Final Poems

#finalpoems / [?]

The Defeat Of Melancholia

This beach, the end of everything,
here, as Melancholia and Earth collide.
Your doomed body a new world;
all things possible now,

now, time truly nothing—
if seconds only remain
why measure them so short?
if soon we cease, what use
in cursing cessation?

No space for half voices,
time and terra firma break
like ocean; we cry out
a final big bang, molecules
in fusion, an ecstatic combustion.

Raging within our skins,
shuddering with the ground, with life,
a great high humming
we’ve found, finally,
at the end of age.

The wave approaches.
Light divides before us.
You hold it and me,
pieces of the same, all;
and then
all break apart, your heart generous
unto the last,
too ferocious
for even the cosmos to devour.

Aaron Glover is the Co-Executive Director of The Writer’s Garret, a nonprofit literary organization in Dallas, TX. His first chapbook Bio Logic (INF Press) was published in 2017. His works appear in the Virginia Quarterly Review, Illya’s Honey, the Red River Review, Chicon Street Poets, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA in acting from the University of Houston, and was on faculty in the Department of Performance Studies at Texas A&M University.

#finalpoems / [?]

SOMETHING LIKE THIS

If you were to bury your gaze
deep in the streets of my eyes,
you will see an entire episode
of a stench calamity.
.
Like photographs
of a fatherless boy
who ties the sun
around his neck
while searching the smell
of his murdered father
on his mother’s crinkled skin.
.
See,
there is a way
fire burns in my body.
Sometimes I blend water and dust
before shoving them down my throat,
for they hold
shadows of my brothers
who went and never came back
to tell tales of how the city glitters
when the rich sit on the laps
of the poor.
.
Something like this,
is what happens in my village
when a girl is forced to build
a shrine between her legs.
‘Cause her body
is said to be a temple
if she perches on its flesh;
the weight of men
who wander around with bags of lust.
.
Something like this,
is what swallowed mother
before she turned
into a dirge
I pierced on my right ear.
‘Cause every melody grasped,
Is sign of hope－
The sun will one day
rise in my village.

Chanda Chongo is a 20-year-old writer and poet hailing from Zambia’s tourist capital Livingstone, in the central part of Africa.
Some of his works have appeared on Youth Shades magazine, Lunaris Review, FunDza and other social media platforms. His recently started out a blog, and you can see more of his works on afrocabin.wordpress.com

#finalpoems / [?]

For women whose bodies are bags of grief

And when he promised to be your shelter
You forgot that a basin is no home for the
Depth of an ocean.

And when you find a woman
Whose body is a bag of grief
Sit her down and show her
how you carry your scars
Like beautiful birthmarks
And then tell her
How the sun walks out
Of the day without apology.
Tell her how love heals itself.
And in her core, she is love
Breathing healing.

Ogunkoya Samuel is a physiotherapy student in Nigeria. His poems have been published in Kalahari Review, AfricanWriter and Best New African poets anthology 2017.

#finalpoems / [?]

Science Fiction

the artists refused the commission/ love me/ they needed space/ the artists/ love me/ the safe word/ the soldiers/ commissioned/ to throw a huge/ parade/ the artists closed their eyes/ it was a sign/ the town was quiet/ in an alternate universe/ they are cutting off the hair of the dead/ lithe and hushed/ isn’t it romantic/ love me/ when something happens/ proselytize/ lady fingers/ liberty they love/ me on demolition day/ the artists were forecasting the trajectories/ of airplanes and buses prepared to crash/ everyone wants answers/ the soldiers split stems with spit/ find me underneath/ a smooth mahogany desk/ eating lead/ an act of contrition/ etched into the back of everyone’s neck/ it is hard to love yourself

Julianne Neely is an MFA candidate at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, where she received the Truman Capote Fellowship and was awarded the 2017 John Logan Poetry Prize. Her writing has been published in The Rumpus, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Hobart, LEVELER, Pacifica Literary Review, New Orleans Review, and more. Her chapbook ‘The Body Beside Herself’ is forthcoming from Slope Editions in February 2018.

