As autumn colors fade to bare limbs and stark skies, take a few minutes to contemplate these autumnal poems previously published on Zingara Poetry Review:
Category: Zingara Poetry Review: Poetry Picks
-
A Sun of Unknown Night by Hongri Yuan
I believe that black stones spawn the honey of the heaven
And the death brings us the Golden Dawn
The earth is our other body
While the oceans are initially sweet and serene eyes
My every tear is burning
Bearing a diamond
And when my body is consigned to the flames
Heaven begins to enter my body
At this time I bloom in death
Like a sun of unknown night
Hongri Yuan, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise , Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria. -
Ugliness came up by Kitty Jospé
in conversation today—
a word for when things go wrong.
the daily ugly of what shouldn’t be.All that we avoid mentioning:
ugly of shootings of innocents,
exploitation, slavery; the ugly tone
of the powerful, the ugly tone
of irrational words, self-serving
policies… All the times we answer
fine but it isn’t. The unspoken in
Untitled. How close the word skims
you figure it out yourself, in a skinned dis-
connect. No clue. Not interested in you.Let’s start with a teen-age boy.
His detention center doesn’t allow any kindness,
any touch. But, someone volunteered to teach
a writing class where he wrote about wanting to be a bird,
fly to where he could meet summer and fall
in Honduras. You wouldn’t call something
like that Untitled. Nor would you call it
Today With a Dash of Yearning…
or talk about how Tomorrow will be dressed.
Whatever the title, his writing will help him
when ugliness comes up. And now,
tell me about you. How do you cope
when ugliness comes up?—
Kitty Jospé holds an MA in French Literature, NY University and an MFA Poetry Pacific University, OR. (2009). She has been Art Docent since 1998 at the Memorial Art Gallery, Rochester, NY and since 2008 she has been moderating weekly poetry sessions. Her work has appeared in many journals and published in five books of her poems as well as other anthologies.
-
Like dublin by DS Maolalai
under the boiling pot
dropped leaves
smolder; the top of a litterbin
filled with cigarettes
and reducing to soup
on a dry afternoon. summer,
full of that smoky air
and missing fire. those little pops and cracks
like walking barefoot
and stepping on crisp packets. like dublin;
walking up o’connell street
while the sun shines
and everyone dresses
comfortably. men in shorts, t-shirts
and football jerseys
sliding over chests and bellies
as if loose water
were tumbling on rocks.
women too;
those airy dresses,
showing more of their legs
than the men even. sunglasses all over,
black as burned vegetables. earth slipping, filling with scent
and a hot meat market. in the pot at home,
outside of the city,
vegetables boil among fistfuls of ham. the air is humid,
the windows shut, full of steam
and the smell of toasting broccoli.
at the kitchen table
I open my shirt down as far as the belly,
lean back, and remember walking
home.—
DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019)
-
Un Chien Andalou by James Penha
after—well after—Luis Buñuel’s 1929 film
I finger the stropped razor ready
to slice an eyeball
surrealistically enough
to turn my head in the clouds
cutting the moon and so who is blind?
she? he? me? eyes curbed after the bike collapses
and we are undressed for bed with ants in hand. Give her
a hand! I want to hold your hand;
the accidental dead want to hold breast and butt hold
on she tosses
she will serve no fault—
the undead eschew tennis
for a strongest man competition lugging
grand steinways, church, dead
dog. Dead? The undress awakens aroused by a dick
demanding he make a man or two of himself
to read to write to duel like Burr and Hamilton
in a New Jersey meadow from which a moth
on the New Jersey shore on which a melted watch
tells who lives who dies who tells your story
A native New Yorker, James Penha has lived for the past quarter-century in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his verse appears this year in Headcase: LGBTQ Writers & Artists on Mental Health and Wellness published by Oxford UP and Lovejets: queer male poets on 200 years of Walt Whitman from Squares and Rebels. His essay “It’s Been a Long Time Coming” was featured in The New York Times “Modern Love” column in April 2016. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha
-
2019 Best of the Net Nominations
Zingara Poetry Review is happy to announce 2019’s “Best of the Net” Nominees:A Flower Rests by Jerry Wemple, September 5, 2018
Insomniac by Danielle Wong, October 3, 2018Invocation // The Beast That Resides in the Acute Angle by Gregory Kimbrell, December 23, 2018Somebody Else’s Poetry by Ella Baum, May 8, 2019Poems must meet the following minimum qualifications for nomination:
- Submissions must come from the editor of the publication (journal, chapbook, online press, etc), or, if the work is self-published, it must be sent by the author.
