Category Archives: poem

“The Scarecrow” by Morgan Adams

3 Replies

In Nonestica

Did I want this wisdom? One morning
in fall, the wind railed in the corn
and the crows shuddered to seize
my shoulders. I thought they were
embracing me, but their feathers
brushed my burlap cheek and scraped
the blush from my ears. Now I know
no bird loves flannel or straw unless
it’s meant for nest-making, or for hiding
from the man who tends the fields. I’ve
become too attached to my own stuffing,
when once or twice I would have given
myself gladly to any beak. Her touch
was what changed me, how she struggled
with the weight of me, worked to free
my stitched wrists from the frame
and knock mud from borrowed shoes.
And now I stand before her, wise enough
to know that my head is full of needles,
and I’m wearing another man’s clothes.

–Morgan Adams,
In Nonestica
Accents Publishing

Morgan AdamsMorgan Adams was born and raised in a bookstore in Lexington, Kentucky and wrote her own first “book” at the age of five. She graduated from Berea College and earned her M.F.A. in poetry from Indiana University. Her work often draws upon myth, folklore, and family history.

She is also editor-in-chief and poetry editor of Osedax Press.

“Desire” by Nettie Farris

224 Replies

Communion

1.

n
wants
a
red
bal-
loon

2.

n
wants
a
shiny
red
bal-
loon

3.

n
wants
a
shiny
red
bal-
loon
in
the
shape
of
an s

–Nettie Farris,
Communion
Accents Publishing

Nettie FarrisNettie Farris teaches writing as an adjunct instructor, roams the grounds of Mount Saint Francis Nature Sanctuary with her dog, and hikes the Millennium Trail at Bernheim Forest. Her work has appeared in the anthologies The Dark Woods I Cross: An Anthology of Contemporary Louisville Women Poets and Bigger Than They Appear: Anthology of Very Short Poems. She lives in Floyds Knobs, Indiana with her husband and three sons.

“Rise and Shine” by Darren Jackson

16 Replies

Bigger Than They Appear

The ritual of beginning
each day razor in hand steadies the mind.
Whether we see waterspots in the glass
or the face masked in cream is a question
of focus. Steady now, it’s time to begin.

–Darren Jackson,
Bigger Than They Appear
(Accents Publishing)

Darren Jackson is the Editor of Grist: The Journal for Writers. His work has appeared in Smartish Pace, Iron Horse, Cimarron Review and other journals.

“Homecoming” by Krasimir Vardyev

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Krasimir Vardyev’s “Homecoming” was read at the Morris book shop as part of the release celebration for The Season of Delicate Hunger: Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry. The English version of the poem was translated by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer.

The poem was read by Nadezhda Nikolova, an artist from the former Yugoslavia and Bulgaria who specializes in wet plate collodion photography. She currently resides in Lexington, Kentucky. You can find her website by clicking here.

Krasimir VardyevKrasimir Vardyev was born on May 17th, 1978 in Beloslav. He holds a degree from Kontantin Preslavsky University of Shumen. He has received awards for his poetry and prose, among which is the Southern Spring Award for his debut poetry collection, Curb, in 2001. From 1998 to 2003, he was a co-organizer and participant in the “Street Poetry” campaign. His second poetry book, Symbiosis, was published in 2007. Krasimir lives and works in Sofia.

“Inside the Belly” by Tom C. Hunley

240 Replies

Scotch Tape World

When the light strikes your face
at just the right angle, I can almost
see our future, all bright
and shiny in your eyes
is something I heard Mike say
five times in the same evening
to different women with the same
results, is the first verse of a song
I heard on my car stereo
in a dream I was having about
a road trip past the cornfields
of Indiana. I don’t know
anyone named Mike, but I hope
he finally made it, found happiness,
grew into his body, which was clumsy
and slow like a John Deere tractor
bringing traffic to a grinding halt
is the beginning of a story I never
finished reading. Do you believe
there are angels whose whole job
is to salvage all the fragments,
all our half-finished efforts?
Where was I? Oh right, Indiana.
It swallowed me up because I said
I’ll be damned before I move to Kentucky
is something I heard a preacher say
while he lassoed a snake above his head.
Something I ate had poisoned me.
I was starting to feel it. My stomach
testified, and a perfumed woman in
a large straw hat shouted Amen.

–Tom C. Hunley,
Scotch Tape World
Accents Publishing

Tom Hunley

Tom C. Hunley is an associate professor of English at Western Kentucky University and the director of Steel Toe Books. Among his previous books are The Poetry Gymnasium (McFarland & Company, Inc., 2012); Annoyed Grunt (Imaginary Friend Press, 2012); Greatest Hits (Pudding House, 2010, Gold Invitational Series); Octopus (Logan House, 2008, Winner of the Holland Prize); Teaching Poetry Writing: A Five-Canon Approach (Multilingual Matters LTD., 2007, New Writing Viewpoints Series); My Life as a Minor Character (Pecan Grove, 2005, winner of a national chapbook contest); Still, There’s a Glimmer (WordTech Editions, 2004); and The Tongue (Wind Publications, 2004). He divides his time between Kansas and Oz.

