NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE

SignsThe first was the wine stain, spilling burgundy rorscharchBlooming like a black rose across the white carpet’s plush.The second were the fetal fists flailing below my heartContretemps to my panicked pulse though syncopatedwith yours. Its father’s spawn, pummelling the vesselTo reach the sire.The third was the red planet, your cinder ruling space that Bad night theusual satellites circling, searching its terra cotta Turf for buried springs,signs of life.Not in our stars, but in ourselves, you, bastard sage,Kept your safety from the sign, most secret, in me. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 51

Ndaba SibandaNdaba has contributed to the following anthologies: Its Time, Poems forHaiti- a South African anthology, Snippets, Voices for Peace and BlackCommunion. He edited Free Fall (2017). The recipient of a Starry NightART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O'clock, TheDead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools. His work is featured in The NewShoots Anthology, The Van Gogh Anthology edited by Catfish McDarisand Dr. Marc Pietrzykowski, Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of OneHundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduledfor publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press and Seeing Beyondthe Surface Volume II. Sibanda has contributed to more than thirty publishedbooks.https://www.facebook.com/ndabajs1/followers?lst=1517291026%3A1517291026%3A1516297542&pnref=lhc

Write Me LettersYou have filled me in on what makes you tick,took me on a tour of your culture and creed.You have taken me to places where they dishout delicacies and glamour and glitz.I cannot thank you enough for the bodyof knowledge you have shared with me.I cannot thank you enough for the superb cuisinesand places of interest you have exposed me to.But now, please waste not your breath and time,for time for buts and blah blah is over.But now, please dish out your fragilities,your you-ness, for I pour out my me-ness.Write, write me letters…Write, write me letters…Words whose meanings and soundsare spelt out in the dictionary of you `n me.Those whose font sizes dance a lively tapto the melody and therapy of my soul.Words whose meanings and soundsare meaningless and soundless to all. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 53

Write me letters at the centre of my heart,letters so hot they burn into eternal blazes.Write me letters whose glorious memoriestime and distance will not shrink or erase.Write me letters in the hidden bowls of my mind,letters so mad they invent and reinvent my world.Draw me pictures whose shadows and soundsand colours I will follow and fall for forever.Draw me diagrams of the unseen and untouchableonly seen and touched in the depth of your heart.Diagrams reflective of the effectiveness of vibes,those that sweep one off one`s heart and mind.Please me tell that our walks and chats and outingsare the fruit we are beholden to honour and nurture.Please tell me I am the letters and diagramsthat have snowballed and sailed away with you.Write me letters and diagrams about denialsand the writing off of reality at one`s risk.Write me letters and diagrams about what liesbeneath the wholeness of you and your life.Let me drown in their transcendence and elegance, NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 54

so that our deficiencies see the light of fondness.Let me plunge into the blast furnace of adoration,and deal with its heat, lows and highs with conviction.Bring me the honour and privilege to take a sneak peekinto our lifetime displeasures and treasures and pleasures.Bring me all our baggage of staggering secrets and frailties,bring them on --for these are to be in the mirror of frankness.Write me letters slated in for victory and celebration,write me letters endorsed and sealed by our hearts.Write me letters whose weight is weightless and sightsightless in the face of our resolve and affection.Write, write me letters…Write, write me letters… NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 55

Laura’s SundayIn her city there is a ruined cathedralit is amidst ruinsits choir is missingan “Ave Maria” song.On the road edges, stones relieve painonly the choir traces are together with dryflower bouquetsThere are many dogs and trashThere is a large piano without its proper place.In her city there is a ruined cathedrallonging for bells’ sounds awakened herwears a beautiful dress, whispers Ave Mariain solitude.O God!She has a sweet voice, every Sunday goes into her ruinstalks with stones, with flowers that do not blossom easyThrough ruinsand wipes her happy eyes without trying the voice in a choir.It is Sunday and her delighted eye restingSings Ave Maria in solitude.With a rubber of love erases the time’s invoicewhich leaves behindwhile gathering the hands over her pretty breasts,in silence opens the new pageand writes a senseless verse.It is Sundayshe is awakened while dreaming a love temple NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 56

and song sounds.Ave Maria is alive!and waits nature to become prettier,the same as the flower is prettier with all its beautyand to join the choir of life.She walks over the ruins of the cathedral and incends a candleand pretty knees touch the solid stones. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 57

