Jimena Washes an Apple in the Rain / Vincent Tice

JIMENA WASHES AN APPLE IN THE RAIN

The door flung open for excessive heat
between the yellow oilskin and wet boots
and the drowsy cat upon the windowsill
frames well the slouching barn across, and she
who stands within it in blue overalls
waiting for the shower to pass—remembering
the apple in the pocket of her chest
and holding it beyond the eave to rinse.
My sight empties torrential into her as hers
into the dripping apple as the rain—
as the rain grew infinite between us.

Vincent Tice is a poet from northern California. He has been living out of a backpack for several years and working on farms. He has been recently published in PANK, and Rattle Press.

A Sunrise Poem Outside Chennai / Madhan Raj

A SUNRISE POEM, OUTSIDE CHENNAI

நெருப்பிலிருந்து மேலே பார்க்கிறேன் /
பாதி உதயமான சூரியனுக்கும் பின்னும் /
மீண்டும் /

சூரியனின் குளோப்ஸ் என் பார்வையில் ஒட்டிக்கொண்டது /
ஆரஞ்சு பழம் போல, /
வறுத்தவுடன் கொழுப்பு கொண்டது

               – பெருஞ்சித்திரனார்

        ***

Looking up from the fire /
to the globbed red sun and back, /
and again, and back: /

with half-suns stuck to my vision /
like tangerines /
fat with roasting.

               -Perunchithiranar

Madhan Raj lives and works in his native Chennai, after studying and working for several years in Italy. Returning home this year, he has discovered again the great cultural wealth of his home, and language, Tamil.

What Life Is / Kent Bramble

WHAT LIFE IS

Something there is in life detests the sun.
In deep womb-darkness woman bears her child—
Enveloping this darkness whence it comes,
Skin-fastened and bone-riveted, undefiled,

That child will grow, and pass it on the same,
By processes occurring in the dark.
The life is blind within us, without aim,
And is precisely that which moves a shark.

We have received it from our ancestors
Pre-human, pre-historic, pre-divine;
And life is, in a strange and simple word,
One darkness which has been kept from all time.

Kent Bramble is a Sci-fi writer (hobbyist), living in Indian Village, in Detroit.

COVERS! you can buy certain of them to support DLM!

Hey folks! Because we make no money from this project, it strikes us on occasion that it is a bit of a temporal and financial burden. If you’d like to buy one of these bad boys and help out!!! that’d be great!!! send us an email 🙂

Petoskey Stone / Mitch VanAcker

PETOSKEY STONE

On the shores of North Point
a few arias of crosswind

hatch coils on the mute surf.
Last winter’s undertow

wrenched a crop
from the lake’s full-voiced gullet.

I lift from the clear jelly
a pale gray bud

and appraise the score
left in its frozen vessels:

that sometime verse of seaflesh,
a passacaglia of ancient

lips, ears, and genitals,
slowed by stone and floe

to the oceanic rhythm—
a tone we are deaf to.

Mitch VanAcker is a writer based in Detroit. His work examines “nature” and “the self”—their seeming disharmonies and the structures we build to reconcile them. He enjoys bonfires, kayaking, and impromptu visits to strange cities.

Regarding the Cranes / Liam Gerhardt

               REGARDING THE CRANES

The cranes, knee-deep in ice water,
throw sticks and spread their wings
to frighten me. They call loudly:
in ropes of steam, they cry.
I would almost like to clutch them,
as I would like to clutch their necks,
or their frosty, thin legs. Beams,
they are composed of, beams compose.

Geese sleep on one leg, balancing.
Peacocks, they sleep up in the trees.
Cranes catch their rest in glimpses—
soar as high up as they can,
nap falling, and catch themselves in time.
It sounds unbelievable, I know—
but such are the oddities of Nature;
such are Science’s discoveries.

Liam Gerhart is the author of one volume of poetry, Yellow Rintekelberg, and has had his poems published in Rattle, The Ilanot Review, Wild Roof Journal, and Detroit Lit Mag. He is an adjunct professor of English literature at the University of Virginia.

What is Left / Barry Casey

WHAT IS LEFT

Take them away, the redwoods with
the tiny blue flowers at their feet. Take them
away before we trample them at last.

The rivers: release them from their vows.
Let them know in secret they don’t owe us
anything. They will find their own way.

And the forests, loyal to the end. They know
how to march, though it fills them with fear.
Perhaps this will be enough to get them moving.

The air, the wind, best when unseen. Let it
pass softly on its way, where the million
weights it carries can finally be dropped.

Leave us the stars, cold, remote, ancient of days.
They look down upon us silently, unafraid.
They know we cannot touch them.

Barry Casey has published in Adventist Society for the Arts, Brevity, Faculty Focus, Lighthouse Weekly, Mountain Views, Patheos, Spectrum Magazine, The Dewdrop, and The Purpled Nail. His collection of essays, Wandering, Not Lost: Essays on Faith, Doubt, and Mystery, was published by Wipf and Stock in November 2019. He writes from Burtonsville, Maryland.

A Little Spider Thread / Vincent Tice

A LITTLE SPIDER THREAD

The red leaves that hang suspended in the woods
and tremble or turn or pivot at a breeze
always console me. I tiptoe and shift
to slide the little sunlight to and fro
adhering quietly to the spider thread,
no more than slips along a damp eyelid
turning away, or rounds a drop of dew—
thin shuttles of the sun’s fingers these
that ply so many and such perilous strings,
and sew so many unnecessary things.

Vincent Tice is a poet from northern California. He has been living out of a backpack for several years and working on farms. He has been recently published in PANK, and Rattle Press.

I Shall Remember Death / Eugene Kamensky

I SHALL REMEMBER DEATH



I shall drink my morning coffee, Lord,
In relation to death. The bubbles on
The black brim pile like spiders’ eyes, and I am in them.
Death is like a fat spider, hiding.

I shall wipe my brow of sweat, my Abba,
With your Kingdom ever in my thoughts.
Death is like a frail man, his head hung,
Meekly tugging shirtsleeves, as for alms.

My Christ, it seems too hard to be a man.
I will lie down half forever when I’m done,
Or crawl about you, sobbing hallelujahs.
Death is like a dancer on a roof.

I shall not forget him. He is bright,
Like the sun. You make him bright for me.

Eugene Kamensky is a divinity student at the Detroit Baptist Theological Seminary. He has been long inspired by Gerard Manley Hopkins’ masterful use of poetry to praise and exalt God in secular spaces, and he hopes to follow in those footsteps.

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