#finalpoems / [?]

It is in my nature to want things I cannot have, to have things I do not want.

Who were you before you were memories steeping in cortical networks begging not to be fed?

In this poem,
my body is not an apology.
In this poem,
I’m my saving grace.
In this poem,
I am done pouring myself out,
by which I mean:
I am pouring myself in.

Frances Ann is a 21-year-old poet who can be found @flils on Instagram.

#finalpoems / [?]

Continuation

The earth was always
made to spit us back out
send us to dust
where we came from
the waves we once surfed
to engulf us
the fires we held in hand
to burn us
in short destructive manner
we found time to
fall in love look
to the future
hold on tight to worries
that never mattered
objects that will too
turn to ash
along with us
erased
new
canvas.

Amanda Kusek is a writer living in New York City with her neurotic Jack Russell Terrier, Ajax. Her poetry and essays have been published in Entropy Mag’s Enclave, Anti-Heroin Chic, Blotterature and Niche. She was a featured poet at the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival. She maintains her own blog at CheapCourage.com and runs Anon Magazine’s advice column, Thrive.

#finalpoems / [?]

Unique at Heart

My mind can be a sordid place, filled with shadow and sin;
My thoughts a twisted mass of dark, black and terrible within.
Sometimes I wish it was not so;
Pray it change by tide and flow.

I want to hide it, to keep the black unseen;
I wear a mask, to cover all that is unclean.
Which one would you like to see? I have so many to choose from,
So many faces to offer the eyes as they gaze and come.

I do not feel like having the corners of my lips turn up so easily,
To have my eyes crinkle and alight so endearingly;
Perhaps they might shine and shimmer,
Threaten to spill as my strength grows thinner.

I do not want the outside to come in, the stranger to witness,
All that I am, the core of myself, the truth in the stillness.
I am left alone, amidst all company,
I am apart, surrounded by all the somebodies.

Fiona Jenkins is a recent graduate of the Creative Writing MA programme at Oxford Brookes University. She also has a BA in Classical Studies from Concordia University. She has previous publications in poetry and short-fiction, and has a novel in development. Born in Canada, she grew up in Montreal, Quebec with her family where the lush and natural landscape inspired her to write from an early age. She is currently at work completing her first prose manuscript.

#finalpoems / [?]

Too Late To Cry

The wind of the Nigerian soul is wayward,
Birthing charlatans, and mercurial thieves,
That neither bode well for you and me, and our tomorrow

They never ponder into the future,
But hustle to outrun a plan that has yet to conceive
They are ‘neither visionaries, nor utopian dreamers,’
But unwavering preachers of extravagance, and ‘the expense of being poor’

The resulting thunder strikes,
Breaking protests of freedom,
and the overrun of political ‘long-throats’ with their timeless ‘change.’
The Power Elite is for the nonce, disenfranchised,
Until He, who suddenly thinks his shine has come, dies.
The poison, dripping from his drunken lips, dries.

The wind of the Nigerian soul is solid gold,
It cannot be mined with absolute integrity or common sense,
But a conniving of a new ostentation,
Sprawling from cathedrals of assorted analytics, and serial media advertising

The wind of the Nigerian soul,
Is a lure to dance, and jive, till death!
Who is the future to question our mature degeneration?

ABOUT THE POEM
Nigeria’s leadership is widely perceived as one that’s motivated by greed and corruption, and is never trusted. Be it leadership at political, social or religious levels, none can be trusted any longer. Unfortunately, this crop of persons strives to justify their love of the people. But for the masses, these leaders are the heart of the country’s challenges or decay. This poem examines the peculiar leadership identified here as the Nigerian soul, and its corrupting influence.

Adeiza Atureta currently lives in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city. His poems have appeared in Camouflage:  Best of Contemporary Writing from Nigeria; Black Communion: Poems of The New African Poets; A Feast For The Mind; Temptation, and Shout It Out! Poems Against Domestic Violence. He has also published a short story in Write For Light: A Collection of True Stories and Poems about Finding Light in the Darkness. He is a member of Nigerian Institute of Public Relations.