The Freedom of PoetryThe angels are descending slowly,SoftlyQuietlyWith loveOver your fiery lettersKissing only the pain that you knowKissing only the love that you seeKissing the solitude touched only by youCaressing the Oh of the bountiful spiritThe brave poetry.Then slowly and slowlyCaressing your stone like tearsThe wrinkled cheeks where the fatherlandOf pain has been hit with the timesThrough the screaming metaphorsScreaming all night and dayOh, quiet and scream, scream and keep quietIn a parallel fashion,And emerge with a Sunny smileIn the blue mornings with thickened pupilsIn the black nights with frightening stormsThey call you beautiful, call you a QueenThey call you many namesAnd you are, quiet as solitudeWith noise like sadnessBending your lifelong painThe endless mystery, just as the creationWhere happiness and pain are hit in the mirror NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 58

And roll the soft vision through the lipsFrom mouth to mouthAs a rapacious bird in silence gathersSometimes pain and at times engulfed in happiness.Oh, lucky poetry that loves endlessly. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 59

The EmigrantHe has only questions, his answers so very timidIn dirty pockets with concreted nostalgia.He has only memories that surround his neckLike the millstone they shake him one step forward and a few backward,while caressing in torrential waterfall,And kidnapping the time which he never sees.The time that he only dreams in endless nights.He is not one of those below the sky full of storms,Where he walks, where he eats, where he makes love and seating.The fatherland of birds is the skyOf the fish is the sea , Of the emigrant is sorrowWhich is multiplied like clouds in the turbulent sky.On the unknown roads, nostalgia shiftsWhile searching for one amid endless zeroes.Odyssey’s testament is burning in his hand,And coal threatens fire; like tropical raysToward the missed Ithaca he directs his eyesHe is exhausted day and night.He migrates on the roads of sadnessAnd is covered with the quilt of Promised Land,And every night, dreams the same dream. The return to number one.While the desert oasis swallows his aspirations, and memories.Causing deep desperation to the Emigrant.With the sack of sorrow travels through the roads of hopeAwaiting decisions to become as number one, in the endless zeroesEvery day waits for him the unknown in the forest of desiresWhere it is relaxing, the soft vision and the deep meditation.Like a freezing bird is searching the nest of hope.And is covered with the quilt of Promised Land. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 60

(Translated from Albania by Peter Tase) NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 61

Dominic WindramMr. Windram is a performance poet from Teesside with a strong interestin literature, art history philosophy, comparative religions, politics andpsychology. He has a Master’s degree in 2009/10 he created andperformed ‘Artificial Eden’. He has several poetry books published byTrevor Teasdel of Glass Orange productions

Autumn HymnAlthough the tender light is fading fast;And summer’s hallowed flowers are dying;Although the precious lark is descending;And her sweetest songs are now in the past;I sense subtle shades &colours of art.I will gather in Time’s golden harvest;And will attempt to translate the secrets;The eternal alphabets of the heart;In the rusted, brownish autumn of life.Quelled is the once furious, youthful rage;Scent of burnt leaves; smoky regions of age;Now crowd my fragile, dislocated mind.I’ll seek to craft a deeper consciousness.For this is a season of stoic remembranceDespite modernity’s rank decadence.I want to trace Nature’s hidden circles;Til I hear winter’s frozen warnings;When the life force & the senses are dimmed;When Love’s carousel turns with solemn hymns;Til the unknown, darker realms come calling. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 63

PentecostThe dove of the divine streaming with light,Comes like a wind that stirs the torpid air;With courage, risk, disturbance, enterprise;That reignites the weary, sovereign soul;Spreading its profound parables of love;Amidst summer’s flowery transience.Born from ancient words on dusty pagesYet transmogrified in pregnant moments;A symbol of peace in prodigal times,That does not travel through the well marked tracksOf the all too human; of complacentCreeds & conjectures ; of vain plans & schemes;Of worldly hopes & fears and does not dealIn cheap grace amidst the vast sea of faith,But shines in a welter of conversion.Essence of sun pouring from azure skies;Rekindling, refreshing the inner flame;Swooping heavy with fiery promiseAnd calling us to awaken reborn:From the quietus of mundane hours;From rabid twenty four seven treadmills;From crude, obscure signs that divert us;From a digital age that cannot serveTo acknowledge our primal concerns;Only bombard us with endless distractions;Colourful processions of the trivial.Detached from life’s counterfeit carnival;It is us for us to lift our eyesHeavenward in awe, and scan eagerly,For those flesh pink segments that daybreak brings NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 64

