My father never sang, he whistled, while
driving, Mother coming out with words he
all but uttered, and I in the back seat
keeping time with my toes until I got
so good at percussion I was silent
and still they never missed a single beat.
They must have carried on like this before
I was ever born--they never needed me
for making music. What were you two like
before you had me? I ask them during
a break in their repertoire. What indeed,
laughs Father. Mother lights a cigarette
and smiles at the road coming under us.
I'll have a cigarette, too, Father says,
reaching into his shirt pocket, pulling
out his Lucky Strikes as he peers into
the rear view mirror at me. Have one, son,
he asks, passing the pack halfway over
the back of the front seat. But of course he's
only kidding. No, thanks, I say--it's bad
for my health, and besides, I'm too young. We
can't smoke and perform at the same time, puffs
Mother. Yes, that's a fact, coughs Father, so
why don't you entertain us? I recite.
"Stopping by Woods," what I can remember
of it--all, I mean, just not in order.
I have to have it down by heart next week.
Not bad, says Father. That's good, says Mother.
Are we there yet? I whine. We'll be there in
a song, says Father. But it's miles before..
The Unsinkable Ship
A good captain. This woman. Whose eyes
high in the stooped, aching spine of the church.
Mulligans of Poolbeg Street
the hot bulb, the whine
fast images of conspiring men
from McCairns Motors
rolling in a silent quick-step
smiling at the camera in ninteen fifty
their soft hats cocked to show a light approach
over to Mulligan’s golden facade
flickering briefly on the silver screen
This honeyed portal is unique
the two swing doors their friendly squeak
combed in an exaggerated yellow grain
one to a wholesome saloon
the other to a side-bar
an altar to the deity of heavenly drink
It is a cathedral made for a working congregation
it took centuries to construct
this extravagant faith
medieval men’s ambitions
drawn in the smoky air
the neat stack of Afton
the simple chair
There are two back-rooms
one a spacious area filled with a modest light
big broad tables from the kitchens of the kings
the walls shining with pipe-smoker’s paint
a place to drink pints of Guinness
without any time constraint
The other back-room is a place for bishops should they come
their own waiting inner sanctum
its stained-glass doors are locked
some people must have been ordained in there
the table set for a meeting of the hierarchy
The men from the Irish Press
grey in Fred McMurray dress
for years these oily men from printer’s ink
set a discreet tone with knowing nod and willing wink
talking to each other sideways
The window seats in the main bar
a light-filled alcove made for the high art of intimate talk
the sun that finds its way down into the narrow street
is magnified by the pearly glass
warming the back of the neck
like a magic scarf
Two pints of stout
snug into the half-keg with a companion
a holy communion
served by apron'd men the size of horses
they rub the counter-top with a grey wet rag
sweeps of temporary varnish
preparing the dry altar
Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street
a pro-cathedral for the working man
where generations of altar-boys have learned how to drink porter
to respect a home from home
where prayers and promises are offered to the gods
where decent sinners can extol
dressed protected in the very place itself
a golden navvy-jacket for the soul
golden question mark
in a trip of sunlight
of broken shoelace
I know your secret place
deep inside my slovenly wall
use my car key
to nudge you
and you ripple
carving ribs in sand
to lie under hart’s tongue
a fallen twig
and already they’re selling sweet peas
small, wickedly expensive bunches
flounce of anaemic petticoats
I walk again
into a shadowed hall
shiver of house cool against outside heat
by the fire he’s lit in the gloom
blaze of magenta and maroon
leavening the lesser pastel shades
one note fragrance dancing on wax polish
tobacco, the safe composty smell of him
purblind after bright sun
I see his fingers rough from working
gritty Cheshire sandstone soil
the dirt etching their cracks and folds
imagine them cutting wiry stems
patiently settling the blooms to this riot of colour
and two skinny girls
nurtured like plants
the three of us playing house
fishing for sticklebacks, flying on swings
together tending long avenues of sweet pea
in a red crushed-satin dress
fringe of false lashes
the wrong messages
the back room
of some sleazy Soho bar
in my grandfather’s garden
a country girl
the scent of mown grass
The Geometry of Rejection
Skewered like St Sebastian
by the savage purity
of line and angle
his arcing off is clean-cut
as tempered steel, her anger
worn too smooth to bite.
