In the age of the Twilight Saga and Harry Potter, it can be a bit daunting to sit down at a blank page. After all, who doesn’t want to write a series that becomes a world-wide phenomenon? Dreams should be big, but sometimes all we have–to begin with, especially–are small moments. As writers, it’s our responsibility to show the world what these moments can do. In any genre, these little glimpses of reality can be used as tales of their own, or they can be used to springboard into something larger.
a poem by Amy Pimentel
my curls entice him
the paleness of my face attracts him
his hands want to hold my ass
his mouth wants to lick my breasts
a poem by Rachelle Cruz
After Gabrielle Calvocoressi
My mother in her flesh nightgown and I swallowed silence.
The bedroom door left ajar and I swallowed silence.
A book of refusal and I swallowed silence.
My sister’s corded laughter and I swallowed silence.
by Magda Makonnen So you decide to start writing poetry. You’ve been writing fiction or non-fiction for some time, but this will be your first time committing to writing verse. Where do you begin? I know crossing-over is no easy task,…
I lie a lot. My poems often start with observation—literally writing down what I see and hear—but that’s not always enough. I find that writing poetry allows me to wonder and ask questions, and that’s what I was doing in these two poems [inspired by The Dining Room], a place that was rife with material. I have become much less afraid to invent things for the sake of poetry, but it always starts with some truth.
Her Name is Sarah
When Randy drifted in for dinner with her baby
tangled in the rosary scars of her arms,
pressed against the dust of her breast,
everyone wanted to see. They softened
their eyes, their smiles, the way people do
when they look on a baby sleeping,
a baby who has not cried in two days,
a baby whose eyes ooze a thick glue,
whose lips are latched in a palsied twist.
I watched my fear of life
tie one end of a long piece
of twine around its neck
and the other end to a roof beam
before it sat down
and went to sleep forever
(poetry by Nahshon Cook)
It is coming on the backs of stampeding bison
tearing across Doppler radar
a red flesh wound carved
through the Midwest
I did the math and realized if I get $50 to $100 bucks a night plus sell chapbooks, on average I’m going to make a hundred dollars a night which is a ten hour a day, ten dollar an hour job with no taxes taken out. I won’t have rent because I will be living in my car, so I’ll be making just as much as I already am, with my college degree. And living out my little dream, my little delusion of rock star grandeur, um…as a poet. So I just did it. I booked it two months out.
Poetry by Khary Jackson
For the lady that burnt photos of her ex, to use the ash for coal
This is what it means to be sexy.
Only in certain hands can heartbreak be so pragmatic.
I have a bookshelf of failures that beg for a kindling.
Scott Miller was born in Philadelphia, PA, in 1978, under the sign of the Lion. He holds a degree in Mathematics from MIT and remains a software developer even as he pursues a writing career, in an effort to achieve…
Poetry by Laura E. Davis My therapist says, “Tell me about your twenties.” At twenty I’m born again. Bush vote. My heart turns purple and my insides become composted totems of faces I’d forgotten. Grandfather starts dialysis. Get homesick in…