And feel the stress of the focused spirit,At the thriving heart of the turning world. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 65

Elizabeth MastinLiz Mastin lives in Coeur d’ Alene, Idaho and is a member of the Coeur d’Alene Chapter of the Idaho Writer’s League. She gives occasional poetryworkshops to both IWL and the Arizona Professional Writers groups, towhich she also belongs. Among the workshops she has given are “Allabout the Villanelle”, “All about the Triolet” and “All about the Sestina.” Shefeels that traditional forms provide excellent frameworks for moresignificant, memorable and lasting poems. Added to that, she enjoysexplaining the importance of the poetic techniques of alliteration,assonance, consonance, similes and metaphors.Liz’s poems are featured in “Empty Shoes: poems on the Hungry and theHomeless.”She writes a monthly column for both of her writing groups entitled “TheJoy of Prosody”.She is in the final stages of her book “Lake Dancers”.https://www.facebook.com/liz.mastin.1

Back to EdenInspired by “A Pot of Basil” By John KeatsBy a garden stands a wall,Built of brick and ten feet tall,With warm white mortar; handsomeBeyond measure.To periwinkle vines and wallThe sunshine clings, nor fears to fall,As if there were no nights at allForever.Behind that wall, secure she hidesFrom dangers on the other side:Injurious words and wicked wilesOf weather.Just send her soul a kindly thought,Her joy producing power is bought.She dances in her garden plotWith pleasure!So, there she dwells, but not alone.Besides herself, her garden humsWith hummingbirds and bees all drunkOn nectar.Thus peacefully her life she leads,With none to share her gentlest needs,But if there were, her days could beMuch brighter. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 67

Who finds her must be hard as stoneTo, she who dwells there all alone,If finding her, his heart does notGrow fuller. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 68

One NightAs I slept in my room under the ink-black skyOf this barren desert, the full moon shone in,Causing my white sheets to beam.This scattering of bright, crystalized lightTravelled (from) the foot to the head of my bed,While ghosts breezed through holes in my screen.They seemed deadly as leopards whose wild eyes spy,Frightening as the moon peering down from the sky,So, I slid beneath my covers, all hiding on that night.I would flee from the hunters and bury my fear.The future would come, but I would never know –The moon’s meaning that odd probing night. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 69

Van Gogh’s Bedroom, Petrarchan SonnetMay I show you this, my room in oil relief,Where phthalocyanine walls surround and hedgeA brown field rising fertile beneath my bed;A sanctuary devoid of gloom and grief.Note! Only blocks of colour can be seen.I shun all hidden depths wherein I findSouls like mine embark on sad decline.From falsities, I set my spirit free.Acceptable: the elemental things.I paint in a way a soul can feel some trust!Dispense with policy and money-lust:Those corrupting dark-cast shadows; give me wings!To you, I offer this, a purest’s endeavour:My fettle room in flat and fulsome colour. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 70

Manford BlacksherManny Blacksher is a writer, editor, and teacher. Though he grew up inAlabama, he has lived in Montreal and Dublin, Ireland. His works haveappeared in Poetry Ireland Review, Measure, Buddhist Poetry Review, and TheMaynard. He is an editor for Light: A Journal of Photography and Poetry.

BonerCf. Wallace Stevens’ “The Poem that Took the Place of a Mountain”It stood firm, loosed not made,The penis that took the place of a dogma.He felt conformity,Even as the trousers dropped off the pale bones of his knees.It engorged agreement that his bodyCondemned all striptease by subtle conceitWith tumescent hyperbole,Setting his obelisk’s rose granite aright,So, it ordained cardinal points,Ordered to march what drums blood’s riot as rough tintamarre:It unfurled, pennant blazed carnation,What of him, stiff-necked, would never speak peace. He stood hatless,elect—His sect’s sole celebrant, he’d made right reasonThis froward herm, its mouth’s immemorial smile. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 72

