Summer Quarterly, 2024: Issue 10
The GGPCollective
Ⓒ Glass Gates Publishing, 2024
“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Jack Kerouac
Acknowledgments
Avery special thank you to all of our contributing writers. Without the courage to share your words and work with others, our little publication could not exist.
Please find our contributors and follow their pages on social media for more!
Follow @glassgatespublishing on Instagram for more announcements and future calls for submissions
All art for this issue is credited to IrinaTall (Novikova).
● Noor Beliën
● IrinaTall (Novikova)
● Edward L. Canavan
● John Sweet
● RebeccaAgauas
● Morgan Boyer
● Liezl Villanueva
● Chelsey Jordan
● Siyona
● JasmineTate
● N.C.
● Dave Kurley
● Michelle N. Rain
● Adam Brooks
● 4rgos
● M. Baxter
● Rina MalagayoAlluri
● Samantha Silverstein
● Bailey
● Diane Jackson
● Anne Kulou
Table of Contents
● Entropy of Ecstasy
● From life or ha
● [confirming humanity]
● [flower, beast, and bird]
● [little voids]
● the oblique
● memories, thin as shadows
● Grandpa
● SlateTiles
● Heroes of Papyrus
● Bleeding Heart
● Arctic Heart
● Sunrises
● Love’s LatestTrend
● Heatwave
● Am I MoreThan Skin
● PureAgain
● Herald.
● Cycles
● Bungalows of belonging
● The Floppy Headed Boy and the Raven Haired Girl
● Sunkissed
● Days LikeThese
● Unbiased Love
● intimate nostalgia
Entropy of Ecstasy
To be a writer is to be an entropy of ecstasy.
It is to lie awake at night, sweating, to feel the blood throbbing in your arteries, as the undeniable need to create drips off your skin, onto the paper.
It is to revel in your sorrows, for it is in your tears where you find the music, which you carve out of your soul with a knife as you feel the cold metal on your skin.
It is consuming yourself from the inside out, eating your heart and licking the remnants off the sharp edges of the platter.
It is to linger perpetually between the threads of a thin curtain separating the virtuous and the sinful.
It is to savor your own blood, to fly high up in the sky, perhaps too close to the sun, to get a taste of the immortality that only comes with the everlasting taking apart of one’s soul.
Noor Beliën
Bio: Noor Beliën is an emerging writer living in Belgium. She is a seventeen year old high school student who spends most of her time reading and writing. After graduating high school, she aspires to study english literature at Ghent university. She has been previously published in online literary magazines such as The Malu Zine, Adolescence Literary Magazine, Bitter Melon Review, and elsewhere. You can find her @writtenbynoorr on instagram.
From life or ha
I think the clock has stopped
And the arrows froze
In the unknown
In the whiteness of the night,
Where there are many bright burning flowers in the sky...
I run my tongue across my palm
And a snowflake cuts my sky,
Burning pink in blue
Dying in eternity
My warmth...
I feel like I'm becoming a fish...
In eternity
one fish lives
It's like being in the universe
Many stars
Blue ones that look like a lagoon...
The oceans part before her size,
Big gray eyes...
So that she can give birth to new...
Secretly preserving life...
He and she are the ghosts of time, those who were carried away like the wind and there was no memory of dust left, about which they no longer write, I am like the one who can remember them, name them and probably... She slightly touched his dark hand, with light eyes pointed to the scarlet thread, to the umbilical cord connecting the worlds, to you and no one else... like the inscriptions on their small palms...And he, his horns suddenly grew... One big and the other small...The ornament on her dress caught fire, blinked his eyes and stared at the thin white trees behind them, everything living in this world, even the web, has thoughts..
From life or hate,
From what is possible cannot be seen in daylight.
She always keeps her secret...
Sometimes she is compared with a cat, probably because of the thin fingers and sharp nails...
They call her Siren,
But her voice is deep
Than tall and I will never be able
Forget her...
Her only name Kept secret...
Bio: Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorny the Exhibition is Irina s, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".
Irina Tall (Novikova)
[confirming humanity]
embedded and hardwired into the minds of our machines is the failsafe of asking us if we are robots before allowing us to enter their domain yet we have no such protection preventing them from using that information against us.
[flower, beast, and bird]
caught in contraptions of faith and belief
man-made relics of accountability attributed to make-believe gods negates the most basic urge to live fully as a part of the universe by removing the inner divine and placing it on a crumbling pedestal of worship.
