The Poetry Village

Mark Tulin

Fountain of Rats

It was a sight to behold;
the fountain of rats
spilling over
inside a downtown parking lot;
a sea of rodents,
flowed like a clamoring waterfall
of long, skinny tails
and sharp, pointed teeth
and eyes that glowed in the dark.

They seemed to favor me;
swarming in
and out
of my presence,
groveling
at my soon to be toeless feet.

The gang of thieves
gnawed deep
and clean,
fighting over my fingers,
meaty arms, and impacted intestine
until they got what they came for
and the munching was done
in the quiet of the night;
they disappeared by dawn.

Mark Tulin is a former therapist who lives in California. Mark has a poetry chapbook, Magical Yogis, and two upcoming books, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories and Awkward Grace. He’s been featured in Vita Brevis, Amethyst Review, Poppy Road Review, among others.  Follow Mark at Crow On The Wire.

Elinor Clark

plastic animals

a plastic toucan tippled forward
banging its head on the desk

my hair no longer grew
just hung around my shoulders
fraying at the edges like the
dusty hem of an old dress
torn fern leaves beneath a
low-slung sun

i had to
squint
to see behind it

animals nosed their way through
thickets with tatty fur
staining pelts not realising
we were watching
but we were watching

in shadows stained and
tippling light
feathered arms
in the leafy shade
as the animals grew

arms and legs
and pressed on
maraca hearts
singing
songs we could
not sing along to

but we longed to sing
had to keep control

of course

the plastic toucan tippled forward
banging its head on the desk

Geoffrey Heptonstall

Nowhere in Particular
From the Labyrinth

Considering the world
is all within the walls
remade in shadow and light.
Love is always a resonance,
music of an unknown sound
to hear the song
before it is sung.

The thread of silk unwound
within the monster mouth
and down to the growl
of devouring all in sight.
Opening my mind’s eye,
I keenly feel the shadows
of a hand that searches
for the way unseen.

A confusing fear of loss
so far so familiar, the question.
that leads through prospects
of nowhere but by suggestion
named neither here nor there,
not yet free of the need
for the way of seeing
another sight of the same,
the colour of fresh wounds.
In here there are no seasons
but a recurring line uncoiled,
a trail of her thoughts to follow.

To find her before the beast within
the end of life where prowls the body,
every echo mocking the heart.
I am warned this may not go well.

 
Geoffrey Heptonstall is the author of a novel, Heaven’s Invention [Black Wolf 2017]. His poetry has appeared in many publications nationally and internationally.

William Doreski

Kanaya

This pale coastline is doomed
by the melting of the icecaps
and subsequent rise of the sea,
which lies paper thin on the crust
of Earth, yet imposes desires
and passions fatal to almost
every mode of innocence.

Imaginary mountains deployed
on the far side of Kanaya
will survive the oncoming flood;
but this entire ash gray plain
will become sea-bottom simple
enough for newly evolving
life forms to negotiate.

Watch the caravan pass over
this shallow river bed, taking
every step for granted, hoping
those mountains that exist
only in the eye of the artist
will shade them and supply cold
fresh spring water, safe to drink.

William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His poetry, essays, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught writing and literature at Emerson, Goddard, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are A Black River, A Dark Fall and Train to Providence.

Sarah Barr

Birthday

A day so ordinary. Everything’s been said
and written before. A morning walk.
Curled cabbages spread over the field
alongside us. Chill air, low sun.
Not much of a view because of the hedges.
Not much to say except about our friend,
so ill after a simple operation.
We can’t see what’s coming next, we say
and maybe that’s as well.
You’ve forgotten some details since last time,
so we aren’t on the route we thought we were:
never reach the iron–age earthworks
I imagined us on top of, striding along.
It doesn’t seem so far-fetched to say
that one day people like us may blow up the world
with all its potential and beauty.
I don’t say that. The words stick in my throat.
We agree it doesn’t matter which way we take.
Now, I look back at you walking towards me,
your tartan scarf, your hair glinting in the winter light.

Sarah Barr writes poetry and fiction, teaches creative writing groups and leads a Dorset Stanza group. Her poems have appeared in many magazines and anthologies including The Mechanics’ Institute Review, The Interpreter’s House, collections from Templar Press and the Emma Press and in The Bridport Prize anthologies. Her poetry has won some competitions, including The Frogmore Prize 2015, The National Memory Day competition 2018, 2nd in Poetry on the Lake 2018 and placed in The Bridport Prize 2010 & 2016.