- Submissions must have originally appeared online, though later print versions are acceptable.
- The poem, story, or essay must have been first published or appeared on the web between July 1, 2018 and June 30, 2019.
- Submissions must be sent between July 1st and September 30th, 2019.
Best of luck to this year’s nominees!!
-
I Would by Hugh Cook
My nails are shining Lavender,
I’m afraid you don’t see me.I wish someone would rub
Sunburnt arms with aloe,
So I could tell them I wasn’t sore.I felt the love’s weight
As I tried to breathe
With no woman pressing into me,
Once I stopped the chattering TV.
I can feel the weight, lost,
Like I starve myself, so far
Inside does love carve.I would sit outdoors,
At a warming bench all light time,
To hear “Hi,” receive “Hello.”—
Hugh Cook attends University of California, Santa Barbara, studying Writing and Literature. He has authored a collection titled The Day it Became a Circle (Afterworld Books). His poetry has been published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Ariel Chart, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Blue Unicorn.
-
green by Molly Flanagan
Daddy lost his job last year
and the year before
and momma hers the years before that
but momma got herself a job back
we bought a car to get from here to there
to job and back
for daddy to teach me to drive when i’m
already ripe and smoking
the joint between momma’s forefinger and
thumb passing around like paper wrapped
golden leaf worth more than daddy and momma
and the siding around us sleeping at night in
the beds we pay for in dying
breaths from momma’s hospice patients and the meat
daddy ripped cut slapped the months years decades leading up to
the fire
which burns in our fingers from drivers seat to passenger to
the back i sit in leather seats
wearing three necklaces thrown from a town truck
returned from retirement
no more rusty bumpers and highway calls.I’m covered in green
shamrocks like me with shiny beads
Emerald gold purple
If wrapped further around me, my neck,
heritage wrapped around my neck in the fake carnation in the lapel of the corduroy 1970s jacket i found in the basements in the years when the girls had friends down and the smoke got all in the fabrics and daddy had
green to pay
for the cleaners to trudge up the smoke in the couch into black corduroy
now covered freckled flesh
green like momma says
daddy on the sidewalk with the little ones
catching candy and necklaces for me to drape over dirty hair
which ripples blonde down pale cheeks
running away from the motherland
her mossy face moist at midnight or three in the afternoon whatever time momma and daddy want to get high
And forget about the Troubles.—
Molly Flanagan is currently a senior at Southern Connecticut State University (SCSU) in New Haven, Connecticut, where she works as Associate Editor of Folio, the undergraduate literary and art journal at SCSU. Her visual art and short stories have also been published in Folio and ANGLES. This past spring, Molly was awarded the 2019 Creative Writing Award by SCSU English Department.
-
On Packing the Only Painting You Left by Daniel Crasnow
I never asked myself about you. I did hope, though, that May-
Be you would remember this empty room. Believe me, I never
Wondered if you would return. I knew. (T)Here
The sun rose at 8. Once upon a time, the
Sun bloomed at 8 too. Now that plaster
Painting isn’t worth the trouble. Dirty brushes and stir-
Red colors aren’t worth the wash. As soon as
You left you said goodbye and if
I had just stood up to say “no”… You le(f)t me in
A wardrobe of wilting aloe, plastic flower crowns and pain.
I broke with the door hinges; laughed about it, that May-
Be If I wasn’t so frightened or if I had never
Given a fuck I wouldn’t be the only one to hear
My heart-beat. May-be the
Cold clouds of a Florida summer wouldn’t click like roaches
In an empty moving box. I wouldn’t let this falling
Slush remind me of all the paintings you did take with you. Like
The crow who eats too many berries, and falls fat,
Drunk and remembering— may-be then I’d learn to enjoy the rain.[1] Last words in The Ballad of Rudolph Reed by Gwendolyn Brooks
—
Daniel Crasnow is a multi-genre writer and scholar at Stetson University where he holds a Sullivan Scholarship in creative writing. He has been awarded a scholarship to attend the DISQUIET International Literary Program (2018) and was a resident at the DISQUIET Azores Residency (2018).
-
remnants by Bara Elhag
near an alpine singer
sewing machine
Earl Grey tea rests
near pattern parchment
mama picked one of theseburdas to unburden her mind
which regularly cliff dwells
what she makes is
not as relevant as
makingsweet ’n’ sour chicken
featuring my cup spilling
for dinner, table clean nowdownstairs, antique lace lives to the
morning along with
gauze and cotton
in an embroidered “organized” blue basketI 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. -
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 daughtersomehow 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 budbut 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.
The Zingara Project 