Their hearts pinched
to the practised hardness
of a fossil
each orbits a void
they both deny,
of those small kindnesses
that once defined their love.
Yet there is passion
in their symmetry,
a cruel precision
complex as any genome,
of noughts and crosses
implacable as a glacier
in living rock.
A night of turgid dreams leaves me
with Marilyn Monroe’s autograph
written in a ghosted memoir.
The signature bristles and preens
as if writhing with ego.
I’m sure it’s authentic although
the memoir appeared years after
she died of excessive marriage.
Suicide was an afterthought.
Her famous marriages bent her
backward till her spine warped
and her overexposed breasts popped
like paper bags. She regretted
certain roles, but not the last,
in The Misfits—her co-stars,
like her, doomed before the film
earned the audience it deserved.
If I dreamt up this signature
in this book with orange cloth binding
it seems real enough in daylight.
Fondling the memoir I detect
the pain of composition raving
still in the unconscious ether
to which she consigned her spirit.
Would an autograph dealer pay
full value for a signature
that however authentic occurs
years after the subject’s death?
I’m keeping this to myself.
Without touching I trace a finger
over the graceful holography,
certain I couldn’t have forged
this elegant scrawl in my sleep.
Everyone believed her murdered,
perhaps by government thugs.
But the way her autograph fell
from the dark suggests how gently
she entered it—her name, although
not her own, derived from a species
we love all the more when extinct.
The cat you found in a dumpster
ran away after two years
of indifference to your play.
Somewhere in Oregon forest
that cat has fathered a tribe
of human-hating felines eager
to disembowel us in our sleep.
You loved that cat on first sight
but he despised the attention
you bestowed on his dusty pelt
and preferred the guts of rodents
to the canned food you offered him.
Half in your world, half in another,
he tolerated you long enough
to learn your weak spots, then fled
into the high timber country
where the rain falls incessantly,
ripening the landscape to death.
Three thousand miles east, the rain
on my roof feels calligraphic,
designing holography graceful
enough to deliver messages
from worlds that don’t yet exist.
Later today we’ll meet for tea
and discuss our failures with cats.
By then the rain will have stopped
and a cloudy light will polish
the downtown storefronts. You’ll sigh
that famous little sigh and I’ll tip
my chair and wonder how deeply
rain has scarred its calligraphy
into me, whether I’ll ever learn
to see as acutely as cats do.
La France Profonde
The French place-name – the jokes came too easy –
whose unaccountable consonants were at once transformed –
consumed like faggots in the sudden combustion
of searing vowel sounds that would never be ours:
the man in the rain-cape, unsmiling, intoned it like a priest;
then turned from our encounter, unfocusing his eyes
looking through us in his contempt for the weather, the world.
We stood in the landscape-wide patter, the grey drift of that hour,
where the loaves were golden and few behind the rusting bars
of the boulangerie defended by the ruins of the chateau;
the tottering war-memorial drip-counted its absences;
pink roses flounced, above iron gates, or high on alarming gables;
and we tried to speak English, our dog to come at sly whistle:
gone, silent, as if underground. I crammed foreign bread;
you hummed tunelessly, surrounded by roses. Back in England
we are still waiting for our simplest words to come home.
Still in rollers, cigarette clenched between dentures,
Mom sat at the kitchen table
hands like spades darting back and forth
adjusting the wig.
There, she’d say, and release my wriggling brother,
only to change her mind, bring him back
for another spit pincurl or to even out his rouge.
Bob was six or seven those summer mornings.
She’d work on him like a mannequin,
fix him up the way she wanted to do with me.
She’d buckle his feet into my abandoned patent leathers,
roll down the tops of bobby sox,
pouf out the party dress,
spin him away and laugh as he twirled.
Last the lipstick and then,
needing a witness to their mischief,
Mom would send Bob to the neighbor’s
and he’d go, for tea and cookies
or maybe just because.
