My heart echoes these old haunts. Your words are stretched to impalpable deeds. Yes, flame can produce ash—leave a trail of soot in my mouth as I try to find my way through these catacombs— When skeletal figments dance in your reflection, tell me there is no lie or jest. The path treaded is marked by poetry that falls within each step of your movement, so please be true.
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.
“Reader” first appeared in First Literary Review–East.
and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana,
solitary in a wide flat space,
uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not
Oh, Sunflower (for Lang)
socket clear & skeleton thick–
w/roots every which way
in tin cans
to gently stew in…
the foto finish shows
you’re black & white,
a stalk in the night,
you stood alone
with it all running through,
a rail yard,
a bottle cap,
were big enough for two
& two more.
You led the pack
your beard pointed.
Even with strangers,
you were never alone,
On the bus.
Trailing the tears.
lines of smoke
into a hat.
It was a party:
Lang gone wild.
Take your stalk & go.
back into family,
forward into history,
with a paper bag
that stars fall out of
Look, there’s a penny.
No, it’s a dime.
I’m not going to write this poem,
I’m through writing poems,
I’m leaving this poem
for someone else to write,
I start by burning to change the world,
now the world changes around me
in strange and unexpected ways,
I refuse to write this poem,
let it write itself in blood and anger,
I’ve done the readings in backroom bars
the M1 hard-nose hitchhike down to Soho
done the cut-&-paste riot punk-zines
with real scissors sniffing real glue
done the getting high and all the lows
the bare-floor cold beds and overnight girls
the acid folk-rock bi-friends with benefits,
the solidarity for this protest against that
the jazz Beat gurus and Dada-shock porn,
the new worlds of sweat and BeBop wired
to cellular connections into eternity,
but I’m not gonna write this poem,
I’m through writing poems,
words won’t come together
they retch like vomit in my throat,
in a time of darkening dreams
poems must ignite the sky, but
it’s time for someone else to write them,
I’m not going to write this poem…
Andrew Darlington is a poet and ephemera bloodhound residing in Ossett, which in the first millennium was part of the Kingdom of Elmet.
Jim Lang passed away some days back… he gave art tours at the Cleveland Clinic, which is one of the best galleries in the nation. He published a considerable amount of rags and bag-o-zines, rethought what a book was back at Coach House in O Canada before settling in Columbus then Cleve. he threw pots, practiced the art of Raku and took photos of countless musicians, artists and poets in – or passing through Cleveland, spanning many a decade. A memorial of sorts here…pass on by and drop a line or twenty.