ISSUE 27 - JUNE 2023


CONTENTS
Emily Brontë : “I'll walk where my own nature would be leading”

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

Martha Graham: “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.”

Samuel Beckett: “All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.” 










ISSUE 27 - JUNE 2023 - CONTENTS


POETRYART
SOPHIE COLLINS
After Sappho

LAURA FOLEY
All of It

SAMANTHA PIOUS
Purple prosody

SIERRA EARLE
Off the Banks and On Our Backs

CLAIRE VANDERLAAN
fifth of july

E.F. SCHRAEDER
The Sexton Pill

CYRANA MARTIN
duckling

LESLÉA NEWMAN
The Passionate Lesbian to Her Cat

PIPER SUMMER
Daphne Lies by the Riverbed

LEXI BURT
WE ARE NOT SCARED

REBEL BROWN
The Treasurer

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
Sappho (1862-1867). Photo by Rita Mae Reese (2023)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Tomboys at the Pier (1994)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Slow Dancing, Lady Peter and the Huntress (1993)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Romaine’s Peter, Dyke in the Woods (1994)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
The Artist (1994)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
A Lucky Hand (1993)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Odd Girl (1993)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Twilight Lovers (1993)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Lady Una and Marlene in a Top Hat (1994)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
In The Studio (1994)

CHRISTINA SCHLESINGER
Who Knows what the Future Holds (1992)



Sophie Collins

After Sappho

Late at night we gather to read the ancients.
Past the glass are scenes of a world on fire:
forests falling, hospitals overflowing.
Here, we escape it.

One by one, we whisper the songs of Sappho,
weave of words a tapestry formed from fragments
passed from mouth to mask-hidden mouth: tradition
newly translated.

One of us can summon the Greek from symbols.
One of us can sing the bewitching rhythm.
He could be the chickenman by the river,
stripped of his music.

Poets, Kingsbane argues, are poor musicians;
Shakespeare and his colleagues would beg to differ.
I’m not sure – but surely outliving Jesus
must count for something.

Thunder’s daughter asks me if I write poems,
asks as though the answer is safe for giving,
listens like she cares for the conversation,
hears what I tell her.

I write best alone in a blazing shower.
All my words are echoes of those who’ve raised me:
bloodline blessings, hand-me-down wisdom, lessons
for and in living.

After this, I’m flying the flag of poet.
Name myself and honour the teacher’s wishes.
Woolf and William, Emily, Amy, David:
words will outlive us.





Sophie Collins lives, works, and writes on unceded Arrernte land. These days she’s into modern magic: poetry, love stories, desert rivers, and cardiorespiratory physiology. 

Sappho


William Wetmore Story, Sappho (1862-1867). Photo by Rita Mae Reese (2023).
Photographed at Crystal Bridges.

Laura Foley

All of It

Remember the fluctuating sea,
morning on the beach, the sun’s
orange disk, like a porthole into divine fire.
Remember the seals, one then another,
bobbing up, as if to play, or say hello.
Remember the swim, the sharp rock,
the gash on your leg, remember
the bee sting reddening your ear,
the itch and swelling, with something
to tell the wandering mind.
Remember the hard walk, the cobblestones,
the steps on the path, remember
the church services, the vespers,
the nuns blessing your knee.
Remember the time—not long ago—
a day closed you into an ambulance,
your heart beating too fast to bear, remember
being lifted up in the air, waving goodbye,
calling out: Tell the children please.
Remember the peace in returning to dogs,
to house, to your wife Clara lit within,
remember swimming in the pond again,
in a body made new by gratitude.






link to video 




Laura Foley’s most recent collection is: It’s This (Fernwood Press, 2023). Her poems have won many awards and appeared in many journals such as Alaska Quarterly, Valparaiso, Poetry Society London, Atlanta Review, and included in anthologies such as: Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, and How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. Laura’s poems have been turned into choral music and performed in venues such as the Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles and Carnegie Hall in New York. She lives with her wife, Clara Giménez, and their two romping canines, among the hills of Vermont. 

Tomboys at the Pier


Christina Schlesinger
Tomboys at the Pier
Oil and fabric on canvas
16” x 20”
1994

Samantha Pious

Purple prosody

Rhyme is a same-sonic marriage
and Time is a dominant beat
who disciplines súbmissive syllables
in bondage to her feet.

Time is like the violet bud,
Rhyme is like the lilac tree
once cultivated, now grown wild,
still fair to see.
 
Below them lie the leaves of grass,
predictable and everywhere.
Look up and breathe the cadences
titillating in the air——





link to video 




Samantha Pious is a poet, translator, editor, and medievalist with a PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of Pennsylvania. Her 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. Individual poems have appeared in Bi Women Quarterly, The Gay & Lesbian Review, e.ratio, Mezzo Cammin, Strange Horizons, and other journals.

Slow Dancing


Christina Schlesinger
Slow Dancing, Lady Peter and the Huntress
Oil and collage on panel
18” x 15”
1993

Sierra Earle

Off the Banks and On Our Backs

Where the rain built stairs out of roots—
of rusted steel bars threading concrete—
so steep and slick after rain. Palms lower me;
I extend my hand to my lover, so she does not
have to do the same. The dirt refuses to
let go after my touch.

