BlueHouse Journal

issue # 6


questions

june 2023

in this issue

 please note ::

BlueHouse makes every effort we can to be as accessible as possible. Any concrete poems or visual artworks which have been displayed as image files have custom alt text available for screen readers to attempt in some way to translate the image into words to be fully enjoyed by all readers. Any videos or sound poems will include closed captioning as well a transcript. A downloadable .pdf version of the journal is also available for those who wish. Accessibility is incredibly important to us! If you have any issues accessing any part of our journal, please let us know!

[Dear Readers]

while this section of the journal is typically a space where I share my own thinking regarding the theme of each issue, in some way, this theme allows for considerations much deeper than that.

This theme has made me ponder and step and consider towards a questions which has been eating and gnawing away at me for months and possibly years…

what is the best way to make a fully accessible journal?

I thought that perhaps this was it —a fully digital journal which would allow any person with sight disabilities to have full access to all the text in this journal. But more and more I am beginning to feel that this is not enough.

I’m not sure what the future holds for BlueHouse — of whom I love — but we are moving close to finding out.

Meredith Grace Thompson :: editor BlueHouse Journal Edmonton AB June 2023

(a found poem)

where am i do i
know you this lake has no
bottom am i
drowning why
am i
here do i live
here do i have
underwear a clean
nightgown where is
home my hands are
sticky do I know
you where is 
this sticky where is 
my date my
bruce is
good to me he said
i did not marry you for your
breasts i have one
breast
my hands are
sticky who are
you did you have
children i had
children what can 
marsha do who needs 
marsha 

MARSHA SPEAKS

Figman & Epstein
Spar & Bernstein
Proner & Proner
Loscalzo & Loscalzo

McManus, Collura & Richter
Lifflander & Reich
Kopff, Nordelli & Dopf
Smiley & Smiley

Cherundolo, Bottar & Leone
Danker & Millstein
Dupee, Dupee & Monroe
Hochheiser & Hochheiser

Bonina & Bonina
Worby, Groner, Edelman, Napoli & Bern
Ginarte, O’Dwyer & Winograd
Gair, Gair, Conason, Steigman & Mackauf

Silberstein, Awad & Miklos, Zuller & Bondy
Rappaport, Glass, Greene & Levine
Irom, Wittle, Novick, Truhowsky & Marcus
Rheingold, Valet, Rheingold, Sclolnick & McCarthy

Personal Injury Lawyers

Time

Think I should turn on the screen and watch the entire world on 102 channels.

10:32

That would mean not writing this. How long did this take?

10:33

Glance at clock can it be 10:33 really? Did it not take long to write that previous line? Is it now closer to the minute before or the one yearning? Surely now, after writing this, it must be 10:34.
Glance at clock.

10:33

My minute?

10:35

The tv is not on but it echoes; it demands.

10:35

A poet is worth all the cherry blossoms.

10:36

This goes on.

10:37

I almost didn’t look at the clock.

10:37

Imagine the agony.

10:38

Imagine On Kawara on hyperspeed.

10:38

Do I smell cigarette smoke?

10:39

Or at least all the cherry blossoms in and around the Jefferson Memorial. I hear they

10:39

Are in Japan too — all over I guess — one Mt. Fuji surrounded by people and palettes of
slumped fish and twigs bursting with pinks.

10:39

begs the question

look
I didn’t ask for this.
I didn’t want to be alive
not saying that I want to die
just that I lacked the options
to be elsewhere
elsehow
elsewhen
back then.

so let me get this straight
you only exist because
(pick your poison)
(trick question)
multiple choice:

a) you have to

b) it’s the right thing to do

c) someone told you to

and hanging like a counterpoint
to each half-hearted answer
is the why

Whatever Love Can Bring

Remember when I hid behind the udala tree,
choked with leaves and long roots splayed in the dusk,
I wanted to watch you glide out of your father's house.

I counted to the last minute, pushed the clinging ivy away,
slid my heart into my hands, parted the weaving twigs
as your yellow skirt brushed away some slithering plants.

The crunch of leaves, the sudden rustle of grass,
and the slight tremor of the bulky udala tree
filled me with inexplicable thrill and palpitations.

I could no longer hear the crack of branches,
nor listen to the roar of the approaching rain,
I listened to the crickets announcing your appearance.

When you snuck out of your father's house,
stood on the porch and I saw the slope of your neck,
I knew that diamonds would be floating in the air.

You walked forward, the moon holding your hands,
you moved, no, waltzed towards the cosmos of trees
I did not know when my trousers slinked to my feet.

I waited, and all the stars and trees held their breath,
the moon overtook you and lurched forward,
while I licked my tongue and drowned in my groans.

It was not the daffodils that fell off their stalks in awe,
but a pair of twigs colliding against your knees,
whatever can love gift to the carpet of grasses?

I waited for you to let yourself into the lake of my arms,
every second, a moment of dawdling bliss, a question,
a bridge hedged for the depth of our love. 

I saw you stride along the path as layered on by youth,
the wind carrying you beyond my turning stomach,
into the arms of a stranger dwarfed by the Iroko tree.

You turned, and a horde of silent crickets split the air,
the sun rushed and crashed against the moon,
and the light of stars slowly slipped away. Why, my world?

To Be Understood

Answer and Asking

A Dream to Examine

"The Damage"

This stain 
followed a storm 
for which no one prepared
followed a crack 
in walls not made solid
followed the seepage 
from things stored
but never contained
followed a battering 
from what waited outside
followed the fracture 
of what lay within
followed a struggle 
that couldn’t be won
that should have been stopped
but wasn’t 
this stain
the color of dread
streaked with violence
moist with regret 
drying like silence
this stain--
are you sure
it is 
water?

Archly Existential Rhetorical Question

Did the joyous lilting music stop
Or oy was there never 
Really any

Just circular words made up
And a starry melody
Inside your deluded head

That those stark cynics
We tended to dismiss 
Who always said they knew

That folks simply act
Out of silent self-interest 
Were absolutely right

Plus now as I entertain
Being in gerryatric cups
Approaching my cycle’s endgame

Thus it is possibly true
Even all those such loving children
Are moving on 

To become own m/patriarchs as start to dismiss me?

There’s a question I ask each occasion:
how many times have I had to tie a tie
when all I wanted was to knot this silk
strap around my head and streak through
the too-tamed lawns

                                   of my jaw-dropped
neighbors gazing all my untanned skin and
a paisley haze trailing behind like a comet’s
tail—my body the filthy, frozen ball both
pulled toward and reaching for some sun?

Feral

Larks

Coming late, as always, 
I try to remember what I almost heard.
—WS Merwin

Concrete poem, full text found in accessible version link.

Meet Me in Cafe

Nikita and her only best friend till date or rather someone who have talked to her on a regular basis since childhood are discussing whether Nikita should make a move on a hot guy sitting across from them in a café.