I wouldn’t go with him, but I’d watch from the apple tree.
Like Miss America he walked slowly, elegantly,
his head straight, purse clutched to his side.
Sometimes, Mom would dig up an old pair of elbow gloves
that went all the way up Bob’s arm and I’d imagine him
slipping them off to take a cookie
revealing the dirt under his little boy nails.
The other kids picked on him, called him names,
shoved him in the aisle of the school bus,
and I’d pound them in the street after the bus pulled away.
He was my brother.
But I wouldn’t escort him to the neighbor’s,
wouldn’t nod and agree with my mother:
Isn’t Vanilla pretty, isn’t your sister pretty?
He was nobody’s sister.
Ode to Al Bartle
I woke to find a baseball cap
perched perfectly on my mailbox.
Surely this is your work.
You have slipped me smooth stones,
a collection of passport photos.
You stand shuffling
in the corner of the café
hands jangling pockets.
You take me for breakfast
at three a.m.
You don’t have to listen.
I don’t have to talk.
I’ve always preferred the mythical
but I wonder, now that I’m gone,
about the December morning
the hacksaw, the tree farm.
I evened the stump
with my Swiss Army knife
after you’d left,
your family waiting
with store bought packages,
while you drove
from a coffee cup
taking back streets
turning left on red.
WHY HE GOT DIVORCED AGAIN
Because like the man he saw
in the emergency room
in Seward, Alaska, no bigger
than your average Burger King,
hard against a mountain
that keeps the fog in town,
who had got drunk and macheted
his arm off hacking alders
and was helicoptered away
from waking at three a.m.
the next morning to spend twelve hours
on someone else's boat,
never able to lose
the smell of fish, he knew
the rains were here again
and something had to give.
A tree frog sleeps
until the spring and his waking dream of starlight,
Dark tongue of wet tires.
His song will be as mighty as the roar of a motorcycle.
His hands, splayed like T.
IN HER NINETIETH YEAR,
SHE BECOMES A GREAT BLUE HERON
Not for the first time,
she steps out of her body
gingerly to wade
into the cool black waters
of the Great Peace.
She stands in feathery silence.
Judging by the light,
dawn is almost here.
Mansions of Our Own
Dust motes and a dial tuner
in a Georgia July
crows feet leather and crumbled piping
must and heat pressing heavy, heavy
One, two gasps, you’re free
refuse dust kicked up by
bar fighters with much much much to prove
grappling so near, but never intimate
then missing steps and making mistakes
drawing scuffs on the dance floor
their eyes wider than the trophies’ on the wall
One, two shoves, you burst into the night
The bed became a kiln
Sliding away from one another
in dreams of lives we could have led
curtains as currents, lapping into the room
suppressing the road noise
sheets and pillows pirouetting
clawing with shaky hands, you
scratched skin, the surface, the veneer
ripped out pages, under faulty lock and key, into the breeze
feelings fall like air raids, then came the warning sirens
One, two pills, you’re in a mansion of your own near the sea
What I Thought About When You Did Stuff With Him Under a Blanket
My friend had a dream that his teeth
fell out, sprinkling into his lap
like overgrown dandruff flakes
every time he moved his lips. From then on
he was tender with his girlfriend when they kissed
Lately there has been a resurgence of people
finding water stain marks and impressions of
the Virgin Mary in odd places. I wonder why
there aren’t more images of say
Carrot Top or Aunt Jemima,
seems we need to diversify
I dreamed I rode slides at a water park
with an African American copy clerk from work,
he is very knowledgeable about toner colors, but once
a box of cartridges fell on him in the store room, knocking
his front teeth out. He wore a hat on every ride, and his
porcelain fixtures, planted like tulips bulbs, fooled even a certified
orthodontist waiting in line.
