Awakening alone, Proceeding on my own To negotiate the day As I’d done too long to say—
Now that I had a lover That life of mine was over. My next would be with her, And doubtless happier—
Though fondness, truth to tell, Inflected my farewell To the solitude that I Had been companioned by.
*****
Daniel Brown writes: “I’d like to think some readers will identify with the sentiment expressed here. The poem appeared in The New Criterion, and in my collection What More?”
Daniel Brown’s poems have appeared in Poetry, Partisan Review, PN Review, Raritan, Parnassus, The New Criterion and other journals, as well as in a number of anthologies including Poetry 180 (ed. Billy Collins) and The Swallow Anthology of New American Poets (ed. David Yezzi). His work has been awarded a Pushcart prize, and his collection Taking the Occasion (Ivan R. Dee, 2008) won the New Criterion Poetry Prize. His latest collection is What More? (Orchises Press, 2015). Brown’s criticism of poets and poetry has appeared in The Harvard Book Review, The New Criterion, PN Review, The Hopkins Review and other journals, and the LSU Press has published his critical book, Subjects in Poetry. His Why Bach? and Bach, Beethoven, Bartok are audio-visual ebooks available at Amazon.com. His website is danielbrownpoet.com .
The sea unfolds itself onto the sand Again, again. It drags its yellow hem Across our feet and back. You hold my hand
And sing to me, the first bar of a hymn: Abide with me. The phrase, unfinished, slides Away into the dusk. The world’s wet rim
Keeps wrinkling on the sky. The eventide’s Upon us now, the turning of the day, The long slow ebb as everything subsides
Into the dark. The sea in disarray Repeats itself. There’s nothing more to see. The waves rush thinly in, then pull away
As, louder now, you sing, Abide with me, Above the slow unfolding of the sea.
*****
Sally Thomas writes: “Sometime in the spring, Ken Gordon of The Sonneteer mentioned to me that he’d love for me to send him something, and I said that I didn’t have anything to send. I’d just published a big sonnet sequence that I had been writing over a number of years, but I wasn’t writing sonnets currently. Well, said Ken, I’ll wait. And because he was waiting, I thought I might as well make a new stab at something. I like terza rima and the various ways you can play with tying it off, and I had Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night” at the forefront of my mind, because I’d had my spring workshop students read it. This poem fairly quickly fell into terza rima and, once it had done that, it wrote itself.”
It’s a roll of the dice it’s the turn of a card makes me feel Jesus Christ it shouldn’t be this hard,
to find someone who’s nice and attractive to me but on this carousel I’ve found only… let’s see
Trace was full blown racist I suspected Venus had a penis, Enid was a children’s author ironic, Enid was the meanest,
dear Scarlet near insisted we should hop straight into bed but I resisted because her eyes rolled round like marbles in her head
met Quasimodo by the tower then there was Cerberus by the gate, met Manson then met Alice (Alice, she was running late)
mother Mary was still in mourning she outlined all she chose to hate, next came Tessie (that got messy) who posted me her ‘target’ weight
nasty Stella the astrologer could not believe that I’d refuse, ‘You must have Neptune late in retrograde.’ I told her, ‘That’s not it… it’s you.’
Some were happy, some were damaged (and now I know that I am too), some were easy, some were hard some wanted things I couldn’t do.
So why put myself out there why should I bother, even try?
I suppose it’s because, initial hellos can be awkward but it’s better than living inside of goodbye.
*****
Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘Blind Date’ was my attempt to chronicle my search for love via the internet with a humorous spin. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it without some small warning of its darker side.”
Lindsay McLeod lives down the Port in South Australia with his cattle dog, Mary. His writing has won awards and been published all over (in spite of rhyme and reason) and found homes most recently with THE HUMAN WRITERS, MENISCUS, EPHEMERAL ELEGIES, TIPTON POETRY, SNAKESKIN, PULSEBEAT and THE MARTELLO. Forced into early retirement, Lindsay is said to be considering a life of crime to support his poetry habit.
Well, he was near played out when I went on and took him in. His mind and body like his clothes were worn. His self-control and wallet like his boots were mighty thin. I patched him up wherever he was torn. He needed somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’d begin To grow a callus back someone had shorn. There wasn’t much he’d ask that I’d refuse Until he got those got-to-leave-you blues.
He said “I’ve got those got-to-leave-you blues, You understand the way it is, I’m sure. But I’ve got ramblin’ fever in my shoes That only walkin’ lonesome roads can cure.”
I smiled and nodded and I thought there always comes a day When being treated well will get to you When hurt so bad you lash out in that narcissistic way And all the good I’ve done or might yet do Is twisted with dependence, and it’s something you can’t say. So you are acting out now right on cue. I said “I kept your outfit, every rag, So here’s your boots and there’s your travelin’ bag.”