Nikita – Should I go and make a move like maybe I can find him in an acquaintance’s home, and he might try to flirt with me n I’ll give in until night and then a kiss, happily ever after…what worst can happen?

Atikin – Nothing much, just you’ll do insane things like calling him multiple times over and over even when he is not picking up the call, going over the board sensitive, dramatic, go all in and he will be turned off as they always do, he might say and do things as the consequence of your own stupidity, and you’ll be insulted.

Nikita – I should prepare myself to die alone then.

Atikin – Can you? When I think again, that might be a good option for you, and you might be good at it too…

Nikita – Well, I don’t want to do an arrangement and/or adjustments (does the finger sign) when it’s about a relationship of lifetime.

Atikin – First off you should not do such actions if you don’t want to draw unusual attention towards yourself…Secondly, Oh My God, you were thinking of lifetime with that guy (sneak at him with bowed eyelashes, again)

Nikita – What? Why? He is gonna marry someone, someday, why that someone can’t be me and why that someday can’t be sooner…just after I’ve become singer superstar in America…

Atikin – N why would he follow you there…because you’ll be rich and famous…yeah that’s just the type of girls who get followed across countries…

Nikita – Right now, finding a perfect guy and settling down with him would be living on my own terms. Okay, I’ll be straightforward, I want to get married, I just want to do it with a right person, I don’t want to do it with anybody because of some stupid reasons…

Atikin – Stupid reasons like your age is increasing, your friends…oh…oh…Your acquaintances, people you know somehow… are all settled, it will be tough to get pregnant after 30, the other processes such as IVF, freezing eggs cost a lot...

Nikita – Yeah, so I will earn money, I will earn a lot of money so that if problem can be solved with money, I am able to solve it…with money…

Atikin – Yup, earn money and use it for fertility treatments…

Nikita -- …Or earn money and be free for life to live your life…I wish I am a celebrity in America…Just grabbing the mike and singing songs on stage, making videos, giving interviews, autographs, that will earn me a shit ton of money too n then I can think of living on my own terms…

Atikin – hmm…hmm… let’s listen to that voice note you recorded of a rap you wrote…

Nikita – I will be good at it if I get a chance, if someone picks up my lyrics or stories…hey I can be a published writer too…that will also earn me loads of name, fame and money…btw…I can use filters and make it sound good…

Atikin – Two days to make it up and live it up in your head, then on Monday you have to wake up at 7:00 a.m., get ready, go to office… for another two days, do it from home for another three but still the same routine, more or less…

Nikita – I will do movies too, in the beginning, I will go for writing, singing and rapping maybe but then when I’ll get offer for a movie, I’ll take it, and I will write movies too, of course…then I’ll get an Oscar, along with a standing ovation, in background my song will be playing, ‘What the fuck, I am Alive’…I will get a little bit of teary eyes…n I will walk in a slow motion, I’ll be sitting at the back, that’s why…

Atikin – The chances of that happening are as rare as dinosaurs coming back, dinosaurs might come back some time in some world…the idea of getting married instead is a better one…you can arrange it yourself you know, create your account on any matrimonial site and find the guy yourself…

Nikita – Shouldn’t love to be unexpected, creating a profile on any sites like that would be so mechanic…

Atikin – yeah and Bumble is so organic…you really expect to find a long-term thing there…?

Nikita – I was expecting to find love there, yes, I don’t go outside as often, I don’t meet with guys as often, so it seemed like a fair try…and I found one too, it didn’t work…

Atikin – Cause, you don’t abuse them in the beginning n you don’t expect them to run after you desperately like you do after them…

Nikita – I could’ve had him, I could’ve married him too, he seemed nice enough, he had the potential at least…why that waiter is clocking me like that? N those stupid teenagers peeking at me n laughing… 

Atikin – Possibly because you’re making ridiculous faces…you always make ridiculous faces while talking to me…you need to stop doing that…your head is really a big mess…

Nikita – I don’t talk to you, you talk to me, I came to read a book here…to distract myself from the daily boring life…which is nothing like I wanted…n you just come from nowhere n you mess up with my head…

Atikin – You’ve not ordered anything and you’re sitting on his customer table…that’s not very good etiquettes…move to sofa…or someplace where homeless, meaningless people should sit…in a corner…

Nikita picks up her book, phone and bag and moves to sofa, on her way she saw her reflection in a double sided door…

Atikin – You’d be beautiful if you didn’t have moles on your face…especially on nose… and slightly thicker hair…

Nikita – I think I am very pretty, thank you so much…

Atikin – Or maybe you can be n you should be prettier…

Nikita – I will always look good as a celebrity, there will be people to take care of this stuff for me, there will be people to take care of my everything…

Atikin – For a change, you can try giving chance to guys who actually like you n positively show their interest in you…who actually think you’re beautiful…

Nikita – But I don’t get a feeling from them…n with whom I get the feeling, they don’t get it for me…is it not possible that I find someone where it’s instantly mutual…that would be a dream…

Atikin – dream would be collaborating with Eminem, or Harry Styles or anybody from the music industry…writing, directing and getting cast in a big budget movie with high-fi actors…becoming a fastest billionaire…cause youngest is not possible now…

Nikita – Harry Styles is cute…I like him now, he grew on me…if I become a celebrity like him, I can marry him…hell, I will marry him…

Atikin – As if he will let you, also he might be gay or at least a bisexual…you’ve stalked him enough to know this much…

Nikita – I don’t even use social media to stalk people…By the way, getting a good job at a good company with good fat package like Google, Apple is also a good idea…I had applied and see I got a first round of discussion too…

Atikin – You believe you’re gonna clear that?... n what happened to writing dreams…all of them got drained the last time you cried…

Nikita – Writing dreams are not going anywhere from my head…the moment I get something bigger and better in writing, I’ll leave everything and pursue it…but it should be strong enough to provide a living…I don’t want to be a struggling writer on streets…you know…

Atikin – you want to be a corporate leader, a celebrated artist in Hollywood, you want everyone to be in love with you, you want to be a God…but I know that you’ll never know exactly what you want n what you don’t want…you have your two feet in two waters n two hands in two skies…

Nikita – Isn’t that true for everybody…anyway I guess I simply want to be happy n you gotta have money and love in your life to be happy… n peace too…n dreams…n satisfaction…n to be able to get what we want when we want…  

Atikin – You’re not gonna get peace anywhere because you’re easily troubled…you need to learn to be not influenced, to be firm on your decisions, to not follow others…

Nikita – I am not gullible if that’s what you’re suggesting…

Atikin – I am not suggesting that…

Nikita – I moved to a new city because I wanted to experience it not because of Achin…not because I thought that something is gonna happen there…I knew nothing was going to happen there…

Atikin – Why this city then, there are like hundreds of cities in your country…you came here so that you’ve a chance of seeing him…admit it…

