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Yes, Poetry Vol. 3, Issue 5: May 2012
yespoetry.com twitter.com/yespoetry facebook.com/yespoetry editor@yespoetry.com Editor-in-Chief Joanna C. Valente Assistant Editor Stephanie Valente Managing Editor G. Taylor Davis, Jr. Cover Image: G. Taylor Davis, Jr.
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Contents 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 20 21
Gregory Gunn Madelyne Cummings Danny Earl Simmons Barbara Sue Mink Spalding Jonathan Neidorf Sarah Gamutan Mike Wheeler Mark Schaefer Zev Torres Megan Kellerman Lara Dolphin Anna Meister Contributor's Notes Editor Biographies Submission Guidelines
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GREGORY GUNN Envoi Molten blades of grass, as ruffled as magma. Haze respiring over a dawn’s stream. Crack this wide open from any place you wish. The earth volcanic, aflame, oily methyl orange, flowing down slopes, substantial matter occurs at your throat’s back. Or the gossamer murmur of early morning emanating from the shoreline, spectral & explicit. I left. I returned. The trees like spokes. The forest verdant. You will never encroach here. Move damp boughs back, the web-work of ivy mapping out diagrams on your footwear. Sole survivors with other soul’s diction. At least there’s something in which to have a belief system. Continue, envision this is me, I shall then visualize you.
Escaping the Expanding Universe Solar systems swirl within the blood, gyrate aloft galaxies from the larynx. Gravitational fields devoid and I unburden my conscience of all matters. Here in this space, the celestial sea utterly devastated, charred along the cosmic outskirts, flush, as repoussé as Braille. I respond to the swing & spin Yes, Poetry
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MADELYNE CUMMINGS Look The roots tip slightly, pitching tents, allowing us entry, while the moon looks on and for a way out, scrambling its vision. You lift the hem of my skirt, behind the small restaurant. And tell me the tires are just time and eyes are just a way to see things. I tell you about the man in the window above us. I say, look: he's sick of the chicken, the smell of coffee. And his eyes won't stop watering. His fingernails bleed. He bites them. Roles up his sleeves. Looks at the moon. He continues to talk, washes his hand. Undoes his top button. I roll out of the dirt. Find the fence in the dark and cut myself cleanly, open, and I can't see the blood. You don't find me, and I can still hear the man talking. He's talking about his fingers. Can you hear him? I find the keys next to the line on the road. And I open the back door of the car on the tires made of time. I lie down in your blanket. I smile at the ceiling. I laugh at my eyes. You knock on the window and tell me it's time. And I undo the latch and let you inside.
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DANNY EARL SIMMONS Bitter Pills Sometimes, you just gotta scrape the tip of your tongue against the sharp edge of your bottom teeth, work up the spit, and swallow hard.
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BARBARA SUE MINK SPALDING Idaho State Fair—1964 Sun and sickness there At the bleachers, with sawdust. Mother was too late.
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JONATHAN NEIDORF Bananas Instead, Eve and Adam, would sin look more like sex if you fell with an unfamiliar fruit? Not a real berry, An aisled clone, Earthy unyellow skin dropped at the snake's feet? The sex, The abacus of its campesinos' sons and daughters, in the Common Era, exodus from genesis, from the church and into a massacre? A solemn boast of four to two thousand violent ghosts? Suggestive and non-Midwestern, would you contemplate a dildo of a fruit (because, detached from man, it fucked a lot of people)?
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SARAH GAMUTAN Catalyst You will come out beheaded, flat burned. Your eyes will tolerate its awfulness. Next time, I know, you will be there to betray me. The eyes deeply uncleaned will run out of' blood. It will not be anymore impeccably flawless. Your eyes will not be, anymore, the key to your soul. They are pretentious. They are seeking something else—its lust.
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MIKE WHEELER Equinox Violence is a many-colored Band-Aid When we discover witch caves, piss On electrical boxes, stuff winter leaves On a crabapple heap, run streams, slur Perverse codes into walkie-talkies As we spy, parent’s lips gone blue With film, the neighbor off, on cue, With her paper gown; a first feat Marbled there into our blood. And it’s forgotten, how to bruise, When the first love crushes Gravel, jumps our bones, the walls Peeling raw with farm cartoons, Valleys ripped open in the electric Heat only she can tolerate As she drives her truck into the woods— Defenseless as you are, in need Of a fist alignment with bark— Just to brag about how good it felt To go.
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MARK SCHAEFER At the End They all die at the end of this one, but their happiness bleed out before their wounds do. Do you think they’ll meet God at the edge of the universe? Or will they get lost in all of the fog on the way there? Strapped with one gun and a couple packs of cigarettes, no one is going to get too far. The boys in the back joke and take bets on who’ll get worse than another scar. What else can you do when the world’s gone, except bet on the next death? Nothing. You can strive all you want; it’s useless. We all die at the end of this one.
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ZEV TORRES Bright Nights Bend me backwards Arrive unrepentant With a clear conscience Dissolve me on your tongue But do not swallow Until the last traces of pink Are absorbed by the brazen sky.
