JOHN GREY : A Woman Not Here, Mostly
CARLY SVAMVOUR : Blackbirds in Baghdad
JANET BUCK : Metaphors of Fog
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"The poem for JOHN GREY is an observation, a straightforward description, and - perhaps - a hint at horror; but, not necessarily so. GREY's poetry turns from the moment of seeing surfaces to seeing deeply into a soul: it makes you catch your breath."

John Grey, an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Bryant Poetry Revie, Tribeca Poetry Review and the horror anthology, "What Fears Become" with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review, and Pinyon.

A Woman Not Here, Mostly Blackbirds in Baghdad Metaphors of Fog

A Woman Not Here, Mostly
The spread of moonlight across her grandmother's birthplace, a sparkle deep down in the wells and wine-cellars. Kiss-curls of light on the lake, the bedroom windows, surfaces to slip through, to drown or dream. Her stillness uncovers hillside grapes, hands on the pump. carts rattling up a narrow lane. The sedentary years shudder through graffiti and broken windows, steam trains and Auschwitz, faces like shades on her wrinkled cheeks. Finally, ships set sail. Cramped rooms expand to fields and cottages. A tractor. A man in floppy hat upright in its saddle. It ends with a child placed into her arms, a cry, a disturbance. The ideal world is private, pull hers heavenward. So whose baby? What faint hold?
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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A Woman Not Here, Mostly Blackbirds in Baghdad Metaphors of Fog

Blackbirds in Baghdad
Today it's press brief, live cam, identity, suspect and other words like tracer fire, initial stages, coalition, spilling from the lips of CNN Live Journalists. The country of Iraq shudders. Viewers around the world do the same and blackbirds, much like those I once saw over the streets of Gaza, careen the fire-torn air. Sometime in the next few hours, a thing called Equinox will turn over without a sound.
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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A Woman Not Here, Mostly Blackbirds in Baghdad Metaphors of Fog

Metaphors of Fog
It was a small box of oceans you were centered there on the living room rug cornered by dirty glass. The stench of floating death in guppies belly up and through. Rocks and reefs were tripping me - I wanted the water clear. I tried to take a bath in this, but couldn’t stay with rivers on their way to ice. I hurried off to fix a meal you wouldn’t eat, iron shirts you wouldn’t wear, dust a row of ivory keys on baby grands already tossed from the side of the ship, the music now percussions of our silences. My weakness was the only light in ripples of the muddy fog. Bubbles, few and far between, then gone - so quickly as a match goes out. Sometimes clocks refuse the dials that circle with the ending’s hand; tickets to a closing play were menus I refused to read. I should have been there when trilling flutes of lungs expired, when heartbeats turned a stony fist. My strength was called to podiums - and I, the poet, owned no words.
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JOHN GREY : A Woman Not Here, Mostly
CARLY SVAMVOUR : Blackbirds in Baghdad
JANET BUCK : Metaphors of Fog

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