Nikita – Whatever, how does it matter? He doesn’t want to see me, he has made that quite clear in that last interaction…

Atikin – No one wants to see someone who drunk call 19 times in night to tell them that they’re moving states for them…it won’t even be romantic in books or movies of today’s era…

Nikita – Well, I am trying to go back, I am applying to jobs near home now…anyway I wanted to get out of home…that was the major reason…I need to know how to handle life…finding a crash pad, arranging for food, paying your bills, taking care of yourself etc…

Atikin – So you’re still solid on the affirmation, that you want to live on your own, away from home…once you step out, you will never go back…you would go to America…

Nikita – I will go to America in a bat of an eye…if I get a chance…IF I GET A CHANCE…it can happen…it’s not entirely an impossible kind of event…so it might happen…

Atikin – You wish…probability of you working in an IT company, arranging a marriage with a decent guy is higher than that…n living a normal life like 95% of people do is much higher…

Nikita – Then I would like to get a job in a big company with a big fat package n marry a rich handsome guy…with a lavish business probably…

Atikin – Either drop rich or drop handsome…

Nikita – I’ve seen n known guys who have both…why can’t I get that then…

Atikin – You’ve to be a different kind of girl for that…not sure…just different than what and who you are…why you are…

Nikita – Yeah, I want to be a catcher in the rye…or a traffic police with a cartoon gun…I want to do something interesting and worth telling…

Atikin – You wanted to write something like ‘catcher in the rye’ and ‘a traffic police with a cartoon gun’ is your bleak attempt at it…

Nikita – it’s still a good story…at least better than those with over the board explanations of least of noticeable things in a monotonous lives…or the daunting love stories…no one is getting the love of their life…just meet them at some dumbfounded setting n then it doesn’t work or doesn’t happen for the stupidest of reasons…

Atikin – That’s why, in your love stories, you always write the protagonists as a couple, right from the beginning…like the ‘Hyper stimulated love’…oh it’s a script, it should be a movie according to you…

Nikita – N it will be a good one…people will learn how we are living in different dimensions n things that are meant to be are true in every world…at least better than the ones where actors are either drinking or singing or fucking or dancing or smoking or fucking…

Atikin – Chill, losing your virginity is not that big of a deal, it’s a 21st century for god’s sake…

Nikita – I didn’t say anything about that…I just didn’t want it to happen the way it happened…it’s not a good memory…that’s it…

Atikin – texture of your voice n face changes on mention of that word, ‘virginity’…He was a good friend though…I mean, kind of…

Nikita – Yeah, I was proud to have him as a friend…

Atikin – That’s because you think everyone is a superstar in limelight and so you put them on a pedestal…in your head…that’s why you don’t get a boyfriend too…you show too much love too soon…

Nikita – Shouldn’t it be more likeable…in the world where nobody shows a handful of love…I give them the world of love…they should be thankful…

Atikin – Are you done with your philosophy? No one is going to listen to your lectures until you do something…prove that you are superior to them…

Nikita – I think I can be a philosopher too…or wait…I can easily be a psychiatrist or psychotherapist…

Atikin – Which one? Psychiatrist or Psychotherapist?

Nikita – I can listen to people, understand them, their point of view, empathize with them and even help them conquer their fears and anxiety and whatever is troubling them…

Atikin – because you can’t do that for yourself…

Nikita – I am not depressed, nothing about me says or shows that…   

Atikin – Yeah not exactly…I will give you that…except you haven’t eaten all day…because you think that if you grabbed a small bite here, you’ll go bankrupt…

Nikita – Not exactly, but I don’t want to waste money…I am not a billionaire yet…I need to focus on saving and investing…

Atikin – N running up the bill of over Rs 8500 to give a stupid party to your stupid friend…giving Rs 2750 for extra luggage at the airport and you could’ve saved it if you would’ve been a little smart…what was that?...

Nikita – Accidents…okay…those were accidents…sometimes we do waste money even when we don’t want to…you want to eat something…that’s it…okay let me order something…

Atikin – Scan the right side of menu carefully…see your eyes don’t skip a good cheap meal…

Nikita – I want to be able to spend extravagantly where I don’t have to think every time, I have to buy something or order something…but I also don’t want to be poor n forced to work in my mid-thirties or forties…

Atikin – You’re sure, you’ll live until then…what an optimism…

Nikita – Well…none of the suicide attempts succeeded till date…n I’ve tried many…so I am assuming that I will see myself through forties…I sure hope I don’t see much of fifties…

Atikin – You’re gonna die early…you’re not gonna get old and gold…don’t worry about that…

Nikita – Yeah, I am kind of manifesting it…you know…thinking about it a lot…

Atikin – Manifestations work when you focus on one thing that you truly want and are specific about it…not when you want multiple things in a single moment n that too…unorganized…

Nikita – I believe that I am gonna get everything I want…now is the time…I mean I should now…or else it will get too late

Atikin – Yeah, you wanted to be young and successful…n now you are neither young nor successful…

Nikita – I am still young n I can still be successful…that’s how I am supposed to be thinking…think good, look good n good will happen all around you…

Atikin – In short, take care of yourself…which you don’t do…

Nikita – I am beginning to…I have decided to take care of myself now…I mean if I’ll not look after me then who will...

Atikin – n why anyone should?

Nikita – that question hurts me…some people are lucky enough to find the one who takes care of them…just like that…

Atikin – N you wish to find that too…

Nikita – It won’t be a repel able episode…

Atikin -- You’re way dreamier than I thought…

Nikita – I am not that…

Atikin – You’ve not turned the page for two hours n you have not taken a bite of your sandwich or a sip of your coffee since more than half an hour…

Suddenly, Nikita realizes that she doesn’t remember ordering her sandwich and cold coffee…why and when did she come here…n how long it had been…she remembers the conversation though…she asked to get her order packed and decided to leave the café at once…

As she went outside and started to move to her home, Atikin strikes again…

Atikin – Wish that someone comes in a car and take you away…

Nikita – Always…To America…or to someplace which is not here…

Atikin – As usual…

Nikita – Wish someone is waiting at home for me…for my write ups…

Atikin – Always…

Aliens

I have a neighbour in

outerspace.

He helps me clean my gutters after the

comets.

He likes to look down on everyone through the

atmosphere

Our old homes are going on without us, below their own

sky.

Our bodies are nearly unrecognizable through the

clouds.

We’re so high up we can almost see our

thoughts

through our crowns, bumping around in our

brains

He keeps his self going on Earth, like me. He keeps an

eye

on him and things inside his

head

he wants but can’t have. He wishes his

neck

turned like an owl’s. He wishes snow would color his

shoulders

as he hiked. He wishes for better meals and a smaller

stomach

I can’t stop analyzing how she’s moving my

hips

as I walk down the street, my

knees

hoisting my convictions (they look so small from space) despite weak

ankles

Up here, our joints are free, no boundary holds our

feet.