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MEGAN KELLERMAN Loop You wanted something romantic, right? How about caked mud crumbling from the chest of a lover who couldn't possibly come back, but here he is, hair curling over his ears, all apologies for his death and your death and the sad, furious nights you spent under the covers all alone with only cold sweat to cradle you. His voice booms new life over you, avalanche from the mountains. You want this. You want this. You want this.
Mantra I am a face staring out of a wide, wide hole that used to be filled with someone else's rain and fear and god-loathing.
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LARA DOLPHIN Boiling Water for Oolong Tea shrimp eyes crab then fish opalescent rope of pearls steamy bubbles streaming
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ANNA MEISTER Ripe & Wanting find yourself in a dirty basement, humming like a subway station, full of that piss sweet smell & stick of beer to the concrete floor, the floor to your boots, dribbling down your dress front. all around, the empty sound of plastic cups flipping over & falling to the ground, sloppy. everyone shouts & bangs their calloused hands on the wooden table. in the corners, riotous laughter, bodies folding over feet. & then he comes up behind you, whispers hot sweat in your ear, something about your ass, & your cheeks already flushed from chugging too much bloom redder still as the liquid sits & sloshes in your belly like sopping Winter rain. rain that catches the two of you moments later, spits you wet over a split cigarette. rain that makes you peel away clothing like fruit, sticking to your bodies like the beer to the floor & you to the floor. & you both understand what is happening, a pile of clothes soaked through by the dresser & no last names, but then the surprising softness of his skin – like almond butter – jars you all too awake. & you suddenly notice your sinking sway and liquor limbs, wish you could wring your tongue dry for you are certain he can taste you ripe & wanting, near rot.
Upon Waking i open my eyes and your house is already in the middle of one of its stories. (the harmony of a dog’s steps and collar like rolling marbles, the gentle steam of the espresso machine a floor below, the way your staircase just breathes). in your room, the sun is loud and uninvited, spreading a thin layer of bright over our bodies like chocolate on a marble slab.
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Contributor's Notes Madelyne Cummings is a communications student living an hour south of Sydney. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is a radio story contributor for the Sydney based show 'All the Best' on FBi 94.5. She's currently working on an upcoming radio story, studying intermittently (i.e. when she can be bothered), whilst also saving fervently for a year long exchange in Asheville, North Carolina. She can usually be found on the train. Lara Dolphin is a writer and poet. Her work has appeared in print and online in such publications as Fogged Clarity, Orbis, The Foliate Oak Literary Journal, and Calliope. Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc. , The Beat, Red Fez, Haggard and Halloo Publications, Black- Listed Magazine, The Legendary, Voxpoetica and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day. Born in Windsor, Ontario in 1960, Gregory Wm. Gunn grew up in a few small towns throughout the province until finally settling in London. A graduate of Fanshawe College as an Electronics Technician in 1980, Mr. Gunn began writing seriously during his academic tenure there. Since then, he has written six full poetry collective works. Megan Kellerman graduated from Fairleigh Dickinson’s undergraduate Creative Writing program in May 2011. Her work has appeared in Catfish Creek, and is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal. She received the Andonis Decavalles Poetry Scholarship twice, as well as an MFA Award for Excellence in her major at FDU. Anna Meister attends Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts where she studies growing up, pop culture, and words (and how they all fit together). Some of her favorite things are mangoes, patterns in flight, double exposures, and knees. She remembers everything. Jonathan Neidorf is originally from the Chicago suburbs. He is currently studying English and sociology at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This is his first publication of a poem. Mark Schaefer is currently a graduate student at SUNY New Paltz. He spends his free time with his fiancee, writing, and watching too much TV. Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the LinnBenton Community College Poetry Club and an active member of the Albany Civic Theater. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various journals such as Avatar Review, Summerset Review, The Monarch Review, The Smoking Poet, Boston Literary Magazine,
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Editor Biographies Joanna C. Valente is a MFA candidate in poetry writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also a part-time mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. Her work has appeared in Italics Mine and other journals. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and as always, poetry. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. One day, she would like to become a silent film star. Her favorite desserts are crème brûlée and strawberry-rhubarb pie. She can be found at: kitschy.tumblr.com. G. Taylor Davis, Jr is from the Milky Way.
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Submission Guidelines -Please send all submissions to editor@yespoetry.com. -We consider previously unpublished work, although simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Copyrights revert back to writer upon publication. -Submissions are on a rolling basis, so we ask you not to submit more than once per month. -Don't forget to include a third-person author biography with your work. We also encourage you to link us to your website or blog. Poetry: Submit up to seven poems. In the subject line of the email, please write “Your Name_Poetry Submission.” Either copy and paste your work into the body of the email, or attach as a .doc file. We welcome all types of poetry. Photography: Only submit original work; it can be a stand-alone piece or part of an entire collection. Submit up to five photos with an artist's statement. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Photography Submission.” Music: Please send mp3 or mp4 files only. In the subject line of the email, write “Your Name_Music Submission.” Other: If you are submitting a review or interview, please send in a .doc file. It must not exceed 2,000 words. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Other Submission.” If you would like to be involved or have any other questions, please direct all emails to editor@yespoetry.com.
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