#finalpoems / [?]

NATURA. CIÒ CHE STA PER NASCERE.

Ho incontrato uomini di un villaggio nascosto
uomini dallo sguardo primitivo
dalle movenze primordiali, dal riflesso tardivo
che sanno del bosco cose che io non conosco

che siedono per ore sul muschio
a cinguettare come uccelli, a interpretare la natura.
Si posano farfalle sui loro occhi. Alberi, foglie li abbracciano.
Il loro sguardo non è temuto dai pesci.

I loro aculei non hanno lenza, non hanno ami.
Le radici sono i loro piedi che si nutrono delle storie di ieri.
Le loro spoglie asciugate dal vento sono attaccate al presente
alla pietra che è sorretta dal mondo e non dal cemento.

NATURE. THE SOON-TO-BE BORN

I came across men from a hidden village,
men with primitive gazes,
primordial movements, a careful intuition,
who know things about the forest I’ve never heard of,

who sit for hours on the moss
chirping like birds, unraveling nature.
Butterflies rest on their eyes. Trees, leaves embrace them.
Fish don’t fear their stare—

no lines or hooks on the end of their spears.
Their feet are roots, fed by stories of the past.
Their skins, dried in the breeze, cling to the present
to stones that rise from earth and not cement.

(translated from italian by Todd Portnowitz)

Massimo D’Arcangelo (1982) is an italian ecopoet and lives in Siena, Italy. He is the author of poetry books: ‘Il battito dello scorpione. Ecopoesie.’ (Sacco Editore, Roma 2012) and ‘Intatto. Intact. Ecopoesia. Ecopoetry’ (La Vita Felice, Milano 2017) co-authored with Anne Elvey and Helen Moore. His poems have been published in ‘Novecento non più. Verso il Realismo Terminale’ (La Vita Felice, Milano 2016), a milestone anthology about Terminal Realism which includes poems from authors belonging to this trend as outlined by Guido Oldani.
His works have been published widely in national and international journals, art catalogues (‘Paesaggi Inquieti’ by Mario Giammarinaro) and collective works on ecology. He represents Italy in the Bolivian project ‘Poesía en acción’, and his ecopoems have been translated into Spanish and collected in the volume ‘Dando voz, al que no tiene’ (J. Barriga Nava, Bolivia 2016).

#finalpoems / [?]

if you ever write about me
do me a solid
nd have the fucking guts
to put my name in it

we exchange messages for months
but it still felt like
you wouldn’t even look at me

Amy Anne is a bisexual anarcho feminist who isn’t even fucking with you.
She’s only online to announce publication: @amyamyanneanne

#finalpoems / [?]

reassemble

the most i can offer her is my broke down heart
it’s burnt to a damn crisp
there’s pieces of it all over my hands
since she set it on fire again
without a second thought
yet i’m still here
waiting on her to come back around
as if she is an afternoon bus loop
the same bus that runs me over
yet i reassemble my bones and run back into her arms
singing praise into her mouth
handling her with care like she’s fine china
meanwhile she never offers the same
she drops me off in the middle of nowhere
then comes back weeks or months later
with the same excuses like:
i needed time or i needed space
a classic excuse is how i’ve broken her heart
too many times to count
which has lead me to realize
that we are just two lovers that
equally destroy/build up one another

Vanessa Maki is a queer person of color who writes mostly poetry and fan fiction. She’s forthcoming in Faded Out. You can find her poetry blog on tumblr: wordslikewolvesteeth.

#finalpoems / [?]