To detach from Earth we had to kill every one of our

roots,

especially the good ones. I followed him here. Now, with no

foundation

for any kind of identity, we don’t need to know who we still are. Ice

crusts

the edges of my father’s doorway, the corners of my room. Our

mantles

collect coffee cups, half-read books. He and I are always by the window, looking straight into our

core.

?

all of these possessions
outward or inward
are they of substantive form
or are they but images in frameless glass
held so dearly in this mind
misrepresenting something
so truly and all too often
unknowingly sought
and yet already omniPresent

and so
this identity
of unanswered cravings

oh
this wish
to own what cannot be owned

is there more to say
or less

Romance in the Hen House

When the hen fell in love with the vole
all hell broke loose
among the other ladies
and the roosters were none too happy

bickering with each other
giving the hen the evil eye
weren’t they the best of the roost
with their multi-colored feathers
and upright combs jagging on their heads?

One Plymouth Rock took the little hen –
red she was - aside and explained the 
dos and don’ts of love
but our lady did persist 
in snuggling with her friend, the vole
who loved her as well.

What difference did it make really?
She laid her eggs each morning,
did her part knowing eggs 
are exchanged for food and housing.
Her vole friend, found comfort beneath
her wings and the soft down of her breast

Why, how unworthy a thing you make of me! … you would seem to know my stops, you would pluck out the heart of my mystery… do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Hamlet

When you insisted emotions 
can be perfectly understood, 
predictably manipulated -
did you mean something like 
instructions in a washing machine manual: 
Select, Start, Cancel? 

Or would you allow, at least, for
a manual in a foreign tongue? 

To a Psychologist Friend

Maybe my toddler is neurodivergent, and maybe I am too?

When you flap your arms in excitement, I flap mine too. We’re hummingbirds, sucking sweet nectar from the butterfly bushes. When you stick foam up your nose, I pull it out with tweezers, discover a whole family of bears has moved in there, half-asleep in hibernation. When you run in circles, the dust rises, swirling into a tornado that sucks up the branches and leaves from our home’s starboard side. When you use mashed potatoes as lotion, your skin grows fuzzy wool. I pull you in to warm my legs like a fleece blanket. When you prefer to chew cardboard instead of chicken nuggets, I offer you some ketchup to dip it in. When you line your cars in a row to race, I ask you who will win. “Me and Mommy” you say, and I believe you.

dysthymia*

motionless in the blue chair

eyes open

to the sea outside

where I slept all night

like frayed rope

again I reject

the teapot’s delay

demand Alexa debate the news  

at 6AM

into slate gray sunlight

stare at ceaseless waves

blink

eyes blink  

try to remember

I am human

keep eyes and mouth

in the shower

lodged in my throat

my own small

to hell with it

like noisy seabirds

to look

for food

searching

for neurotransmitters 

for theme music  

on the beach

from the pulling tide

away

to run

freeing you

is waiting for answers

you know your brain

over an unbroken sea

words fly away

last night’s guilt

cowardice

question

hope and tears

open

slow drive

spoon Haagen Daas

question

solitude

nerves

again

* Persistent Depressive Disorder: DSM-V

FIRENZE

I have been instructed,

Dante style,

about the circling of a death?

Exiled

From the frilling of a life

by a people challenging the call of Paradise

against God’s hasty judgment.

The Ark is channeling through.

Only one Bridge of Sighs.  My sighs?

Or is it laughter suppressed?

My Petal

is it the planets in retrograde or am i right in this feeling unloved?

treated like a free ride

serving beers on a silver platter

that make me fall short on the rent he doesn’t pay

he calls me his petal, and i wonder if that makes it okay?

this refusal to meet my eye

too busy in his screens, tracing a football back and forth

and me waiting like a dog with a bone till it’s finished

till i can be part of his world again

for better or worse

sobriety is hard with the sound of beer cans fizzing open every hour

it makes me wince every time

but with it comes the hope of blurry-eyed i-love-you’s and sorrowful confessions

that yes, my feeling was right

but it’s not unloved so much as badly loved.

Go faq yourself

Q: Why are you always drunk?
A: Reason.

It’s a Risk to Write about Larks

Horned lark may be an ugly name,
but how not to smile at an exaltation,
chattering, a springful of larks?
They sing as they fly, nest on the ground 
early in February, the month my mother and I 
were born. Nomadic, they migrate with tree 
sparrows, snow buntings, dark-eyed juncos.
Philopatric, they always return 
to their birthplace. Is that what my mother
did before dying: listened for larks, an end joy?
My company, called Lark, gave me joy 
until an unhinged partner stole from us.
She was shaking and sweaty as I hugged 
her good-bye. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a lark.

The unreliable socio-visual performance and identity of a novelist

0

Let me write you a picture? After all, if a picture paints a thousand words, then this piece is pretty much two whole pictures. Nearly half a page of a graphic novel, if you make them big panels? Or two pages if it’s one picture per page?

1

My mother is French. My mum looks completely white living here in the UK. My mom’s skin goes nut-brown in the sun, though, since my mudda was olive-skinned originally, hailing from the Mediterranean south of France, you see, and causing our family in the UK to be called spikwopdaigofrogs, all as one word. I inherited me muvva’s skin (and big nose), so I look completely white in the UK, where either I hide from the sun or it hides from me… I’m never sure which. Besides, I don’t want anyone finding out I’m not as white as they are… sorry, as they might be. Maybe they’re all hiding from the sun, too, and actually olive-skinned, but just hiding it from everybody else.

2

Ma reckons that, in the future, what with globalisation, intermarrying and the planet getting sunnier and sunnier, we’ll all be some shade of bronze. One cannot be confident that one’s mater doesn’t mean nut-brown or spikwopdaigofrog when using the term bronze. Furthermore, it’s unclear whether the old lady considers us all being some shade of bronze to be a good or bad thing. I wonder whether it’ll be more desirable in the future to be very bronze, pale bronze or… I dunno… true bronze somewhere in the middle. Will people buy bronzer or whitening cream to change their colo(u)r? Nobody wants to look like they look, right?

3

My fantasy-wife doesn’t like me calling her ‘my wife’. She’s my fantasy-wife for the purposes of this piece of writing to let you know that a) she’s not ‘my wife’ b) she told me I wasn’t allowed to include her in this piece and c) this is a piece of fiction and ‘my wife’ doesn’t exist at all. My wife says I should avoid the possessive adjective and the gender-specific term altogether. ’Er-in-doors is also unacceptable. So, my missis is simply the partner. I feel that dehumanises her a bit (or a lot), which is a shame really, since she can quite often be quite human. Alright, sometimes, then.

