The Zingara Project

Author: Lisa Hase-Jackson

  • In Dissent by Tom D’Angelo

    Both foreign and familiar
    you patrol the hidden
    America.

    You don’t care about
    selling the most
    cookies.

    You know how
    to tell a joke but you don’t
    want to.

    You’ve learned to be
    suspicious
    learned to be always
    on the lookout.

    You’ve heard the stories
    from the battlefields—
    academic, financial, political

    and yet you refuse
    to run away and join
    the circus even though
    relationships create
    obligations,

    so you walk
    in perpetual Lent
    concentrating ashy guilt and
    polishing it to a
    rough luster

    for you need things
    to be raw &
    heavy
    and irritating
    to the eye.

    Tom D’Angelo works in the Writing Center at Nassau Community College in Garden City, NY, and teaches courses in Mythology, Film and Literature, and Creative Writing. In addition to poetry, his current projects include a series of creative non-fiction essays on his formative years in Queens, NY. His poems have most recently appeared in The Flatbush Review.

  • remnants by Bara Elhag

    near an alpine singer
    sewing machine
    Earl Grey tea rests
    near pattern parchment
    mama picked one of these

    burdas to unburden her mind
    which regularly cliff dwells
    what she makes is
    not as relevant as
    making

    sweet ’n’ sour chicken
    featuring my cup spilling
    for dinner, table clean now

    downstairs, antique lace lives to the
    morning along with
    gauze and cotton
    in an embroidered “organized” blue basket

    I think that basket was lost in a move.

    —
    Bara Elhag was born in Alexandria, Egypt in January 1996 and has spent most of 9 years living half in Minnesota and half in Egypt. He received his high school diploma from America  and graduated from Rutgers University in 2018. Bara is currently pursuing a M.S. in biomedical sciences and has a good family, wonderful friends, loves soccer, hummus, and jalapenos. He also treasure traveling and spontaneous journeys to NYC, when his bank account allows for it.

     

  • Plans by Jen Schneider

    One question. That’s all I have.  How long did you plan?
    I’m a planner. Are you?
    Earlier that day I took a test after years of prep.
    And a lifetime of crap.
    At 12 PM, the testing timer buzzed.
    High pitched and loud. Others jumped. Not me.
    I planned my time well.
    Dropped my #2 pencil. Wiped
    my sticky palm across my leg.
    Twisted my ring counter-clockwise, twice.
    Heck, I’ll take good vibes any day.
    The computer processed scores.
    I passed. Like I had always planned.
    At 2 PM, I was a newly minted EMT.
    Planning to save others my entire life.
    First, I’d celebrate at a favorite club.
    Like I had always planned.
    With my study pals. Friends for life.
    Wearing matching leather jackets and our favorite denim.
    Before scrubs would become our preferred attire.
    At 8 PM, we waited at the crowded entrance.
    Joking about the trick question,
    the one about cardiac arrest, that we each got right.
    At 8:09, I felt it.
    At 8:10, I felt nothing.
    I never planned to be the victim of a random act of violence.
    One of many. Last year, our city lost 100s to drive-bys.
    The year to date rate climbs higher.
    I planned to be an EMT my entire life.
    Studying manuals. Saving pennies.
    A day off from my minimum wage
    dead-end job at the warehouse,
    near the corner of Broad and 10th,
    to sit for the test that would change my life.
    Then, it was over. Because of you.
    How long did you plan?

    —

    Jen Schneider is an educator, attorney, and writer. Her work appears in The Coil, The Write Launch, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Popular Culture Studies Journal, One Sentence Stories, and other literary and scholarly journals.

  • When I Got My Ears Pierced by Sophie Cohen

    Well, I was walking trying to mind my business
    and guess who came by on his bike!
    Yes, it was him and his hair was short,
    if you can believe he’d let someone cut his hair.
    He stopped to call my name and come beside me,
    walking his bike and the chain came off.
    Do you mind waiting just a minute?
    And I waited, because there is something about his voice
    I’ve always liked, and I wanted him to walk
    beside me, asking questions people don’t ask.
    Do you go to New York a lot?
    I said I did, sometimes, but I don’t like it there.
    We should go. In the summer.
    He even went so far as to ask where I was walking,
    so I said to get my ears pierced, and he asked
    if I had any other piercings on my body,
    as if he’d never seen me naked.
    But no, I said, I only have them on my ears.
    Then he was away on his bike,
    and for a sudden moment it was the fall again,
    when at the crossroads as he walked me to the doctor
    I said I knew the rest of the way, and it was raining,
    and I saw his eyes afraid before he turned and ran
    down the street, catching the arrow green.