When they’ve got ramblin’ fever in their shoes I give them back the worn-out stuff they brought, Since if they think they’re giving me the blues They won’t be gettin’ anything I bought.
He doesn’t know and I don’t say he’s not the only one I’ve helped who’s helped me make it through a night Or several whether in the short or in the medium run, Nor will he be the last to find the sight Of those white center-lines out on that road there in the sun Will make him feel he’s never been not right, And he’ll regret he’s giving me bad news That he has got the got-to-leave-you blues.
He doesn’t see it’s me who gets to choose. There’s half a dozen others just like him Who’ll washed up here whose ramblin’ fever shoes Are looking for a road a bit less grim.
He takes his stuff and tries to not look back To see if I will notice that he does. I give him one sad smile, then eye the pack To pick the next one care-worn as he was.
And he’ll be near played out when I go on and take him in. His mind and body like his clothes are worn. His self-control and wallet like his boots are mighty thin I’ll start to patch him up where he’s been torn. He’s needing somewhere safe and warm so maybe he’ll begin To grow a callus back someone had shorn. There isn’t much he’ll ask that I’ll refuse Until he gets those got-to-leave-you blues.
*****
Marcus Bales writes: “One of the song tropes my brother John and I used to enjoy mocking the most as we listened to records or the radio in our shared bedroom in the late 60s in Columbus, Ohio in our early teens was an odd one for a pair of Air Force brats whose whole life experience had been saying goodbye to new friends whose parents were being irrevocably transferred somewhere else, never to be seen again, or we were being similarly transferred away, and that trope was the country or blues song addressed to the woman by the ramblin’ man whose litany of reasons to leave seemed, to us, whose leavings and arriving were dictated by unequivocal orders, thin-to-non-existent. The singer was constantly moaning about how, despite how good he had it, he was movin’ on . John and I thought it was hilarious that civilians would voluntarily abandon situations in which, by their own accounts, they simply had no good reason to leave. We’d left, or been left, by that time, by a decade and a half of friends. The very notion that some cowboy or bluesman felt like there must be greener grass down the road that never ends seemed ludicrous. We’d seen those pastures. We’d ridden down those roads. We’d flown that wild blue yonder to other states and countries. We thought that plea of desperate yarning was a load of crap.
What’s the woman’s side of the story? It occurred to me that she probably thought that ramblin’ fever was a load of crap, too. And, maybe, that it made for a nice change from time to time, since in all those songs and stories he wanders off, but she gets the house. Maybe she got the better deal. And, so, voila.”
Not much is known about Marcus Bales, except he lives and works in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, and his work has not appeared in Poetry or The New Yorker. His latest book is 51 Poems; reviews and information at http://tinyurl.com/jo8ek3r
Earth, always the same distance from her star, induced no crane to migrate, lark to sing, chorus frog to trill, violet to spring, nor leaves to turn. The solstice was as far as the edge where galaxies all disappear. The sun kept glaring down, as on that shore where, from your tower, you chose to ignore the thing I most desired. Wasn’t it clear? Earth didn’t tilt. Her poles were locked in glaze, sea level never changed, and when I walked forever round your roost, you never talked of waves, or even sensed the sun-launched rays till yesterday when, with a sudden lurch, Earth tipped and threw you off your chilly perch.
*****
Martin Elster writes: “The title “Axis Denied” works in two ways. Literally, it refers to a world without axial tilt, and therefore without seasons or change. Phonetically, “axis” echoes “access”—suggesting denied emotional entry or withheld intimacy—until a sudden shift finally breaks the stasis.”
Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. He finds contentment in long woodland walks and writing poetry that often draws on the natural world and on scientific ideas, from animal life to larger planetary and cosmic patterns. His honors include Rhymezone’s Poetry Contest (2016) co-winner, the Thomas Gray Anniversary Poetry Competition (2014) winner, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Poetry Contest (2015) third place, five Pushcart Prize nominations, and a Best of the Net nomination. His latest collection is From Pawprints to Flight Paths: Animal Lives in Verse (Kelsay Books).
This poem appears in Bewildering Stories #1122. His work has also appeared in the anthology Outer Space: 100 Poems (Cambridge University Press) and in the Potcake Chapbooks Careers and Other Catastrophes, Robots and Rockets, and City! Oh City!
You swore at me and hurled your ring into the pond then drove off back to London “for some bloody fun” with friends whose Chelsea coven held you in its bond. I was next in, scored twelve and hit the winning run.
The beers were long and cool, the Captain shook my hand. Dusk shaded in, a final liquid blackbird sang. A coughing tractor crawled a strip of fading land. An owl flew low across the pitch, a church bell rang.
Two muddy urchins with a shrimp-net dredged the pond their hopeful piping rippling in the cooling air while you choked on exhaust at Guildford or beyond along your golden road to Knightsbridge and Sloane Square.