4

My other half – I haven’t asked if such a term is offensive or demeaning… but it’s probably the latter, do you think? – says I should write more stories with a female lead. I’m wary of doing so, though, because I’m not sure I can represent the experience of being female within patriarchy authentically. I fear it would be misrepresentative, appropriative or exploitative, with a definite possibility of it being all of those at once. It would be man-splaining, naturally. The partner (see how ‘part’ suggests being within a greater whole, like with the term ‘other half’?) shakes their head impatiently when I provide this reason for not writing the sorts of stories she’d they’d prefer to see – she tells me I have a feminine side just like everybody else. But I’m not sure that’s true. Aren’t some people agendered, non-gendered or ungendered? So it would be disingenuous or unethical of me to allow myself any lead female characters?

5

That sort of ‘excuse’, as she calls it, drives her mad. That’s why there aren’t as many female lead characters as male being published in SFF and horror, she firmly states. Female writers can write those characters, I suggest with a shrug. She apoplectically protests that publishers take on male writers more than female writers. That used to be the case, but I haven’t got the latest stats to determine if it’s still the case. Besides, I suspect she’s just bitter she hasn’t been able to get her script made into a movie, while I’ve got a book deal.

6

The first draft of Empire of the Saviours, which I eventually published with Gollancz, contained a homosexual saint. My editor didn’t like that, as most of the saints in the book were baddies. I argued that the gay saint was a rounded character. I was told that, because there was no out-and-out positive gay character in the book, to provide ‘balance’, it simply wouldn’t wash – it was too risky. Fortunately, the editor had a solution: turn the homosexual saint into a female man-eater of a saint. I had to agree, since they wouldn’t have published the book otherwise. I’m still uncomfortable with what happened.

7

I saw a famous fantasy writer (name deliberately not included) being interviewed at some fantasy convention or other. He spoke about a second-world story or novel he’d written containing a positive black character. At first, he received critical acclaim for including such a character in a traditionally white literary genre. Then it was pointed out the author himself wasn’t black, and then he suffered a considerable backlash. The writer, in the same interview, said he’d learnt his lesson and that it was safer not to include any black characters in any of his work, just as I think it’s safer not to have a female lead. I wonder if I’d get away with including bronze characters, though.

8

When it suits me, I’m working class, thanks to the old man’s Irish heritage that saw penuried Daltons arrive in London – a century or two back, we guess, but they don’t keep very good records on the working classes that far back – with way too many kids in tow. So, to all appearances (and from my accentuated Cockney accent), I’m a white working-class male lecturing at Middlesex University! That makes me something of a social miracle, since the demographic least represented in UK universities is, you guessed it, the white working-class male. Whenever I point this out, though, people shrug or ignore me. They just see my gender and colour. I wonder how they’d behave if they knew I was actually nut-brown and had a feminine side.

9

Yes, I code-switch my image and words like a mofo. Well, how else would I survive? Of course, I get Impostor Syndrome as a result, so I’m the victim that way instead. No, I’m lying, messing wiv ya. I’ve never suffered from ANXIETY in my whole life. That’s a lie, too: but the only anxiety I suffer is that I don’t suffer from as much anxiety as everyone else. I should feel more, I suspect, but to do so would be cripplingly counterproductive, right? So it’s safer to switch off your feelings, bury them and be rationally transactional as much as you can, like Mr Spock. The worst thing you can ever do is talk about your feelings, as that brings them all up and out. So I’m gonna stop talking about them right now. And don’t listen to those crayzee Amerikhans who say it’s good to talk. It really isn’t.

10

Okay, so now you won’t believe that I don’t have feelings unless I want them – or when the partner demands I have some. Look, as a teacher, and cos of the friggindowestillhavetotalkaboutthepandemic, I’m expected to show empathy towards students and colleagues at all times – it’s actually a named competence in my job description against which my workplace performance is assessed. Fortunately, I have learnt how to perform empathy even if I don’t feel it – I can spot the social cues for when to perform, I know how to arrange my face and I know the sort of pitying murmurs I should make. Phew, right? And then our black Dean said to me: ‘Adam, if you ever dare try to empathise with me, as if you knew what it was like to be a black man, I’ll tell you to fook right off.’ I think he’s got a point. And he’s the Dean.

11

Apparently (I use that term because I don’t know if anything in this section is even vaguely true), the term empathy came into the English language via German in 1907. It was defined as a ‘sympathetic response to art’. What on Earth does that mean? I think it means the ability to respond sympathetically to an abstract or distant event, person or object. It is an evolved or enlightened (choose whichever term is least offensive to you) sensibility or emotional… skill?... capability or capacity?... response?... competence? Whatever it is, you’ll now find it as essential to most employment in today’s British organisations. Thanks, Germany! What do you lot even know about empathy, eh? Alright, alright. It’s cos I’m half-French, working class and ill-educated. It ain’t my bleedin fault. Flippin eck. I done my best, awright? What a ruddy two n eight. Jeez.

12

Oops. Me trouble n strife has been having a butcher’s over me noddy and insisted I get back to leading twists and twirls in me writing. Sigh. My first novel was the UK’s first new-wave zombie novel back in 2008. Yes, that was me. Sorry. Necromancer’s Gambit, weren’t it. Blimey, don’t buy it. It’s self-pubbed rubbish. Full of typos. Okay, me mam liked it, but that’s ’er job, init. Anyway, anyway, the book had a strong female character called Kate (not the lead character, no, but a main character all the same, named after the first twist I ever loved, when I was 5) who wore green leather armour and liked shooting villains (and the odd innocent person – cos she had a temper) with her crossbow. Was that a masturbatory description? – you can be the judge. Female fans loved the character and told me I could write good wimmin. Even so, drafting the second book, I had Kate use knives to pin an innocent man (blades through his hands and feet) to a table in front of his family. She was torturing him for answers, you see… but her judgement was off. Look, it was an easy mistake to make. There were mitigating factors. You had to be there. The point being: one of my male beta-readers threw an absolute hissy fit when he read it. ‘Kate wouldn’t do that! It’s not in her character [a character which I had created/made up, mind you, not him!]. No mother would. You have to change it.’ I showed the scene to me mammy and sister. ‘Would a woman do that?’ ‘Dunno,’ they shrugged together. ‘Seems fine.’ ‘You don’t know?’ I was befuddled. ‘But you’re women!’ ‘We aren’t all the same, you know.’ I didn’t know what to do. Did my male beta-reader know women better than the women I knew? Did he know Kate better than I did, even though I was her creator? In the end, I didn’t change the scene. About a year later, he apologised to me about it all quite randomly, saying he didn’t know what had come over him. The whole episode left me none-the-wiser but full of misgivings around writing female characters.

