Issue 2. Volume 1.
Welcome to the Ghost House (A Letter from the Editor)
Here we are again! Another day, another brand new issue of Ghost House! While this winter may not have been kind to us weather-‐wise, it has certainly proved fruitful in terms of excellent poetry. Our January issue of Ghost House Review is full of one-‐of-‐a-‐kind voices. It is rich in imagery and emotional eloquence. Each poem tells a universal story and works to remind us that despite the endless list of differences, there is an equally lengthy list of similarities between us as people. Thank you to everyone who has contributed their work, time, and countless talents. I am eternally grateful for all of the positivity and kindness Ghost House receives. It’s been a pleasure reading and re-‐reading all of the submissions we’ve received this time around. It never ceases to astound me when I see an overflowing inbox of eager friends. You each fill my heart with love. We hope our January issue is everything you expected! It is our sincere hope that everyone kind enough to glance through the pages of our publication finds words that soothe, move, and inspire. Thanks for choosing to be a part of it and, as always, welcome to the Ghost House!
Yours Kindly, Karolina Manko Founding Editor
Poem List The Big Fight Winning TKO Salutations Border Country Onset At the Farmer’s Market Soft Landings and Quick Bites Morning Feed Kissing My Every Scent Variants Still Waves Calm Despair and Wild Unrest Onion A Messenger’s Prayer
The Big Fight I see Monroe afterwards with his torn knuckles and his purple eye and Reynolds too, scuffed jaw, a tooth missing, and bruises on his arm. Never saw the fight so I have to reassemble it in my head from the wounds, the cuts, the scratches. Monroe swings at Reynolds, smacks him full on the mouth. Reynolds winds up, lays two hard and heavy haymakers on Monroe's eye. I hear the smacks, the thunks, the clouts, the cuffs. I see blood spurt, flesh split, teeth spit. It lasts maybe two minutes judging by the state of their faces and a draw most likely as both are still standing when I come on the scene ten minutes or so later. They are shaking hands in fact. But not in my head they aren't.
John Grey
Daniel Romo
Winning There’s an island of people who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. Some say it has to do with the rain. Others claim, lack of focus. But they’re a proud folk, noted for their nautical skill. This year’s Olympic champion in the 50 meter freestyle is a resident of the island. When they raised his country’s flag and played the national anthem, he stood tall on the podium and cried, attempting to mouth every single word, unsuccessfully. ___ TKO Throwing in the towel was predated by throwing in the sponge. A cornerman who was afraid for his boxer’s life tossed the absorbant into the ring. The first referee to encounter this kicked it out and allowed the other man to continue to bash his opponent's face. But when it was thrown in again, he disqualified the beat-‐up boxer for his corner’s actions. Of course, this was the bare knuckle era, when men fought up to forty rounds, equipped with nothing but grit and fists. Prior to this, nothing was ever thrown in any ring because, up until that point, no one had ever surrendered.
Salutations I am tired of shaking the devil’s hand, and carrying his bags. Next time he puts his feet up, it won’t be on me. I am running off to the sunnier side of hell, where the sulfur smells more fresh, and fires bloom iridescent yellow, adding charm to the screams of the tormented.
Joseph Farley
Border Country The entire landscape frowns: clouds thicken and gather the brooding hills as a shepherd gathers the flock before a coming storm; and we-‐-‐ wearing costume-‐shop tiaras-‐-‐ sing old folk songs and motor along the forbidding line of escarpments which mark the Welsh borders. The air tumbles too fiercely with the threat of rain, buffeting the hedgerows which line the narrow lanes. Imagine, you say, the small farms, cowering under the eye of the Welsh, marauders plotting in those hills, waiting to sweep down to pillage and plunder. I shiver in the passenger seat of the Peugeot, a centuries-‐old terror crawling along my spine. Later we stop at a cider mill and sip perry from thimble-‐sized cups, looking through the wide-‐planked door into the enclosed yard at the rain, pounding down on the stones as it has through all the summer, through all time.