Edward L. Canavan
[little voids]
black holes on sunlit days
eyes full of dead flowers mouth broken and decayed
sweltering thru the hot season walking the lifeless streets past broken windows and dim bulbs as a warm gust wraps itself around my aching heart
i sigh as the church bells ring one o’clock and the day goes on regardless of death and want and loss and confusion and i push forward regardless of everything else.
Bio: Edward L. Canavan is a Los Angeles based poet whose work has most recently appeared in New Croton Review, The Opiate, and the Collapse Press Anthology “Letters for the End Times”. He has 2 poetry collections published by Cyberwit Press. Born and raised in the Bronx, NY, Edward currently resides in North Hollywood, California, where he practices Buddhism and is currently listening to Barry Adamson.
Edward L. Canavan
the oblique
sunlight in the spaces between houses
map of loss
geography of both memory and sorrow and then what?
find the man with the crosses carved into his palms
find the one with the head ofh a crow, with the mind of a jackal
the junkie hymns are what matter here, and the prayers of murdered dreamers
gold and myrrh and that all gifts are weapons
that all lovers believe in resurrection
the heart betrays the body yes but then the body betrays the soul
ecstasy precedes despair
the desert spreads without mercy in every direction
john sweet
memories, thin as shadows
sweating in codeine sleep, this rain, this fever, too many thoughts obscured by others, too much light and sound, and in my dreams you are always someone i never loved
in my dreams we lie next to each other, naked in strange sunlight, naked in early spring with the land blue & gold and falling away in every direction in my dreams we lie
we are naked, you and i, in beds of regret and with our hands bound tight
we are ourselves dreamt
we are frightened i will forget your name, but not the warmth of your body
Bio: John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).
john sweet
Grandpa
Grandpa
He worked in a scrap yard, crushing cars and melting metal.
Grandfather
I later found out that he crushed more than just cars in that yard.
Bubba
Doesn’t matter, he’s the only man to ever love me unconditionally.
Zayde
Every Sunday, he sat at the kitchen table with a cigar in one hand, smoking it down to a nub while he told stories of the past.
Pops
I listened to those stories as if they were being told for the first time, not the hundredth. I never once told him I had already heard this story before.
Captain
Bigger, bolder than life, my eyes always twinkled with delight as he spoke and looked into my eyes with pure love and joy.
King
I haven’t met a man like him since and I don’t think I ever will.
Bio: Rebecca Agauas is a woman who lives in Michigan. She is a person living with chronic illnesses and is an advocate for the chronic illness community. Rebecca has been writing for a few years and considers writing a form of self expression and self reflection. She has self published 2 books and has been published and received recognition from various literary magazines. You can find Rebecca on Instagram @rebeccaagauas.
Rebecca Agauas
Slate Tiles
each day falls like descendants of slate tiles off of a roof built by men long gone their wives forever encased in snickerdoodle recipes pulled out once a year the arguments with their husbands echoing through lead-coated pipes
the silence of a dipped neck as the wife looks at the bubbles left on plates washed but not dried each bump of suds that wouldn’t taste great if eaten with spaghetti
since everything has to pass a normalcy test
Bio: Morgan Boyer is the author of The Serotonin Cradle (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and a graduate of Carlow University. Boyer has been featured in Kallisto Gaia Press, Thirty West Publishing House, Oyez Review, Pennsylvania English, and Voices from the Attic. Boyer is a neurodivergent bisexual woman who resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
Morgan Boyer
Heroes of Papyrus
I once adored a boy Made of words and metaphors. He’s not a cookie-cutter–For the ships he sailed, For the wars he fought, For the planes he flew inAdriatic Sea.
If you look too closely, You will realize that He’s the brother you haven’t seen in ages. He’s the neighbor who helped you When no one else didn’t offer a thing. He’s a stranger you thought was bad When, in fact, he meant to do good.
Heroes of papyrus aren’t paper-thin Nor are they figments of a desperate, Moony-eyed artist. They feed a hungry heart, From poets to novelists. Generations after generations, Piles of ink blotted And spilled for building these heroes.
Alas! I made a mistake. Does life imitate art? Or does art imitate life?
Bio: Liezl Villanueva is a writer based in the Philippines. When she is not writing, you can find her in the countryside, dreaming of other worlds with her mountain bike. Her work has previously appeared in Open Door Poetry Magazine. You can reach her @liezlcv_ on Twitter and Instagram.
Liezl Villanueva
Bleeding Heart
Betrayal, on repeat.
