‘SEATED UNDER JUNEBERRY TREES’, ‘MARCH POEM, WITH BLEAK WEATHER’ & ‘NOTES FOR A POEM, TITLED: CROWS AND CADDISFLIES’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

SEATED UNDER JUNEBERRY TREES

Some little god has pufft his cheek,

Peleurion, and spilld one petal white

into your dark cup. Drink it, then,

and consider,—all the Poets fools,

the Priests too simple minded to conceive

the unruly chaos of the Truth:

that Men are ruled each by his Heart alone,

and no Lonely Power orchestrates the Birds;

So we beguile our minds by Goddesses

and Gods, from overwhelm of lively Earth—

for every berry has its very own,

and every petal has its little Ghost,

a chubby spirit, rolling in his joy,

pressing his cheek to yours and kissing you!

Murder him not with cruelty,

that gives his whole possession to your lips.

MARCH POEM, WITH BLEAK WEATHER

Let there be men at windows grieving,

sorrowing today;

What falls is rainier than snow

and grimmest shade of grey—

Let men at windows agonize;

let lovely women sigh;

And let me catch their utterings

as I come walking by—

My hands are wet, and stiff with ice,

but let me only see

The sorrowful at windowpanes

before they notice me;

Let her sighs fall on my right hand,

with heat of humid breath,—

And give his bloodwarmed grumblings here

to thaw my frigid left.

Let all who stare from windows weep,

I only love it more—

And dream to go that soggy way

where all have gone before.

NOTES FOR A POEM, TITLED: CROWS AND CADDISFLIES

Caddisfly larvae are the ones I saw all over the beach,

wearing shells reminiscent of a worm’s mind,

along the tideline wretchedly going—

and shaggy big crows shambling along it too,

taking the little shelters in their claws

& plucking the worms out easily.

The shells are too perilous for the collecting,

and too homely to take the trouble:

But now, upon the homeward trip,

Some girls take cherries in their lips

and pluck the stems, and chat, and smile;

and I watch them eat for many miles.

Robert Hunter is a poet from Southeast Michigan. His work may be found in AGNI, Granta, and the Wayne State University Press. He also runs a "cryptopublication" called Detroit Lit Mag.

‘An Eye for the Box Scores’, ‘The Biggest Tip’ & ‘Finer than frog hair split three ways’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Eye for the Box Scores

Two sausage biscuits ago,
the coffee on the dash
was hot. He’s read

the paper twice since six,
waiting in the fog for planes
that never arrived.

I’m his first for the day,
a shorter run than he’d like
only to get back in line again.

He’s dropping me home
wishing he was home.
He’d park the cab, close

the blinds and sleep.
He rolls back out
my driveway and stares down

at the box scores.
He’s seeing and not
seeing them again.

The Biggest Tip

The tourists
wouldn’t let it go,

wanted to talk
about it all the way

to the Opryland Hotel:
the glitz, the dirt

and the glamor.
“Who is the most

famous person,
the biggest celebrity,

the most memorable rider
you’ve had in your cab?”

Exiting the Briley Parkway,
He finally told them,

“When you leave a $1000
tip today on top

of the $47 fare,
I can promise you,

you’ll be the ones
I’ll never forget.

“Finer than frog hair split three ways”

I know that I’m color-starved.

I can tell in the cool of late night
when I drift out onto the porch. The stars

shine down but I want a wild red sky
or dark green or baby blue.
There are better things in life

but not in mine. I lay awake
in the early hours before milking

and dream of your blond hair
on someone else’s pillow.

John Peter Beck recently retired from the labor education program at Michigan State University where he still co-directs a program that focuses on labor history and the culture of the workplace, Our Daily Work/Our Daily Lives. His poetry has been published in a number of journals including The Seattle Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Louisville Review and Passages North among others.