    —

    Sophie Cohen is a rising junior at MIT, where she studies mathematics and creative writing. She is a writer for MIT Chroma Magazine, and a teaching assistant for calculus. An active member of her sorority, Alpha Phi, Sophie leads the fundraising effort for the Boston Walk to End Lupus Now. Her favorite poet is Brigit Pegeen Kelly.

  • Paperplane letters by Kristina Gibbs

    Love was pressed between
    Stained smudges of downy diction
                Creased along the edges
    Bent over backwards
                Then folded forward
    Sealed by the weight of waxy hope
    Sent with a flick—
    but the sun beat on
          And on
          And on
    So it flut ter ed
                Falt er
          ed
                    Fall
                ing
    Hitting the water
    A distraught Icarus.
    The whole of its failure upon it
    Contributed to its
    Sinking.
    Words raged
    And swirled
    Unleashed—
                Torn open
    Harboured in
    The inky black deep.
    —
    Kristina Gibbs is an emerging writer from Tennessee pursuing a Bachelor’s degree in English and minor in Linguistics. She has previously published in Speaking of Marvels and North of Oxford Review. When she is not reading or writing, you may find her clambering over both hiking trails and paint brushes.

  • a modern sonnet by Cleopatra Lim

    i know that it is okay because i said yes but it should mean
    that i don’t have to feel like a suckling pig before slaughter
    and i did this, i think, to feel like an adult now that i’m eighteen
    but i went too far– i go too far– ten bucks that he has a daughter

    somehow i can see myself in an hour, picking the curly aged hairs he shed
    off polka-dotted sheets that laid witness to my first lunar blood
    and soon he’ll unlock my beloved chest, spill jewels of cherry-red–
    hindsight says once a flower blooms, it’ll never again be a bud

    but reason and rationale are always late and the party don’t start
    til they walk in and see me: emptied and filled with cheap wine
    and tears… they said when it happened, i would feel in my heart
    completed, perfected, and his gaze would be sugary sunshine….

    instead the bed shakes and i am seasick until the north star, i can mark.
    he tries to see me but he can’t. i am with the stars that glow in the dark.

    —

    Cleopatra Lim is a student currently attending Columbia University. She most enjoys writing prose poetry and personal essays, and has been published in some smaller literary journals. She currently works in NYC as a marketing assistant and a junior agent at a talent agency. In the future, she hopes to be able to work with both film and writing, working to incorporate poetry on to the big screen.

  • Eden by Kayleigh Macdonald

    We all have ways to weigh ourselves.
    Eden’s way: stay in motion.
    She would still the silence by
    praying to God, eating her vegetables,
    journaling in the achy fog of morning.
    She would lean against the counter when she stopped.
    Chairs were much too comfortable.
    I never saw it was defense
    until I, too,
    heard bees in my head.
    I see myself in Eden’s race
    against the unfair haste of silent time.
    There isn’t ease in inner peace
    when a piece of you is missing.

    —

    Kayleigh Macdonald was born and raised in San Jose, CA. She is a recent graduate of California Polytechnic State University at San Luis Obispo, where she obtained a Bachelor of Science in Graphic Communication and a Minor in English.

     

     

  • Flash Fiction Contest – $500 Award

    One week left to submit your best short fiction for the 2019 Julia Peterkin Award for Flash Fiction – $500 prize (ends August 15, 2019)
    • Previously unpublished fiction of 850 words or less are eligible for this contest. We are especially interested in stories that demonstrate a strong voice and/or a sense of place, but we consider all quality writing.
    • All submissions will be read blind, so do not include personal information with your submission. Submissions that include identifying information will not be considered.
    • We will select one winner to receive a cash prize of $500.
    • Four semi-finalists will be chosen for publication in South 85 Journal
    • Winners will be named in October.
    • All winning entries will be published in the Fall / Winter issue of South 85 Journal, which will be released December 15.
    • To read last year’s winners, visit http://south85journal.com/issues/fall-winter-2018/flash-fiction/.
    • Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but please withdraw your entry if your piece is accepted elsewhere.
    • All winners must be over 18 years old and reside in the U.S. in order to claim their cash prize.
    • Please use double-spacing and a 12 point, standard font. We suggest Times New Roman. We consider only previously unpublished work.
    • Current and former staff members are not eligible for participation.
    • Current Converse College students and Converse College alumni are not eligible for participation.
    • SUBMIT HERE
    South 85 Journal does not publish work which has been previously published either in print or online. Our reply time is typically six to eight weeks. We acquire exclusive first-time Internet rights only. All other rights revert to the author at publication, but we offer formal, written reassignments upon request. Works are also archived online. We ask that whenever an author reprints the work that first appeared in our pages, South 85 Journal be given acknowledgment for the specific work(s) involved. Only the main contest winner will receive a prize.