Heart weeps. Eyes dry, insides cry.
Dead inside, before the bloom.
Fertilize my wounds with love and care. Watch me overcome pain's sweep.
As I sway to a loving beat.
Bio: Chelsey Jordan is a contemporary poet and artist based in Michigan. She is known for her funky watercolor doodle art and unique writing pieces. Her work can be found on Instagram under the handle “cjwordsandotherfeelings.”
Chelsey Jordan
Arctic Heart
It's freezing in there
Inside her brumous body
An avalanche of thoughts
Claw their glacial hands
Chafing her bones
Flakes of frozen words
Stab her tongue
Memories linger, an elegiac mist
Over her arctic heart
Bio: Siyona is a young writer from Mumbai, India. At the age of ten, she discovered her passion of expressing herself and unveiling her thoughts and emotions to the world through the flow of her pen and she has been writing relentlessly ever since. Her Instagram page which goes by the username spillingpoetry_ exhibits an interesting collection of her writing pieces.
Siyona
Sunrises
There's something about the birds chirping
As the sun coats the sky golden
Peachy patches puddling blues
That feel like a homecoming
The joy as the forest shades mate with its awesomeness
Both destined to twirl in a divine and soulful praise dance
I wish I can sip more sunrises
Puckered lips, eyes closed into savoring
To freeze time and master pieces of it into my memory
Touching everywhere visible
And leave a dawning impression
I want to sit with the sun slouched over the horizon for a while
Its delicate rays pouring through my strands
Trimming away the tangled thoughts feeding from my brittle ends
Colors of my interior burn in deep charcoal and blues
The muddy black murals turning me shadows of midnight hues
The allure of daybreak entices me in a pipe dream
The birds chirp along, aiding the master in creation
Turning all of my ruins into sunny, sacred treasures
To live a life of wonder, surrendered to the light of love
To carry these enchanting notes like a call from a mourning dove
Basking in a beam of brilliancy, buttoned in a soft awakening
Is a sweet homecoming
That rises each day from a distance
To pull back the curtains, to salute the rise of our existence
Jasmine Tate
Love’s Latest Trend
In a world of screens and endless scrolls, two hearts sync up, finding their rhythm. Soul mates, they call them, kindred and true, in the digital dance, a love fresh and new.
Through the noise of tweets, the blur of feeds, their connection stands out, meeting their needs. In emojis and texts, in shared Spotify songs, their souls recognise where each belongs.
Eyes that speak in pixels, a touch through a screen, in this modern realm, their love is evergreen. Through video calls, memes they send, their bond unbroken, love’s latest trend.
Shared laughter in a late-night chat, GIFs and stories where their hearts are at. Comfort in silence, FaceTime's warm glow, joy in their voices, a simple “hello."
Knowing someone, profile and all, a mirror of your soul, in every call. Ahand you virtually hold when the world seems tough, a steadfast anchor, love more than enough.
Every snap, every heart-filled text, the promise of forever, what comes next.
Soul mates understand, love is a journey, hand in digital hand. Through updates and changes, across cyber space, their love is constant, a timeless embrace.
In the grand scheme of likes, in the followers’flood, soul mates are the connection, life in the blood. In each other's presence, they've found their way, soul mates in eternity, in the modern day.
N.C.
Heatwave
When you sweat like a murderer in confession
And all you’ve done is stand up
When there aren’t enough ice lollies in the world
When saunas are cold comfort
When the breeze uphill is like
Someone’s trained a hairdryer on you
When brass monkeys look smug
When beige is the new green
When even cats pant
When reservoirs recede
To reveal old spires
When you’re wide-eyed, sleepless
Waiting for the bedroom to go ‘Ping!’
When you turn the pillow to the cool side
And there is no cool side
When the heat waves
And you daren’t wave back
Bio: Dave lives in central Portugal with his wife and two cats. He published a book of his poems a couple of years ago, called ‘Irritating the Silver Lining’. Have a search for it, if you fancy. You can find his poems and photos at @kurleybobspoetrycorner on Instagram, Facebook and/or Threads.
Dave Kurley
Am I More Than Skin
I am my peaking ribs
And my bragging
Pearled collarbones
I am the flap of skin
Between my thighs
And I’m this belly bag
I am my wrist slipped
In between my fingers
And the legs taking up a seat
But the other day, you
Said something strange
You said I was everything
I was the stars, and the Crinkle of a smile
That was the first time
I saw my own face
In a long, long while.
