New Work

Poetry: Nathan Parker

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The Journey Back

after Tolkien, Shelley, Nelson, Eastwood, Housman, Justice, Bishop


Cradling my drunken brother
In my broken arms I tracked

The last cloud on earth after
Deciding the last movie lacked

Cowboys. True, the river clips
Were something to behold.
(write it!)
Michael I love you and wine
Lied. We are just as cold.

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Nathan Parker lives in Northport, Alabama, with his wife, Christie, and his two toddlers, Noah and Clara.

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Poetry: Rob Schlegel

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from ICEBLINK

She neither arrives nor departs
but modifies constant

Cove’s pliable shore

Never tethered is it
so permanent to regard itself
immortal

Bury she may his bones
within the ossuary

Crab-apple

or buried sun

She questions the one part of every sound
pining for a different pitch

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Poetry: Caroline Crumpacker

September 26:  90 Degrees and Rising

Sallow afternoon of girls around the perimeter
Remember she preferred the silent playground incipient identities:
she preferred the lesser intercourses the classic picnic table framing her
resistance as social critique.

Remember she preferred offering, a body on hers, the middle age of women is
a prolonged disturbance.

A café at the blue hour. Soft inner arm. She preferred the tresses of a long reality.

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Poetry: James Belflower



from FRIEND OF MIES VAN DER ROHE








In Canaan night, tent lanterns along both clines
women and children on one, the shuddering river between and on an other
my brother’s hand turns our gift
on another side—








That night Jacob waited alone. “Let me go,
day is breaking,” he said. “Jacob,” said he.
“Not anymore, Jacob heel-clutcher, will be
said in your name; instead, Israel, God-
clutcher, because you have held on among
gods unnamed as well as men, and you have
overcome.” Instead, he blessed him there.
He rose in the night and led his children to
the river Jaboc.

He answered. “Why is it just this, my name
you must ask?” Now he asked him, “What is
your name?” Jacob’s thigh was limp as he
struggled. It was clear he could not
overcome Jacob so he broke his thigh at his
hip. Now Jacob looked out afar and there he
was.

and was addressed
by the Other’s
blood

as if
it were she
(kinah)








another side of Jacob’s gift:

CHORUS:
“If we were asked to explain the presence of Mahler’s scherzo in
Sinfonia, the image that would naturally spring to mind would be that of
a river running through a constantly-changing landscape, disappearing from
time to time underground, only to emerge later totally transformed…

…thus this fifth part may be considered to be the veritable analysis of
Sinfonia, but carried out through the language and medium of the
composition itself…”

…he himself went on ahead and bowed down to the ground seven times as he
approached his brother…





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And Also a Fountain, James Belflower‘s collaborative chapbook with Anne Heide and J. Michael Martinez, is forthcoming from NeOPepper Press in 2009. He was a finalist for the 2008 Sawtooth Prize, Slope Editions Book Prize and the National Poetry Series, and won the 2007 Juked Magazine poetry prize. His poems, reviews, and essays appear or are forthcoming in: Jacket, EOAGH, Denver Quarterly, Octopus, LIT, First Intensity, 580 Split, Abovo, Konundrum Engine and Cricket Online Review, among others. He runs PotLatchpoetry.org, a website dedicated to the gifting and exchange of poetry resources.

Poetry: Christina Mengert

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Rest

            each time I think of you, you cease to be
                         -Jacques Roubaud

A bird, a stone – the body

is overturned. We lay it down

and call it “bolts of cloth.” Also

“lands of unlikeness.” Like a

phonograph, it is proof

we render the natural to scale,

more than motion, an incantation

brought back to the slick wreath

of human expression. Listen:

the page shudders, yes, like a sea.

Listen: who can hear the rest           (only the rest)

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Christina Mengert is author of As We Are Sung, forthcoming from Burning Deck Press, and co-editor of 12×12: Conversations in Poetry and Poetics, forthcoming from the University of Iowa Press in 2009. She teaches creative writing and literature at the University of Colorado in Boulder and through UCLA’s Writers’ Extension Program.

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Poetry: Finalists of Omnidawn’s Poetry Contest

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New poetry from the five finalists of Omnidawn’s Poetry Contest: Ethan Saul Bull, Michael Tod Edgerton, Carolyn Hembree, Brandon Shimoda, Jordan Windholz.

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Poetry: Roger Snell

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Journal II

After G.A.

Shapes of the unsaid
puncture the ordinary—

“astonished by daylight”

from exile, in
exile

derivations of
inbeing—

would efface this
prelude for the sun

its solidarity—

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Poetry: Eric Baus

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FERMENTED OPALS

I looked down to sustain the camera’s hide. I have never seen an Ibis mirror. The house rained. The beds echoed. A dead oud’s resin cloned the first sentence. An apple in the closet developed the scene. I felt the sun.

I fell into an opaque bed. The clone smiled. I have never seen a clone smile. His snails grew fur. The closest ant grafted the smoke with sand. This is the first piece of wood. This is the first piece of glass. Clouds arranged them behind dead doves. The membrane’s séance broke. The doves died again. The dead doves reset. I arranged them into flowers. I have never seen a flower. I have never seen a dove.

The sky and its stills mated. I have never played an oud. I have never said Bird. O snail, I heard outside. When the first dove died, the ouds ate apples. I died too. My glass fermented opals. The second séance failed, my fur glued to flowers. I have never seen a cloud. I have never looked down. The organs smoked. The clone strummed. I fled, immersed in planes. The mirror in the closet chimed. Dove. Oud. Bed. The blue membrane’s array split. Inside, the blanks bred herds.

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Poetry: Karen Garthe

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Standout
      in LA rain

This was To Be’s Fantastic
but packed in the querulous use

Ancestor of Narcissus amassing
mirrors to compass

A self of magic blond and air
nest, spark

Twixt
Narcissus

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Poetry: Patrick Pritchett

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The Real Real

       Whoever sees the real charges the eye with a flare. Keeps evening kneeling, a
blue-smoked air stripped of its string of

lights given as the park to the people and where they move there, from path to
path, each node cinched and fluid, the cold edge of a run over ice to

where the middle is a bridge and not anything separate. The weather for it
melting, I mean the way it’s built out of the ground and because

of it a shelf is what it says will last, will hoist the fables of the margin even after
the spire is misrepaired.

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Patrick Pritchett is the author of Burn, Lives of the Poets and Antiphonal. He is a Lecturer in History and Literature at Harvard University.

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