  • A City Like a Dead Man by Jake Sheff

    I dreamed our city’s slender attitude,
    of ruined moonlight
    in the bombs. The dreamer’s femur is

    the squeaky wheel. If love could only speak
    and never hear, she said
    between the bombs. I loved her

    safe route to mercy. Lyme disease
    and bombs had similar inaccuracies. On foot
    she wandered through

    pretentious fire. You wouldn’t think to
    look at death, she said
    at night, the doctor who delivered it

    was darkness. As fever struck the garbage
    dump, I dreamt I was her Carthage.

    —

    Jake Sheff is a major and pediatrician in the US Air Force. Poems of Jake’s are in Radius, The Ekphrastic Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Cossack Review and elsewhere. He won 1st place in the 2017 SFPA speculative poetry contest and was a finalist in the Rondeau Roundup’s 2017 triolet contest. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).

     

  • The Kiss by George Cassidy Payne

    (Inspired by Gustav Klimt)

    The kiss is nectar-filled
    skin wrapped over a corpse.

    It stands still in the mouth like
    a crouching tiger at a motionless
    midday stream.

    The kiss knows that figures are
    keeping watch. As tarantulas scuttle
    underfoot, it cracks apart like stepped on
    craw fish shells.

    Petite. Pink. Long and patient. Stingless
    and vaporizing. The difference between
    waiting and enduring.

    The kiss was never meant to be a hand
    shake or a goodbye. Like a moose, 5,343 feet
    below a canopy of charred balsam, scarfing wild
    shrooms, with instant knowing, The kiss bustles.

    Plunged into the minerals like an ice ax. Breaking them
    open upon a bed of prismatic sands. Submerged in
    asteroids. The kiss. Colliding intentions. Like the wind nudging
    two chimes. Existing together as they must.

    —

    George Cassidy Payne is originally from the Adirondack Mountains of Upstate New York. He now lives and works in the City of Rochester, New York. George is a poet, photographer, essayist, professor of philosophy, and social worker. George’s poetry has been included in a variety of  journals and magazines, including Chronogram Magazine, Allegro Poetry Journal, Mojave Heart, the Red Porch Review, Albany Up the River Poets Journal, Teahouse, The Adirondack Almanac, The Mindful Word, Talker of the Town, Pulsar, Moria Poetry Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, and many others. 

  • Call for Submissions – South 85 Journal

    South 85 Journal is open for submission beginning today, August 1, 2019. South 85 Journal accepts poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction and is published online twice yearly. Please read past issues for a sense of our aesthetic.  Submission fees are waived from August 1-14 for early-bird submissions. Click here to read past issues and full submission guidelines.

  • Zingara Poetry Review – Call for Submissions

    Submissions are open for Zingara Poetry Review. 

    ZPR will feature particular groups of individuals in the upcoming months, so please take a look at the following preferences. If none of the categories below feel like a good fit for you, please submit your work for National Poetry Month when ZPR will be publishing a poem every day of the month.

    August: Work by undergraduate students who are currently enrolled in an undergraduate program (any discipline) or who have graduated within two years. CLOSED

    September: Work by graduate students currently in a writing-related graduate program, including MFA, MA in English, etc.

    October: Work by indigenous people, particularly Native Americans.

    November: International Writers (anyone who isn’t living, or wasn’t born, in the United States).

    December: Poets over 50

    January: New and unpublished poets (0-3 single publications, no books or chapbooks)

    February: African American/Black American Poets

    March: Women only please!

    April: Poetry Month – a poem will be published every day this month so send your best work early!

    May: Poets who live WEST OF THE MISSISSIPPI

    June: LGBTQ

    July: Editor Favorites

    Guidelines:

    • Send 1-3 previously unpublished poems of 40 lines of fewer in the body of an email, any style, any subject, to ZingaraPoet@gmail.com with the submission category (e.g. Undergraduate Student) as the subject of your email.
    • Include a cover letter and brief professional biography of 50 words or fewer, also in the body of your email.
    • Submissions are accepted year round.
    • Simultaneous submissions are fine, but please let me know immediately if submitted work is accepted elsewhere.
    • Published poets receive bragging rights and the chance to share their work with a diverse and ever-growing audience.
    • Submissions which do not follow these guidelines will be disregarded.
    • If accepted work is later published elsewhere, please acknowledge that the piece first appeared in Zingara Poetry Review.
    • There are no fees to submit, though you will be subscribed to the Zingara Poetry Review newsletter.
    • Check Zingara Poetry Review every week to read new poems, which are normally published by 9:00am Eastern Time.
    •  Zingara Poetry Review retains first digital rights, though rights revert back to the poet upon publication.