A Hazy Account of Days Gone By

I was doing the math the other day
and it dawned on me

I’ve gone half my life without you
millions of seconds

half as many minutes
too many hours

numbers falling from a grid
down a chute, way out into the ether

most days are without incident
like clockwork

and the thing about clocks
with their Mechanical hands and relentless tick tock

they stop for no one or nothing
so I keep moving

without hesitation or second guessing
for to linger in thought would mean getting lost in the visceral

and I ain’t got time for that
so I keep moving

but every now and then
before the light of day

and the sound of running water
and small footsteps takes hold

I allow myself to stick around
where memories of you roam free in my foggy head

all fragmented and messy
disjointed
bits and pieces of a hazy childhood coming into view

you see, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen your face
and I’m having trouble remembering you

backseat leather
baby blue mats

seatbelt not required
I don’t drive on freeways

your short pixie cut
the color of Thrifty’s ice cream

with lips to match
reminiscent of LA sunsets

and courtesy of Maybelline
your eyes in plain sight

one eye on the road
one eye on us

it’s only when I shut out the noise
can I see you, ma

Damned those spots!
you counted and tried getting rid of

I notice now on my aging hands
and I, unlike you, don’t want to see them go

if it means letting you go
five spots on my left, a dozen on my right

it’s only when I smell las empanadas
can I feel you, ma

squeezing. pinching. and twisting
my soft and fleshy ears between your seemingly infinite fingers

funny how my own, covered in creases
dusted in specks

find their way to my children
without hesitation or second guessing

I keep photos of you
a dusty stack of paper

in no particular order

All fragmented, messy
Disjointed
Bits and pieces of a life no longer beating
Yet in these hands
There is still life

Gaby Herrera Stern is a bay area writer with a west coast sensibility and somewhat healthy obsession with the 80s. She creates content for clients in the arts and culinary industries and specializes in telling meaningful stories about culture and lifestyle. When she isn’t writing about the arts, Latinx issues, or the 80s, you’ll find her reading post war love stories, binging on anything David Lynch, and avoiding karl the fog at all costs. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and two children. Twitter: @gabyhstern

#finalpoems / [?]

OSTEOPOESIS

My pliable child bones
survived falls from trees,
roller-skate blows to the knees,
the punch of hard earth under grass
after runaway gallops. Those bones
suffered nary a fracture or chip.

My adult bones were silent and stoic,
endured the concussion and clout
of the athletic field, obeyed my directives
to lower and lift, pull and push,
reach and twist. Extremes of movement
no worse than lack of action.

My aging bones tattle like toddlers
in the language of lumbar and sacrum,
of ball and socket, cartilage, disk.
“I’m shuffling along like a geezer,”
my father complained, revolted still more
by the pipe of his new old-man voice.

The day my hip was replaced
I marked his 123rd birthday.
I was humbled. I bowed
to the cobalt and chromium proxy
enthroned in my hip. I went home
adorned with a bandage of silver.

Quite miraculous, really, this intercession.
But illusory, interim only. No royal decree
or divine intervention will stay my conversion
to dust. Because even these bones,
my own bones—first to form, last to go—
must one day dissolve.

Bones, bones,
bless your bloody little hearts,
take your time. Take every one
of your possible three hundred years,
dear old bones, to be undermined
underground.

In 2002, Sharon Whitehill retired as a professor of English at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. She now lives in Florida, where she finds satisfaction in writing poetry for the first time; previously she had published only prose: scholarly biographies, essays, articles, and memoir. “Osteopoeosis,” an invented word combining “bone” and “poem,” was inspired by a recent hip replacement.

#finalpoems / [?]

The most beautiful people in this world don’t ever know how beautiful they are

The most beautiful people in this world don’t ever know how beautiful they are
When I imagine you, it’s on a mountaintop, watching a flaming sky
And you’re free, as free as your spirit throws its heart out, as free as your perambulations
Across the globe, which always return, heart, spirit, and body
To your home.

The pure soul washes others clean,
A few bits of grit don’t dirty it–
The pure soul is an ocean,
A mountaintop, a breath of
Fresh air above the clouds.

A real human being
Is at home wherever he goes in the world,
And you’ve been at home in mine.
A companion of the woods, of long walks
Out past the breakwater on the catwalk,
Of foreign films and long emails
Short postcards, between the
Two of us we’ve circumambulated
The globe, but still–
This is our home and we
Always found our way back, we said.