Dante and the Man of Blood, 5th Nov. 2012“‘Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!’” —James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young ManGreat patriots confound the Good Life. Howcould they not? They’re passionate, limited,balanced and yoked with hard truths, gibbetedby falls to make bravos blanch and swallow.They’ll outpace disgrace, exile, brusque deathlike meteors in torpid atmosphere—so bright and wild, how could their lives cohere?We pledge our hearts to confute their short breathswhen cornered—or inspired. I’ve prayed for the Guelfwho cursed Florence to prophecy Empire,eternal Rome. Elsewhere I’ve watched myselfhate and fear Joyce’s poison quislingDante—priest-petter, spinster despiserof Parnell—cried out grief-struck, “My dead king!” NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 73

SeizingDrew flew recumbent in the ambulancealone. He stood on both feet when we metin Patient Admissions. He wouldn’t letme help him fill the forms—refused to chanceme doing more. What he’d already toldappalled him. Missed essays. He’d had to tendbar until one. His wife had tried to endher life. Mom kept the son she couldn’t holdwithout crying. On the mend now, she’ll comehome. Soon, he’d smiled in my office hour.Grinning in class, he heard the Marvell poem,but groaned when I named death. I worked to sellhow raptors love-locked both their lives devour.He fell then, bars ripped off his last safe cell. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 74

Mahnaz Mohafez Although interest in literature has been within me from childhood, Ithink it was a sparkle kindled by John Keats that caused me to notice suchindescribable enthusiasm. As far as I remember, I was able to write shortliterary pieces in my mother tongue Persian from the age of 12, but at notime like the commence of reading literary masterpieces in English(especially poetical works by Keats) that I understood how marvelouslyliterature could nourish my thirsty soul. Following my dreams, I choseEnglish Literature as my major and continued my studies to MA in this field. At the moment I am working on my debut novel-a work with themessuch as quests on true identity. Not far from this, I also welcome anyopportunity to collaborate with international literary magazines inpublishing poems, short stories and literary articles. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-literature-important-subject- mahnaz-mohafez/

Sweet PresenceBless you, beautiful morning sun!You bestow unspoken happinessWhen you emerge at dawn gentlyThe sorrows of the night are gone.With your bright face, that glorious abode of eternal graceYour eyes invite us to a journey of delightFull of unforgettable moments- o’ the lasting light!You are an ancient friend of this passionate earthThe very origin of unending benevolence.Let your name be known forever in our heartNever forsake us, nor our memories to part. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 76

Rick DoveRick Dove is a London born writer of Ghanaian and mixed Bajan heritage,who began writing poetry during his early secondary schooling, returningto the art form more seriously in later life after being diagnosed withautoimmune disease. Writing playful, inventive and often deeply personalverse, Rick has been influenced as much by Basho as Bukowski, writing inall forms and meters, and absences of, in order to create somethingnew. Rick's first solo collection \"Haigha's Noosphere Canticles\" waspublished by WCH Publishing in 2017.https://www.linkedin.com/in/rickdovepoet/

A driftMy truant goddess, I am still, where you left me,Unfinished and directionless, epic travail,This abandoned ship, you passed, one night, seductively,A thousand thoughts, now set to sea, in pursuit of beauty,Without a sure to steer by, or star by which to sail.My truant goddess, I am still, where you left me.So, cut adrift on twilight's seamless, stardust seas.Betrayed by arts, and \"here be dragons\" tales,This abandoned ship, you passed, one night, seductively,And stooped to kiss, upon this oft turned cheek,To stun with bliss, and hold me here, and there, to flail.My truant goddess, I am still, where you left me.Hanging on the world's edge, on the cusp of Damocles’ tenterhook,And hung against the heavens’ railed, this abandoned ship,You passed, one night, seductively to leave me lost,This last forgotten devotee, to leave meCaught in the jaws of the purest whitest wail.My truant goddess, I am still, where you left meThis abandoned ship, you passed, one night, seductively,Without the gift of endings. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 78

Anxiety of the Thought ExperimentI am your breath, laid soft, beside me,On the edge of sleep, half dead, in dreaming,Becalmed, beside myself, and emptyAn apparition, held, in a swell of fantasy,Neither life, nor death is nigh, revealing.I am your breath, laid soft, beside me,Because you will not look, nor touch, nor see me.I am everything, and nothing, seeminglyBecalmed, beside myself, and empty,Inside the safe kept, keepsake box, I be,Securely, in the blankets’ keeping.I am your breath, laid soft, beside me,Spiralling down, to dark infinity,To quanta est nobis via creeping,Becalmed, beside myself, and empty,Unobserved and undead, you hold me,So familiar, as to breed contempt by being.I am your breath laid, soft beside meBecalmed, inside myself, and empty. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 79

