ISSUE 26 - DECEMBER 2022



Anna Mendelssohn: “men act as if they own the poetic mind”

William S. Burroughs: “Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer.”

Robert Mezey: “There are poems about the terror of death, and they are very grim. Such a poem offers no consolation other than itself. Good poems exist as forms of consolation beyond the subjects they explore. Even if a poem asserts that nothing can help assuage the suffering caused by death, the poem itself may help the reader face that suffering. It’s odd how that happens. This is one of the most magical aspects of art.”

Frederick Turner: “I do think the process of saving the world must have poetry at its center. The thing about a true poet is that despite all his or her flaws s/he carries this huge prophetic truth-telling gift that must be given to the world at any cost. The gift is to again and again struggle to create a language that can contain all human meanings. Only with such a language can people work together.” 























ISSUE 26 - DECEMBER 2022 - CONTENTS


POETRYART
JUDITH TEIXEIRA TR. SAMANTHA PIOUS
As the Sun dies; More Kisses; Twilight

LAUREN GARGARELLA
Night

TORI MCCANDLESS
Sonnet

GUIYING (ANGEL) ZHONG
Where the Art Is

JOY LADIN
Sitting in Wordsworth's Garden

ANN TWEEDY
Riverscape

DIANE SILVER
Me, Defined

IRINA TALL
Those who turned into birds (2022)

IRINA TALL
freedom in our hearts (2022)

IRINA TALL
My reflection (2022)

IRINA TALL
Fly! (2022)

IRINA TALL
A maiden who gained wings (2022)

IRINA TALL
Bird (2022)

MIKKI ANTONIO
Lawn Search (2020)



Judith Teixeira translated by Samantha Pious

As the Sun dies

against the red horizon line, the mountain,
a sleeping giant, utterly inert,
has the vague, drowsy air of someone who
has slept a thousand years upon this earth

the trees, their naked branches opening
out toward the blue, already cold and dim—
their blackened, rotting trunks bowed down in prayer
toward the exiled Sun declining at the rim

far off, the ravens, fond of telling tales,
have gone to spread the news through hills and vales
of giants turned by magic into stone

the wind, bewildered, shrieking over the plain,
sobs through the mountains, echoing the pain
of those who wander through this life alone


October 1922.

“Quando o Sol morre,” in Castelo de Sombras, 1923.





link to video 




More Kisses

slow
another kiss another still
your gaze, mysterious and mild,
came to blow
the tropical storm
that drives my thoughts so wild

another kiss
let me, maddened, set alight
your lips
and dominate your life

yes, love
let this brief moment
be prolonged
that my desire, as it rises,
may take red flight
and lead us on


May 1925.

“Mais Beijos,” in Nua: Poemas de Bizâncio, 1926.




Twilight

night comes on, above the mountain range
now is the hour of the vanquished and the scarred
far away, a grove of swaying trees
takes on new aspects, twisted and bizarre

in funeral litanies, as though in prayer,
down from the mountains, shadowy and stark,
come ominous birds, wings beating in the air,
above the couples sleeping in the dark

hour when the most vicious curses rise
when churchbells, far away, are imprecise
voices of anguish and of misery

hour of neurasthenia, of despond
hour when I know that you live on,
in this nostalgia for a greater agony


Fall 1922.

“Crepúsculo,” in Castelo de Sombras, 1923.





Judith Teixeira (1880–1959), who wrote in Portuguese, was perhaps the only bisexual women poet to participate openly in Lisbon’s modernist literary scene. Her civil status—born to a single mother in the provincial city of Viseu, divorced at age thirty-three by her first husband, and remarried the following year to the grandson of a viscount—had already made her the subject of scandal. But still more scandalous was the sexually transgressive writing she published under her own name only a few years before the rise of the Salazar dictatorship.

Samantha Pious is a translator, poet, editor, and medievalist with a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Pennsylvania. Her verse translations of Renée Vivien are available as A Crown of Violets (Headmistress Press, 2017); her translation of Christine de Pizan’s One Hundred Ballades of a Lover and His Lady is forthcoming. 

Irina Tall, Those who turned into birds


Irina Tall Those who turned into birds (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Lauren Gargarella

Night

As the day moves from selfhood into night
breathing warm breaths full and fiery

I ask you how a movement into calm
can rage so fitful, frank and boding

“Radical self care” you say with a smile,
white teeth yellowed by the sun’s orange hues

You launch into how nature supports itself
because it holds no obligations

Except those which are inevitable

I lean my head into your shoulder
You wrap your arm around me

We move into the dark






link to video 



Lauren Gargarella is a writer based in Oakland, California. Their poems have previously appeared in Genau Press. Instagram  Twitter




Irina Tall, freedom in our hearts


Irina Tall freedom in our hearts (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Tori McCandless

Sonnet

To write a bed in the rain of quiet
Then wake to its words that I can’t take off
Is to wonder if absence hums neon
A whisper amplified as night turns on

If I bridle the hum that vibrates steel
If I bring the hard black lime back to ripe
If I brew the reference that was wrenched
Loose, will the developing film leak light?

Time unwound from cardinal directions
Streets unmoored from cobblestones and asphalt
The you of this poem become you, too
And unsung softness starts to ossify

Because my salted body was never
Virtuous, only opening its mouth.





Tori McCandless is a teacher, writer, and PhD Candidate in the Department of English at the University of California, Davis. They are currently at work on a dissertation about ecological catastrophe, sound, and labor in Modernist poetry. Their writing can be found in ASAP/Journal, Edge Effects, and Beaver Magazine. Twitter.