When I come to
I must shake the dust and leaves
from my flannel and jeans,
I wonder if I am the best friend or the stock extra
in this teen slasher sequel
Sleepyhead, Bring Your Own Party Hat
I dream we marry one another; we open a hybrid museum in a dated doctor’s office
a green glass candy dish
I display Highlights, you fan out Cosmo,
simple plans for the waiting room
A switchboard of severed connections,
the main attraction
The taxidermy animals
running frantic circles
scratching the plaster
wearing paths in the carpet
of the attention the men pay
your high school year book,
we’ll have a fight
then I’ll realize I’m being silly
and buy new light fixtures for the waiting area
When you purchase Mexican rugs for the front doorway,
they remind me of my grandfather’s RV,
he fought in a war and no one seemed to care
We close the office for Shark Week,
you eat Philly cheese steak sandwiches
that are at odds with the cigarettes,
we kiss sloppily
I am instituting a No Food, No Drink rule,
this will make null the need for rugs
Should we go for split custody? No
you will handle the children like the expense account
The music here is loud, we’ve barely talked; my mouth tastes of onions
in the morning
It was a cloudy, humid night that I found her,
dark with no noted star in the street-
only a streetlamp's glare,
blurring its attention on her,
or perhaps a movement caught my glance.
There, a thickly huddled clump
of slow compacted shadow, many limbed
in the light; blotch-bellied and centred firm.
She'd stopped (with all her legs), sure as shadow.
The surprise of being met perhaps equal to mine,
for there she held, giving nothing away,
remarkable in her concentrated poise.
Her wariness didn't last, as with a sudden urge
she mounted forward, advancing with a rower's ease-
the whole current of her body oozing forward...
Careful though, as she steered to one side,
then checked, as if to slip from near presence:
away from the wall, each leg a careful fluent aim,
caressing air in its angled fall...
Artful in her walk, almost a ballerina.
The lamp showed up her tousled body:
a grossly bobbled thorax bunched with reddish hairs
tart as pollen, delicate as flower filaments.
Finding grass, she assumed anonymity-
conscious, it seemed, of a watchful form;
and there, startled back to myself, I left her.
Stray leaves leered over her shadow.
Michael Lee Rattigan
A woman in fact.
We know this
by the shopping in her trolley
and by the way
her bag is held.
The rain has been wetting all day
slipping the gaps around old railings and the new bricks
sharpening the long sight before her with a
stinging grey bloom.
She must be old.
She is hiding her lines and roots from the youth
are sensibly shod in the
low heeled boots
which silently signal
avoidance and camouflage
and the plea
to see the colour and deep warmth
That is not bare is open
But not shared
Amongst the beans and the packets of rice.
Several extremes of pleasure and pain
(one for the road, two for the show)
Hopefully I can see you again?
(three in the park, four in the dark)
Or maybe, you’ve missed the train?
(five odd phone calls, six new curve balls)
Which I think would explain….
(seven old ways, eight great days)
....your change of heart.
© Anita McNamee
A sigh deep in your forearms, your legs, your chest aching a little
You slide back a few feet like your on casters
But they keep on talking
They’re talking about…
Someone said something…
And someone had some sort of…
Sex or something…? Maybe…?
It’s getting further away
The cotton closing around your ears creeps into your mouth too
You hear the metronome of your breath
The animal in you has stepped off the tread mill
And stops clutching its knees while the wheel spins of its own volition
And she’s still talking
Though the effort of keeping your head straight is distracting
And you’re fidgeting with your shoe
There’s a bug in the dirt and you nudge if off the path
And she says something about life
She’s smiling, wisely, kindly
Do you know her?
Surely not. You’re sliding further away and it’s getting darker.
You’ll take the long way home
And no one will notice as the lights go out in the houses on your path
Even street lights burn out overhead
And you’ve turned totally gray
Your skin buzzing from the inside with the things you might have done
The action that might have taken place if you in fact were…there?
Never mind. That’s a story about somebody else.
The creature is asleep now. You don’t want to disturb it.
Slipping into Red
In the big tree’s cradling arms
a hammock lulls me to dream
that I don’t give a damn
if coming is going.
I leap into a swarm of flushed pairs
of red-shoed dancing bodies pushing
and shoving ‘round a mirrored floor
and I too wear red shoes—tear across
the glass down spiral stairs
into a bright night
and oncoming rash of fast-paced
pinched-faced madcaps dashing
as blasts of red blitz my head
jolt me awake.