Lives diverging and converging again,
On repeat, like all those playlists
You’ve sent.

And anyway, you don’t realize
Just how you were there
Even when you were absent because
You were somehow constant,
And consistent,
Companion.

As old souls are,
No matter what changes in or around them–
So thank you–

And–
You imagine ways people might see you
But it only matters what you believe about yourself–
For the record, what I see before me
Is a beautiful and wise soul.

Margaret King is a Wisconsin writer who enjoys penning poetry, short stories, and young adult novels. In her spare time, she likes to haunt the shores of Lake Michigan, similar to many of her fictional characters. She has forthcoming work out in Unlost Journal, and recently was featured on Deracine Magazine’s website.

#finalpoems / [?]

After-Fire

My clothes smell like after-fire:
Different from the scent of smoke as it rose and caught
itself in the fibers of fabric,
but conjuring remembrance of last night’s senses
working imperceptibly as they took in the flames
cracking and crackling
boards and branches hissing and snapping
firefly embers bursting into the dark
when the wind rose up
or when someone added something more
(a stick, a crate, the leg of a chair)
to keep it from dying
out:

A world contained within the reach
of the fire,
lacking sense of time
or beginning or end: there is no other moment but this.
Our faces glowing and hot connect when we lock
eyes across the circle,
an understanding
that we inhabit the same orb
of existence
here.

The next morning – today –
I woke up dry-mouthed and hungry,
smelling of a lingering memory.

Sarah Jane Kerwin is an English PhD student, which means she spends most of her time reading and writing about other people’s writing, but occasionally has time for her own creative projects. She lives in Ann Arbor, but considers both North Carolina and Montana home.

#finalpoems / [?]

Back of my Hand as a Fish out of Water

Feet dangle, nails protruding, out the wooden pier
And so we want the words to disappear
And so we want to forget this year
The metal pokes our asses but we stay here.
On the frontier, fish out a squatter
And over you, they will leer. I volunteer
My piss, salute the foam and the smog of questioning,
Questions become a sea worm with a spear.
“We’re together I swear” as sweat sops to my ear.
Tear shaped like shells, jagged and fractured.
As readable as the back of my wasteland
Do you remember, says the fatherland, what you bought as a souvenir?
That pearl-pink oyster from whiskey floodlands
And when we jumped in the milky fog to steer away from this town
But we cannot leave for long because they are here
And so the Pacific is synonymous to fear—
Or maybe the absolution of. And I want to smear the floodwater on their faces
“I fucking love her” Near—
Ly everyone knows and I sear my skin to look like a sponge.
And the wet tampon becomes a witness.
And I yell I do remember where we come from. Here, atmosphere—
Ic, hemisphere, just because she wasn’t born
A damn pioneer. An explorer, finding floating islands obscure.
A routine pap smear becomes the state
We become steer, bowing down and begging
Please just let me hold her without interfer—
ence.

Cori Bratby-Rudd is an eclectic writer from the Bay Area. As a recent graduate from UCLA’s Gender Studies department, and a current MFA in Creative Writing student at California Institute of the Arts, she enjoys incorporating themes of emotional healing and social justice into her creative and non-fiction works. She is an emerging writer and has been published in Ms. Magazine, DryLand Lit Press, FEM News, Canyon News, Rainy Day Magazine, Westwind Journal of the Arts and she recently received an editorial choice award in Audeamus’ Academic Journal for the best research piece.

#finalpoems / [?]

Fantasma

The world is wash, burn victim a
grief beset without antecedent. The

ground is what follows, a measure in
a space of abstraction that does

its best not to calculate the ways
in which the body’s cancers reflect

outward. Poaching: murder by
every other name, that which

remains seated so deeply that to
negate is to negate

everything, each artifice. Anything
that can be used to soak up, to

suture, expunge:
the parallel motion of the mirror

hides what’s trying to hide already.

Amish Trivedi is the author of Sound/Chest, has poems in Kenyon, New American Writing, Typo and other places. He has an MFA from Brown and is doing a PhD in Critical Theory at Illinois State.

