N°2 // -Ology Journal by -Ology Journal

-ology Quarterly Electronic Journal of Poetry and Prose N 2 | June 2015 Chiaroscuro

Executive Editor and Creative Director

Avery Myers

Managing Editor

Paola Bennet

Managing Editor

Anthea Yang Genre Editor

Makayla Madsen Editor

Samantha Sadowsky Editor

Nichole Dean Copy Editor -Ology Journal is an independent publication that does not belong to any collective group or association. No part of this electronic journal may be reproduced without permission from the owners of the works contained in the journal.

Nora Hill

Art Director

Adrien Mooney Web Design

Lucrezia Castelli

FROM THE EDITOR

Blackness is a difficult theme to tackle. And for our second anthology, we refuse to hide away from the difficult. This is a composition of facts and ambiguities: for the lost and the quiet, for the subtle and the bold. This is a story and an event, darkness and light and love and shadow and you and I. NÂ° 2 - Chiaroscuro: the contrasting effect of light and shadow. A beginning and a middle. But not an end. To our readers, and writers, and editors, and everyone on this earth: you are everything. Thank you for impacting and inspiring -Ology Journal. Thank you for make this an emotional and honest work-in-progress. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Avery Myers, Executive Editor

CONTENTS

night dancing in the amtrak yard christian sammartino

All the guard dogs are asleep. The beagles hushed their junkyard rhapsody After the last fire whistle. The July heat lightning that lit the Track recedes into a horizon darker Than a Pennsylvania coal mine. Fireflies switch on their signals Across the dark spaces of the yard, Like strands of cordless light bulbs. Here I am pressed into her neck Muddling every step to a waltz Whose name I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t pronounce. My jaw clenches with stage fright, Threatening to snap like driftwood Wedged in a trash compactor. The rails shine like the lights On stage at the Bolshoi Theater As I follow her choreography Toward the grand finale. I see a gentle glimmer in her eye. For the first time in my life, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not in the cheap seats.

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lullaby of the west jayne consolacion

Sometimes you’d feel small. Like when you go to some secret beach and the shoreline stretches on for miles and there’s nothing but the lonely lighthouse to the north and one or two of those empty boats. There are stars everywhere. In the sand, the sky, tracing the lines of your palms. Even on the water, if only for just a breath-short life before the wave crashes over. You’d feel small, and there’s a beat of a song somewhere that doesn’t quite match your heart—rising from the sea, carried through the air; doesn’t matter—and it would be beautiful. You’d remember all the choices you made; your breakfast this morning, the college program you’re stuck with, the people you’ve let go over the years. That’s okay. The world is beautiful. You are beautiful. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t make sense. But the world is big enough to take care of you. It is. The moon will guide you home, just you watch. Listen. Stop, every once in a while, look for hanging bridges and secret beaches and let yourself be small, until you’re lost in the whisper of the dusk and the echoes of islands across the sea, until you’re so small you’re one with the world. The waves will keep crashing in your head long after you’ve crossed the bridge away from the ocean. The world is big. It’s okay. There are stars everywhere, if you stop long enough to look, and they will lull you to sleep.

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midnight letters topaz winters

witching hour. one-lane highway. stale cigarette smoke curls through my veins. I can hear what the night is thinking. it’s thinking of me. it’s thinking of the sound of heartbreak and stars shot down from inky skies. it’s counting down silent seconds, wondering when the sun will arrive to burn it away. the night is afraid. so am I. but it smells like warmth, like faded leather and broken guitar strings. it smells like everything I shouldn’t want and everything I do anyway. the world is asleep, but out here, the emptiness breathing deep inside my bones is replaced by something else. magic. or maybe something more, something untouched by human hands. the night yawns high above me, and I think perhaps it is friends with this thing that breathes deep deep down where no one else goes. not a soul in this world knows how to love me, but birds are singing in my throat. I think I know what freedom is: empty road, star song, love and

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fear and everything in between. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve tried time and time again to dig my own grave, but something always snatches the shovel from my hands before I can finish. my heart is ensnared in an animal trap. but my mind is wild. my eyes are dancing. itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the witching hour and there are monsters lurking in dark shadows. I am one of them. the night is bruised, stars like blood leaking across its sleek silken surface. I am bruised too. I am broken. shades of grey and black blur into each other, but here, teetering on the brink between dusk and day, is the only place I can see in perfect colour. there is a thing breathing deep inside my bones: magic, or perhaps stardust. infinity hums in every inch of my skin, and the night is calling my name. I think perhaps itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time to go and meet it.

