Featured Poem: In 2019, by Matt Borczon

In 2019

I am
an old
man yelling
at clouds
a dog
shivering in
a doorway
I am
a crescent
moon and
all the
stars

I am
a promise
broken
a dream
you wake
from crying
I am
everything and
nothing all
at once

I am
on the
head of
a cosmic
pin on
an Ohio
blue tip
match I
am what
50 wolves
howling sounds
like

and I
am still
always
the guy
in the
bar talking
to himself
and talking
to no
one at
all.

FEATURED POET: JOHN D. ROBINSON

POET’S PAGE: John D. Robinson

THE REFLECTION

‘Look’ she said, mobile phone

in hand; she slowly flipped

through a series of photographs

of her nakedness swollen and

smothered in bruises and

traumatic injuries:

‘I woke up in agony, I had no

idea what happened, I called

the police and of course no

one in the house knew

anything about it’

she was shaking and

trembling,

she was frightened, as she’s

been for 25 years:

11 years of constant booze

and drug addiction, clean

and sober for 3 weeks:

‘I feel good, I’m in

control, you know, I can

think now’

she told me and smiled

a beautiful smile, it

felt like a new world

that she’d just stepped into

for the first time

and seeing a reflection

of herself

and not recognising

who she was looking at.

The Walt Whitman Poetry Prize Winners

walt-whitman-9530126-1-402

Wining Poem – “Stereoscope:  Pioneer Cabin Tree” by Jill Bergantz Carley

1st Runner Up – “Browsing” by Sarah Oso

2nd Runner Up – ” Zubiri” by Alexandra McIntosh

Runner Up – “the cigarette burns my body alive into a cherry” by Emily Ellison

Runner Up – “In The Marketplace” by Joseph M. Gerace

Runner Up –  “Tappahannock” by Kim Harvey

Runner Up – “Little Spoon” by Logo Wei

Runner Up –   Faith and The Silver maple by Sandra Kolankiewicz

Runner Up – “My Chosen Bestiary” by Tassyln Magnusson

 

The Walt Whitman Prize Winning Poem

Stereoscope: Pioneer Cabin Tree
by Jill Bergantz Carley

Dogwood blooms, Bierstadt’s mammoth work–
Look: what they are telling you, is true.

I’ve never seen a thing so heavy
Below us, always, curled and
curving a weft of roots to hold them straight,
a ripcord frayed by us, by time, by drought, by fire.

The spot where a trunk meets ground, it is like that;
It’s a weight so large the earth will barely hold it.
Time and exposure,
hemorrhaging cells iron red like our soil soft; downy fur, its trunk, red roots shot through
granite,
We could both find a ferric grave.

Here is Krakatoa, soot-stained into this flesh
Here: it has known language in all its incantations
Here: disaster, cellulose packed so tight there was no growth those years at all, such small cells
stacked.
Here: winter,
swollen, a baptism, here:

Pinned into its red fur, my first boyfriend slid his hand under my blouse;
and, this thing of wonder, of me quaking beneath him, first and always in the dirt at her feet; rise
and fall, a sharp breath, our own topography.

Or the live oak, a riot of mistletoe in its branches;
the heavy stone, feldspar-flecked,
upon which we took our vows;
the lake,
a mirror.

I will tell you: it fell in my lifetime;
I will tell you that.

 

 

Jill Bergantz Carley

Jill Bergantz Carley makes her home in Calaveras County, California, where she lives a half mile from the stoplight and directly over the Mother Lode.  Her visual work has appeared in the DeYoung Museum, bG Gallery, ARTWEEK, and elsewhere.  Her writing has been published by Transfer, Catch, Virga Magazine, and is forthcoming this fall from Silver Needle Press and Opossum.  She’ll be reading at the Death Rattle Writers Festival in Nampa, Idaho, the first weekend of October.  Her day job in engineering keeps her  out of trouble. 

A BIT AFTER SEVEN ON TUESDAY MORNING, by Ethan Warren

 

A newborn mouse clung to life in the kitchen,
Where I nearly kicked it as I filled the kettle,
And then unconsciously decided it was a he,
And that he was dead.
But his minuscule entirety quaked.
After whole minutes of paralysis,
I put a glass over his shivering frame,
And slid a piece of cardstock beneath,
Then took him outside like a bothersome spider,
Leaving him on a rock to wave barely perceptible limbs at no one.
What an easy symbol, I joked later.
If I used it in fiction, you’d roll your eyes.
And I waited for someone to explain to me that symbolism,
So I might know why I still find myself short of breath,
My mind echoing with silent cries.