A Magazine of Many Arts

This week, we have three poems by two poets to share with you.  Mari’s work has previously appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Dog Versus Sandwich, Aberrant Dreams, Every Day Fiction, and numerous other print and online markets.  Shira’s poems have been seen in Electric Velocipede, and she has upcoming work in ChiZine and Cabinet des Fees.  Her poem was inspired by a pair of Elise Mattheson haiku earrings.  Both poets have a gift for expressing narrative in the small space of a poem.

Weaving nettle shirts was easy enough –
pulling the stinging threads across the loom
only leaves my skin feeling torn and rough.

The silence: that stings. In my quiet room,
I hunger for words, as my tongue stays trapped.
Pulling the stinging threads across the loom,

I try to forget, to keep myself wrapped
against laughter. My fingers burn. And yet
I hunger for words, as my tongue stays trapped

in this seven year silence, this rough net
of freedom and spells, where I must still hold
against laughter.  My fingers burn. And yet.

I pick up a dark feather, not consoled,
thinking of whispers in a lover’s ear,
of freedom and spells. Where I must still hold

to my rough weavings, where each voiceless year
only leaves my skin feeling torn and rough,
thinking of whispers in a lover’s ear.
Weaving nettle shirts was easy enough.

Walk east of the sun, and west of the moon,
they said, as if I cared for directions,
or anything else. I walked pathways strewn

with broken starlight, on rose tipped oceans,
watched crimson winged doves sip rage.  “Follow me,”
they said, as if I cared for directions

when my heart bled stones. An old willow tree
cradled me; I wept my dark distress,
watched crimson winged doves sip rage. “Follow me,”

whispered the moon, handing me a soft dress
bound in a nut.  The moon’s tender shadows
cradled me. I wept my dark distress.

begged the sun for news. He draped my sorrows
with forgotten dreams. Following commands,
bound in a nut, the moon’s tender shadows

seized me, until I did not know my hands
or anything else. I walked pathways strewn
with forgotten dreams, following commands:
walk east of the sun, and west of the moon.

The berries are not red.
They twist in our hands,
struggling to remain on their vines –
the very best in sentient horticulture,
genetically engineered for that astonishing flavor,
dense and luminous
taste after taste blooming on your tongue.

It is the taste of their dreams.

Unconfirmed, I know.
But a legend among us nonetheless.
We, who wake the berries from their dreams,
yank them away from the only home they’ve known.
They have enough intelligence for that, at least –
for the desire to stay.

They twist.
None of us have unscarred palms.
You know a harvester by the network of fine pale lines across hands, arms.
We bandage our hands silently at the end of the day,
unable to look at each other.

The wine is exquisite.
So we are told.
All the dreams of a new species,
blooming.
Not with a year’s wages could I afford it.
But every night, I bring home one berry.
One small taste of dream for myself.
I place it on my tongue
and close my eyes.

The longest night of the year… by some old calendars, this was the middle of winter because the long nights are halfway over and the days will start to get longer again.  In our family, we celebrate this night by having a birthday party for the sun, baking cookies for him and exchanging presents and asking him to please rise in the morning.  So, happy birthday Sun, we’re glad to see you coming back again even if the cold and snow has just begun.

Next week, a special poetry issue.

Carl backed away and the growling intensified.  The male wolf lunged at him but the she-wolf jumped between them, knocking her mate to the side.  Carl jerked himself back, yowling as he whacked his head on the cage door.  The door slid down with a crash and Tammy grabbed the pin off the floor to lock it down.

“What the hell were you doing?”

Carl looked into the cage.  The she-wolf stood inside, looking out at them, while the male paced back and forth in front of her, still growling.  Carl looked back at Tammy.  His mouth opened but as usual, words eluded him.  His breathing was erratic and tears flowed down over his cheeks.

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Mixed Media and Metaphors

by Michael H. Payne

Love Puppets #1 – http://www.topshelfcomix.com/ts2.0/love_puppets_ch1/1
Love Puppets #2 – http://www.topshelfcomix.com/ts2.0/love_puppets_two_ch1/1

When I first read Polu Texni’s mission statement, the part about “the intersection where different media, styles, crafts, and genres meet” made me think immediately of the webcomic Love Puppets by Jessica McLeod and Edward J. Grug III.  I wrote to Editor Dawn and asked if she’d mind me popping in here to let folks know about the comic, and she said not at all.  And so here we all are!

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“Beautiful.  Absolutely beautiful.”

Carl McGowan leaned over the railing and stared down into the pen as the she-wolf strutted back and forth, showing off.  The bitch’s mate hunched down, lowering its tail between its legs, and growled at Carl, who just smiled.

“What’s the matter, Boy?  Jealous?”  His smile faded.  A group of elderly men and women made their way down the path toward the pen, led by a young girl he recognized from his Senior English class, though her name escaped him.  She looked very uncomfortable, dressed in the brown and white polyester zoo uniform.  Carl backed away, trying to blend in with a tree.

“And to the right we see our wolves,” the girl said.  “Wolves are the ancestors of domestic dogs.  They are highly intelligent and their remarkable endurance is legendary.”

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