New York Style Hungarian Stew
It’s nearly dinnertime and I’m in the dark
in my living room, on a white leather couch
(a fresh start, I thought). A stone’s throw
away my ex lives with his Szĕkely Goulash
wafting its way to my open window, into
my bedroom where he can see his successor
immersed in goose down stuffed into a duvet,
color identical to the one I see just beyond
my window, on the bed on which I’d been fed
“I’ll cherish you always.” Abutting that master
bedroom, the den with surround-sound TV
where the Hungarian charmed the panties off
me during commercials, turning up his volume
so I could grasp each syllable of his
accented endearments, excuses. I see
the state-of-the art kitchen where the louse still plays
chef. How I’d wished he’d played spouse
with as much gusto and know-how. Oh, how
he’d cooked & cooked our goose, served it up
every chance he got, till I got good and fed
up and fled to the brownstone across the way,
where the stench of my ex’s dish cooked to death,
& the redolence from my Crock-Pot stew cooking
up a storm, at this very moment mesh.
Contemplating Caring for a Porcupine
A roof over its head, easily done.
Nurturing, quite another story.
Bathing—only with a long hose.
As for mealtime, the prickly thing
jumping up and down, impatient,
what cover-ups would repel
prick of quill? What if the rascal
had found those earlier,
ripped them to shreds? Get angry
and chance an antsy porcupine
turning combative? Pay dearly
for that, or, if the critter contrite,
savor the moment? And having fed
the robust rodent, if it yelps for more
but is on a diet, what would distract?
A game of Hide and Seek might,
though, if the quill ball should turn up
missing, how to know it would
fare well, and what angst to bear
if the poor thing was found
to have been the dinner
of some known predator
when all the porcupine wanted
was more gruel, and caring for
it well was all I ever wanted?
Coming in Second
Body chilled by years of neglect,
my twin lies in a hospital bed
trying to grasp how she’s come
to this. The sum of my fears
she’s the one person I dread
I could be, save for some kink in our link
f genetic fiber—a palpable bond.
Struggling not to catch her death
of cold, I’ve steered clear of her
view that our life was conceptual
error, yet I find myself more
akin to her than sanity permits.
And though, at times, I fall into that
black hole of her undoing, I manage
to climb back out, into the asylum
of my life. Out, according to my twin,
the same way I exited the womb,
climbing over her in order to be first.
Awake in Long Beach
awaiting the perk
from freshly brewed java
the lull in gull squabble over
a tide dredging up debris
husband and wife
skiffs passing in night
each wake muster
sugar black coffee
crack boiled eggs
never a smile
the chink in their armor
amour not at all
what it’s cracked up to be
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
What I got from a Telephone booth
There is a pleasure in using
someone else’s things
To find a burning cigarette on the stand of a
public telephone booth and smoke it secretively
to make yourself the continuity of an unknown,
as Kieslowski does in Red*
To remember a poem in the deep forest,
that talks about kissing a transformer**
or the unexpected trail marks of a vehicle
instead of the soil
With a long handled umbrella in one hand
and a tip of the dhothi held up in the other,
To jump across a puddle with the mathematical
precision of an old, high school master in white and white,
while playing the higher level of an
online role playing game
Writing is not an act of excuses then,
of things indebted to past or girls or even
where you could freely imagine a village
where only the saree weavers live and
you go there driving a truck, along with your
and on your way, stop by a cemetery
to kneel in front of the grave of a stranger
and pray as intensely as his son or wife
Let me tell you that
sometimes when we meet
for a coffee or a cinema or
for peanuts on the park bench,
I am both the second and the third person,
where I use a smaller eye to look at you
and the bigger third eye to look at myself
with the excited shyness of a voyeur
*- A movie by Krzysztof Kieslowski
** - An image in a poem I read
Thinking of my grandmother, Alzheimer’s at the Indian Institute of Astrophysics, Kodaikkanal
Certain months are like birds;
In troubled throats,
Voices burning like defeated people,
They sing from the altar of the devil:
Every note is a wound then,
every song is a new sin,
every egg hatches a cruel emptiness, frustrating you
like wet clothes on a monsoon day.
