Do you know I think about leaving you and
what it is that I leave?
It is this: your thick outside scent that cloys in my throat,
those rough woollen jumpers, unwashed, so full of you.
Battered jeans, torn and oil stained
always too long, worn to an arch at each heel.
Gumboots, green-soled, brand new, no leaks.
Greying stubble that makes you old and tired
or brash and mischievous — sailor-boy about town;
depends on the season, whether the sun shines.
And I think of your rough hands with tender touch,
that are cuffed away too often,
and your vulnerable eyes,
red with effort to stop the tears.
I think you know that I will leave you.
But also know that something of you will always stay
thickly with me.
Catherine Langford writes in New Zealand.
When I was young my darkest day
was when you taught the bird to say:
“Sit!”
I must admit:
At least this new pet cannot talk
and doesn’t join us on our walk.
It’s not enough:
She doesn’t bark or want to play.
She steals my bed and sleeps all day.
She takes my ball and claws my nose.
She never leaves me there to doze.
How long will it take you to see?
She’s not a better pet than me.
Come quick!
She’s messed the carpet — all that blood
(and you complain I bring in mud).
There’s feathers strewn across the floor;
she’s opened up the birdcage door.
On second thought:
If she can keep out of the way,
I might allow the cat to stay.
Polenth Blake lives where the mushrooms bloom in autumn. Her website lurks at www.polenthblake.com.
salting away his riches
he hungers for the painting
desperate for only his eyes
to gaze upon its loveliness
certain to be contented
he takes the portrait home
and is captivated by its beauty
admiring this exquisite work of art
then, he notices a chink in the frame
next, a blemish on the canvas
each day exposes a new flaw
spoiling his masterpiece
fuming with resentment
disdain replaces awe
as he examines each defect
with a fine-tooth comb
Amy Corbin has been previously published in filling Station, The Cynic, Ascent Aspirations, Shine, Every Day Poets, Ignavia Press, Every Day Fiction, and Haruah: A Breath of Heaven. She will soon be published in Flask and Pen and The Battered Suitcase. She likes to sing in her car.
In the depths of
creased-up wrappers
lost receipts
cheque book stubs
shreds of tissue
stray pen tops
last year’s diary
glasses case
I found my treasure.
Transported back
to ancient souks
expensive malls
five star service
desert treks
sky-high structures
man-made islands
hidden faces
I dream a while.
Joan Ryder is a teacher of French and Head of Year in a Secondary School on the Isle of Man. She would love to be a ‘published’ poet — in print that is.
Welcome to July’s issue of Every Day Poets. I’m afraid last month’s interview didn’t happen. If we can, we’ll bring it to you at some future date. Those of you who send poems to us, please keep an eye on your e-mails in case one month it’s you. And please inform us of any change to your e-mail address.
We try to choose poems that are seasonal to the Northern Hemisphere - largely because all three editors live in the Northern Hemisphere, so if you have a wintry poem with us that hasn’t been published yet – fear not – it’s on its way because we’re past the solstice after all. That said we have included one poem in July’s schedule on the 20th, that could be said to be a month out of date but it came too late for inclusion in June. We need poems specific to any event six weeks in advance to give us a chance to process them on time. And if any Southern Hemisphere editor wishes to join our team and redress the imbalance, write to Jordan at Every Day Fiction and he’ll pass the message along.
For the 4th July we have a very special poem which gave this Brit a taste of what it must feel like to be an American. On the 17th, our youngest poet returns with a poem called “Modern Expression”. In fact there’s lots to look forward to as usual, every day.
Finally, we do need someone else to join our editorial team. If you think you could spare a few hours a week/an hour a day to read poems in our slush pile and comment, please contact Jordan.
Make a daily date with EDP.
