Poetry

#finalpoems / [?]

Subtlety amid the emergency.

1. How the body surfaces from exhaustion: light, agile, sensitive as the season.
2. Stay close enough to your suffering to receive its wisdom.
3. Open the windows.
4. Take rest.
5. Wait generously.
6. Observe the gradual, intuitive discernment that occurs in relief of obligation.
7. In case of psychic dispersal, reach through the winds of confusion with a steady hand, and draw a line down the centre.
8. Anticipate the threshold before you meet it.
9. Find pause between sensation and articulation: thrum and sigh, supple as an iris, steady as a sunflower.
10. Investigate the data. Feel the wave beneath the wave. The whirl and swell.
11. Decide to stay.
12. Dream deep into the night and seed perception of multiplicities flourishing.
13. Enable the conditions to give a little more space to what hurts, and keep it company.
14. Move into the sting when it endures.
15. Sit still and let your perception dilate.
16. The compass spins to the sublime in all directions.
17. Find the erotic measure between the safety and chaos.
18. Edge to touch the light of your ambitions.

Alisha Mascarenhas is a poet and translator living in Brooklyn. Recent collaborative work was commissioned by Asiya Wadud and supported by the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council for the project ECHO EXHIBIT, presented as part of River to River 2020: Four Voices. She has contributed writing to publications such as the Poetry Project Newsletter, Peripheral Review and The Felt, among others. Alisha holds an MFA in Writing from Pratt Institute, and is co-editor of READ: a journal of inter-translation.

#finalpoems / [?]

Cityscape

As I rest my weary eyes upon the state of this city,
I wonder if I may finally be given leave to leave it.
So often have I dreamt of moving away it seems
a cage to be caught in this grey cityscape, some
black and white movie someone has forgotten
about, and I the lost cat abandoned in the dump.
I wonder if I will ever see snow again or if I will
become loved again, if this heavy note of rain
on a restless sun is all I will ever experience.
I want so much to see other landscapes, wet my feet
in other oceans, feel the salt breeze of other shores.
I am too weary, having loved in this forgotten city.
The peals of the church and the heavy traffic distract,
but my soul knows the perils of what it encountered:
affection turned distant, love turned ill, to illness.
Forgive me, my country, but I want to forget you,
as I have forgotten many things, I want to be done
with you, so I can rest, I want the ordeal to be over,
and yet, I know, the longer I reside here, the longer
the memories take over, and I can’t take it any longer.
Take me to the libraries of books yet unopened,
my story here is done: no backwards look, no longing
touch, no more to save my soul, and may forever
be in the hands of another in the shores of another
place, far, far away from this lonely city that will
forget me, will forget you, will forget us. I dip my
toes in salt water, and it stings, for a moment, to
stay a minute longer. I welcome the sting as I’ve
welcomed all pain into my heart, crucifying me.
But I know my time will come, my place is not here,
and the travel is far, but I will go, I will embark on
a journey, and I will change the feeble rocks of new
earth to the foundations of a building, knowing all
I’ve already left here, all I’m willing to leave behind.
A goodbye which, once uttered, solidifies in the air.

Angela Gabrielle Fabunan was born in the Philippines but grew up in New York City. Her first book, The Sea That Beckoned, was published by Platypus Press in 2019, and her second book, Young Enough to Play, is forthcoming from UP Press in 2021.

#finalpoems / [?]

Ruminations

If the world ends does it matter that I was
on the precipice of something really good here?
Or that I finally cleaned my room last night and folded
all of my clean clothes? I was listening to a podcast,
another one about death and life,
and now I am trying to work up tears
sitting at the kitchen table.
I am thinking about how this is how it
must have felt in Hawaii when they said
that it was going to implode—false alarm.
I wonder, are the Hawaiians better prepared for this right now?
I wonder who I will think about in the absolute final moment,
actually I wonder more who will think about me.
So I hope there is a stats board in the afterlife
I can see how many showers I took, kisses I missed,
or deaths I skipped happily by unaware. Or a score out of 100.
Although I haven’t really been living
these past six months anyways
by lived I mean my life has been boring
but if I have learned anything these past six months
it’s that boring means life is good.

Amelia Anthony is a student and writer living in Providence, RI. Her work can be found on www.ameelsonwheels.com or in The College Hill Independent, The Brown Daily Herald, and Whitehot Magazine.

#finalpoems / [?]

Enough

Pick me up and fling me into
The sky rattling with stars

As you fly
Let your thoughts fall to the ground one by one
Emptying the cavity
Admiring its spaciousness
So much potential hidden in the clutter
You could put up a retaining wall – a small, cut-glass vase?
Invest in a house plant with glossy wide leaves?
Learn the violin?

