How beautiful the
open lens; the di-
the clear instrument.
The credits are al-
ways rolling. Half sleep
half silence; this is
the movie of your
life, how the roiling
clouds blacken the
horizon, and from
the distance pierce
the lens, through
the membrane in-
Glenn Freeman has published two collections of poems, Keeping the Tigers Behind Us and Traveling Light. He lives with his wife and two cats in small-town Iowa where he teaches writing and American literature and watches the tomatoes grow.
The Poetics of Uncertainty
—with apologies to Schrödinger
The other night I dreamt I understood
quantum mechanics. Position X should
be determined simultaneously
with momentum Y but can’t be. Reality
should be represented in its gritty
particularity but can’t be. Indirectly
is the only way art can represent.
There is no outside outside the present.
I’m not sure if the universe even scans,
but entropy’s only a problem in the hands
of a closed system. The world is not
even close to what you thought.
This poem may or may not be a sonnet.
We may never know while the lid’s still on it.
Glenn Freeman has published two collections of poems, Keeping the Tigers Behind Us and Traveling Light. He lives with his wife and two cats in small town Iowa where he teaches writing and American literature and watches the tomatoes grow.
Sympathy Dart Frog
I have to hire
a sympathy dart frog
to sit, and wait, in the palm
of my hand
to mutter the things
that feel strange for me to say
and so that I can effortlessly hand
to strangers this frog
when they are crying on the train, and
my body language
will convey something about
the universal nature of human suffering
instead of something about the
prevalence of human apathy
Brennan Downey is a wilderness therapy field guide in Vermont who was raised in Virginia and who once won an award for his laugh.
Let’s Start with the Body
down to roots that suck the inner thickness
between your hip and collarbone—
if your entire body were a mouth
then pour me in like a cracked egg
—what flesh of you reaches down
with its churned, folksy swell
and hangs on an iron hook
above a man who thinks he owns
your right to nakedness. harp
of bones strung from yolky sinews
sweetened with honey pistil
I want to reach down and sing
the old familiar. The west of Eden choirs
that crackle your heartwood
until there’s a heaven in your hands
a pink-white crease
a wildness, a careful suture
of a thread that only unravels
to catch droplets
that couldn’t find ground.
Tanner Lee lives in Ogden, Utah, and studies at Weber State University. His writing has appeared in Hobart and Glass, and is forthcoming in The Comstock Review and Lost Sparrow Press. He is an assistant blog manager at The Blueshift Journal. Find him on twitter @heytannerlee.
We climbed into the anytime night,
swept into the heavy forest like Jews escaping,
animals without worry of tripping
over freshly mounted headstones.
The hustling below hawkish owls
piercing us with their centrifugal yellow,
the brute trees quarantining us
through an unrelenting maze.
Thinking of safe cover
(imagining bear and wolf dens),
considering that if Buddhism is right,
we can indeed break our very minds.
And yet when darkness eventually lifted,
with our beds of moss and rock,
we thought only to reach
the river and map out a new future.
Tyler Gabrysh is a Canadian writer who has been a contest winner in Geist, Other Voices, and Open Minds Quarterly. He also writes his self-coined ALPs (alternate lyric poems), and his book reviews and interviews have appeared in several other publications. Among his inspirations are his two cats. He is yet another writer working on a novel.
They’re known as ‘A’ levels, a test, a tilt
at adult standing, competition’s prize.
The young are safely gathered into rows
in a stuffy hall whose intermittent sounds
shuffle a wavering path round echoing space.
Teacher, invigilator, padding round,
believes (he really does) in love-of-learning
(that afterthought in education’s screeds),
but knows, in ten weeks’ time, he’ll map them out,
two A’s, three B’s. My pass rate. My results.
The pupils, concentration’s ants, scratch on,
minute by minute, in the silent hall.
Someone has just forgotten Darcy’s name.
Someone remembers, panicking, the steps
by which Othello’s wrought to jealousy.
The past two years included shafts and rays
of insight, happiness, the learning thing.
They’ll go now to their colleges, while he
recalls the mornings when the classes’ track
stumbled on unexpected grains of joy.
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet who taught English in high schools for over thirty years, and creative writing in higher education for a further twelve. His poems have been published widely in Britain and the United States, including San Pedro River Review, Constellations, and Verse-Virtual.
Gus and Darlynda
Looking for scratch paper
Gus rips a page from one of Darlynda’s
Victoria’s Secret catalogs
He figures she keeps them as a form of masochism
as she is hipless, flat-chested, and plain
He is no more attractive
with unruly reddish hair and a gangling walk
Now fifty, Gus knows they’re headed for ugliness—
he only hopes they get there tardy
as he always did to school
He still remembers Darlynda in second grade
hanging from monkey bars
a cute little sparkplug despite her buck teeth
This Victoria’s Secret model
has dark eyes and a midriff smooth as ice—
more appealing, he’s sorry to note,
than any current portion of Darlynda
Still, he recognizes that a fashion photographer with an airbrush
could probably make Darlynda sparkle
as she had when they got married, three decades back
on the shore of Lake Michigan
near their hometown of Windchill
where winters are more brutal than fate
Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over twelve hundred of his poems and fiction pieces appear in literary magazines in the United States and abroad. He has been nominated for numerous prizes. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.