Philip WilsonPhilip Wilson teaches at the University of East Anglia. Publicationsinclude The Bright Rose from Arc and Translation after Wittgenstein fromRoutledge. He likes graphic novels and cats

TRIALBy the house of the fat thief,too long ago, you held yourhorse, cried you would take no more,and hooves were rammed against a door.OF VICES THIS IS THE CHIEFAn anthill scattered in your headas splintered wood became a gap.Hinges never take the rap.Bone within a neck can snap.THE MAN SHE LOVED WAS LEFT FOR DEADEven hooves can lead men back.You watch within a cell till late.They measured both your height and weight.Blame Providence. Blame Fate.HIS LORDSHIP TOOK THE CAP OF BLACK NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 81

BUT YOUR CHAINSLeft and right and every life you like– oh, every life – we open, and we snipe,like anemones; like sullen anemoneswe flip scenes; you gripe an escapade,and in the turn, you swim and drag your feet.Feet your drag and swim. You turn the inn. Andthey can sieve the night – the bourgeois night –while all our palaces burn – but they consistin gems and Eucharist.Time to boil the kettle, let it sing– oh, let it sing – of heroes we have sunglike minstrels, like the sullen dead minstrels we’ve beenin flipped scenes; you climbed a balustradeand through red guts you picked and rammed it hard.Hard it rammed and picked you guts right through. Andthey held on till dawn – the bourgeois dawn –while all our palaces bled – but they consistin gems, and Eucharist. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 82

James SaleJames Sale has been a writer for over 50 years, and has had over 30 bookspublished, including 8 collections of poetry, as well as books fromMacmillan/Nelson (The Poetry Show volumes 1, 2, 3), Pearson’s’/YorkNotes (Six Women Poets), and other major publishers (Hodder &Stoughton, Longmans, Folens’, Stanley Thornes) on how to teach thewriting of poetry. Most recently his poems have appeared in the UK andUSA in many magazines. He has had over 300 blogs published, many onliterary themes, and he reviews widely, online as well as in magazines; he isan accredited 'Diamond Author' – their highest level – with ezine.com, theworld's largest online article provider. In 2017 he won 1st Prize in TheSociety of Classical Poets annual competition and one of his winningentries was subsequently republished in New York's The Epoch Times.https://www.linkedin.com/in/jamesmotivationsale/

Killing PainsHow did I kill him?It was a pan:I held tight and as he turnedIn the kitchen – wham! -I panned him and he learned!No, it was a pen:The long reach of writing extendsAnd letters hurt in their furious way -So, RIP, life ends.Rather, 'twas a pin:Three inches of stainless steel,Sharpened to the finest pointThen through the eye and up till ...A 'ponKilled him – he wandered into one -Like entering a fairy story -Time, time, time struck like once upon ...Of course, it was the pun:Simple and deadly, groaning like a lover,Wishing he had not heard she would be a nunAs he keeled over. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 84

Shokoofeh JabbariI was born in Iran, City of Shiraz & grew up in Yazd city (May 2nd 1986).My education is in field of Graphic and also BSc. Film director, MSc.Dramatic Literature in university of Tarbiat Modares. In 2011, I was one ofthe best ten poets in Jaleh Esfahani Foundation (London). Making twoshort films with name “Bell (2013)” and “The Food Is Prepared (2014)”.Also, my poems are published in various magazines including: Straylight,Literati Quarterly, A Narrow Fellow & Artifact Nouveau (San Joaquin DeltaCollege). I’m a member of Paradise Ocean Artistic Team, with management bySeyed Morteza Hamidzadeh.

The Postman Never Knocks TwiceDeath is knocking on the doorand Ihave a datein a black wagonwhich doesn't know for yearsif it’s day or night.Let in this solitary confinementyour shirtmelt down the snow in my country.The weather is really coldand it’s been years since my corpsehas sunkin your body’s snow.My mother is still waiting …She doesn't knowthe postman never knocks twice NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 86

And No More...Hold me in your arms;Of mepoetry remains for youand no more ...Beneath the palms of Khuzestan,of warthe mines remainand no more ...Kiss me tonight;My tresses,museums of all over the world have kidnappedand no more ...Hey man!Don't cry.Of my deathlove remains for youand no more ... NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 87