13

The sum-of-the-partner wrote an amazing script titled The Widow’s Arrangement. It’s a historical fiction about the founding of Australia by the British, although it wasn’t really us who founded it, but you know what I mean. A down-on-her-luck British widow responds to a newspaper ad in which a gentleman-farmer of the new colony is looking for a hardy and experienced woman to be his wife. She travels out to marry him, but falls pregnant to a naturalist during the voyage. Her prospective husband is hiding his illegal homosexuality from the world, and so the arrival of a ready-made family works all round… until it doesn’t anymore. It’s a fantastic story and my fantasy-partner is a far, far better writer than me. Needless to say, she’s never been able to get an agent or have it produced. Just goes to show, eh? Still, the thing that really exercises her is whether she’s ‘allowed’ to include a gay male (when she’s ‘only’ a bisexual/queer woman) and whether she can or should include an aboriginal character. Of late, the success of the female-written A Little Life, To Paradise and My Policeman means she’s allowed to write gay males, but the jury’s still out on the aboriginal question. When asked about it, a famous London editor gave a pained expression and confessed she didn’t know and had no advice beyond the use of sensitivity-readers. Other answers on a postcard, please. You know what a postcard is, yes? And a stamp? Or pen? They’re new technologies with which you might not be entirely familiar if you’re under the age of 30.

Converting

My father was the most loyal member of the Communist Party of China I’ve ever known in person. As a petty Party official, he was always ready to “serve the people” as taught by Chairman Mao. Every year, he would bring home at least one big certificate of merit for his political performance, but he never mentioned his achievements whenever we chanced to meet between his endless work trips; the only thing he kept saying to me was what I later recognized as the content of his oath of admission to the Party. So, he was a weird if not a mentally ill father. It’s not really that he sounded like a broken record, but that he lived as an unbelievably firm believer and passionate preacher of communism as defined in CPC’s constitution. Indeed, he seemed to have been born a true communist, and he would die as such. There’s no doubt about that.

However, shortly after his retirement, my mother began to complain that he intended to become a hundred percent Buddhist monk for the remaining days of his life. 

But what about his lifelong faith in communism? I asked her repeatedly over the phone. So very tired and afraid of his brainwashing effort, I had always avoided contacting him directly even before I left my homeland.  

Because the Party has changed essentially, though not in words, since Deng Xiaoping took power, because he’d have no more to do with it, my mother explained to me on his behalf. 

Why a monk? Can he just enjoy his retired life like all other normal dads? 

I got no satisfactory answer from my mother until I visited her about a year later. With my father staying in Great Compassion Temple in Songzi most of the time, she had all the leisure to recount how and why he eventually decided to remain a lay Buddhist; this way, he could live up to his lifelong title as an honorable “model” Party member. 

That’s a good compromise, I concluded. But how come he’s become such a determined follower of Buddhism?

As my mother sees it, my father was actually more a faithful Buddhist than a loyal Communist to begin with. There were numerous episodes pinpointing to his Bodhisattva heart. For instance, he would give every cent in his pocket to the homeless, donate every extra shirt in his wardrobe to the poor, and help every disabled person on the road. Once he walked seven miles simply to cross a river on a bridge because he had given all his money to a beggar without retaining two cents for the ferry boat. Another time, he fell down in a swoon from sheer hunger on a country path because he had given every mantou to a starving family. More deplorably, when I returned from Canada to my hometown for the first family reunion after immigration and gave him a handsome red envelop to show my filial love, he insisted on me sending it personally to a local charity. In his last years, he knelt down before a statue of Buddha and recited sutras for three consecutive hours every morning, just as he had bowed to Chairman Mao’s portrait nine times nonstop prior to breakfast during the Cultural Revolution. Most noteworthy was when his room was haunted by thousands of ants in a late spring, it never came cross his mind to kill them; instead, he kept giving them his best wishes until they all voluntarily left. Likewise, he would just let mosquitos suck his blood rather than drive them away, and miraculously, he turned out to be the only person in the whole neighborhood who got no more bites in summer. 

So, he converted to Buddhism as a result of such testimonial experiences? I wondered aloud. 

Not only that! 

Then, my mother recalled how the seed of Buddhism was deeply planted in the depth of his soul as a thirteen-year-old orphan. It was a burning summer afternoon in 1949, several months before the Communists were to take over the entire country. While wandering in the wildness, my father began to have a high fever. Unable to bear the sizzling weather in addition to his internal heat, he went to a pond nearby, where he dug up some cool alluvium with his hands, covered his body with it and lay down on a small ridge. He would have soaked his whole body in the pond like a buffalo, but the water felt simply too hot; besides, he was afraid to get drowned, for he had never learned how to swim, even like a dog. After several wrappings, his body temperature dropped quite a bit, but he was still too weak to stand up, as he hadn’t eaten any food for the past two days. He was dying for a big bowl of rice from a mother-like landlady when a passer-by in a long orange robe spotted him far away and came over. Knowing his situation, the travelling monk gave my father five silver coins, all the money he had for his long journey to Guiyuan Temple, the famous Buddhist monastery in Wuhan. With the monk’s money as well as his help, my father got back to his normal life as a waif. And it’s since that casual encounter that he had cultivated a profound bond with Buddha. To practice gratitude, he not only had a great monk growing in his own heart and lived all his life as a lay believer, but kept trying to convert me into Buddhism.

But alas, with my stubborn faith in freedom, I have never yielded to his effort. Or maybe I should? 

Anyway, while video-chatting with me on his anniversary day last week, my mother announced that she had newly made up her mind to follow his steps. How about you? she asked. 

Well, like him, I only eat vegetables now.  

So, you want to become a lay believer too? Like father, like son, eh?

Yes and no, Mom.

Pamela Hobart Carter

OCEAN TASTES

Like sorrow.

Like dreams, like 
wet coldness. 

Lush prospects 
present to us when 
we name food—
sour lemon drops, 
briny chowders,
delicacies of madeleines—
flavors of the world 
on paper crockery. 

Is it possible 
to taste ocean 
five miles 
from the shore?

Apophatic

If the answer is
Nothing
(which it is)
does it matter
what the question is?

Voices

Jim

‘The boys next door you played with
in the shed full of rotten apples
or the treehouse in the oak
you reached on rungs of cut-nails
so high above my sickbed—
why did you make them snicker
every time you named me,
near death, as ‘Fat Baboon’?’

Tom

‘I sat in the ward bemused
(one day you will know the feeling)
no longer whistling Danny Boy
too out of tune to please you.
Why did I think you would come?
Your thoughts were with the young
you would feed on golden apples.
You came when my soul had flown.’

Marjorie

‘Why, the last night of my life,
did you heave up this word, that word
like coals that failed to warm me?
I said, “I am useless.” You,
“Not at all. I must go.”
“Not yet . . .” “Look back and think
of your many pleasant years.” And you
with that last effort left me.’

Laura

‘Why when far too late
did you hurry to try to quench
my Nasty and Horrid thoughts,
when you took no care to save me
from the sly King of Lies
before it was too late? 
Were you worthy of the strange
life I stole from you?’

