Tag Archives: poem

Decoherence // Poems by Nate Pritts Available for Pre-Order

9 Aug

img_1626.png

from the forthcoming Decoherence by Nate Pritts.

For more information or to pre-order click here.

 

Happy Friday, yes?

27 Jan

Interested poets, you still have 33 days to submit to the 2017 42 Miles Press Poetry Award contest.

In the meantime, Kimberly Lambright’s Ultra-Cabin (winner of the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award), is available to be previewed and purchased at SPD and Amazon. And… an awesome interview with the author can be found here.

And, because it’s Friday, and I’m thinking about Spring… here are two poems from Superstition Review by the 2017 42 Miles Press Poetry Award winner, Nate Pritts (DECOHERENCE, forthcoming). 

 

 

The opposite of clockwork is not this blog post

14 Jan

Screen Shot 2017-01-06 at 4.05.18 AM.png

“Last Word” by Allan Peterson from Precarious.

Precarious is currently available for purchase at Amazon and SPD.

What are you intoxicated by this winter?

6 Jan

screen-shot-2017-01-06-at-3-21-45-am

“To Vie” from Kimberly Lambright’s Ultra-Cabin (winner of the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award). 

Ultra-Cabin is currently available and able to be previewed and purchased at SPD and Amazon. Or you can purchase a copy from the author herself. She will be reading on 1.12.17 at BookWoman in Austin, TX and again on 1.13.17 at Berl’s Poetry Shop in Brooklyn, NY.

 

 

 

“Wrap” from Kimberly Lambright’s ULTRA-CABIN, coming 09/01/16

17 Aug

Here’s another poem, a cold one for a warm evening.

Screen shot 2016-08-14 at 2.36.41 PM

From Kimberly Lambright’s Ultra-Cabin, winner of the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award, available September 1, 2016 (Amazon, SPD).

TWO POEMS TO READ AT 4:13 PM

8 Oct
G’afternoon’, South Bend & beyond!
It’s 4:13 PM on the eighth day of October.
Here are two poems and a photograph of a bass guitar…

full


GHOST
By Leila Chatti

I like how easily I see
through you. There,

the slumbering bulb
of your heart

between the dead-branch-
thicket of your ribs.

Your fingers spindles
of air, slightly blue around

each tip. All
day I feel their cold

constant touch. You are heavier
than I thought; you cast long shadows

in the dark. I want to spend all night
talking into your silence.

In bed, you curl your whole nothing
against me, arm at my waist

my arm, breath on
my neck, my breath.

* poem from decomP, August 2014 (http://www.decompmagazine.com/ghost.htm)


THINGS THAT ARE MUFFLED OPEN
By Kristin Abraham

We start off slow like this, red. Watch
the stones tipping off our shoes, the snow.
Each second small and aspirin-flavored,
the learning of childhood. May I sit? May I
stand? Look both ways, please & thank you.
(Curtsy to the crowd.) (Pause for applause.)
May I sit? The world is gathering itself up
to answer, making hesitant check-marks.
May I stand? Lists of hurt already long
enough. Long enough, the world begins,
begins a sigh. So we’re looking at the
cracks in the lampshade. Looking for
the yellow to come through, where there’s biology: electricity: math, meaning
the more we touch it, the more it spreads.
Like menthol, heat rash. The louder it gets.
Stand back; I’m going to need that air.

* poem from Little Red Riding Hood Missed the Bus, Subito Press, 2008

THREE POEMS TO READ AT 1:41 AM

1 Oct
G’evenin’, South Bend & beyond!
It’s 1:41 AM on the first day of October.
Here are three poems and a picture of an adult beverage…
3bbead5cb71b11e1b00112313800c5e4_7

 (Photo by: Chad Forbregd) 


GOOD NEWS BAD NEWS
By Bruce Taylor

Nothing’s what it used or ought to be:
always too much of this, never enough
of that, only a drop left to drink,
no one to drink it with. Everything is
a miracle, or the miracle fades,
the glory of the world goes or goes on
without us, as far as we know, which is
little or nothing, chosen, as we are, or
exempted, delivered or abandoned we won’t
know until it happens, if it happens at all.

*poem from Rattle #41, Summer 2014


JOY
By Byron Case

To find for yourself, at this late stage,
something like joy. To tease up her skirts,
a dirty old man. To moisten your fingers almost
jubilantly. To touch and be stirred, even a little.
To be content with this. Why not? Near-joy knows you well
enough. You’ve flirted with her all your life: the cream
sodas on hot afternoons, the colorfully wrapped birthday gifts
given and received, the sodden aftermaths of school dances,
the jokes well told, the long aimless drives in September.
She spreads herself wide through these.
Back when you still had all your hair, when you
didn’t buy E.D. treatments on the Internet,
you had no idea that joy wouldn’t give it over,
that she was saving herself for someone else.
She withheld, so you drunk-dialed the one who came
in that sorry dress six years hopelessly past fashion,
and you did what you did and liked it.
And that was okay, like now. But now
it’s better because you know and can smile
minutely that she’s what you’ve got, sure thing.

*poem from Rattle #43, Spring 2014


THE REDUCTIONIST
By Charles Rafferty

The girl who kissed me first never kissed me again. It’s as if I spat her out across the years, farther and farther, until the taste of her disappeared, until she was reduced to black ink on an ivory page. More and more things are ending up this way: mountain ranges, the cosmos of swamp water, the wind as it rolls across ripening hay—all of it rendered in a tiny font that shivers like ants beneath your breath, leaving the worm exposed.

*poem from Rattle #46, Winter 2014