We scratched on the paper tree for new words and meanings,
Working on diffraction, lenses and solenoids, we
tried to separate from your world.
While closing the eyes on top of the wind mill tower,
I am filled with only your memory,
Inseparable like the remains of height on the wings
Your skin, old like that of the earth,
Your love, eternal like your forgetfulness
Close to the Ground
There is singing beneath dead clumps
Of Day Lilies. Round leaves of ground cover
Flower blue in September, as if summer
Were not over, as if a choir—she dares not
Imagine its wings—of insects invisible to her
Stare had turned the volume knob of the radio.
The tiniest creatures die beneath her feet.
From task to task, just hurrying by,
She crushes them with impunity.
Screams when she has to kill one that ventures
Into a corner of the bedroom. Its ancient,
Arachnid presence demotes her to victimhood.
Inside the house her shadow looms large.
Here, the sun, that amorphous star, rules the choir.
In the yard Japanese Lanterns burn orange.
Orchestral pit buried inches deep—conductor
Onstage readying the troops for the business
Of music. She walks past them on stick legs,
Her smile no longer pasted on, thinking
How the bow with the Parisian eye
Has gone wanting to be held for years.
How rusty the instrument grows
In the 21st siècle, wooden inners
Laced with webs and dust.
How Like a Birthing
The common hawk, its feathers spread
As for flight, sits far back in the back yard.
It tears at the jay, talons extended, waiting
For the right instant to take flight.
In the trees the high-pitched ribbing sends
Ripples into space like Morse code—
No stop in sight—
Long short short short long.
Cries dribble through the neighborhood,
Hawk splayed atop the victim beneath ticked skirts
Where the garment of death
Shows itself to be feather-soft,
Cut from a cloth so ordinary
It might be worn to breakfast.
This is high drama for suburbia,
Soap opera for those who shy away
From the midwifery of hospice
That waits around the bend of time future.
As if community were all
The jays’ collective cries off hawk from Northwest Blue Jay.
It squawks off to a tree limb
There to die more slowly, depending
Upon the nature of its injury. Meanwhile
The cat comes onstage from left wing,
Its entrance unsurprising
As Hamlet’s ghosted father.
All that remains is to pick up the pieces
And re-make this puzzle to suit the dilemma—
What took the hawk back to plain blue sky?
Where do our dead lie unburied?
Birthed by predation, whether fast or slow,
Their last chapter brought to a close
By morphine drip or trigger hand.
The hawk—how deftly it pressed the bluebird
Of happiness to the grounds of the single place
We feel safe in—our port, harbor, haven, and back yard.
When You Leave
Wind plies the poplars,
a skein of yarn
In the cherry and plum
left by the birds
As, in raisins,
creases deepen, shrunken
by the departure
of water from summer.
As if to further ornament
this telltale end of season,
the rope swing—
dangles, its cables knotted
to an empty board.
It was meant to be like this.
You cleave to your man
and I to mine.
Mine is your father—
all men imperfect,
forsworn to sin.
It is women who unmake
and remake the same bed,
their small hands working
sheets, pillows, covers, shams.
And when you leave again
I’ll feel those hollows
carved by the new moon—
an ivory horn
left by the unicorn
when it went between
the threads of a tapestry.
Like the myth
and Demeter, an earth-myth--
a bloodless symbol.
Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Descant, Adirondack Review, Worcester Review, Poem, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, and many other journals. He has have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2009).
Gale has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.
Sara Blevins is a graduate of Marshall University and is currently obtaining her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She is both a feisty writer and a quiet librarian. Her work has appeared in the literary magazine Ect. She continues to work and learn from Huntington, WV. You may contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Marilyn Donovan has been published in several literary magazines, including Orbis and The Interpreter’s House, and was lucky enough to have a poem in the Cinnamon Press anthology In the Telling (June 2009). She was shortlisted in Second Light Networks's 2007 poetry competition and is currently shortlisted in this year’s Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year competition.