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photo by andrew hector photo: paolo nacpil

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a darkness burns within me yin xzi My mother says: full of light, the sun shines through me and my eyes, well: they are nothing but stars. my father says: darkness within me, weighs me down and my eyes, well: it turns me blind. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m learning how to balance the two a sunflower that turns their heads toward the sun: space and stars Swirling depths of confusion, thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something bigger within me smallness: against the infinity one speck of light - no one speck of nothing - no one speck of both, maybe Astraea took the stars and scattered scattered them across the world. Few landed in the earth. Nox extinguished them. Most landed in souls and continue they continue to burn: to flourish and eat away at a heart the way eyes devour literature Hemera and Athena struggle to light the way the North Star never wavers: so they say

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My mother says: thrive like the earth My father says: smother the hope Elpis winced, bloody teeth: itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s okay Eris smiled, broken nose: go on Gaea yawned and Astraea fled: the North Star was gone alone: opaque movement stifled sounds, a lucid feeling Cracks appeared weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re helping: Aether and Eridanus whispered Light spilled out beams that split the wall dust shone in the filaments dance: my mother said sing: my father encouraged believe: Elpis murmured All these voices, messages Dark, light One and the same.

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still life with broken hearts christina im

dinner has ended and you’re still here. it’s a painting and you’re letting it dry. the tabletop is spread with blood. that’s it, you say. i’m done. and you are. but you can’t tear your eyes from the two wineglasses, the candle burning low for no one. the way the table stands center stage and past that, nothing. blackness waiting in the wings. in the middle you can still see the hearts, side by side. such a quiet name for something so ugly. they’re shuddering together— stale fear sour as leftovers, cut-off veins and all. they’re red, the kind that hurts, the kind you only get when you use a knife and let it sink deep. but they’re fading, fast as city-soaked stars. they claw at the sunrise, fall face-first into dusk. they’ve been picking each other apart for too long. they’re too close together. you can’t tell which is which. they’re not keeping anyone alive. you and a girl. the girl and you. hands held fast until your palms don’t remember what it is to be empty. rubbing sun-streaked grins off in the gloom. she taught you how to hold the brush early, to make quick strokes so you didn’t feel it as much. nothing is beautiful, she said softly one day. we all just learn how to lie. chartreuse is emerald is celadon is life. colors are bulletproof. clearly you’re something less. every dinner’s a masterpiece until your eyes are open.

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oh, what a tragedy. oh, what a waste. no one could call this art. what a shame, what a mystery to the ones who come after you both. you look one last time. you shake your head. what a perfect graveyard. what a terrible end.

torchbearer paola bennet

Candles flare high as pride; yours flashes rust and salty copper. Sicily’s the penny at the bottom of your eyes, and mama loves you for it. You’re screaming gold and shadow don’t make belonging, only cities long forgotten, but you’re the one forgetting this town births revolutionaries and you walk like the New World. You blaze for this time. I’ve long been burnt, buried ruin of the textbook kind. Try scraping the blackness out of my spine, we’ll see then who wears a crown. Honey, truth is a hard flickering; we know who’s kindling and who is burning out.

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persimmons avery myers

at least i’ll always have the sun, and the way it swept me back; when you are too little like them to be among them. the pale purpling aches of the earth are wild; wide in war and oh, the sun’s gone down. at least the earth was practiced and proud, when it fell asleep. i’d have given the moon from my eyes to dig your grave with my own dirty hands.