July’s Table of Contents
| July 1 | Amy Corbin | The Painting |
| July 2 | Polenth Blake | The Dog’s Complaint |
| July 3 | Catherine Langford | Thickly with me |
| July 4 | Ash Krafton | After Arlington |
| July 5 | Richard M. O’Donnell | Fresh Baked Bread |
| July 6 | Rebecca Colby | Samantha |
| July 7 | Gary Bloom | Laughable |
| July 8 | Kaolin Imago Fire | Love Not War |
| July 9 | J. B. Hogan | Braceros |
| July 10 | Benjamin Winship | Growing up |
| July 11 | Steve Lucchesi | Morning Jog |
| July 12 | Kathleen Cassen Mickelson | Tenacity |
| July 13 | R. J. Walker Miller | Dancing the Devil’s Backbone |
| July 14 | Carol Falaki | Planet Cat |
| July 15 | Daniel Stine | Artist’s Agony |
| July 16 | Joan Ryder | A Merging of the Centuries |
| July 17 | A Quantum Mechanic | Modern Expression |
| July 18 | Deborah Walker | My Deep Love |
| July 19 | John Ammirati | First Funeral |
| July 20 | George McKim | tiananmen square |
| July 21 | Marc Latham | Planet Earth and the Universe |
| July 22 | John Lander | Tanka Written While Weary |
| July 23 | Tyrean Martinson | Grace Unexpected |
| July 24 | Lucien E. G. Spelman | The Alligator Xylophone |
| July 25 | Lilibeth Taduran | Civilization |
| July 26 | Katherine McIntyre | Faceless |
| July 27 | Erik Knutsen | Mountain |
| July 28 | Robert M. Dilley | Into Her Dreams |
| July 29 | Barry Napier | Lines Upon a Napkin |
| July 30 | Angel Zapata | Autumn 1985: The Dead Girl |
| July 31 | Casey Quinn | An Original Idea |
One size fits all:
A notion inapplicable
To pants, politics or piety.
Robert Laughlin lives in Chico, California. He is the creator and administrator of the Micro Award, an international competition for previously published flash fiction. His short story, “In the Evening Made,” was voted a Notable Story of the Year by the judging panel of the storySouth Million Writers Award, and his novel, Vow of Silence, has been released by Trytium.
Worry about the velvet words
those pretentious sacred verses
spoken with the stumbling tongue
that wags in deceipt.
The well said untruth
with twofold meaning
they are pleasant to the ears
like the soft caress of a song.
Be not mesmerised by the sparkle
of blasphemous lyrics
that can pierce through
your prudent guard.
The smooth chant of verses
that can charm even the wicked.
Lilibeth Taduran writes in Vancouver, Canada.
You lived alone inside my heart
Known well to none but me.
And when you died the world was still,
And changed for only me.
I performed a private service then,
And kept a lonely wake.
I dressed in black to mourn your death;
Alone I dug your grave.
I locked your gilded casket tight,
Piled high with silk and lace.
I buried you under misty thoughts,
But your spirit still remains.
Therese Kuczynski won second place in a writing contest in early elementary school, and hasn’t stopped writing since. She studies nursing in Ohio, but she does most of her writing at her home in New England during breaks. One of her humorous poems has appeared in Word Riot, and she is extremely thankful for her small circle of friends who stand by her writing and provide encouragement.
Fey sparks
flash in darkness,
baring that savage soul,
a hungry spectre feral and
feline.
Richard H. Fay currently resides in Upstate New York with his wife, daughter, two cats, and a rather confused shepherd-chow mix. Formerly a laboratory technician turned home educator, Richard now spends his days juggling various writing and art projects. History, myth, legend, folklore, as well as the classics of fantasy, horror, and adventure literature, serve as inspiration for his creative endeavours. Many of the fruits of his labour have appeared in various e-zines, print magazines, and anthologies.
i need deadlines
so i don’t spend unpaid hours staring out at the blue sky, thinking that billowy cloud looks a little like a plump sheep and that one is a typewriter, waste all my unmeasured minutes gathering the wisps of water vapor and spinning them out in my mind
the deadline is a hard stop
before which i force my tangled thoughts to straighten
and very diligently set the words down line by line,
each pass builds the structure predictably higher.
at the end who knows what i’ll have – a scarf or a sock, something i can use or sell – but
maybe this time it will be unrecognizable, the shape of clustered starfish with fat fist-sized loops, dangling chewstrings, a gift for a baby girl loved unreasonably for eighty years right till the final unraveling
Hilary Kemp is an ex-patriate Canadian who fell in love with long division in fourth grade, survived an adolescent romance with Keats and TS Eliott and currently teaches both biology and salsa dancing to anyone who will listen (see www.claverhythmz.com and www.geocities.com/sciencetranslater). A postdoctoral fellow studying vertebrate brain development at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, WA, Hilary is looking for an academic teaching position but secretly dreams of hosting her own public radio show.