Another world and just two perfect hours away your eyes had been bright green. Or brown. Or were they blue? I still recall the details of that Summer day so much more clearly than I now remember you.
*****
Martin Parker writes: “The only point I might add is my hope that if the muddy urchins’ dredging efforts were rewarded they were not too disappointed to learn that the ring’s diamond might not have been a real one! The intervening sixty-five-plus years have, mercifully, erased the fact that I may have been nothing but a cheapskate!”
‘Man of the Match’ was first published in Snakeskin.
Martin Parker is a writer of mainly light and humorous verse much of which has appeared in national publications including The Spectator, The Oldie and The Literary Review. In 2008 Martin founded the quarterly light verse webzine, Lighten Up Online at www.lightenup-online.co.uk, now edited by Jerome Betts. His website at www.martinparker-verse.co.uk gives details and excerpts from his two “hopefully humorous and only occasionally wrily depressing books”.
She drinks a bit more she loves a bit less she no longer fits in her wedding dress.
She’s given up trying, accepted her fate, feels herself thinning while she stacks on the hate.
Doesn’t feel like his partner his mate or his wife, all she feels is as hard and as sharp as a knife.
She reels her mind back but can’t seem to recall, what she ever saw in him, why she married at all.
It’s a dead man’s float, face down on the bed, they sleep separate, unsound in their queen sized dread.
So she’ll tread bitter water as she has done for years, not so much married to him as she is to her fears.
*****
Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘She’ was written in my head, wearing ear protection in a factory. It was about my (then) partner who had recently escaped a toxic relationship.” The poem was originally published in Fine Flu.
Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives quietly on the coast of the great southern penal colony with (yet another ferocious Aussie animal) his cattle dog, Mary. Lindsay still drives a forklift to support his poetry habit.
The more that you dislike the way I am, the less I worry what it is you like. I let go the way that you don’t like the rattled heart of me, the way I am.
Perhaps we’re going through a sticky patch. The patch that stuck us down long years ago is not as sticky now. But even so, its tar has held us close enough to catch.
It covers up the cracks and hides the shabby seams we couldn’t mend. We still pretend to rub along regardless. In the end, perhaps we are just averagely unhappy.
The way we blister love and twist its scar. We sort of stick it out. And peel apart.
*****
Joe Crocker writes: “I wrote this poem a year or two ago as an expression of frustration and sadness about the slow decline of a long marriage. The title is an allusion to the UK card game Pontoon (Blackjack in the States?) where you can either hold your cards (stick) or ask the dealer for another (twist). It’s written from the perspective of one person in two voices. The italic lines are pained and self-pitying and the middle stanzas are him trying to figure out what has happened.”
‘Stick and Twist’ was originally published in the current Rat’s Ass Review.
Joe Crocker has a 25 yds breast-stroke certificate, several Scouting badges and “O” level Epistemology. He has won prizes – bubble bath mostly, a bottle of Baileys once. His poems squat in obscure corners of the internet. He doesn’t have a pamphlet or a website but if you Google his name and add “poetry” you’ll find most of his published work (as well as links to a deceased Sheffield rock singer.) He gets by with little help from friends.
She was the one who went off on her own. She was the one who filed for the divorce. You gave her what she wanted in due course. Still she will never leave your life alone.
Available through email more than phone, You have remained a favorite resource. She contacts you supposedly perforce, Less for herself than for a son long grown.
She seeks a certain something left behind, A sterling ladle or an antique chest, A recipe or record you must find. Your common past has yet to enter rest Since fire so often burns within her mind. For smoke fly’s sake, you try to do your best.
A native Virginian, Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her collections with Kelsay Books include Metes and Bounds (2023) and Furthermore (forthcoming, 2025).
If this isn’t what you’ve yearned for or indeed what you are craving then cup your hands, drink deeply of a sweeter misbehaving.
If you cannot find your wine inside the glass that you were given, taste the new with eyes and thighs and dye your lips a deep vermillion
with a juice that has been pressed from vines let grow out of control that taste of summertime and sex and drugs and rock and roll
because if you…
find distaste in your final breath dressed in another’s ill fit clothes remember, this did not just happen sweetheart, this is what you chose.
*****
Lindsay McLeod is an Australian poet that has won a few things and is widely published. He just had to start messing about with words again lately. You’d think he’d know better by now, but oh no. Some of his most recent work can be found in DILLYDOUN REVIEW, GRAND LIL THINGS, DRAWN TO THE LIGHT, POETiCA and MORTAL MAGAZINE.
RHL: In addition to Mr McLeod’s self-description, let me add that I have been trying and failing to contact him. I don’t even have permission to post this poem. If anyone can put me in touch with him, I would be grateful.
Form in Formless Times 