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photo by andrew hector

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subway magic nora hill

you haven’t learned not to smile on trains yet. you with your restless fidgets, your feet on the seat, your arm out-stretched, legs swinging. you twirling round the pole. you with that daylight smile, that subway-magic grin. it’s your smile that draws our eyes. we’ve forgotten, see, how to see all this magic here. your leaf-green eyes catch it all, soak it up turn it into sugar and save it for rainy days when you don’t get to ride the train. but us? our eyes glaze over, miss the magic. miss the light. see nothing but the dark of the tunnels, miss the in-betweens. miss the bursts of winter sunlight through graffitied windows. we detest the steady rhythm, the stop and go, the give and take of the subway. we think it only takes (time, patience, too much money) us where we need to go. we’ve forgotten, see, to see the sunlight. it gives us sunlight. it gives us rhythm. it gives us you, twirling and smiling, laughing at subway-magic and crystal sunlight when all we see is dark.

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blackberry tongues caroline kinsella

summer sunrise blazing through the curtain, illuminating ripeness and ruin: blackberry bruises and strawberry bloodstains and jam and burning words on burnt toast bees battled it out outside the window and we sat silent to watch, calm, stingers ready, breathing heavy, playing charades with the sun rays and when I leaned in your lips tasted like overly-ripened raspberries even though they never bled any syllable as soft all I could feel was a sweet mourning, heavy limbs hung out to dry and I tried to cry out but the sky cried for me instead, I, left, sprawled in mud, caked in berry-blood and unclean words all of this, only because we still haven’t learned that answers don’t come as easily when you’re asking questions in the light

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photo by andrew hector

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modern deities isabelle mcneur

orpheus only frequents bars that don’t have karaoke nights turns off the radio when he gets in the car he’s forgotten what a lyre feels like in his fingers demeter is an on-call midwife no matter what the parents are told during the ultrasound demeter always ends up holding a baby girl ares spends each friday night in a different police cell they never get an id and he’s gone when they check on him he burned off his fingerprints long ago aphrodite is in the photoshop business feels something inside her curl and wither into nothing every time she airbrushes a flat-eyed model’s cellulite away hades is forever recruiting souls to fill out new paperwork the dead are rolling in faster than he can count them nowadays cause of death has gone from swords to drone attacks

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athena is getting tired of wisdom swallows bright pills and chases them with brighter drinks dances in clubs where she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think over the vibrations hera is the best divorce attorney in the tri-state area broke up with zeus around the civil war left him to sleep his way around europe for the third time dionysus made the switch from wine to liquor around the 14th century and he canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shake off the weariness that accompanies waking along with the hangover poseidon is counting the days before they inevitably find him he has to keep finding new hiding places the ocean is getting smaller by the decade prometheus had his chains shaken off of him by an avalanche he keeps expecting the gods to show up pounding at his door but no-oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s come yet

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empty matchbox pauline angeli diego

Each blink comes with a kind of friction that is strong enough to light a match, burn out the grey and illuminate my cage. For within the confines of my eyelids prevail new beginnings and helloâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, four walls that welcome you home, and a yellow daisy that bleeds gratitude. As I unlatch my eyes from memories of the past, I fall back to the sceneries of unlit matches â&#x20AC;&#x201D; a message that bids farewell, empty rooms and silent halls, a dried up daisy on my desk and a table for one. This poem does not yearn for the early days once more. This is the smell after rain The aftermath, they say.

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love the criminal, love the crime elisabeth hewer

Smoke boy. Wildfire of a man. The stillness of you. You’re a masterpiece of self control. A gun-ready sculpture waiting for an audience. Here’s the part where I beg you to move. Here’s the part where I singe both palms into your chest, where I turn you to ash trying to get to your soul Fire catches all along the bank. You light your cigarette and say, “Don’t the city look great when you can’t hear the screaming?”