‘THE DARKEST VOID’ & ‘FIELD NOTES: ETHIOPIA’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE DARKEST VOID

Tonight, it is out there, a flotilla
of airborne particles invisible to the naked eye.
From the gravitational pull of world news
to where the stars have begun to extinguish,
we look beyond our windows into the darkest void,
confined to a space where the brightness
of spirit is at random. It’s there that the sky
is shutting down its grid, further dimming
whatever light we are striving to see. Tomorrow,
we will move into a zone of avoidance;
the earth suddenly becoming a dark house,
bolting its doors against a wide-spread pestilence;
our children abruptly sent home from school
as our hearts and souls begin to inhabit the masks
of a lost identity. We want to measure
the distance between then, and the present strain
of that one remaining star shooting into the darkness,
each of us envisioning a subtle balance,
an orbit of solidarity. But for now, all we can do
is to stand on our balconies, together or alone
as in Siena, and connect the faintest dots of light
as though they were the musical notes
in a song we could sing that will bring back the stars.

FIELD NOTES: ETHIOPIA

A soothsayer dips a fallen feather
into an inkwell of dirt,
marks a date on the calendar
to foretell the hour
when the corn
will be roasted over the coals,
the pumpkins smashed,
the day the thorn tree will flower.
He flips through the pages—
the whiteness shadowed by his fingers—
to when the dancers
had sprung into the clearing,
their hats on fire
with the hammer and sickle,
a history he smudges like ashes
on the skin of young boys
to mark the flight of the dove.

Joanne Monte is the author of "The Blue Light of Dawn," which received the Bordighera Poetry Book Award. In addition to receiving a Pushcart nomination, she is the recipient of numerous awards, namely, The Jack Grapes Poetry Award, Sixfold, and the Princemere Poetry Award.

‘THE PASSING THROUGH’, ‘THE TALE OF CROWDS’ & ‘FOR EVERY FIRST-TIMER ALIVE’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE PASSING THROUGH

I always had enough smiles
to last me these few days.
I do not want to talk about it.
I have talked so much about it
and settled down to be miserable.
I have blended with the mirage
of people. And you are not allowed
to wear your skin inside out.
Time is a dream and everyone
is asleep. And from this side,
no one knows who will ever wake.
But it is all part of the story.
I have settled for so much
tenderness, now I cannot say
if I am living right or if this dress
fits or if my wardrobe
is vomiting its skeletons.

THE TALE OF CROWDS

I build strangers from themselves
just to feel again
because a stranger is a stranger
no matter how beautiful
the sketch of your heart is
at the back of their hand.
I thought my thoughts were intrusive
until I realized
that everything up here
was building a window to escape.
I started buying books
I'll read tomorrow.
That should keep me living
until tomorrow.

FOR EVERY FIRST-TIMER ALIVE

In this world lies the world you crave, so rest.
Your farsightedness is hindered by the facade of sanity.
Death is that accident we won't escape,
in order to escape this world.
You have paid the motherly price
and kept stripping the world off its air
until you no longer have to fight to keep your heart beating.
You are trying so hard, God wiped your brows
and moistened the dreams of anxious children
who cannot wait to soar with capes unfurled.
Up here, I seek God's face.
I open the windows between my fingers
to type these poems in.
My mouth is the door; I'm still learning to close it.
I found myself amidst spring with familiar faces.
There, my hands were branched plants about to bud.
The world forgets your trying.
Up here, I've watched everyone float down like mud waters
but still get painted into oceans.

Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi, a black poet, won the Deconflating Surveillance with Safety contest and received commendation at the 2024 HART Prize for Human Rights. He was a finalist in the Hayden's Ferry Review Poetry Prize '23, with work featured or forthcoming in POETRY, Heavy Feather Review, Strange Horizons, and more.

‘Promoted Speak’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Promoted Speak

“Good afternoon everyone and welcome. As many of you already know, I’m Doctor Joanna Kawalski, head of the Tech, Tok and Rec Division here at Maple University. Today, we, along with the Mont Society of Remedial Culture are very excited to present you with our monthly uplifting speaker for April: Macy Dimenio.

