Tag Archives: Volume 21-1

Supplication
by Devon Miller-Duggan

[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not be my brain gone desiccated as a desert hermit’s throat. Let inspiration flow like incarnation, like respiration, like substantiation. If ink were blood and blood were wine and wine were bloodline, we’d have wine and proses, for which I’d settle, Lord of Schrodinger’s cat and quantum physics, dustbunnies and chocolate. You be the needle, I’ll be the dread. Please, any thread. I’ll be the field, you’ll be the scream in the first line. Send streams, reams, trickles. You be mother, I’ll be styled any school you want to scold me into. What of me is worth your attention? You be father, I’ll be puns. You be vinegar, I’ll be toil. I’ll be cat (herd-able), you’ll be, as usual, bog. I’m willing to slog. You be stars (infinite and sentient), I’ll be type—words in any holy font you want, your wont, sentences in stripes. And with these stripes, I will be healed. I have faith in paper and screen, faith in lines and breaks. May the words of my keyboard and the instruments of my heart be. You be the tongues, I’ll be the stutter. Peace=one poem. Lord=one poem more.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.

devon-miller-duggan_sqDevon Miller-Duggan has had poems appear in Rattle, Shenandoah, Margie, The Indiana Review, The Hollins Critic and elsewhere. She’s won an Academy of American Poets Prize, a fellowship from the Delaware Division of the Arts, and an editor’s prize in Margie.

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Dawn
by Aura Christi

translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Petru Iamandi

The light sends its ambassadors among the birches,
forgets its fires in the roses and the sunset.
It’s evening even in words; you rock the archangels.
Everything somehow appears finished.

The dawn waits to form you
while Atropos sharpens her scissors.
You saw the boundary between people and the law
while the Fates fell among their thoughts.

The trees have taken their shadows to pasture.
Everything breathes a dull waiting.
The garden gathers its richness of beauties
and laughs in the colt that frisks about

after butterflies, field rabbits and wasps.
When peace set loose its offspring, it counted them in the sun
and drank the dew from the stag’s crown,
I separated night from day and,

to my utter surprise, in the candid spheres
of the afternoon floated as in a dream, slowly, singing,
feverish beings, nightingales lonely
as soon as they took shape and mind.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.

Aura ChristiAura Christi has published 15 volumes of poetry and 6 novels. Born in 1967 in Chișinău, Republic of Moldova, she now lives in Romania. The poems here derive from her 2016 collection, The God’s Orbit.

Petru IamandiPetru Iamandi teaches at the Dunărea de Jos University, Galați, Romania. A prolific translator, with over 100 books between Romanian/English, he translated Mihail Gălățanu’s The Starry Womb with Sorkin (Diálogos, 2014).

Adam J. Sorkin has won numerous translation awards including the Poetry Society (U.K.), Ioan Flora, and Poesis prizes. He recently published Mircea Dinescu’s The Barbarians’ Return, translated with Lidia Vianu (Bloodaxe, 2018).

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Drizzling Ghazal
by Alison Stone

Picnic—We flirt and eat cake in the rain.
Bad actors banter and run through fake rain.

Classics’ women vanquished by weather. They
faint in heat, take sick from wind, shake in rain.

Two low-yield years. Barn mortgaged, fields planted,
the farmer waits—so much at stake—for rain.

Does anything depend on these nut-brown
ducks next to a silver rake in the rain?

Camp memories—Color Wars, burnt s’mores, scent
of pine. Her first kiss. A snake in the rain.

Centuries of harassment, abuse. Time’s
Up, women chant. Buried seeds wake in rain.

The drizzle. The stray ball. The child. The truck.
What happens next? Can he brake in the rain?

Bodies absorb sorrow. The earth takes back
our bones. Flame swallows paper; the lake, rain.

What do the old know? What secrets hide in
lines, whisper from joints that ache in the rain?

Too much screen-time. Up your exposure to
flowers, Alison, your intake of rain.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.

Alison StoneAlison Stone has published five poetry collections, including Ordinary Magic, (NYQ Books, 2016), Dangerous Enough (Presa Press 2014), and They Sing at Midnight, which won the 2003 Many Mountains Moving Poetry Award. She has been awarded Poetry’s Frederick Bock Prize and New York Quarterly’s Madeline Sadin award. A licensed psychotherapist, she has private practices in NYC and Nyack. www.stonepoetry.org www.stonetarot.com

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