Off the banks and on our backs
the earth clumps, sinks down into
composed tufts of grass that frame
circular mounds, tree trunks form
square angles, and we are hidden.

Stoic Walnut Trees hold the air
embarrassed for us, the overdressed.
I worry how our colors will change,
but bend to the authenticity of bare trees.

Stripping brown of old blood, like Indian Creek
scurrying besides us, my stream bed channeled
by cotton and legs. I am a vessel she funnels
herself into. The movement of fluids speaks
in air bubbles to the shapes we create.
Frothing, over rocks, purples and yellows
bloom on our skin. Edging closer to

the water. Clenching toes in leaves to pulp.
I’m holding on, reaching out to hair tangled in
a mange of pale grasses and brittle branches
till my hand returns to a fruit.

Squishy, blackened, husk
ecstasy turns to mush;
we release all our leaves and nuts.

Decades of water caressed your ridges,
Creek, gnawing away at yourself. Tensionless,
embracing the banks, we are holding you up.





Sierra Earle is a Nonbinary Lesbian poet from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. They are a project coordinator by day and Editorial Assistant at Sinister Wisdom by night. They are currently editing a collection of work by Nonbinary/Gender Diverse Lesbians.

Romaine’s Peter


Christina Schlesinger
Romaine’s Peter, Dyke in the Woods
Oil and fabric on canvas
20” x  30”
1994

Claire VanDerLaan

fifth of july

in the alabama springtime we pressed our blue
hot hands into each others skin,
ate cherries and spat the pits into each other’s palms.
i practiced ballet until my feet bled, waited for you to pause
the music. we took turns holding the lighter
until midnight flooded your eyes and the candle wax spilled
over. your appendix burst and we had to bite it out.

you were both cruel and soft. still somehow a gift, even
all clenched fists, soup with too much garlic, the acrid bite of mold,
the undersides of my drowned fists.

when the rain stops drumming on the roof,
we drink seltzers and pass the sun between us,
watching the tired hostile horizon, your long legs
crescendoing off of the pier.





Claire VanDerLaan is a recent graduate of the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. The Lavender Review is her first publication.

The Artist


Christina Schlesinger
The Artist
Oil on canvas
22” x 18”
1994

E. F. Schraeder

The Sexton Pill

—for Anne


She dropped unlucky, lovely words of air
with clutched fingers leaking ink.
Half vitamin, half stardust,

delicate, potent witch, brave warrior of the bleak—
let’s feast on the sinewy meat of doomsday
and drink from a briny sea of sorrows.

Such mysterious seductions as hers
require release, an appetite for blood.
Her skin so close to the page I taste tears.






Rhysling-nominated poet E.F. Schraeder is also the author of the Imadjinn Award finalist Liar: Memoir of a Haunting (Omnium Gatherum, 2021), the novella What Happened Was Impossible (Ghoulish Books, 2023), a story collection, and several poetry chapbooks. Schraeder’s first full-length manuscript of poetry, The Price of a Small Hot Fire, is forthcoming from Raw Dog Screaming Press in 2023. Schraeder was co-editor of the feminist charity anthology In-Trouble featuring original and reprinted work on themes of bodily autonomy.

A Lucky Hand


Christina Schlesinger
A Lucky Hand
Oil on panel
20” X 17”
1993

Cyrana Martin

duckling

duckling, do not mind my tears.
yellow flapper, my shaking will only displace
the water which falls from our faces, water
which evaporates, since the clouds, too, must cry.
but oh my duckling dearest, tonight i cry that
i have loved you more, and i have loved you less.
and tonight, i love you with the desperation
of a cat determined to trap its own tail,
and tonight i love you like the oil spill
which tarnishes your feathers, with the hope
of painting you in a coat of color thick enough
that it cannot be forgotten. oh my duckling,
i have loved you longer than you should ever
want me to. and i can see, oh duckie dearest,
the hardening of your face, as the oil settles in place.
but i beg you to remember, duckling, that we can
waddle away from this our poisoned pond,
to see if our two tongues beneath the sun
might lick the gunk away, to blaze like candles
with the starlit day, and with the widest wings, protect
our faces' feathers from the raincloud's poison rain.
i ask you to remember, duckling, when first you felt
my orange kisses upon your feathered face.





Cyrana Martin 
How well can we ever know anyone? [Editor's note.]

Odd Girl


Christina Schlesinger
Odd Girl
Oil on panel
12” x 16”
1993

Lesléa Newman

The Passionate Lesbian to Her Cat

Come live with me and be my cat
And your soft belly I will pat,
From head to tail I’ll stroke your fur
While listening to your rumbling purr.

And when I sit upon the couch
Beside me you will sweetly crouch,
While outside snow falls to the ground
And cat-like, lands without a sound.

And I’ll spread toys throughout the house
A ball of yarn, a catnip mouse,
A feather dangling from a stick
For you to bat, your favorite trick.

And when it’s time to fill your dish
Your happiness my only wish,
I’ll open forty cans of food
Until I find what fits your mood.

