With Six Hands and Other Poems, by Michael Meyerhofer

in Poetry by

THE MAN WITH SIX HANDS

May not have seen
the face of God
but he made a wicked
swimmer, so many
chlorinated molecules passing
between his fingers
that he blurred
towards the finish line
where a blue-
eyed sweetheart
with brothers in the war
smiled and knelt as
she held the towel open.

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Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick and Other Poems, by George Drew

in Poetry by

Why He Hasn’t Seen The New James Bond Flick

He really wanted to go today,
but didn’t. Now the man reclines
in his recliner, watching on his wall
to wall flatscreen images of the most

recent apocalyptic carnage flash
one after another, specters there
then not there, entanglements
of grief and sorrow, anger, and relief

that he is here and not there. Here,
the man rubs his hot crotch, rubs up
and down, each rub aligned to wave
lengths of photons streaming in

and out of his flatscreen. He rubs
and rubs, and nothing happens,
nothing here and nothing there,
rubs, comforted that at least he still

has them. That he hasn’t lost them.
Even if only shaken and not stirred.

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