Archive for ‘August, 2015’

New Post From Us at Front Porch Commons

We’re so pleased to have a new featured post up at Front Porch Commons, the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses’ new site for all things indie publishing. The article is about the challenges and joys of running a long-distance magazine:

The idea sprouted when I was about to leave New York. I’d been living with my high school friend and fellow writer Olivia in Brooklyn, finishing my MFA and pretty much living a writer’s dream. We both loved the most writerly city on earth. We loved the plays and poetry readings, the artisanal doughnuts and dark bars crammed with

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Featured: Spring 2012

SPRING, 2012

Forecasters predict deepening snow later tonight.
Spring by calendar, winter still by the cat’s full fur:
wet unreliability for which the season is known.

I recall so clearly a halcyon day forty-six years back
when we lay contentedly, luxuriating in sweet grass
of a Missouri spring, recommitting our pastoral love.

A force flushed us; thrust through unwrapping buds;
propelled puckish nuthatches to birthing tender chicks;
mixed dormant chemicals in us; urged caressing summer.

Rapt, we felt our mouths might suck the moistening blooms;
felt easeful body heat uncurling straight the sticky loops;
felt only pleasure, not heeding scratchings …

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Featured: Johnny O. Finally Got that Baby Blue Superbird

Johnny O. Finally Got that Baby Blue Superbird
Samuel Vargo

super bird 1

Johnny O has that muscle car he’s always wanted
And even though it didn’t arrive
Until Johnny was in late middle-age (either 64 or 65),
With a triple bypass, early disability retirement
From Generous Motors and five grown kids
From three failed marriages (all grown up,
On their own), and best of all, Johnny O.’s no longer
Paying child support; he’s thundering around –
Hot rodding the streets he owned
Way back when he had a pack of smokes
Rolled up in his white tee-shirt, an oily, blonde, ducktailed mullet,…

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Featured Poem: “The Language of Love”

Caroline Johnson

The Language of Love

 

“Without arts, the inner life would wither” –Mark Strand

Take three bus transfers anywhere.

Get off at the last possible spot.

Look around—you will be surrounded

by Chicago, but you won’t be lost.

Doubtless you will see Mark Strand

wandering State Street in an overcoat.

Maybe you see a thousand such poets,

falling from the sky like a Magritte painting.

Open your umbrella to protect your face

from their tears.  Watch as their broken

legs and blood smears the sidewalk.

Step over their bodies.

Don’t steal their bowler hats.

Walk up …

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