Tag: Poetry

“Alexandrine for Orpheus” by Helen Jenks

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

If there were yet, O Muse, a greater myth than thee,
Then what reason would we, the poets, have to write,
To sing? To praise the verséd glory of your name––
Sweet tongue, embalmed in honeyed words so cruel and fair,
And nimble hands, so tender with the tortoise lyre;
What else could we, the poets, ever hope to be
But trapped like she in tragedy’s unforgott’n hold,
Eurydice! Does not enchanting Death fatigue
Of tears, even as he weeps and fears for your
Mangled body left to rot on such a lovely
Mountaintop as the wine-soaked hills of Pangaion ––
O Tragedy, you blithe and pithy thing! Your toys
Are weary of this game, as sure as spring again
Must rise, as does the lonely sun in every sky,
And just as do the rocks and stones and pavements of
The underworld sing draft and dreamless songs of love,
Along an old and winding road. Along an old
And treach’rous road, we watch and wait with bated breath
As Fate itself beguiles Death, and lovers young
Attempt to sway the oiled heart of King Hades––
And all the rocks that line the road call out to you
O Orpheus! Turn not the sweetness of your head,
For us, O Muse, look straight ahead! Perhaps this time
You’ll get it right, but still you fail, and still we die.




Helen Jenks is a poet from Dublin, bumbling history student, and avid knitter who writes of memory and myth, among other things. Her work has been published in various journals across Ireland, the UK, and the US, and she acts as the editor of The Madrigal, an Irish poetry publication focused on work that is emotive, sincere, and familiar.

“How Do I Reply to ‘Do You Love Me?'” by John Grey

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

Yes, that’s my head you see
sitting atop my voice.
It is responsible for the machinations
of the tongue, even the gestures
that conduct sound into meaning.
Behind my brow, are my thoughts,
my motivations.
Sorry you can’t chisel through
and see for yourself.
You’ll have to take my word for it.
And my head is perched
atop my word.
Containing a heavy brain,
it can’t help but exert pressure
on the throat.
So that’s why sometimes,
the explanation comes out garbled,
like a wrestler struggling
not to be pinned.
Or it’s whispered
as if it’s trying to avoid
the attention of the giant above.
Or it just gives up,
says nothing,
despite the head’s
stream of instructions.
Right now, I’m silent,
though the head is loud.




John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. His latest books, Leaves on Pages, Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself, are available through Amazon. His work is upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.

Two Poems by Julian Woodruff

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Mill

Along the road that leads north out of town
There stands an old mill, a decrepit thing.
At one time in the past, our city’s spring,
It churned out gravel. Now one looks around
The site where weather-wearied slats combine
To form bent walls and lurching towers bound
To make one think it begs to be torn down,
And wonder at its dying on the vine.

Without the mill, our town would not have risen,
But one day found its life elsewise sustained.
Some workers went to staff the nearby prison.
Others found jobs in skyscrapers glass-paned.
Gravel remains a product of much use.
But such our mill will nevermore produce.


Clouds at Dawn

The sky is an aquarium today.
The denizens of this inverted deep,
Some big as whales, others quite small,
loom, heavy late-night tokens all.

Gliding lethargically ahead,
They await the first dim rays of dawn.
Mimicking fish admirers like to keep,
Each separate stays. They look asleep.

These early morning clouds, a school
So calm, prophesy scant rainfall,
Although their cast is charcoal gray
That swim this strangely situated bay.

There’s little chance they’ll sprinkle any lawn,
Even—much less refill the shallowest pool
Beside a drying flower bed
The heated air has left for dead.

They merely haunt the sky, a phantom jewel
To be within an hour gone.




Julian D. Woodruff divides his time between western New York State and Toronto, writing short fiction and poetry, much of it for children. His work is most recently represented in WestWard Quarterly and on the websites of Aphelion Webzine and The Society of Classical Poets. 

Two Poems by Christopher Sahar

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

33

No one visits
Old man shelved in 33,
Family turned to dust
Joined the stars
Few years ago.

He watches
Standstill as
Frozen grass,
Fretting the rats
Would steal
His seed cast
For beloved Robin.

Old man in 33
Knows Winter Robin’s
Peculiar ariosos:
Half steps down
Two-at-a-time,
Minor leaps thrice,
Clicks a-four to bar,
Roulades at eights and nines.

Winter robin
Raptured by ample seed
Cracks husks
Leisurely despite
Bottomless freeze.

Old man in 33
Keens for his
Beloved’s arioso but
Swoons, keels, evaporates
Into cirrus-studded sky;
His benediction:
A crackle of husks,
A woof of wingflap,
Winterwind’s glacial heave.