Bio: Michelle N. Rain, known as “PouringRain” on social media platforms, started writing in her teenage years and begun posting her work in 2022. Her emotional poetry often revolves around themes of mental struggles, heartbreak, and challenging the way she views herself and the world around her. @pouringrainpoems on Instagram
Michelle N. Rain
PureAgain
I will endure this cell. Forever.
Or as long as it takes.
Dreaming of a departed measure.
When the raindrops hadn’t learned fear. And the sandcastles were temples.
Staring at this ceiling.
With the patience of a killer.
Flames for my old life to birth ash.
Holding myself with gentle consequence.
So mighty, so frail.
I awaken in the pale blue egg of a robin. Pure again.
Adam Brooks
Herald.
Body lying, carved from Tahitian pearls.
Horizon drowning into a destroyer’s herald.
I gladly bled the world to watch all the stars swim into him.
Bio: 4rgos is a self-published mid-Atlantic author and mixed media artist currently residing in California. 4rgos can be found online under the handle @_._4rgos_._ on both Instagram and Threads, as well as @_4rgos_ on X. His books “Convenient to Love” and “Take This to Your Dreams” are available on Amazon.
4rgos
Cycles
Repeat after me you cannot repeat the same mistakes again.
Rinse but please do not repeat.
Swish goes those wishes you wish you had had you not did and did and did and did what you did again and again and again.
Those were false loves. Always unavailable. Always.
Repeat after me my love. You cannot repeat the same mistakes again.
Rinse but please do not repeat. Repeat after me.
M. Baxter
Bungalows of belonging
little Brown girl, with no access to the sea, pink bike, high handle bars
scrapes on bony elbows gravel mapping blood like messy patterns of home
running through a bustling kitchen scarred with burns of a faulty stove
navigation of murky water, coming out clean, she jumps back in, to rescue her own armbands
How many oceans would she learn to swim across, endlessly searching for a place of peace?
Bio: Rina Malagayo Alluri (she/her) has been rooted, uprooted and replanted in various soils. She is a peace scholar, yoga practitioner and mother to two headstrong children. Her poetry weaves together experiences of (de)coloniality, diasporic identities and relationships that form/unform. You can find her work in publications such as: Arlington Literary Journal (ArLiJo), Breadfruit mag, Beyond Words Magazine, Carnation Zine, Sunday Mornings at the River, The Hemlock Journal and Yellow Arrow Publishing .IG: @rinamala
Rina Malagayo Alluri
The Floppy Headed Boy and the Raven Haired Girl
IthoughtIwasjealous
Ofthefloppyheadedboy
Andtheravenhairedgirl
Theywerefriends
Shelinkedromanticallywithanother
Himallalone
Justfriends
ButafriendshipIlongedtobepartof
Theywouldtalkofmovies
Ofshows
Ofamulets
Oftarotreadings
Andbeliefsinanotherworld
Iwouldlook
Eager
Yethesitantandafraid
Whatiftheydidn’tlikeme?
Allowingmyself
Todwellandlosehopeatimpressing
Thosewhoweren’tawareIyearnedtobelong
Iwasjealousoftheravenhairedgirl
Andthewomanwhoclaimedherasapal
Theytookpictures
Woremakeup
Beatdrums
Meditated
Chanted
Gavebacktotheuniverse
Bythankingtheearth
IthoughtIwantedwhattheyhad
UntilIopenedmyeyes
Newinterestsemerged
Newsmiles
Andfaces
Helpandsupport
Comingfromunknownsources
Istillfeelsad
Whenthefloppyheadedboy
Andravenhairedgirlareseenchatting
Stillgetdownonmyself
WhenIrealizeI’llneverhavewhattheravenhairedgirlandtheotherwomanshare
Himleapingandjumping
Togetclosertoherinthecircle
Thewomanclamoringovertheravenhairedgirlwhenevershegetsachance
Theravenhairedgirl’swarmsmileembracingall
What’spityandwhat’sgenuine?
ButIknow
Iknowwheremytruehomeremains
Andallisfinallyrightwiththeworld
Samantha Silverstein
Sun-Kissed
Summer wraps her arms around me like an old friend, with her popsicle-stained smile and farmers market mornings.
Hints of her humidity stick to my clothes, cling skin tight, clog the air before the impending rainstorm.
She sits with me, drinking pitchers of sweet tea, and serving ice cream that melts too fast.
She feels like home with her gentle breeze kissing my skin, where sunscreen and sand still linger.