Anne Britting Oleson
Onset "Look at us – we’re every man's fantasy," Jen says, walking around the room in her panties and polka-‐dot bra, waiting for the blood to stop flowing from the curve of her ankle where she's cut herself shaving. She's not embarrassed so I, too, wait to pull on my jeans and shirt, and the two of us navigate the room like choreographed dancers, making our beds, filling our backpacks. The skin on our bellies is taut; it bounces back if pinched or pulled. How long before a light touch creates a dent slow to rise? For now, we are so carelessly proud of every part of ourselves – bodies, desires; we scorn missed opportunities, certain there are others even better on their way. We're in no rush to get dressed; we know this is us at our best: blood, red and rapid, staining all that it touches; skin, bare in the sun through the window anyone can see inside, its curtains thrown wide open.
Kate E. Schultz
At the Farmer's Market The truck comes around nine, its bed full of pallets crammed with quarts of strawberries, bushels of cantaloupe, slatted wooden boxes from which green beans try to escape. I watch Chase step out of the driver’s seat and into the heavy summer air, removing his shirt, dirt-‐stained jeans cinched low on his tapering waist with a brown leather belt. We clamber up onto the truck bed to prepare the food for display. I carry two melons for each bushel of his, stagger with one twenty-‐pound bag of corn while he flings two over each tanned shoulder and strides to the table where he drops them, slitting open the green mesh with his pocket knife. Already the small of his back shines with sweat. The ears tumble out. After we've piled the corn in a pyramid, Chase goes back to the truck for the last of the fruit. Some days there’s a stray box – black or red plums, maybe nectarines. We’ve been told not to eat what’s meant to be sold, but this is our toil incarnate, the succulence we’ve earned. I watch him approach and set down the box. He takes off the lid, picks out a piece of the fruit. Leans against the table. Lodi apples. Never heard of them, I say. Apples, in July? Green, like mint. He carves a slice and hands it to me.
Kate E. Schultz
Ana Maria Caballero
Soft Landings and Quick Bites Rotting is a gradual process. It starts while the fruit is still ripe and hanging lightly from the tree. Once it falls, the process is in full, and the fruit must be thrown away or eaten quickly. I have picked mangoes off the floor of warm places because they taste good when they are about to turn bad. They are also delicious before they become ripe. Mangoes are an exception. But, this is not about exceptions. This is about the gradual process of rotting, even while hanging lightly from the tree. Even while young and pleasant, with clean clothes and comfortable heels. Being mindful of the ground does not mean being ready for the fall. _______ Morning Feed You are a great round thing in my arms Each morning I unwrap you to make you cold And warm you myself Eat child drink only the good While you still can Unknowing small pale and perfect We become As you take from me the only self I have to give
Kissing My Every Scent First you wore my cardigan Then my socks. Mingled with my thermal coat Before curling up with my umbrella. Stroked my slippers And counted the buttons on my shirt. Warmed your hands with my gloves And twisted my scarf in knots, Embracing my absence Kissing my every scent.
Andy N.
Variants After Mira Schendel & Pauline Stainer Even in absolute storm, light seems to hang as if invisible, solid fuel to the fire. And nothing burns at zero but love. Heart in remission with the stars, forms that trail through air we know, fragments of time solid to the last move; it is always check, a step sideways into white noise. * This is not an algorithm for love, it is a poem, wings outstretched the span of a calm, paper breasts beating so light they were nothing at all.
David Marshall
David Marshall Forget past forget the smoke that curls round time, ice round space; no matter the storm, love burns at absolute zero. _______ Still Waves After Mira Schendel & Edward Kamau Brathwaite Hear O Israel A curtain hangs between us, And I shall rend it. And naked ye shall be That come unto me. Hear O Israel My soul is one soul, My body is one. And naked ye shall be That come unto me. Hear O Israel A frail mist is all That hangs between us And naked is the body of the Lord. Hear O Israel Twelve tribes burn and perish. O Jeremiah O Jehovah O John-‐Paul Sartre 6 million of my people dead. And, O Israel, hear. Naked they shall be That come unto me.