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contributors avery myers, orlando, florida, usa Avery Myers is a writer and terrible dancer from Orlando, Florida. She’s the executive editor at -Ology Journal, and has had her work published by Passion Passport, The Rising Phoenix Poetry Review, and The Huntington Library in Los Angeles, among others. Currently, she’s penning the great Greek-American novella (in her “writing space”, which she shares with a very loud space fan) and beginning a journalistic and global outreach internship in the fall.

andrew hector, the moon Andrew Hector is a visual artist and traveler from Central Florida. He is the founder of This Park is Your Park, a non-profit to provide people with personal tours throughout the USA’s most beautiful national parks.

caroline kinsella, northern virginia, usa Caroline is an avid tea drinker and strawberry eater living on the East Coast. Her deep-rooted love of words and beauty keeps her in a perpetual state of reading and writing poetry. She is studying to be an engineer and plans to incorporate her love of the arts into her future scientific escapades.

christian sammartino, usa Christian Sammartino is a poet from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. He studied English Literature and Asian Religions at Elizabethtown College. His poetry is influenced by life in the Pennsylvania Rustbelt near his home in Coatesville. His poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, Voicemail Poems, and Lehigh Valley Vanguard. Sammartino is currently a Resident Poet for Lehigh Valley Vanguard for the summer 2015 residency period. He is also the Editor in Chief of The Rising Phoenix Review. His first collection of poetry, Keystones, was released by Rising Phoenix Poetry Press in December 2014.

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christina im, pacific northwest, usa Christina Im is a wordsmith, armed and dangerous, and an ardent believer in ghosts. She received two national medals in the 2014 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and her work has either appeared or is forthcoming in several publications, including Young Adult Review Network, Glass Kite Anthology, and Canvas Literary Journal. She currently resides in the Pacific Northwest, where she attends high school by day and eagerly propagates magic and madness the rest of the time. elisabeth hewer, southwest uk Elisabeth Hewer is in her early twenties and currently resides in the rainy South-West UK. She likes winter and dogs and white wine and wastes a great deal of time thinking about space. isabelle mcneur, new zealand Isabelle McNeur lives in New Zealand and hopes to one day change that, even though she admits she’ll probably end up back there in the end. She likes dogs and owns one at the moment, but he’s very old so that will most likely change soon, too, at which point she hopes for a puppy so the house won’t be dog-less. Isabelle is 18 and this one will definitely change. jayne consolacion, philippines Jayne Consolacion is twenty-two, a craft-dabbler, occasional wedding singer, and accounting major from the Philippines. Sometimes she’s balancing accounts; almost always she’s balancing homework and her obstinate urges to write. Being raised in a no-name city up north and then having to move eighthours-two-expressways away for college has put her in a decent vantage point on life’s many what-if’s, so now she loiters around coffee shops trying to put all of it to words. Someday soon when she’s exhausted most of them, she’s hoping to catch that uncharted place/person/life constantly sitting on the tip of her tongue.

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nora hill, boston, massachusetts, usa Nora Hill is a city girl spending winters in a small town and summers in the woods. She’s majoring in Art History and Global Studies in an attempt to be as liberal arts as humanly possible. Her art includes poetry, prose, photographs, and cupcakes (the last are the most beautiful). Her work has been published in school literary magazines, on The Equals Record, and in the first issue of -Ology. She aspires to being known for throwing excellent dinner parties.

paola bennet, new york city, usa Paola Bennet is a nomad born in New England, blooded in the south of France, and taken under Manhattan’s wing. She spins stories in forms musical, prosaic, and photographic. Her work has been published by Passion Passport, -Ology (No1), and school literary magazines. She is always looking for the next café to harbor her black-notebook scribblings.

pauline angeli diego, manila, philippines Pauline Angeli Diego is a sixteen year old student who finds beauty in both music and poetry. Her predominant interests include mystery, sci-fi, tragedy, history and culture. She is inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath and Charles Bukowski.

topaz winters, singapore Topaz Winters is a 15-year-old songbird and word hoarder with a penchant for Tchaikovsky and earl grey tea. In her spare time, she writes books and composes music and consumes profuse amounts of cheesecake. She enjoys aloneness more than most. She is slightly incorrigible, vaguely poetic, and infinitely delighted to meet you.

yin xzi, china Yin Xzi was born in Malaysia but grew up in China. She writes because she’s stuck between two worlds in more ways than one and this is the way she can be heard. 34 |

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-ology quarterly electronic journal of poetry and prose

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