Shadow to ShadowCold winter day,There was crow's sound and snow.Actor said:\"Life, you can drink of my hand\"The woman grabbed her purse off the couchand the last bells in her stepsfaded from a shadow to anotherThe director shouted:- CutThe distance should be shortenedThe woman faded shadow to shadow along with the man! NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 88

Richard SpisakRichard W. Spisak Jr. An artist since he could hold a crayon, and a poetsince he first fell in love. He writes both commercially and creativelypoetry, essays, short stories and plays. His writing ranges from humorousto romantic, from political to absurdist. His first short story collection waspublished under the title \"Two small windows, in a pair of mirror doors\"to rave international reviews. He has produced a webcast for the last eightyears.http://www.twosmallwindows.com/https://www.facebook.com/rick.spisakhttp://www.NewMercuryMedia.com/PNN.html

Aphrodite on the Internet Half-ShellPartially emerged, from the tiny text carvings a mind illumed.Sweet thoughts like berries in a hot summer afternoonPress to my minds lips staining in joy and wonder,Tiny characters bearing such weighted thoughts;Can I caress the brain who hears this electron-ferried caring;Can I touch the finger tips with this typing; as these words land gently inyour mind floating like Monet’s lilies on our newness.Rippling words do this small service, clasp your cool handTo her brow, trace her chin with this lineFramed with a softness like feathers her silk svelte hand,Where mine might, were distance and time less real,Or thought like lighting beyond spaceThe minutes I spend in your mind, and I in yoursAtomic beginnings in the rumble of electronic typing’s and thunder. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 90

Up from Dido's couchshaking dreamy filmy sleep from my eyesand skyward leap, finding floors, casting bedding’s flourish down tanglesaside, I reach for plans that thither fly restlessto that couch'd recline and, steal such rest as from my trials, I gnawed, andblameless pressed, my worried brow upon that proffered kneeand she had gifted caress and sweet joys to the battle battered boy, whosetroops had tumbled through broken troyen walls. Pushed I past suchscarred enemies, stumbled tumbled into open boats to rescue or veer toever ready graves, where ancient troyans recline in treble troubled sleep aswe cut fresh courses cross blued deepsI brought them here across the sea and vanquished foe, past broken wallsand family's broken bloodied bone, arm’ed them 'gainst pursuing foe.Now how far these dry desert distant shores, we've flown and dragged ourhomeless fleet ashore to find welcome, by these new friends, Carthaginianbrothers to these twice vanquished TrojansGreeks breached our doors with awful gifts of death when guided throughthose once impervious walls lost, lost betrayed my weary crushed Troy,gory gaps breached our walls of peace with horsemen hard hooves, gatesbreached our joy sundered, our great gates thrown wide in haughty pridesdemiseNeptune's walls had rung us safely round, through ten years the battlewaves broke, frothing empty air, now brain'd breached through craftywarrior’s wonderings wound. Leap out, these leering lusting warriors,mowing down our sleeping warriors, like bleating sheep, slain sleepingmidst the purple traitor wineskin, mixed now with kinsman's purple blood NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 91

splashed babies. Blood mingled midst the flood and flung down withcrumbled crash where once stood tall. Troy carved from Neptune's seaclad shores.We flew pursued and wounded, found in flight of Sidon’s princess nownew perched upon this Carthage upon this new Afric-shore a safety shorefor lost princesses and her clan, made this new laid city beached out ofreach of brother thunder founded where refuges have tumbled fled whenhounded, pounded hence from Sidon's brothers plansQueen, Dido sweet, welcomed these Trojan remnants, bruised' thirstypatched march made common cause with our estrangements gave us foodand rooves to shelter fed from their new-found weltermade her hand an offered gift then knelt I and took in thanks and kissedfell I then in swooning sleep dangers from my eyes, been swept and I sleptlike stygian dreary dead and every looming haunted care hath fled woke I,with blessed queen beside her scented tousled hair, surrounds and chidesmecareless stretched and unchecked flow what cause I fled and where to tarrycould I take this hand and marry leave the fate of Trojans lost while I resthere, queenly fedWhen I took such refuge here, could I know the queen would urge me notto go and hinder here, with tearful sighs and welcome me, to share hereyes, and lie beside her unmaskeddisguise this hunger here, strikes breast how to tell her, steel her heart,against again the lovers losing dart, she whose husband hath been tornaway, her fair heart bruised broken, just now sees hinting play of dayThat my duty calls me, tears her love again, break the kiss, my new madefriend, she who’s offered more than trust NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 92