Rainey Park, 2018

Eastriverskin etches
Mathematical formulae
Upon undulating aquaplane.
Maxima, minima,
Abscissa, ordinates
Integrating, deriving
Functions multivariate
Convergent, Divergent
Infinities and finites,
Colliding constellations
Of mathematical vectors,
Reform to north zero direction.
Our plane, a mutinous
Mutating mathematical
Choreography too rich
Compared to the infantile simplicity
Of the vector sum of those outside
Our criss-crossed planeskein.
Yet all dissipate as riverskin
To creek, marsh, prim-
Ordial slime, ooze;
Earthen death husks’
Sheening, refracting, redacting
Live billions under thermo-nuclear star
To Dusk’s mercuryslipsilveredslatebluestone-
Antiquedbrassgoldenaquamarineinkstain’d fringe.




Christopher Sahar is a musician who enjoys writing poetry as an avocation. Born and raised in New Jersey, he received his B.A. in English from Oberlin College and his Master’s in Music Theory and Composition from Queens College/City University of New York. He resides in the Astoria, Queens section of New York City, where he works as a church musician, educator, and occasionally earns income from music compositions and free-lance writing.  A composer, his works have been performed both in the United States and Europe, and he has written a libretti and lyrics for operatic and vocal works. 

“No Nostalgia” by Sathya Narayana

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Her eyes besmeared with dreams
and skin effusing thin passion…
standing with fretting limbs
before my rocking chair…
with trembling lips she drawled
“You wanna say something!”
I said nothing…nothing!
Decades after, the floor
before me looks vacant.
She’s not there…she’s there…
she’s not there…she’s there!
Gazing at pure nothing
as if she’s there smiling,
utter I now something
…I shout again aloud,
I sob silently then.
My voice from interred soul,
struggles from depths, stutters
and splutters oh few words…
but all unintelligible…This’s no nostalgia,
this’s no nostalgia…this’s vertigo, yes, yes…
a sweet veridical hoax!




Sathya Narayana has been published in a number of print and web magazines, including The Society of Classical Poets, Westward Quarterly, Metverse Muse Journal, Poets International, Saptagiri, Rock Pebbles, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Better than Starbucks. She resides in India.

“Brother” by Anna Gasaway

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment
For my little brother, who says I left him.

We were Christmas caroling for cash
to buy that Liz Claiborne triangle-shaped
 
perfume, to get a cup of hot cocoa
at the Christmas Festival, to buy something
 
we were told we’d never have. We told
him to wait, one more house, one
 
more “Silent Night” and “Joy to the World.”
My fifth-grade teacher at Fieler Elementary
 
in Merrillville, Indiana, opened the door, 
What have we here? She smiled in orange

lipstick as we started to sing, her penciled-
in eyebrows raised, but puckered when we

asked for money to buy Christmas presents 
for one another. She gave us cookies instead.
 
We shrugged our shoulders, Happy Holidays
we said. One more house, our teeth
 
chattering, we could see our breath,
one more “Away in a Manger” then we’ll

go home, “We Wish You A Mer–”
from the night a scream

What’s that? asked the lady behind
 her screen.  When people say that time

seems to slow down –it doesn’t really,
it’s protracted– it’s like running

through jalapeno cheddar cheese, that you
put on your nachos at school. I ran through

that cheese to find my little brother
lying in the middle of the icy road

in a puddle of blood trickling from
his face. Joel, please don’t die. He looked

up at me, Stupid, I’m not gonna die. Ambulance
came, a person came out of her Cadillac

wiping her eyeglasses. I didn’t see.
It’s all your fault. my mom said to me.




Anna Abraham Gasaway is a neurodiverse, half-Jewish observer of the human experience. Find her on Twitter @Yawp97.

Two Poems by Johnny Payne

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Birds of Fire

We swam Lake Titicaca. Our skin burned.
The water’s icy waves slapped at my face
as we gasped, laughing at how quick we’d turned
the inhospitable into a place

of sudden joy, where pintails sleeked their wings.
Terns and grebes dived, heedless of the cold,
plumed bodies fired by purpose, thoughtful things
resistant unlike us, who were just bold.

Bronchitis left us shivering in a bed
of casual friends whose pity kept us on
yet rued our cocky, foolish youth that led
us to mistake danger for holy fun.

Yet in those seconds while our bodies burned
Our purpose was no different from the tern’s.


Let it Bleed

My family believes a puzzle piece
is missing, that it’s me and if they snap
it in, the family will have peace.
The picture will be whole. They’ll close a gap.