Milutin, Seán

‘How could you misconstrue
my last call to you?’
‘I lay dead on the track.
You would not leave the train.’
I am coming, my six dears.
In the shadow land I will
right your wrongs. I will
explain, explain, explain. 

sleeping with the fishes: a survey

  1. What is it like to be born with a fishbowl head?

  2. Did it make your mother bleed as you were born?

  3. What did you see through the glass as you

  4. walked down the street?

  5. How did you choose your outfit with a fishbowl head?

  6. Did you break the glass or did someone break the glass for you?

  7. Why did you need to break the glass?

  8. How was the glass broken?

  9. What do you see without the glass as you
    walk down the street?

  10. Do you wear ever wear glasses to simulate
    the fishbowl head now? Why, and why not?

  11. Why is it important that you notice people
    with fishbowl heads now, you without one?

  12. How has your life changed since you broke the glass?

Q& no A

what’s gotten into you?

Is it 
a. alcohol on the dirt?
Is it 
b. spiritual Neosporin?
Is it 
c. covering up the Band-Aid pile?
Is it 
d. itching till it’s over? till it’s red?
Is it 
e. too much coffee and no water?
Is it 
f. a bad fuck?
Is it 
g. a child you’ve forgotten to pick up from school?

what’s going to help you?

How about
a. emptying the dishwasher?
How about
b. looking briefly at mending your pant seams?
How about
c. contacting your ex-husband in Australia?
How about
d. glowering around in the dark?
How about
e. being anyone else but yourself?
How about
f. reading all the welding manuals?
How about
g. throwing el diablo out of the tarot deck for real this time?

where have you been?

tense switch

In the shrine
          pre ego-mine
mindshell
pearl hatches Up—

Such a satisfying drink
discovered in skullcup!

Egoless deity : always has
no is
     watching
     unseen/beholdingly.

What caused you to
         switch the tense?

The actuality.

unfinished poem

Sideless EdenVine fruition focus
narrows to—
pinpoint recognition
necktop aglow
             now in [you].

Oh—
why did I ever crave
words, thoughts & imagery?

A common plague (#11) in humanity.

Ever to be exodusted?

Where would you be

if the earth were flat and you could
live near the edge or right in the center?
Rich residents surely live in the hub,
partying all night with people from
other parts till morning, when they go
inside their capitols to make laws for 
all the citizens in the middle, and at 
the outer edges. Residents near the edges 
are the poor, some always drifting off 
going around the bend as earth goes around, 
and some skidding, skipping across properties 
like a phonograph needle into the hub, 
getting the police after them—that’s where
I’d be—unless all roads have fences or walls 
so that the earth is one helluva whopping 
labyrinth with stores at each dead end 
so you don’t feel bad about making a 
wrong turn, and local parties at each end, 
which aren’t near the edge, but safe in 
the middle. The outer edge of our platter 
has skating rinks for thrills to replace sky diving,
bank robbing, rock climbing, as a few fall off 
into space daily and land on the moon or 
Mars, which are also flat and have landing fields 
of lavender cotton candy. Right? 

Questions for My Student, Questions for Myself

What does the rain smell like? How does the rain taste? How does the rain sound? How does the rain feel? How does the rain look when it falls on the ground? These are the questions I had for my student A. but I wasn’t explicit enough in the asking. If there is a gap in the question, if it is a fragment, or fully formed, she quickly fills the pause with one of her never-ending, convoluted stories involving family dynamics and pranks played, hard to determine whether mean spirited or with lighthearted humor. Sweetheart, I find myself shushing her in class. She is the only one I call sweetheart, or any other term of endearment. She is a naughty, high-spirited, sassy six-year-old child trapped in an 18-year-old body—and she has carved her initials into my heart. 

contributors

Alex Barr’s recent poetry is in Poetry Review, The MacGuffin, Scintilla, The Dark Horse, Orbis, Last Stanza Poetry Journal and Silver Birch Press and Quagmire Magazine. His poetry collections are Letting in the Carnival from Peterloo, Henry’s Bridge from Starborn, and Bedding Plants For My Father from Cerasus. He is co-author of Orchards, a verse translation of Rilke’s French poetry sequence Vergers published by Starborn. He lives in West Wales, where he organises poetry workshops and readings.

Joanna Hope Bricher studied at Dartington College of Arts and is now based in the North of England. She lives with chronic illness and loves trees and herons. You can see some of her linocut and letterpress printing at pennybloodpress.wordpress.com.

Yuan Changming grew up in an isolated village, began to learn the English alphabet at age 19, and published monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan at poetrypacific.blogspot.ca. Credits include 12 Pushcart nominations & 15 poetry collections (most recently SINOSAUR) . Besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline & Poetry Daily, among nearly 1,989 others, across 49 countries, Yuan was nominated, and served on the jury, for Canada’s National Magazine Award (poetry category). In early 2022, Yuan began to write and publish fiction.

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah is a graduate of English and Law living in the United Kingdom with his family. His poems have appeared and will soon appear in North Dakota Quarterly, Compass Rose Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart International Literary Magazine, The Pierian, The Poet Magazine, Boomer Literary Magazine, the Journal of Undiscovered Poets, etc. He is a winner of the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest 2022.

AJ Dalton (the ‘A’ is for Adam) is a prize-winning author of science fiction and fantasy. He has published thirteen books to date, including The Book of the Dead and a range of other titles with Kristell Ink, the Empire of the Saviours trilogy with Gollancz, I am a Small God with Admanga Publishing, and The Satanic in Science Fictionand Fantasy with Luna Press Publishing. His website is www.ajdalton.eu, where there is much to entertain fans of SFF. He also runs Creative Writing HQ (www.creativewritinghq.com) on behalf of Middlesex University London. He is to be found hanging out with his cat Cleopatra in London, init.

Robin Dellabough is a poet and editor with a master’s degree in journalism from UC Berkeley. Her first collection, Double Helix, was published in 2022. Published poems in Blue Unicorn, Fifth Estate, Maryland Poetry Review, Negative Capability, Stoneboat, Tiny Spoon, and more. She has studied with Alex Dimitrov and Kathleen Ossip at the Hudson Valley Writers Center. She is currently the Projects Director for Publishers Marketplace/Publishers Lunch.

Roy Duffield's writing, which deals heavily with social injustice and youth rights, has been nominated for the Best of the Net (2023), shortlisted for the Book Edit Writers’ Prize (2022), won the Robert Allen Micropoem Contest (2021) and appears in the likes of The Nashville Review, Osmosis, Versification, Into the Void, streetcake and The London Reader. Roy also helps edit Anti-Heroin Chic—a journal that puts those on the outside inside. Feel free to reach out to him on Twitter (@drinktraveller) or Instagram (@drinking_traveller).

Ken Goodman mates ecstatic meditation & poetry creation in Cleveland, Ohio.

After she earned two degrees in geology, Pamela Hobart Carter became a teacher. She wrote on the side. Now she writes full-time and teaches on the side. Her plays have been read or produced in Seattle (her home), Montreal (her childhood home), and Fort Worth. Carter has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net and won her high school essay contest (a million years ago). During Covid, she added poetry lessons for children to her site: playwrightpam.wordpress.com Her poetry chapbooks: Her Imaginary Museum, Held Together with Tape and Glue, and the forthcoming, Only Connect.

Nikita Jain dreams to be a superstar star writer writing lyrics and scripts for Hollywood movies. A full time cloud engineer and IT professional expresses her ideas, feelings and experience through one-liners, poems, short stories, novels and full feature-length scripts. She has been writing since more than 10 years and has authored Room no 27, Do my flute please you?, Unmistakably Untitled, To DP, from Nikky and Laadli. You can find her books on Amazon, kindle, Lulu and Flipkart. Her stories has been published in various magazines. She is also a mirakee writer, miraquill.com/maoahi

Bethany Jarmul is a writer, editor, and poet. Her work has appeared in numerous literary magazines and been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Spiritual Literature. She earned first place in Women On Writing's Q2 2022 essay contest. Bethany enjoys chai lattes, nature walks, and memoirs. She lives near Pittsburgh with her family. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on Twitter: @BethanyJarmul.

Ruth Traubner Kessler is a two-time immigrant whose work focuses on place, displacement and memory. Her publications include the chapbook Fire Ashes Wings, and some 80 poems in journals and anthologies. Her poems have been set to music and made into an artist book. Awards include NYSCA grants, and Yaddo, MacDowell and VCCA fellowships. She lives in NYC. www.RuthKessler.com

Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: 'Lying Down With The Dead' and 'There Is A Beauty In Broken Things'. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Craig Matsu-Pissot (he/him) For 20 years, Craig taught Buddhist Psychology and Therapeutic Applications of Mindfulness Meditation in undergraduate and graduate courses and offered a variety of mindfulness based sittings and retreats in hospital, academic, and monastic settings. As a psychologist and spiritual care counselor, he has worked in HIV/AIDS, Hospice, and Mental Health and Addictions as well as having a private practice. He is retired and lives quite happily in Nanaimo, British Columbia, Canada with his wife. Instagram account: craigmp

Georgia May is a Portsmouth-based writer with a handful of micro-poetry publications. Her work (primarily scripts and experimental short films) has been Officially Selected by over a dozen film festivals around the globe, as well as being a part-time film journalist for various online platforms.

Catherine McKie is a nonprofit professional and poet with work published in Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry, Superstition Review, Thimble Literary Magazine and others. A Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, Catherine is currently working on her first manuscript, an excavation of mental illness in pop culture, her family and herself.

Robin Michel lives in San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Aji Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, The Lindenwood Review, The MacGuffin, Northampton Poetry Review, Ruminate, Sand Hills, Sisyphus, Stone Crop, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, and elsewhere. She is editor of How to Begin: Poems, Prompts, Tips and Writing Exercises from the Fresh Ink Poetry Collective (Raven & Wren Press, 2020).

Between 2018 and 2020, Diana Morley published the poetry books Spreading Like Water and Splashing. She won first prize in the 2019 Oregon Poetry Assn. contest, and her poems have been published online and in journals. In 2021, she published Oregon’s Almeda Fire, a photographic documentary with poetry, as a gift to the community. Ms. Morley now lives in Weaverville, North Carolina, where she continues to write daily.

Eve Rifkah was co-founder of Poetry Oasis, Inc. (1998-2012), a non-profit poetry association dedicated to education and promoting local poets. Founder, and editor DINER, a literary magazine. She is the 2021 recipient of the Stanley Kunitz award. She has five books published. A play, Outcasts the Lepers of Penikese Island, based on her first book, was performed at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, NY. She lives in Worcester, MA. www.eve-rifkah.com

David Ruekberg (MFA, Warren Wilson) is a poet, teacher, and climate activist in Rochester, NY. Poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Borderlands, Cimarron Review, Lake Effect, and elsewhere. His books include Where Is the River Called Pishon? (Kelsay Books, 2018) and Hour of the Green Light (FutureCycle Press, 2021). poetry.ruekberg.com.

Aaron Sandberg has appeared or is forthcoming in Asimov’s, No Contact, Alien Magazine, The Shore, The Offing, Sporklet, Right Hand Pointing, Halfway Down the Stairs, Crow & Cross Keys, Burningword Journal, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, you can see him—and his poetry posts—on Instagram @aarondsandberg.

Gerard Sarnat (he/they) MD’s won San Francisco Poetry’s Contest, Poetry in Arts First Place Award/Dorfman Prizes. Nominated for Pushcarts/Best of Net Awards, Gerry’s published in Hong Kong Review, Tokyo Journal, Buddhist Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, Arkansas Review, Hamilton-Stone Review, New Haven Institute, Texas Review, Vonnegut Journal, Brooklyn Review, SF Magazine, LA Review, NY Times plus by Harvard, Stanford, Dartmouth, Penn, Chicago, Columbia presses. He’s authored collections Homeless Chronicles, Disputes, 17s, Melting Ice King. Stanford professor/healthcare CEO, Gerry’s built/staffed clinics for the marginalized, devoted energy/resources toward climate justice on Climate-Action-Now’s board. Married since 1969, Gerry’s nine grand/kids. gerardsarnat.com

Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women's Studies and Professor of Humanities at the University of Delaware. She still finds it hard to reconcile the academic world with her working-class childhood in Queens, New York. Many of her poems reflect this class-based tension and disjunction, along with issues such as domestic violence and sexual abuse. Recently, her poetry has appeared in A Plate of Pandemic, C*nsorship Magazine, Kerning, Mono, Review Americana, Rushing Thru the Dark, West Trestle Review, Existere, Azure, Literary Cocktail Magazine, and other journals, as well as in the Washington Post.

Lesley Warren lives for language. Born in the UK to Welsh and Filipino parents and now working as a translator in Germany, her works encompass themes of identity and “otherness”. Her poetry and prose have been published in the anthologies of the Frankfurt Creative Writing Group, the ABCTales magazine and in online magazine Tales from the Moonlit Path.

Christopher Willard is the recipient of both Alberta Foundation for the Arts and Canada Council Grants for a practice that includes creative writing and post-studio art. Published work includes the novel Sundre.

Kristin Camitta Zimet is the author of Take in My Arms the Dark, a full length collection of poems. Her work is in a great many journals, including Natural Bridge, Rivet, and Poet Lore. She is also a surreal fine art photographer and a Virginia Master Naturalist.

  BlueHouse Journal is an entirely volunteer run journal founded and edited by Meredith Grace Thompson.

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