Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, back, brooklyn, door, erica, france, french, manolith, new, ny, nyc, poems, poetry, the, writing, york
By Erica Manolith.
I don’t understand,
your life.
The sick look by the back door,
porch screen, flapping in the wind.
You don’t seem to notice the human,
of the humans around you.
Perhaps this makes you vomit?
Where are your skills?
Where is your voice?
It’s a vapor,
it’s a screen in the wind,
it fades,
it aches,
it has nothing to say,
and from nothing,
there is born,
nothing.
Erica Manolith is a writer living in Northwestern Pennsylvania. She is currently finishing her degree in France, and is home for the summer writing poetry for sport.
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, and, art, artist, artists, backlists, ben, brooklyn, forks, fuselit, knives, magazine, new, ny, nyc, poetry, press, reviews, rialto, salzburg, sharpening, spoons, stainton, stop, the, york, your
by Ben Stainton
1. waking up with a cat
asleep on my face
the christmas you spiked
my dinner with hash
2.the day involving a rhinoceros
and a large box of knives
at the infamous village
fete of eighty nine
the birthday i fell into a tanker
full of sewage and dad
walked into sainsburys
to buy bleach and was killed
3.playing ice hockey
semi-naked on pills
the day a bear ate
the last of my waffles
BEN STAINTON’s poems have appeared in various places, including The Rialto, Fuselit , Poetry Salzburg Review and Stop Sharpening Your Knives. His experimental pamphlet, The Backlists, is available from The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, a, art, artist, artists, arts, baton, brooklyn, desert, Jane, macavay, magazine, new, ny, nyc, orleans, poem, poet, rouge, writing
by Jane Macavay
If this were the desert,
a separate sea,
what then of that drum we left sitting on the bench that day in Tyman park?
Do you think it decayed?
Broke down,
skin first,
then the bells?
Did anyone try to save it?
Who cares?
Left over: a feather, slick and a little greasy,
rested on the edge of that sad instrument,
trembling in a hasty breeze.
Jane Macavay is an musician and writer born in Baton Rouge. She now lives in New Orleans with her sister and three parrot’s. She has been published in various small reviews and magazine’s and her forthcoming book of poetry “If it’s not for Breaking, Is it for Smashing?” comes out in the Summer of 2013.
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Filed under: ART, MUSIC, WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, brooklyn, Lee, magazine, new, ny, nyc, ophelia's, Owen, surreal, the, w, york
WEBSITE.
Originally commissioned for Royal Shakespeare Company, UK.
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, brooklyn, Corey, fear, magazine, mesler, poem, poetry, the, york
by Corey Mesler
“He who has been bitten by a snake
is frightened by a rope.”
~from the Talmud
Fear is a tarbaby, pitch
and loblolly center.
Is the imp at the end of
the bed, the one
still there after the night-
mare. Is a microphone
left open, waiting
for sin. I know these things
because I am Fear too.
Because I am the thing in-
side and out of
myself which can kill me
but will not, which
can garble all that I say
or try to say or do
or, with you, Love, canker
the excellent proffered heart.
COREY MESLER has published in numerous journals and anthologies. He has published five novels, 3 books of short stories, numerous chapbooks and two full-length poetry collections. He has been nominated for a Pushcart numerous times, and two of his poems have been chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. He runs a bookstore in Memphis. He can be found at www.coreymesler.com
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Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, brooklyn, kanev, kids, magazine, new, ny, nyc, peycho, poem, poetry, the, york
by Peycho Kanev
I remember in my youth how we played
hide and seek and
how we killed doves and sparrows with
slingshots;
and how the sky was different then and the air
and the sun.
But now all the young boys
play Crysis 2 on their computers and
chat on the Internet with little girls that
are so far away.
When I was a boy all the women in the streets
looked like my mama,
but not any more,
not any more.
All the young boys today
want to fuck Paris Hilton
instead of looking at a picture of
Gertrude Stein.
I can’t blame them all.