She breathes traces of honeysuckle and bonfire smoke, now caught in my hair.
She leaves me with salt-soaked lips after a midnight swim and a sultry moon hung high in the sky.
Bio: Bailey is a writer based in the Midwest, who enjoys sending handwritten notes and drinking too much coffee. She is best known for her writing pieces on Instagram under “coffeestainedloveletters.” You can also connect with her on Threads.
Bailey
Days Like These…
On days like these
The golden sun rises with ease
Pink skies comfort and coffee brews quickly
As the world awakens
Wild birds sing in lyrical unison
Like trumpeters in a marching band
Her inner essence starts strumming at hand
There’s a craving inside
Stirring complacency, dissatisfied
Nudging her, to become
Something of substance
Diving deep within, exploring her intuition
Igniting ambitions into glorious fruition
Emboldening visions of her true self
Heart unchained, an emotional wealth
Yes, it’s days like these
When everything is possible
Those brilliant stars, although distant, Are finally within arm’s reach, a constant
Bio: See more of Diane’s work on Instagram: Lost Heart Poetry@LostHeart_Musings
Diane Jackson
Unbiased Love
Part One: The Place
Despite the thousand good reasons Learned in the course of a lifetime
To fight each other in order to protect The ramparts of their own fortresses
There will always be the wickets Far back in the remote corners of their strongholds Towards the virgin spot between... …Their pacified wildflower garden
Asacred place this is Ever the same – forever changing Where they meet in unbiased presence With their futures and their pasts
In this place – inviolate and pure Nothing and no one may intrude Each word one too many Numbing noises far
Part Two: The Ritual
And they come there as a whole
Not as the sum of their broken parts
Naked and cleansed
To present each other their beating hearts
And as a mutual offering
They bring their wounds and scars
Their fears and hopes
Dissolved in tears
In a sacred vessel
From which drink they both
As sign of trust
To renew their bond
Part Three: Her Seeing
There, she can see the boy he was
Freezing under the stern gaze of his father
Friendly and lonely
With no roots to settle
The young man trying hard to be good And to live up to the many expectations
Never fair or reasonable
Or even such that they could be met at all
She sees the man chasing dreams
Listening to the wind
And letting it blow the tumble weeds
Clean through his soul
Sees it all at once
The settled one, content and humble
And the old and wise
Looking back at her with love and a smile
Part Four: His Seeing
And he He wants to see through it all His eyes saying:
"Show me all, let me see!"
Then gently but determined Takes off the cloak that envelops her “Show me the scars
That you believe disfigure you.”
And carefully takes off The harlequin mask of her face “I can bare the grief and exhaustion Revealed underneath.”
Part Five: The love
And she feels love in all its definitions
The kind of love a mother has for her son
Awoman for her man
And a daughter for her father
She allows it all
Lets him lean on her as a son
Crave her as a man
Reassure her as a loving father
She feels passionate love for him
Not plain passion
But a passion for his soul and mind
To be entangled with hers at times
Yes, she loves him!
Without explanation or good reason
That – she thinks by herself – is by far
The best way of loving someone
Part Six: The End
It’s just that sometimes they forget How to find that wicket In the labyrinth and thicket Of their armed strongholds
And they fight Until they just listen To the small voice In the stillness and the dark
To guide them back To the start
To the place Of unbiased love
Anne Kulou
intimate nostalgia
I wanted to vanish into the sunset with you...
you with your sweet honey mouth and purposeful hands who feels like home to me
like I've known you from a past imagined from a past not brought into life simmering there blurry in the cinema of my mind in the form of motion pictures on an old film roll with nice music laid underneath
I see sunshine and children playing and dogs lots of dogs and a swing yes, a swing at a lake with an old willow tree
I see two young souls still pure at heart overflowing when together in longing when apart
writing letters telling secrets tears on heavy paper intimate nostalgia anticipating a next summer which has already – passed
Bio: Anne Kulou is a self-taught neurodivergent artist, starting to write poetry in childhood as a means to express her rich imaginative mind and her non-dualistic experience of the natural world, deeply intertwined with her inner sensory, cognitive and emotional processes. In 2022, she added photography as an equally powerful and subtle medium for creative expression, as another and combined way for her to say the unfathomable, the in-between. She lives in Germany and works as a forensic psychologist (MSc) and trauma sensitive Gestalt psychotherapist. You can find her online on Instagram under @_ankuords_ and @_ankulou_.
Anne Kulou
Ⓒ Glass Gates Publishing, 2024