Mattias Monde Beyazit National Library – Istanbul I first encountered the Collected Poems of Sage Meyve several years ago while researching the Selim II Caliphate at the Beyazit National Library in Istanbul. As I had arrived an hour early for… Read More ›
Greta: Thanks for doing the interview, anyway, on such short notice. I don’t want to do Zoom or Google Hangout. Staring at faces on the screen creeps me out. And I want to have time to think. What happened is… Read More ›
Diane Payne Norma stands there, not exactly caressing the mango, more smelling the mango while giving it a little squeeze here and there. “Hard to know which mango to buy,” Norma says to the young woman reaching across her to… Read More ›
Aqueb Safwan Jaser Tareq often missed his childhood. He missed the plucking of lavender from the field, he missed flying vibrant colored kites in the sky and he missed making perfectly molded animals out of bare clay. He loved playing… Read More ›
John C. Mannone It rings a hellish ring, and then it talks to me: everyday those eyes would stare while glowing in their plastic sockets. I do not want to answer, not even do I dare but something in the… Read More ›
JBMulligan Martin couldn’t remember who his first real protégé had been. They called it mentoring now, but that didn’t change things. Was it Tony, sitting across the table from him, rumpled and balding? He was a good man, sagging into… Read More ›
David Estringel Come!Let us eat green pears—cold—at night on the rooftopunder burdened boughs of the old yewand the moon’s pale glow.Let us loveand laugh at myths and shadow-playsborn of sticks and stonesand celestial light—the stuff of illusion(delusion)that pulls us far… Read More ›
Melisscious Moose A name wasn’t what they called me.What they called me identified me by the colour of my skin.The colour of mud. The colour of faded, lead-based paint.The paint on a broken, battered old truck.I felt drawn to it.Out… Read More ›
David Estringel Green is the taste of bitter rind that lingers on your fingertips,cutting through the sweetness of icebox orange smilesbursting on my tongue, lovingly fed,conjuring the salty sting of solitude’s imminence,as if a shade. How dreaded the tic-toc of… Read More ›
Gary Beck “Next,” the stage manager called. I looked around to be sure it was my turn, and she repeated impatiently: “Next.” I took a deep breath, put on my combat face, stood up and walked to center stage, struggling… Read More ›