Calm Despair and Wild Unrest Tennyson, In Memoriam, XVI: “What words are these have fallen from me? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?” I. Submerged The world is not the place we all pretend for it to be. The world is full of problems held in check so carefully. No one wants to share the thoughts of darkness and of doom. But find me one, just one in all, that’s not consumed by gloom. The world puts on a happy face and laughs for all to see. But when inside and all alone, cries uncontrollably. There isn’t one, not even one, real truly happy soul. There isn’t any who can claim complete utter control. Some folks there are who say they are for real and true tranquil. But for these souls I have some news, a really bitter pill. You know the peace you think is yours because you have it good? It don’t exist, you great big fool, you only think it should. Talk nonsense to yourself, go on and make it that you know The world’s a safe and happy place when you just wish it so. II. Surged It rises right up from the depths of the sea its colors so deep blue and warm. The strength of it climbing and building up high an omen ahead of the storm. Advances so quickly, then swoops down and hits and crashes and breaks on the shore. But coming up swiftly, right there on its heels, you see there are so many more. Rising and falling, they all never stay still when they reach their peak they just fall. But after they've stumbled and broken their pride they gather themselves and grow tall. Some would want constancy, calm placid lakes where lazy ducks paddle around. But as for me, I'll take the power and grace of waves and their loud, crashing sounds.
Anonymous
III. Emerged The cloud lifts The balloon sinks The sorrow shifts The euphoria shrinks My niece curls away from my spontaneous embrace My sister gets annoyed when I don’t find things funny Because I frightened her last week her with my withdrawn face Because last week the one laughing at dumb things was me People treat me gently as if I’m fragile as glass People greet me with joy and far less dignity I’m wracked by guilt for the angry hurtful words I cast I’m wracked by shame remembering the wild gaiety Religious resentment shadows thoughts of constriction Religious resolutions seem ridiculous shit God was an angry force full of needless restriction God was the ultimate light and source of benefit I’m five pounds lighter and my mouth feels tiny and dry I’m five pounds heavier and yet still starving as hell But I’m lifetimes heavier with real reason to cry But I’m dollars lighter with crap I should try to sell Never do I want to feel that way again Never do I want that up and down again Though I had dark pleasure in wallowing then Though I felt the bad with the good was worth it then
Anonymous
Onion 1. As I peel through the layers of psychic sediment to the core of my being I find a nugget of nihilism but hope urges me on. Hope, the only thing left when the box was finally closed. Disregarding reason when confronted with chaos I have become a believer. Dark matter and love hold the universe together. 2. We are a collection of chemicals laboring under the illusion of consciousness all our lives believing that we matter. Small nerves bring sensation larger ones a heartbeat. The causes and conditions which led us here intertwine with the tissue of human lives. There is no one to blame. 3. Artifacts from the ruins of my heart tell a story. Always needing more to satisfy the devouring demon inside. Still happily I push my stone up the mountain.
Ed Krizek
Ed Krizek 4. If you peel back far enough you may find transcendence within the emptiness With compassion all can be Buddhas sitting sending out loving-‐kindness filling an endless well.
A Messenger’s Prayer Hermes, Grant wings to my feet, Make me swift as Achilles. Wake the wind in my ears and hasten my breath, Give spring to my joints and flight to my legs, Fill the air through my hair, Pit your power to my chest, Drive my step, Steel my stride, Whip misty doubt from my eyes. Loose me out as an arrow from a double bent bow, Thrust me forward in form beyond recklessly bold, And as lines of my world fade in shadows undefined, Keep my mind on my mark, stay my soul in my cry.
William Howard
Acknowledgments Founding Editor: Karolina Manko
Head Designer: Victoria Fuks Cover Photo: Russell Peborde
Thank you to everyone who submitted work for consideration. Your courage and willingness to participate did not go unnoticed. Without you, none of this would have been possible. Follow Us on: