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Yes, Poetry

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Yes, PoetryVol. 3, Issue 5: May 2012

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facebook.com/yespoetryeditor@yespoetry.com

Editor-in-ChiefJoanna C. Valente

Assistant EditorStephanie Valente

Managing EditorG. Taylor Davis, Jr.

Cover Image:G. Taylor Davis, Jr.

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Contents

4 Gregory Gunn6 Madelyne Cummings7 Danny Earl Simmons8 Barbara Sue Mink Spalding9 Jonathan Neidorf10 Sarah Gamutan11 Mike Wheeler12 Mark Schaefer13 Zev Torres14 Megan Kellerman15 Lara Dolphin16 Anna Meister18 Contributor's Notes20 Editor Biographies21 Submission Guidelines

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GREGORY GUNN

Envoi

Molten blades of grass, as ruffled as magma. Haze respiring over a dawn’s stream. Crack this wide open from any place you wish. The earth volcanic, aflame, oily methyl orange, flowing down slopes, substantial matter occurs at your throat’s back. Or the gossamer murmurof early morning emanating from the shoreline,spectral & explicit. I left. I returned.

The trees like spokes. The forest verdant.You will never encroach here. Move damp boughs back, the web-work of ivy mappingout diagrams on your footwear. Sole survivorswith other soul’s diction. At least there’s something in which to have a belief system.Continue, envision this is me, I shall then visualize you.

Escaping the Expanding Universe

Solar systems swirl within the blood,gyrate aloft galaxies from the larynx. Gravitational fields devoid and I un-burden my conscience of all matters.Here in this space, the celestial seautterly devastated, charred alongthe cosmic outskirts, flush, as repousséas Braille. I respond to the swing & spin

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stimuli, the lie of constancy, the tinglingof fleetingness on my skin. This collectiveis what I dread eternally. The rearwardglimpse through a sealed portal. Shaftsof cloudy luminance. The ethereal bluehelm of Earth revolving, quite satisfiedand somewhere else, sans myself.

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MADELYNE CUMMINGS

Look

The roots tip slightly, pitching tents, allowing us entry, while the moon looks on and for a way out,scrambling its vision.

You lift the hem of my skirt, behind the small restaurant. And tell me the tires are just time and eyes are just a way to see things.

I tell you about the man in the window above us. I say, look: he's sick of the chicken, the smell of coffee. And his eyes won't stop watering.

His fingernails bleed. He bites them. Roles up his sleeves. Looks at the moon.

He continues to talk, washes his hand. Undoes his top button.

I roll out of the dirt. Find the fence in the dark and cut myself cleanly, open, and I can't see the blood. You don't find me, and I can still hear the man talking. He's talking about his fingers. Can you hear him?

I find the keys next to the line on the road. And I open the back door of the car on the tires made of time. I lie down in your blanket.

I smile at the ceiling. I laugh at my eyes. You knock on the window and tell me it's time. And I undo the latch and let you inside.

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DANNY EARL SIMMONS

Bitter Pills

Sometimes,you just gottascrape the tipof your tongueagainst the sharp edgeof your bottom teeth,work up the spit,and swallow hard.

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BARBARA SUE MINK SPALDING

Idaho State Fair—1964

Sun and sickness thereAt the bleachers, with sawdust.Mother was too late.

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JONATHAN NEIDORF

Bananas

Instead, Eveand Adam, wouldsinlook more likesexif you fellwith an unfamiliar fruit?Not a real berry,An aisled clone,Earthy unyellowskin dropped at thesnake's feet?The sex,

The abacusof its campesinos'sons and daughters, in theCommon Era,exodusfrom genesis,from the churchand intoa massacre?A solemn boastof four to twothousand violent ghosts?

Suggestive andnon-Midwestern,would you contemplatea dildo of a fruit(because, detached from man,it fucked a lot of people)?

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SARAH GAMUTAN

Catalyst

You will come out beheaded, flat burned.Your eyes will tolerate its awfulness. Nexttime, I know, you will be there to betray me.The eyes deeply uncleaned will run out of'blood. It will not be anymore impeccablyflawless. Your eyes will not be, anymore,the key to your soul. They are pretentious.They are seeking something else—its lust.

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MIKE WHEELER

Equinox

Violence is a many-colored Band-AidWhen we discover witch caves, pissOn electrical boxes, stuff winter leavesOn a crabapple heap, run streams, slur

Perverse codes into walkie-talkiesAs we spy, parent’s lips gone blue With film, the neighbor off, on cue,With her paper gown; a first feat

Marbled there into our blood. And it’s forgotten, how to bruise,When the first love crushes Gravel, jumps our bones, the walls

Peeling raw with farm cartoons,Valleys ripped open in the electric Heat only she can tolerateAs she drives her truck into the woods—

Defenseless as you are, in need Of a fist alignment with bark—Just to brag about how good it felt To go.

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MARK SCHAEFER

At the End

They all die at the end of this one,but their happiness bleed out beforetheir wounds do. Do you think they’ll meet Godat the edge of the universe? Orwill they get lost in all of the fogon the way there? Strapped with one gunand a couple packs of cigarettes,no one is going to get too far.The boys in the back joke and take betson who’ll get worse than another scar.What else can you do when the world’s gone,except bet on the next death? Nothing.You can strive all you want; it’s useless.We all die at the end of this one.

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ZEV TORRES

Bright Nights

Bend me backwards

Arrive unrepentant

With a clear conscience

Dissolve me on your tongue

But do not swallow

Until the last traces of pink

Are absorbed by the brazen sky.

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MEGAN KELLERMAN

Loop

You wanted something romantic, right?How about caked mud crumblingfrom the chest of a lover whocouldn't possibly come back, but here he is,hair curling over his ears, all apologiesfor his death and your deathand the sad, furious nights youspent under the covers all alonewith only cold sweat to cradle you.His voice booms new life over you,avalanche from the mountains.You want this.You want this.You want this.

Mantra

I am a face staring outof a wide, wide holethat used to be filledwith someone else's rainand fear and god-loathing.

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LARA DOLPHIN

Boiling Water for Oolong Tea

shrimp eyes crab then fishopalescent rope of pearlssteamy bubbles streaming

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ANNA MEISTER

Ripe & Wanting

find yourself in a dirty basement, humming like a subway station, full of that piss sweet smell & stick of beer to the concrete floor, the floor to your boots,

dribbling down your dress front. all around, the empty sound of plastic cups flipping over & falling to the ground, sloppy. everyone shouts & bangs

their calloused hands on the wooden table. in the corners, riotous laughter, bodies folding over feet. & then he comes up behind you, whispers hot sweat

in your ear, something about your ass, & your cheeks already flushed from chugging too much bloom redder still as the liquid sits & sloshes

in your belly like sopping Winter rain. rain that catches the two of you moments later, spits you wet over a split cigarette. rain that makes you

peel away clothing like fruit, sticking to your bodies like the beer to the floor & you to the floor. & you both understand what is happening, a pile of clothes

soaked through by the dresser & no last names, but then the surprising softness of his skin – like almond butter – jars you all too awake. & you suddenly notice

your sinking sway and liquor limbs, wish you could wring your tongue dry for you are certain he can taste you ripe & wanting, near rot.

Upon Waking

i open my eyes and your house is already in the middle of one of its stories.

(the harmony of a dog’s steps and collar like rolling marbles, the gentle steam of the espresso machine a floor below, the way your staircase just breathes).

in your room, the sun is loud and uninvited, spreading a thin layer of bright over our bodies like chocolate on a marble slab.

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i’m hot are today’s first words, spilled in the slightest exasperation. to illustrate, i toss off a blanket, that itchy woolen thing.

yes is your small reply, your voice a basement buzz.

one beat, then you pull me into you, sharp, and our hipbones clatter like breakfast pans.

i bury myself in the corner of your neck and breathe in.

soap. wood. flannel’s memory. syrup?

every part of you is morning.

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Contributor's Notes

Madelyne Cummings is a communications student living an hour south of Sydney. She writes poetry, short fiction, and is a radio story contributor for the Sydney based show 'All the Best' on FBi 94.5. She's currently working on an upcoming radio story, studying intermittently (i.e. when she can be bothered), whilst also saving fervently for a year long exchange in Asheville, North Carolina. She can usually be found on the train.

Lara Dolphin is a writer and poet. Her work has appeared in print and online in such publications as Fogged Clarity, Orbis, The Foliate Oak Literary Journal, and Calliope.

Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc. , The Beat, Red Fez, Haggard and Halloo Publications, Black- Listed Magazine, The Legendary, Voxpoetica and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.

Born in Windsor, Ontario in 1960, Gregory Wm. Gunn grew up in a few small towns throughout the province until finally settling in London. A graduate of Fanshawe College as an Electronics Technician in 1980, Mr. Gunn began writing seriously during his academic tenure there. Since then, he has written six full poetry collective works.

Megan Kellerman graduated from Fairleigh Dickinson’s undergraduate Creative Writing program in May 2011. Her work has appeared in Catfish Creek, and is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal. She received the Andonis Decavalles Poetry Scholarship twice, as well as an MFA Award for Excellence in her major at FDU.

Anna Meister attends Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts where she studies growing up, pop culture, and words (and how they all fit together). Some of her favorite things are mangoes, patterns in flight, double exposures, and knees. She remembers everything.

Jonathan Neidorf is originally from the Chicago suburbs. He is currently studying English and sociology at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. This is his first publication of a poem.

Mark Schaefer is currently a graduate student at SUNY New Paltz. He spends his free time with his fiancee, writing, and watching too much TV.

Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and an active member of the Albany Civic Theater. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various journals such as Avatar Review, Summerset Review, The Monarch Review, The Smoking Poet, Boston Literary Magazine,

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Gold Man Review, Burning Word, Pale Horse Review, Toe Good Poetry, and Pirene’s Fountain.

Barbara Sue Mink Spalding lives in Orange County, California. She write op-eds, poetry, and short stories. She is a member of the Sons of Italy, Hollywood Lodge, and attends a variety of OC Churches (Blessed Sacrament Catholic Church, Beach Ward-LDS Church, Grace Lutheran, HB, CA, Adat Israel Lubavitcher Synagogue) as do many people in the Orange County area. She is a member of NAMI and contributes to the October 22 Coalition.

Zev Torres is known for his electrifying spoken word performances and for hosting the Skewered Syntax Poetry & Pub Crawls, as well as the annual Make Music New York Spoken Word Extravaganza. Zev has self-published three chapbooks, Revision (2010), In Celebration of Hope and Change (2009) and Percussion Suite. Zev's poem, “A Writer's Bio,” will appear this March in Maintenant 6. His poetry has also appeared in the Brownstone Poets 2010 and 2011 Anthologies, Nomad's Choir Quarterly, and online in the First Literary Review and The Shoutout at Otto's.

Mike Wheeler is a Vermont-raised writer and musician. He studied English and Spanish at the University of Vermont, and is a Master’s candidate at Middlebury’s Bread Loaf School of English. He plays in Gold Town, an old time and bluegrass band, and works as a freelance writer. He currently resides in Montreal, Quebec, and can be found online at micwheeler.tumblr.com and @micwheeler.

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Editor Biographies

Joanna C. Valente is a MFA candidate in poetry writing at Sarah Lawrence College. She is also a part-time mermaid. More can be found at her website: http://joannavalente.com

Stephanie Valente lives and writes in New York. Her work has appeared in Italics Mine and other journals. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and as always, poetry. She enjoys candlelit smiles and diamond cut laughter. One day, she would like to become a silent film star. Her favorite desserts are crème brûlée and strawberry-rhubarb pie. She can be found at: kitschy.tumblr.com.

G. Taylor Davis, Jr is from the Milky Way.

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Submission Guidelines

-Please send all submissions to editor@yespoetry.com. -We consider previously unpublished work, although simultaneous submissions are acceptable. Copyrights revert back to writer upon publication. -Submissions are on a rolling basis, so we ask you not to submit more than once per month. -Don't forget to include a third-person author biography with your work. We also encourage you to link us to your website or blog.

Poetry: Submit up to seven poems. In the subject line of the email, please write “Your Name_Poetry Submission.” Either copy and paste your work into the body of the email, or attach as a .doc file. We welcome all types of poetry.

Photography: Only submit original work; it can be a stand-alone piece or part of an entire collection. Submit up to five photos with an artist's statement. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Photography Submission.”

Music: Please send mp3 or mp4 files only. In the subject line of the email, write “Your Name_Music Submission.”

Other: If you are submitting a review or interview, please send in a .doc file. It must not exceed 2,000 words. Email us with the subject line “Your Name_Other Submission.”

If you would like to be involved or have any other questions, please direct all emails to editor@yespoetry.com.

Yes, Poetry