    What I look for in a poem:

    Like all editors, I like to see interesting poems that do what they do well. Whether traditional, conceptual, lyrical, or formal, they should exhibit the poet’s clear understanding of craft and, just as importantly, revision. Very elemental poems that have not undergone effective revision will probably not make the cut. Likewise, poems which are contrived, sacrifice meaning for the sake of rhyme, feel incomplete, do not risk sentimentality (or are too sentimental), or lack tension when tension is needed, will also be dismissed. I am a fan of rich, vivid imagery, cohesive discursiveness, and surprising metaphors. Finally, poems which perpetuate harmful stereotypes of gender, race, or class will most certainly not be considered.

    For a very good discussion on the elements of effective poetry, take a look at Slushpile Musings by James Swingle, publisher and editor of Noneucildean Cafe’

    Response time is 2 days to 6 months

  • Of the Palm by Toti O’Brien

    I admire the naivety
    How she stands among fellow trees
    sporting nothing
    but a scanty cluster of leaves
    in guise of a canopy
    as if going to a Victorian ball
    in flapper attire
    also wearing of course
    a feathered hat
    Of the palm
    I admire the frail nakedness
    delicately osé
    like a dancer’s shaved leg
    sheathed by nylon hoses
    If she dares
    intruding the arboreal crowd
    without blinking
    while so shamefully alien
    uncaring of uniforms
    she reveals
    among sister specimens
    exceptional
    skills of discipline
    How they march in orderly rows
    tracing parallels
    with their trunks
    fastening earth and sky
    with thin stitches
    How concertedly
    at the first puff of wind
    they tickle the horizon
    as if playing a keyboard
    with soft, even touch
    whole steps half steps
    hand in hand
    up and down the scale
    facilement

     

    Toti O’Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. She was born in Rome then moved to Los Angeles, where she makes a living as a self-employed artist, performing musician and professional dancer. Her work has most recently appeared in Gyroscope, Pebble Poetry, Independent Noise, and Lotus-eaters.

     

  • Neighborhoods I’ve Yearned For by Michelle Grue

    Prince Albert town homes
    Trees so beautiful I can live with their
    pollen that makes me sneeze
    Museums of purloined art and the
    heights (and depths) of science
    Posh crêperie on the street corner

    Creaking porch swings
    Acres of grass perfect for the active
    imaginings of my little black kids
    Creek down the way filled with
    pollywogs and crawfish
    Trees with moss hanging down
    obscuring the strange fruit they once hung

    Tip-top walking score
    Mom and pop flower shop
    Ethnic food not yet gentrified,
    A brewery that is
    Black that don’t crack still
    sitting on the stoop and
    spilling tea like they been
    doing since their double-dutch days
    Miss Mary Mack still dressed in black

    —

    Michelle Grue is a doctoral candidate at the University of California, Santa Barbara. She studies higher education pedagogy and writing studies through the lenses of intersectionality and critical digital literacies. She has previously published in the fantasy journal Astral Waters Review, The Expressionists Magazine of the Arts, and DASH Literary Journal. Feeding her creative energies and making space during motherhood and graduate school life has been a challenging pleasure.

     

  • Elegy with Ice Cream by Kathy Nelson

                ―Travis Leon Hawk

    A man fits a contraption
    onto a wooden pail, fills it with ice.
    The child turns the handle as easily

    as her Jack-in-the-box but soon
    grows bored and runs to play
    in the dappled shade of July.

    This the man who, as a boy, teased
    white fluff from the knife-edges
    of cotton bolls under summer sun

    till his fingers bled. Once, he spied
    a rattler coiled between his feet.
    He wants her to understand how

    hardship built this good life, how
    readily dust could blow again, how
    quickly flak jackets could come back.

    He calls her to him, teaches―add salt
    to the ice, keep the drain clear, turn
    the crank without haste, without desire.

    Her small shoulder stiffens. He grips,
    labors with his own broad forearm,
    churns the peach-strewn cream.

    —

    Kathy Nelson (Fairview, North Carolina) is the author of two chapbooks―Cattails (Main Street Rag, 2013) and Whose Names Have Slipped Away (Finishing Line Press, 2016). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Asheville Poetry Review, The Cortland Review, Tar River Poetry, Broad River Review, and Southern Poetry Review.