Irina Tall, My reflection


Irina Tall My reflection (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Guiying (Angel) Zhong

Where the Art Is

You can find me in the body you seek to hate.
Perched on a windowsill, pressed up against
alluvial glass. The sky is never as sublime
or wretched as it is here. The air: always a stutter,
a question. I think this house is a bit of a Romantic.
Even the walls try to embrace themselves.
You can find me tucked into an accordion, an
emergency room. The body always analogous
to what’s outside of it: the way we build new homes
to no avail. A song, a symphony, a question.
Art and life: a question. Some women paint
exclusively with their blood and wasn’t that
always meant to be?






Guiying (Angel) Zhong (she/they) is a senior at the University of the Pacific studying psychology and English with minors in writing and ethnic studies. She is an Anaphora Arts Residency alumna. Her work has been published in Calliope, Kelp Magazine, and She Makes Words. She has won the University of the Pacific’s Seamus Heaney Prize for their poetry, as well as the First Runner-Up Arlen Hansen Scholarship for their critical and creative writing. They have also served as the Co-Editor-in-Chief for the University of the Pacific’s student literary and arts magazine, Calliope.

Irina Tall, Fly!


Irina Tall Fly! (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Joy Ladin

Sitting in Wordsworth's Garden

                     Summer 2018

where you sat
iambicizing childhood, revolution, and the Terror,
I inhale the scent

of virtues you knew 
would bloom
even when forgotten by the future  

sitting in your garden
in a sweat-stained sleeveless dress
trying to come up with something to say —
 
flowers? clouds? loneliness? — 
unable to make poetry, 
unable to make sense

and unable to say nothing
as my country cages children
who may not survive the growing season.

No matter how many are caged or killed, 
your garden’s short-lived citizens,
rosa mundi, apothecary rose, common valerian,

annually perform
their parable of resistance.
Die and blossom again.

No one expects them to rhyme
beauty with justice, stamens
with the fear

that’s coated my country like pollen
since the last election. People 
are thrown in cages

and poets like me, alive and afraid, conscious 
and unconscious, singular 
and symptomatic, 

scan heaven and earth 
and beds of flowers
for an arc that bends toward justice

and something eloquent,
original, and vague — 
something a flower might say — 

that makes liberty sound inevitable and safe
and tyranny destined to pass away.
Poems aren’t keys 

that unlock cages, 
just strings of letters
on screens or pages

hoping some future 
will read them and remember
that somewhere there was a garden 

and somewhere there still is,
inexcusably rhyming 
beauty with existence

in a language that has no words
for justice or injustice, 
complicity or cages.

In pastel plosives; violet vowels; 
half-blown roses’
luminous consonance.







link to video 



Joy Ladin is the author of ten books of poetry, including 2022's Shekhinah Speaks, National Jewish Book Award winner The Book of Anna, Headmistress Press's gorgeous edition of Fireworks in the Graveyard, and Lambda Literary Award finalists Impersonation and Transmigration. Her poems have appeared this year in a number of publications, including Liber: A Feminist Review, Sojourners, and two anthologies, The Long Devotion: Poets Writing Motherhood, and Queer Nature. She has also published a memoir of gender transition, Through the Door of Life, and a work of trans theology, The Soul of the Stranger: Reading God and Torah from a Transgender Perspective. Her work has been recognized with a National Endowment of the Arts fellowship and a Fulbright Scholarship, among other honors. 




Irina Tall, A maiden who gained wings


Irina Tall A maiden who gained wings (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Ann Tweedy

Riverscape

i.
the pussypaws’
magenta and white
pom-poms
dot the creekside meadow. tiny torches rise
on red stems to soak in sun-rays. evening retracts
them to the embrace of a ground-level
leaf-circle.
i envy their simplicity
as if they had read Ecclesiastes
and decided to live it

ii.
the sun and the trees together
paint the green river
yellow

iii.
the spotted sandpiper sails above
the rushing river, rests
on a dirt ledge before preening.
finally, she pecks the shallows
and the shoreline, investigating
inch-by-inch for insects.
she is a dreamer and an engineer.

iv.
the current numbs my legs
while i sit on a rock watching. my sped up mind
tries to absorb its surroundings—
it takes what cues it can.






link to video 



Ann Tweedy's first full-length book, The Body's Alphabet, was published by Headmistress Press in 2016.  It earned a Bisexual Book Award in Poetry and was also a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award and for a Golden Crown Literary Society Award.  Ann also has published three chapbooks, Beleaguered Oases, White Out, and A Registry of Survival.  Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Clackamas Literary Review, Naugatuck River Review, and many other places, and she has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. She currently teaches at University of South Dakota Knudson School of Law. 

Irina Tall, Bird


Irina Tall, Bird (2022) 
Ink, gouache, paper (monotype and drawing) 
Size 10x15 cm

Diane Silver

Me, Defined

Double chin. Big belly. Ample bosom. Short.
A man's cropped hair. Lesbian. Dyke. Use the old
slang, call me bulldagger. If I were allowed to hobnob
with debutantes, I’d be in the back of the ballroom.
They'd be bending willows in their white ball gowns,
crinoline-stiffened skirts, their arms bare. Even in
my best jeans, crisp white shirt (collar up), black blazer,
I’d be the boulder. Too big to be fashionable. Too weird
to be heard. I’m the one the kids at school laughed at.
The one thing you never wanted to be if you were a girl.
The one whose kind has never blessed a magazine cover.
The one who blushes even though I feel about myself
the way roots must feel about their oak, the way
the sea must feel about its tallest wave,
the way I hope you feel someday.






link to video 



Diane Silver is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and essayist whose work has been published in Ms, The Progressive, MockingHeart Review, The Coop, the anthology, Kansas Speaks Out: Poems in an Age of Me Too, and many other publications. Her books include the Daily Shot of Hope meditation series.

Mikki Antonio


Mikki Antonio (Matagumpay) Lawn Search (2020)