“For the past seven years, Macy has been on the Partners in Tech senior advisory board and the chief planner in their A. Ice Mixer. These gatherings are now historic for their light but necessary approach to the subject of artificial intelligence justice reform and A.I. culpability standards, bringing together the best minds in all industries to tackle brave new subject matter head on.

“Macy is also a co-founder of Recreational Education Anonymous Logistics or R.E.AL. as most of you know it, and is a member of their Charter Community Board of Adjusters. Finally, she is the co-founder of Fix for Flix, now a trusted staple in the world of cinematic review, evaluation and history.”

They just had to bring up the movie blog. Macy’s eyes rolled backstage as she breathed in and couldn’t help but think of Lenny. It had been his idea when they first started going out to review everything they watched on their website. What began as a kitschy catch-all for Old Hollywood classics and megaton summer blockbusters soon morphed into a regurgitated obligation with no sign of escape.

“If we ever break up, you’ll still probably have to contribute every once in a while,” Lenny said to her straight-faced at the very first A. Ice.

“Something tells me our little blog will be the least of my worries,” Macy smiled big underneath smokey-blue neon. She had no idea what she was talking about, but could always grin and compliment, then memorize somebody else’s well-made point before spinning it into whatever blend of cathartic and mangled technojargon passed as insight. That was her career. Being a people person in a world full of charming, but unfortunately misunderstood machines.

“If everyone could please welcome to the stage: Macy Dimenio.”

The applause didn’t get to her, nor the bright lights above, or unevenness of the podium, tiny tick marks inscribed in the wood. Macy’s speech was memorized like the first monologue in an off-Broadway production full of unusually eager starlets. She adjusted her tone with every keyword, punctuating syllables and throwing a few zingers into the proverbial melting pot, letting the juiciness of practical but structured banter strike the student’s ears. She wondered which ones were paying attention, which merely showed for class credit, or were on their phones watching something else entirely. Which were already following her, taking videos, then tagging and quoting her in their next posts? Which ones only cared about the movie blog?

Macy wouldn’t let Lenny be the only thing that defined her, but there it was still. Her words and his forever intwined in a cutesy tangle of vacant boredom and misconstrued inconsideration, readily-available on most major platforms. She didn’t even like movies all that much, but there were still so many to watch, and if he was viewing and writing things about them, then she’d be doing the same regardless of responsibilities. Everybody knew they weren’t together anymore, but she couldn’t help herself.

“It is through these junctures and conveniences that often we lose track in this world, but I am here to tell you, that you are not alone in these absent feelings, these fragile reinforcements. We are all in this together, and only together do we learn to strive and educate ourselves and one another in free theories of unimaginable consideration. I’m here to tell you that you’re going to be okay, because once I knew a lot less than any of you, but I’m okay and forever getting better. It isn’t just a necessary evolution. R.E.A.L is the next being altogether. Thank you!”

Massive applause for a room of about eighty college students. Macy felt a loose soul plummet back up from her shoes. She smiled with her cheeks and heard a few shutters followed by a flash or two and blotchy colors in her vision. Joanna approached despite the blur and hugged her. “We’ll now open up the floor to any questions you might have,” she said.

One hand shot up in the third row as Joanna took her time down the stage stairs and Macy forced her lips to maintain an expression. Her mind wandered as a residual nerve migrated up her lower back, tensing every vertebra along the way. The young woman stood with veracity, snatching the handheld microphone from her professor.

“Hello Macy, I’m Willa Ray, a third-year recon major, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling everybody in the room how, through the work you do, you plan on actually helping anybody?”

“Um… Excuse me?” Macy squinted past the overheard lights, somewhat uneven. “I’ve been helping people all of my life. With R.E.A.L. my sole purpose was to help those who are less fortunate and show them that, despite their hardships, there is still a path present in our algorithm that leads to spiritual fulfillment.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be honest, I think you’re full of shit.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Joanna reached for the microphone.

Macy took a calming breath, exhaling into the sound system then spoke. “Joanna please, I’d like to hear what young Willa here has to say.”