part we must for I must find the place grave Jupiter taught was mine, Andweary 'gain place on the sea the host of Trojan refugeesSeek the place, this unseen shore, where we will find surcease of sorrowtake sail unto the land's tomorrow, promised by Olympian oath and turnfrom Dido's offered trothLand and signs, where we may stay, and found our city on some unseenclayTear again away, this City's welcome home and hearth,These Carthaginians offers, and toward some distant vista Fly…stay, theyoffer us all homes, stay and join uponthis rocky shore ourselves with them as of one stem and Blend, our hopeswith theirsThey have left them, Tyre and Sidon, driven by a kinsman scorn,welcomed us from painful flight across the seas, from Troyan burningnight. Lost out upon the trackless sea, where kinsman tossed and ruddydeath denies us peace as we from our homeland hearts do seekI must tell her, break her broken heart again, her husband has to hadesfled leaving her heart again in dread, a second tearing loss it mars it cannotbear the great heart sobs, she stirslimbs jerk as if in dreams, she learns my truth, could I jar such lovely limbsand crush out a new hoping heart again in lover’s lossShe who'd gain respite from fearSays she's found in me a love gifted down fromOlympus highHear me, can I tear her nigh blind that love light, in dancing eyeshe wakes and peeks, sees me, smiles midst and in pillows seek, withhappy sigh a restful hour NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 93

before my burden, bends these dainty limbs with heavy freighted tears, stillcaught in my breastsweet Dido dear, enjoy thy restLeave I must tis Zeus's plan, deaf to throbbing heart of man, thrust thethrong out on Neptune's seaFind the seat of Trojan piety, wrung from soils across the sea, and toilsuncounted though foes implacable...wrest new fame, and build anew theTroyon wallI summon up my warrior’s art break off embrace and tear her heart, giveher ashes and bring her flamesinstead of dreams as godlings spurn our open schemesWill she cease and turn aside,as I break her maidens pridespurn her dreams dashed to the dustTear her hair and break her trust NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 94

Andrea LawsAndrea Laws resides in Lawrence, Kansas, working professionally in thefield of publishing for the University Press of Kansas. She graduated fromthe University of Kansas with two Bachelor of Arts degrees: one inEnglish, with a focus on creative writing, and one in film studies, with afocus on film theory and criticism. Her work has appeared in threecompiled books of poetry, four literary magazines and journals, andfeatured in two blogs.LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/andrea-laws-2a68006a/

Apparitiona burial above fevered groundthe violet flowers would not stay;inaccurate sized blanket boundsheltering wooden casket, we pray supernatural being of light bring forth peace and loving on this life take her to a different world gone past our seeing this desolate lawnindeterminable grey afar;realizing in sunflower shadesmoral compensation to a starstripping away unwanted brigadesthis, amongst others for stone displaythose that have disappeared undergroundwhere an area lies with no frayno rules of life, liberty or soundshe is not gone amid the dry leavesshe is not gone amid the green treesshe was never here to fight or stayshe was always here to live and playDedicated to the memory of my father-in-law, Kham Pokphanh. NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 96

Backyard Talesoybean field relayingsunset’s horizon coldfantasies prayinginspiring little and oldperfect world for restingunder ancient sky furiesbitter memories nestingreleasing sorrowful worriesforever changing the gateof Earth permanence, adieustars pronouncing the age daterevealing secrets hitherto NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 97

Andrew GordonMr. Gordon has been a teaching assistant, dishwasher, barista, bartender,singer-songwriter, grape-picker, student, bouncer, and so on. These days,he may be found writing copy for the biotech industry. Additionally, he islearning Greek. Χαιρετίσματα. Twitter @apgrdn

Alongside sortition ###out on the curb I sitwatching the birds laughmy epitaph I write for no one So, no one can hearrhythms that I read should echothe afternoons ahead as I speakmy mind sticks wondering about luckand the drawn lengths of straw cutinto problems distributed evenlyyet unevenly receivedto people with all the wrong pieces fragile emotionsambitions in hand resenting the predicamentas short straws slip from soft grips NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 99

in the evenings I listen to the birdsthe sight of mejealous sing my eulogy for keepsake in an opaque glass cabinetout on the curb with youwatching the birds laugh at our epitaph or desire for one our silence for no one so, no one can hear NEW POETRY 2018 ISSUE 100