And when you’re full and had your fun
You’ll curl up in a spot of sun,
And deeply sleep without a care
On what was once my favorite chair.

And when you stretch to your full size
And gaze at me and blink your eyes,
And wash your whiskers, face, and paws
I’ll greet each feat with wild applause.

And all the sofas you will shred
And take up nearly half the bed,
And sometimes throw up on the rug
To all of this, I’ll simply shrug.

And since you hate the vacuum’s roar
I will not use it anymore.
I’ll find another way to clean
That won’t upset my feline queen.

I’ll never call you Fluffy Toes
or BooBoo Kitty, Button Nose,
I’ll choose a name of dignity
That suits you like “Your Majesty.”

I’ll worship you as you deserve
If only you will let me serve.
On bended knee I’ll end this chat:
Come live with me and be my cat.






link to video 




Lesléa Newman has created 80 books for readers of all ages including the Headmistress poetry collections, I Carry My Mother, I Wish My Father, and Lovely. Her literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation, two National Jewish Book Awards, two Stonewall Honors, and the Massachusetts Book Award. From 2008 - 2010, she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, MA. Her newest book, Always Matt: A Tribute to Matthew Shepard, a book-length poem that celebrates Matthew Shepard’s life and legacy, will be published in September 2023 by Abrams ComicArts.

Twilight Lovers


Christina Schlesinger
Twilight Lovers
Oil and collage on panel
18” x 15”
1993

Piper Summer

Daphne Lies by the Riverbed

Daphne lies by the riverbed, it is always
A quiet summer– when waters collide
With sunlight, satiated by her slumber.
Never does she mourn for the moon, when it
Falls from the sky into her Mother’s Earth.

Never does she frown for the winter wind,
As her favored laurel is evergreen—
I see why Apollo was so entranced
And why the stubborn morning rises for
Her rare admiration. Oh, sweetest Daphne,

Even I, with a tender heart, could turn
To greed, to chase after her like a child
Sticky-palmed with an impatient spirit
And scorn for the god who turned such gentle
Skin to a brazen bark, untouchable.





Piper Summer is a young poet from Phoenix, Arizona, who currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. She is a college student studying writing and philosophy. When she’s not writing new poems, you can find her petting a cat, reading anything she can get her hands on, or searching for vintage photos in antique shops. 

Lady Una


Christina Schlesinger
Lady Una and Marlene in a Top Hat
Oil on panel
12” x 16”
1994

Lexi Burt

WE ARE NOT SCARED

On the forest floor, we inhale
Moss spores into the dura

Mater of our swollen brains
So when the sun sets we look

Like caught nocturnal animals
Neon green-glowing eyeshine

In our gaze, no way of knowing
Who we are or where we are from.

Lying here, we exist in the one
Space thoughts can absorb through

Networks more knowing than our
Eighty-six billion neurons, combined.

Gnarled arms are all around to hold us.
We are still not silent, but we are closing

In on an almost. In the absence
Of noise, we can hear heart-

Beats in synch, still racing
From before the leaves broke our fall.

It has always been here, a soft
We cannot escape. It grows between

Shattered cement and next to black
Block letters someone painted to spell

Humanity. It’s kept contained
on the shelves of babied begonias

Behind your desk, but creates
Oxygen easing your breath as you mother

Their roots into soil and forget
What someone said was supposed to come

Next. Remember to see
The evergreen in our irises and stop

To lie in the forest. Its light
still comes when ours falls to sleep.






link to video 




Lexi Burt (she/her) is a senior at The University of Utah studying English. Her work has been published in Prose Nouveau, The Canticle, and Voices Rising. She currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah. 

In the studio


Christina Schlesinger
In The Studio
Oil and fabric on canvas
52” x 40”
1994

Rebel Brown

The Treasurer

The misfit gathering of the folks broken twice,
Queer, and then also addicted: and we ask ourselves,
How did we find this, this mess of our lives,
And what do we do with it?
What do we do with it now?

We circle around, some
Laughing for an hour, others scrunched
Into their scarves, and then the ones
With their papers, their court slips,
They ask for signatures and get out of here.

We tell our secrets: I was queer and
My mother didn’t like it; and I had no place,
So I picked up a bottle and drank so much I
Forgot I had no place, then I forgot I was queer,
Then I forgot everything else.

Some laugh. Others cry. One leaves early.
One seems like he will never leave.
“Hey.” He asks after the end. “I have a favor.”
“Will you be the treasurer?”
He hands me a wad of cash.

“$73, collected the last 3 weeks.
With these bills for the rent, these for the chips.”
He hands me the envelopes.
“No stamp needed,” he shows me. “Mail it in. Will you?”
We hug. He leaves. Locks the door behind us.

I never see him again.
The next gathering, his wide-armed chair stays empty.
Someone else mumbles the opening.
Someone else starts the prayer.
All of us quiet. We watch the door, though he is never late.






link to video 




Rebel Brown is a journalist, a storyteller, and a treasurer for several small non-profits. 


Who knows what the future holds


Christina Schlesinger
Who Knows what the Future Holds
Oil on panel
20” X 17”
1992