Alan Gleave was a secondary school teacher in Liverpool for thirty years. Taking early retirement, he wondered whether it was to late to turn to trying to write poems and short stories of his own. Encouraged by Deal Writers, he has had poems published in The Reader, and the international academic journal, Dante Studies. One of his short stories was shortlisted in the Meridian short story competition of summer 2009.
Mark Jackley is the author of three chapbooks and the full-length collection There Will Be Silence While You Wait (Plain View Press). He lives in Sterling, VA.
Jason Joyce just graduated from the University of Wyoming with a bachelors in Business Administration and a minor in Creative Writing. He is pursuing a career in event promotion and entertainment management. He plays bass for the Cheyenne, WY based band "Save My Hero". Jason is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems. You can find out more about his writing on his blog at jasonrjoyce.blogspot.com
Michael Lee Rattigan's work has appeared online, in magazines (most recently in OtherPoetry) and in book form. Rufus books of Canada published his edition of the first complete translation of Fernando Pessoa's Caeiro poems, along with a chapbook called "Nature Notes".
Annmarie Lowther writes poems and short stories. She is currently working on a longer piece of fiction. Whilst at the LIverpool University Centre for Continuing Education , she was a founder member of the 'Poised Pen ' writing group. She is a working mum with two children.
Anita McNamee has been writing poetry on and off since she was 14 years old and has had poetry published in various anthologies. She has also had her chap book ‘Buffy and Beyond’ positively reviewed in a couple of poetry magazines namely Splizz and The Seventh Quarry (Swansea Poetry Magazine).
Anita is a bohemian chick (trapped inside the body of a middle aged receptionist!) who loves to write poetry, eat chocolate, chill out with her boyfriend and read crime fiction. Her love of writing has grown over the years as it allows her not only to be creative, but to be honest about her observations on life. If you would like to find out more about Anita or her work, please visit her website http://www.anitamcnamee.com
Aditya Shankar (b.1981, Thrissur ,Kerala ,India) is a bi-lingual writer and short film-maker.
He writes in English and Malayalam, and publishes poetry and articles in leading journals, including the The Little Magazine, The Word Plus, Indian Literature, The Literary X Magazine, Munyori, The Pyramid, Mastodon Dentist, The Wild Goose Poetry Review, Bayou Review, Words-Myth, Chandrabhaga among others. His First Book 'After Seeing', a series of poems based on cinema, is currently being translated into a couple of regional Indian languages.
His short films have participated at International Film Festivals and gained nomination for Animation Awards. Currently, he lives and works in Cochin as the Creative Director of D3V Games, a game and animation development studio, after completing his B.Tech in Mechanical Engineering.
Judith Skillman’s eleventh collection of poems is “Prisoner of the Swifts” Ahadada Books (ahadadabooks.com). “The Never” was a finalist for the FIELD/Oberlin Press Award in 2009 and will be out in 2011 from Dream Horse Press. “Heat Lightning: New and Selected Poems 1986 – 2006“ was published by Silverfish Review Press, Eugene, Oregon, 2006. The recipient of an award from the Academy of American Poets for her book “Storm” (Blue Begonia Press, 1998), Skillman’s work has appeared in Poetry, FIELD, The Southern Review, The Iowa Review, Midwest Quarterly Review, Seneca Review, and numerous other journals and anthologies. An educator, editor, and translator, she holds an M.A. in English Literature from the University of Maryland, and lives in Kennydale, Washington. Please see www.judithskillman.com http://www.judithskillman.com for more information.
Justin Roberti has been writing for over 20 years and has had numerous publications and productions of stories, plays, poems, documentaries, and videos. He has a Master of Fine arts degree in Playwrighting from Rutgers University and works as a writer and marketer.
Ruth Sabath Rosenthal is a New York Poet, published in various literary journals and poetry anthologies both in the U.S. and internationally; among these: Journals :Birmingham Review, Connecticut Review, Mobius-The Poetry Magazine, Pacific Review, Saravasti, Taj Mahal Review. Anthologies: ''Harvest of the New Millennium,'' '' Songs of Seasoned women,'' ''Voices Israel.'' Also, Ruth's poem ''on yet another birthday'' was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in October 2006. For more about Ruth, visit websites: