Art & literatures emerging from everywhere in this planet

Past Issues

Volume 04 Issue 02

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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What the camera tells the writer about genius and grief

in Art & Photography by

Dedicated collaboration with a camera is worth an MFA degree to a writer. And editing in the era of the digital image is like recruiting unused brain cells.

The camera teaches us how to see things. It teaches us to look for what we routinely overlook. It teaches us nuance, shadow, light, and how to make collages with them.

What distinguishes a good photographer is not the cost of the equipment hanging around the neck. It’s an eye for composition, a sense of how things juxtapose to say something beyond the reach of each thing being composed.

Anyone can learn how to take a good picture of an object. But contextualizing that object in reference to its environ, that’s different. Writing a good sentence is not the same as being a good writer.

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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 indispensable face, by Djelloul Marbrook

in Fiction by

Of how many faces can you say, I’m glad I won’t be leaving this place without having seen that face? I don’t mean the faces, necessarily, of loved ones. I mean instead those relatively few faces one is glad, truly glad, not to have missed.

They will differ, of course, for different people. Given the plethora of media in our times, we see many more faces than most people would have seen in earlier times, and we’re influenced by editorial and curatorial ideas about beauty.

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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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