#finalpoems / [?]

spring tableau

nectar-drunk bush bees
drone amongst
sun-warm crocus

cheeks powdered
eyes round with desire
nuzzling between velvet folds

emerging buzzed and rumpled
pollen-laden legs dangling
in the perfumed air

an assassin fly spears
his mark mid-flight
ferrying him to the back fence

honey stripes quivering
in the spring sunlight
life draining quickly

the end justifying the means
rendering the scene
no less obscene

it is the last minute
of his last day
but he died with

a belly full of nectar

Anne Casey’s poetry features internationally in newspapers, journals, magazines and anthologies. Her debut poetry collection, where the lost things go, was published by Salmon Poetry in July 2017. She was short-listed for the Cúirt International Poetry Prize and Eyewear Poetry Prize in 2017 and the Bangor Annual Poetry Competition in 2016. Anne is Co-Editor of Other Terrain and Backstory literary journals.

#finalpoems / [?]

Love Like Fake News.

you’d sent me a letter that said you met someone
and were in love with someone
and you’d never been happier
so i left the house and almost walked into traffic
not suicidally, i still have some things to take care of
just absentmindedly, like, shit, here comes a school bus
better leap to safety
and i bought cigarettes for the first time in two weeks
spirit blacks, the ones that hurt to smoke, but only afterward
and i smoked two of them and felt sick
everyone’d been feeling sick since late january
even otherwise healthy people who ate complex carbs felt sick
people were calling out of work because they felt sick
office people, with desks, and bosses who understood their sickness
although, in fact, that’s a privilege only people who work on desks were given
imagine a dishwasher texting their supervisor, saying
“can’t come into work today. sick about the whole thing.”
their supervisor would tell them to come in or fuck all the way off
anyway, everyone was feeling like that around then
it was a sick time to be alive
but it’s hard to say ‘sick’ or talk about sickness
without people thinking you’re either using slang
or making fun of disturbed
but it was so sick
and a lot of people came down with the sickness
and for a lot of them, their condition hasn’t improved
but it was around this time that i got up the nerve to call you
and we spoke about the letter you’d sent
but before i had a chance to go over my talking points
of which i had several, on a little index card
you confessed that parts of the letter were a fabrication
there was no someone
there was no love
there was no happiness
you confessed in a lighthearted manner, i guess to add some levity
to an otherwise deeply emotional situation
and i said: you fake newsed me
and you said: yes, those were alternative facts
and then i laughed until i coughed
and you asked if i was sick
and i thought no, but what i said was yes
i said i hadn’t been feeling well lately, on account of you know
and it’s been cold and i’m not used to eastern winter
and you said you understood, but i’m not so sure you did
but then we exchanged some pleasantries
and then we hung up, and i haven’t heard from you since
but that was the first and only time i’ve been so excited
thrilled
overjoyed
to hear fake news
it’d be nice if someone could explain to all the sick people
on a fraught conference call
“there’s something you need to know:
i was only kidding”

Theo Francis has previously appeared in Fanzine, and is currently at work on a manuscript of poems. You can reach him at acornfetish@gmail.com and @faketheofrancis on Twitter.

#finalpoems / [?]

Around the time of the end of the world
( or feed me to the dust)

There’s only poets left
And even we scream
In the face of purple night,
“Feed me to the rat king;
See what he has to say,”
You know things are bad
And that we’re bad at them
Do you know what
I mean by that?
I mean, the world is no longer ours.
The rat king makes puddles
Of our uselessness
And lets the dust drink
As if our words were dull diamonds
In a patch of wild flowers.
Only in the soil
Would you recognize the scent
Of us still
There under all those leaves

Corey Howard is a poet, musician, and chef living in Brighton, Ma. He is the Senior Editor of the literary journal Hollow. His poems have been published in The Finger, Paradise in Limbo, Hollow, New Bourgeois, I Want You to See This Before I Leave Zine, and the South Jersey Review. He is 25 years old.