ECB 1955 – 1980
I used to tell myself your time
around again. Perhaps I’d find a door
slightly ajar and swing it wide
and find you’d hidden
You’d brush the dust from
of your jeans and say, I
a haircut, and I’m
for a cigarette. Perhaps I’d find
this all had been a dream
like the one I had where I said
You have to quit smoking
now that you’re dead,
and watched you turn
to ash and vanish in your own
Twenty-five years you spent
and today another twenty-five
as part of it
and you are still as diffuse
as that smoke.
My memory, too, has dissipated
my will. All I know of you now, sister,
is that you made me laugh
and you drove too fast.
Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts,
where she teaches English at Wheaton College. Her recent work is appearing or forthcoming in River Styx, Measure, and The Ghazal Page. She also serves as associate
poetry editor for Cider Press Review.
after Nocturne: Black & Gold – The Firewheel, James Abbott McNeil Whistler
Who conjures an ache
like this: The firewheel
crackles, flings gold nebulae
above your head. Meanwhile you
on an invisible barge. On shore,
the village streetlamps and
flicker like prayers for courage
into shadows. Feel your sweat
bead one by one, lit by the
that blows smoke.
The night sky pulses, veined
Jari Thymian’s poetry has appeared in Ekphrasis, Margie Review, Flutter, Broadsided Press, Pedestal
Magazine, Alehouse, The Orange Room Review, and Melusine. Poems are forthcoming
in Memoir (and), Spillway, Foundling Review, Ken*Again, and Kent State’s
(Ohio) 3-year traveling art/poetry exhibit called Peace Speaks. She has a chapbook,
The Meaning of Barns, Finishing Line Press. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
She lives in a suburb of Denver, Colorado.
The Nature of the Cycle
You have to believe it doesn’t
that no one expects any different
born among the people you were,
raised the way you were.
You know they’ll do it
as you did.
You know that worse than pain
or guilt or shame, they’ll
carry the emptiness
with them, the belief they weren’t
And worse than that, they’ll
carry the dread
of what their hands might do
to those they call their own.
You have to hate yourself a
believe you probably deserved
when it was done to you.
Author of six collections of poetry
and over 700 poems published in journals and anthologies, Scott Owens is editor of Wild Goose Poetry Review, Vice President of the Poetry Council of North Carolina, and recipient of
awards from the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Academy of American Poets, the NC Writers’ Network, the NC Poetry Society,
and the Poetry Society of SC. He holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro and currently
teaches at Catawba Valley Community College.
Grace H. Jung
The sky and air is yellow this afternoon.
It's canvas-yellow, and gets stretched over
four beams of light wood, put together to form a rectangle of 16 by 20 inches.
But can you
fit the sight into this frame?
The trees are swaying. They move their bud-studded stems and scrape across buildings with green windows—green
windows of Mapo-gu buildings
and Buam-dong mansions.
Green windows to keep the light out and bring the jade glare in
but closer to emerald, really.
I don’t understand that green for those building windows. I don’t understand that occasional violet,
I don’t understand the yellow dust that blows over the skies of this area
orange light that comes off the lamppost when dark closes in.
Grace Jung is a 2009-2010 Fulbright grant recipient. Several
of her poems have been published in Aphros Magazine. She is currently translating all of Yi Sang's poems into English.
Three of them have been published in Acta Koreana (2010). She lives in New York.
The Sun in a bare peek is a cloud's pug-snout.
Sea plane spirals, wing-bottoms slaked in digits,
a telephone number, call for a quick fly-over.
A prejudice evolves between plane and moisture,
each despairing to out-climb the other.
Probably this is more animals, more weather.
Frigid hail forms where once a light ray spanned,
drops like teeth spat in a bucket,
the snout wet, the breathing heavy,
the drone of the crowd far below.
The telephone number glints and turns.
So the Sun, so the world.
Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with
his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others
across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion
(2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in
print. Other Cruel Things (2009),
an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press.