Joanna stepped back as her student nodded as if to reassure everyone it would go well. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything,” Willa began. “Or to knock your profession or whatever you’re clearly selling to a bunch of students because we’re your target demographic. I just don’t think you’re somebody any of us should listen to because you’re not really practicing what you preach.”

“I’m a R.E.A.L. user,” Macy replied, confidently. “You can connect with me any time through the ports, and I’ll tell you why it works and has made me a better person.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re a good person at all, and I think everyone in here should see who you really are,” Willa pressed a few buttons on her watch before the large screen illuminated behind Macy, projecting an image of her current social media accounts. “Ms. Macy Dimenio isn’t the most popular person amongst actual people although she does have an impressive following of reluctant spectators and porn bots. Nevertheless, she herself doesn’t follow one black or brown person, nobody prominent in the LGBTQ+ community or any legitimate charitable organizations.”

“Who has time for social media in this ever-evolving world?” Macy said. “These profiles are by no means how I actually feel about all races and creeds.”

“Next, let’s take a look at some of the other members on the Partners in Tech and R.E.A.L. boards.” Willa tapped her watch, revealing a tableau of men and women smiling for the camera behind Macy. They were all white, most in their late fifties and a good majority of them men. “See any similarities here?”

“The composition of our boards of trustees doesn’t reflect my feelings or change any aspect of what I’m… What all of us are trying to do here.” That was the first time she’d stuttered at an event in at least four years.

“Maybe that’s true, but then again,” Willa continued. “And you know, I’d hate to bring this up, but for the sake of showing a pattern here. There’s also the list of films Fix for Flix reviewed.” Another click, another slide. “Not one of these movies features a budget under a million dollars, the vast majority directed by white men and starring white men, with all other minorities reduced to unbearably outdated stereotypes and cinematic clichés.”

“Lenny usually picked the movie,” Macy argued. “I just wrote about them.”

“Letting a man not only dictate your actions, but also your opinions before publishing them. Wow…” Willa shook her head while the audience gasped then whispered to one another. “It’s okay, Macy. These kinds of things can happen to the best of us. However, it also recently came to my attention that you and Lenny are no longer together, but we did happen upon your Hummingbird profile last night, and I think this one part really says it all.” Willa changed the slide as Macy turned to view her profile, a large red circle over her chosen political affiliation.

“Let’s not break eggs over something as trivial as personal politics,” Macy suggested.

“Yeah, I’m cool with whatever you wanna do on your own time,” Willa said. “But something about a self-declared Proteriate telling me I should plug in and upload my brain waves to a mediocre droid system in order to help curb the gross social injustices against rogue dishwashers and murderbots… Yeah, that doesn’t sit right with me. These things are not us, and I refuse to believe that you’re somebody who’s currently advocating for the same causes and future that I am.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion,” Macy replied

“Yeah, at least until you get your hands on it,” Willa gave the microphone back to her professor and walked out of the auditorium.

“Anybody else have a question?” Joanna asked a silent room.

Soon they would all be gone, back to their apartments and dormitories while Joanna provided ample damage control. No need to upset any of the big donors. Macy retreated to the backstage dressing room and plugged in, going through the systematic check boxes as she considered what, if any part of that day, was worth uploading. The eager hard drives and inconsistent codes waited impatiently for their slice of residual infusion.

It didn’t make sense to miss a day, but did Willa’s disruption have to be included? The speech had gone so well. What harm would it do, trimming the question portion short, merely cutting out at the applause? If anybody wanted to see the full presentation, they could find it buried on some other platform. There was documentation available, but the system didn’t need to know about that upsetting exchange, not yet anyway. Macy sunk into the consideration chair and let the armrests scan her fingertips before considered what movie to watch that night. Something classic, but disposable to make her smile, maybe even cry before writing none of those feelings down the following morning.

After all, emotion was terribly overrated.

Christopher S. Bell is a writer and musician. His work has recently appeared in Paper Dragons, Arboreal, and The Dead Mule. His latest album Radio Reruns will see release by year’s end. He currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.