But as I stand outside, I see no space
to fit me in. The edges have gone smooth
where there were lines, effaced into a place
I visit, but its presence doesn’t soothe

the sense of absence, or the phantom limb
they scratch when vanished live flesh tingles
while they touch, and say “This leg was him
whose sudden loss now stings our fingertips.”

That puzzle is one that still puzzles me.
And looking on, I learn that I’m not free.




Johnny Payne is Director of the MFA in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary’s University, Los Angeles.  He has published two books of poetry: Vassal (Mouthfeel Press, 2014) and Heaven of Ashes (Mouthfeel Press, 2017).

“Chance Find After Rain” by Ceinwen Haydon

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ 1 Comment

I kick sodden clods
of claggy soil.
Unexpected winds
bewarm my neck
to skin-salt ripeness.
My eyes
squint downwards
to the earth.
Hiding in my shadow
a triangled
fragment of pottery. Phow!
A tiny piece: blue, black
and once white lines.
Angled stripes. It lies
in clover leaves
covered with raindrops
refracting pewter
light in the sun-slipped
afternoon time-gifting
twilit eternity.
               Your hand
taps my shoulder,
your ears listen well.
You see my unclenched
hand, my chipped find,
my amulet
                and do not laugh.
                My love, you line-dry
                my world to scented
                sweetness, and how it glistens.
                                              La! La! La!
                                              Felicitations.




Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon (MA, Creative Writing, Newcastle University, 2017) lives near Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She is widely published in online magazines and in print anthologies. Her first chapbook was published in July 2019: Cerddi Bach [Little Poems], Hedgehog Press. She is a Pushcart Prize (2019 & 2020) and Forward Prize (2019) nominee. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator and believes everyone’s voice counts, even when their stories are hard to hear.

“Exurbanite Lament” by J. B. Mulligan

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I miss the clouds of the city sky at night
holding the reflection on city light like rain,
a soft grey awning of delicate silk.

I still have the day: the incoherent orchestra
of traffic playing the Ode to Hurry Hurry;
the obelisk buildings stretching block after block,
monuments to commerce – or mounds of drunken termites;
the stores announcing sales like the Apocalypse;
the quiet neighborhoods, dogs trotting
from tree to hydrant to streetlight, and children
walking in clusters home from school
laughing loudly, as if life were a bar or a party.

A city like a river raging with fish.

I still have the raw red sky over Jersey
at the end of the day, the rites of the corporate tribe
locked away in drawers until tomorrow.

But the night, the neon campfire’s celebration,
the giant amusement park ride of movies,
dance clubs, sports bars, restaurants,
the slack faces of strangers walking slowly home,
lovers frowning or laughing, walking hand in hand,
the geese-gaggle jabbering of nomads gathering fun.

I miss the voyage on the anonymous sea of night,
the boats of so many nations nearby,
the great clans gathering at harvest time,
the loud living trumpet of the human race
blowing its song of joy and desolation
under a pale grey heaven pregnant with rain.
The eternal candle of New York, of home.




J. B. Mulligan has published more than 1100 poems and stories in various magazines over the past 45 years and has had two chapbooks: The Stations of the Cross and This Way to the Egress, as well as two ebooks: The City of Now and Then, and A Book of Psalms (a loose translation). He has appeared in more than a dozen anthologies and was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize anthology.

“The Beautiful No” by Bruce McRae

~ Randal A. Burd, Jr. ~ Leave a comment

2022 Best of the Net Nominee

You begin drifting off,
soothed by sleep’s sirens.
By the cradle
rocking in your mind.
A tuneless lullaby
pouring out of the woodwork.

Your eyes are weighed
down with building rubble.
A curtain is falling
in your world-weary dreams.
Your eyelids are guttering candles.

Someone once said
sleep is like climbing
under a barbwire fence.
That sleep is an island,
the undressed rehearsal
for a larger death.
Someone once went to bed
and never returned.

You continue nodding,
the executioner’s basket
crying out for your head,
his pillow welcoming
the explorer home
from the farthest bournes
of light’s bright empire.

Now, pigeons cooing.
Somewhere, dunes whispering
Old sleepyhead.
Everything’s closing,
night’s blizzard moving in,
the snowdrifts shifting,
the wind hissing up more wind,
its kisses numberless.

At the last hurdle
a dream stumbles,
its message unclear –
what is it saying
that only the heart can hear?




Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle, and the North American Review. His books are: The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press), An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy (Cawing Crow Press), Like As If (Pski’s Porch), and Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).