“The Love Emails Fly, Then Stop” by Mirela Ivanova

734 Replies
The Season of Delicate Hunger.                               I kiss each word,
.                              individually the wings of the words,
.                               individually the souls of the words,
.                               the commas, the periods, the thrill
.                               and the passion, and finally
.                               your name.
Then with the Delete key I obliterate
each word, the wings of the words
and the souls of the words, the commas,
the periods, the thrill and the passion,
and finally your name.
I obliterate that vertigo,
the swaying from no to yes,
the loss of balance
and the collapse of one into the other.
I obliterate the towns and the trains,
and the embraces in that summer,
I obliterate the daze, the rains and the rooms,
and you, enlightened and confused, nude and white
amidst the rooms, with the three marriages
and the two Germanys, I obliterate you.
My omniscient, crumbly parchment,
as priceless as if pre-Christ, undeciphered,
I obliterate you with the cold sores
from that feverish fall,
with the air sweaty with flu, palpitations,
moans, melding, sleep and more, and again.
I obliterate you with the aspirins, the drops,
the chamomile tea, the eucalyptus balm,
which I rub slow and long
into your slow and long body.
I obliterate you with your naïve oddities,
with the vanity, with your pouting lips,
with the all-embracing arms
and the incinerating fingers.
I obliterate you while you are dreaming of soup,
engrossed in a book, enlightened and confused
.                               omniscient, beautiful
.                               and loved, I obliterate you,
.                               and thus I obliterate myself also,
.                               I obliterate love,
.                               because we do not deserve it.

–Mirela Ivanova,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer,
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)

Mirela Ivanova was born on May 11th, 1962 in Sofia. She holds a degree in Bulgarian philology from Paisii Hilendarski University in Plovdiv. She is the author of seven books of poetry, among which areStone Wings and Memory for Details. Her poetry has been translated and published in many languages, and a collection of selected poems, Lonely Game, was published in Germany in 2002. Mirela has received a number of Bulgarian literary awards, as well as the 2002 Hermann Lenz Prize for modern poetry from Eastern and Southeastern Europe. She currently lives and works in Sofia.

“Crows” by T. Crunk (an excerpt)

448 Replies

Biblia Pauperum

3. A Riddle

What I had mistaken
for eternity

was only
the long silence

before the next
tick

of the second hand
the elm

outside my window
filling with crows

a clattering
of deaf undertakers

surrounded
on all sides

by the universe
stars

clanking by
on their pulleys

planets
heaving and whistling

and the crows
incessant imperious

calling—

.                          watchman!
.                          watchman!

.                          what is left
.                          of the night?

–T. Crunk,
Biblia Pauperum
Accents Publishing

T. CrunkT. Crunk’s first collection of poetry, Living in the Resurrection, was chosen by James Dickey as the 1994 selection in the Yale Series of Younger Poets. He has since published a number of children’s books, as well as several additional collections of poetry and short fiction. He currently lives in Montgomery, Alabama.

“Pontifex” by Valentin Dishev

3 Replies

The Season of Delicate Hunger

There are caresses
you cannot possess.
The grass below.
There is meaning
you cannot embrace.
The grass above.

-Valentin Dishev,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer,
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)

Valentin DishevValentin Dishev was born on May 7th, 1962 in Blagoevgrad. He holds a Ph.D. in philosophy from St. Kliment Ohridski University in Sofia. He is a publisher and serves as editor-in-chief of Ars, an independent press for Bulgarian literature, as well as editor-in-chief of the online journals Crossroads and DICTUM. He is the creator and curator of the ArsMedia National Literary Festival. Valentin is the author of several poetry and prose books, most recently Marguerite and Other Registers (2013). For over 10 years he has hosted literary radio programs on Bulgarian National Radio (Radio Blagoevgrad).

“Three Caskets” by Barbara Goldberg

224 Replies

Kingdom of Speculation

Along came three suitors. She found them
all lacking: casket of silver, casket of gold,
casket of lead. She considers lead—

he’s heavy. If she ties herself to him
she’ll sink. But oh the liquefaction
of the sheets, and oh wouldn’t she expire

in the rapture of that deep. Silver
flashes slick off the tundra, elusive
as flight. In his wake, a killing

freeze, an excess of courtesy. At first
gold’s glitter dazzles, his overflowing
pockets. Fortuna is his mother, but

his expression’s a trifle stupid. How’s
a princess to rule with no casket
for her jewels? At this hour the shops

are closed. The graveyard beckons
but the coffins are sealed with old
remains. She’s been here before,

her legacy these ruby scars, those
smoky pearls. Let her string them
on a flaxen thread for all to see.

Let them incite the mercy of thieves.
Let her step forth in the ancestral land
accompanied by her own two hands.

-Barbara Goldberg,
Kingdom of Speculation
(Accents Publishing)

Barbara Headshot 2Barbara Goldberg is the author of four prize-winning books of poetry, including The Royal Baker’s Daughter, winner of the Felix Pollak Poetry Award. She is the translator ofScorched by the Sun, poems by the Israeli poet Moshe Dor. The two selected and translated four anthologies of contemporary Israeli poetry. Goldberg received two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts as well as awards in translation, fiction and speechwriting. Her poems appear in Best American Poetry, Paris Review, Poetry and elsewhere, Goldberg is the series editor of the Word Works’ International Imprint.