Peycho Kanev is the Editor-In-Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 500 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, The Monarch Review, The Coachella Review, Third Wednesday, Black Market Review, The Cleveland Review, Loch Raven Review, In Posse Review, Mascara Literary Review and many others. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net and lives in Chicago. His poetry collection Bone Silence was released in September 2010 by Desperanto Publishing Group. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by Desperanto Publishing Group in 2012.
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Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, brooklyn, fowler, johannes, magazine, new, ny, nyc, poetry, steven, writing, york
dear Honzo
I came home & opened the bay windows
that appeared over our garden
the grass was cut
the treefruit bulbed
but a wounded horse was left behind and abandoned
please come and fetch it now
lest you forget to do so
and I am left
to clean up its mess
after all
Sophia is pregnant
and my other son is using a new razor
he is ready to ‘take care’
of your horse
STEVEN JOHANNES FOWLER (1983) is the author of four collections Red Museum (Knives forks & spoons press), Fights (Veer books), the Lamb Pit (Eggbox publishing) and Minimum Security Prison Dentistry (AAA press). He is the poetry editor of Lyrikline in the UK and 3am magazine. He is a full time employee of the British Museum.
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, blue, brooklyn, Calliope, central, Cherry, Chimay, Corps, creative, engine, facetious, Marine, matthew, nautilus, Necrology, new, ny, nyc, of, Oklahoma, reserve, shorts, states, studies, the, united, university
by Matthew Cherry
Shall we cut our rhymes from that ridge of coal,
that crawls beneath the owl-watched pine?
So green,
my memory,
and true.
What does he see?
That ancient mare,
in earth stirring.
That blackening equine gaze,
those leonine thighs.
Pacing in circles,
the width of my gyre,
we wear a white-bird torque,
the study of sodium,
armor against a clean death by drought.
Her hands,
broken sticks,
slipped through my fingers.
We pressed on, alone,
through the desert,
white shadows cut from the cloth of fear.
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: 22, art, brooklyn, cafeteria, chicago, frederick, illinois, magazine, music, new, ny, nyc, pollack, state, street, the, writing, york
by Frederick Pollack
Salisbury steak with a thick
vinegary gravy, stringbeans with the sodium
of preservatives still on them, jello –
could it be jello? – for dessert,
or apple pie I was supposed to like
but never liked, attempting
to cover every part of it
with ice cream. Meanwhile
talking – I remember talking, not
listening (to anything), or silences
(though they must have existed),
or even how Mother looked.
And one decoration, fading orange-red
on a grey wall, three medieval jongleurs
in motley, one with a lute,
their smiles wrong, their dance improbable.
I still don’t understand
why divorce required
the privacy of a honeymoon, sending me
to the apartment of an aunt
on the South Side or one
on Morse – other places
where the Thirties endured the Fifties.
(I’m sorry if, over time, that’s become
obscure.) Was it to give him
the wherewithal, the “space”
(as people said later) to begin,
as he did once, to choke her?
Other times she accompanied
me overnight to these outposts,
whispering in kitchens
while I watched Victory at Sea.
She wouldn’t have written this
but, could she see it,
she would question the tight-lipped style.
I would explain that it augments, rather than deadens,
the emotion and focuses
the reader. And she would say,
You’re protecting yourself. As on his deathbed, Father –
handing me an envelope
containing, essentially, money – managed
to gasp, You have to be protected ...
(It was dreadful how much I agreed.)
Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure and Happiness, both published by Story Line Press. His poems and essays have appeared in Hudson Review, Southern Review, Fulcrum, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), Representations and elsewhere. Poems have most recently appeared in the print journals Magma (UK), The Hat, Bateau, and Chiron Review. Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Snorkel, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire Review, Denver Syntax, Barnwood, elimae, Wheelhouse, Mudlark, Shadow Train and elsewhere. Pollack is an adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University, Washington, DC.
Filed under: FILM/VIDEO, WRITING | Tags: 22, art, artist, artists, arts, brooklyn, edgar, gallery, library, magazine, new, ny, nyc, O'HAIRE, oliver, performance, public, robert, surreal, the, york