No

It doesn’t matter now
The emptier the better
There’s nothing more to say or think
You’ve done it

And frankly

We’re all so relieved

Laura Vincent (Ngāti Māhanga) is a writer from rural New Zealand. Her poetry has been featured in The Spinoff and Peach Magazine and she is currently working on her first and second novel and a poetry collection. She also has a thirteen year old food blog, hungryandfrozen.com.

#finalpoems / [?]

THE END

This is the beginning;
the last gasp is the first breath
taken when we crawled from out our salty womb
and claimed the land for our own.

The band strikes the first messy chord,
all squeaks and stutters,
but soon there will be music
thrumming through the bones of the earth

Here is where it starts;
at the terminal point –
what you think of as the last declarative punctuation
is only a question mark that lacks a curve.

Sarah ChristianScher is a poet trapped inside the body of a biologist. Her poetry has appeared in Dark Ink: A Poetry Anthology Inspired by Horror, Like A Girl: Perspectives on Feminism, and Short Poems Ain’t Got Nobody to Love. She has also been featured on the Silver Birch Press poetry blog, Voicemail Poems, and as Moon Tide Press Poet of the Month. To catch a glimpse of Sarah in her natural poetic habitat, find her at the Two Idiots Peddling Poetry open mic in Orange, California.

#finalpoems / [?]

Final Poem, To My Baby in Utero

Baby boy, and I am so glad
you are a submarine in my belly.
For you, the world is bioluminescence
in Tomales Bay. In your short life
you’ve seen a blue moon on Halloween.
You know of no cities being burned down,
no protesters in the streets.
You get to sleep with your eyes sealed,
and move through light and darkness
from your mother’s whale songs she sings
for you. Baby boy, you know of no
climate change or coral destruction.
You are as free as a wild dolphin,
spinning and growing out of
translucent lichen on my heart.

Lilly Beshore’s poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, North American Review, The Southampton Review, Tupelo Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, and others. Her first chapbook, When We Stood, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2014. She was born in Jiangxi, Nanchang, China, and now lives in Denver, Colorado. She attended the May Poetry Session at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and is a graduate of Harvard College.

#finalpoems / [?]

One small errand

When I think of life and death,
I always think
of laundry.
When I visit my twin sister,
she tells me
her favorite pants are dirty
which makes me afraid that she
will die before me.
I’ll likely hear Death’s footsteps
before I see him
although I don’t imagine he has feet
but footsteps, nonetheless.
He’ll ask if we can run a small errand
together before the final heaving
I’ll respond with some
unnecessary question, like
do I need to wear shoes
and we’ll share a smile
before leaving.
Death and I will follow signs
for the dry cleaners
and I’ll understand,
from his slow blink
and open hands,
that this must be the place where I
take stock of my living.
Death will take me to the back,
past the cash register
(there will be no other customers)
He’ll gesture, finally,
to the rotating garment rack
that orbiting automaton
which will be filled with silhouettes
of so many, many people
and all the silhouettes will be spinning,
slowly, with an electricity
that I will understand
I no longer belong to.
We will sit, cross-legged
on the cool concrete floor
the center of the rack
rotating above us. I’ll notice
my breath sounds
beginning to mimic the hum
of the machine,
I’ll shift my weight,
and touch my fingers
to my mouth
because it would be rude to pretend
that I was any good at this
and Death will say, shall we begin
and it will take us hours.
I hope the end will be like
laundry day, but in truth,
I know better
the end will feel like
the last day before the cleaning
when you are looking and looking
standing naked before a cracked mirror
asking your beloved
to wait for you
because there is nothing to wear
and you are not ready.

Lindsay Stewart is from Glen Ellen, California. Her second home is San Diego, where she is currently pursuing a master’s degree in American Literature at San Diego State University. Her work has previously been featured in The Los Angeles Review, What Rough Beast, and Kissing Dynamite, and one of her poems was recently featured on the Poetry Foundation’s VS podcast. She has work forthcoming in The I-70 Review.

#finalpoems / [?]

in your prius

let me imagine that we will return here
noonlight generous through the windshield
where we are going    I couldn’t say
and wouldn’t want to

with noonlight generous through the windshield
I’m scared to lean into
scared you wouldn’t want to
this humming quiet between us

I’m scared to lean into
like silver water undisturbed
this humming quiet    between us
every half glance is a wonder  a chance

to disturb the silver water
as delicate as breath
every half glance  a wonder  a chance
the greens of your eyes

as delicate as breath
where we are going    I couldn’t say
[far into the greens of your eyes]
let me imagine that we will return here

D.S. Waldman is a writer living on Kumeyaay land, in San Diego, California, where he teaches creative writing.  His work has most recently appeared in Copper Nickel, Poetry International, Los Angeles Review, and Tar River.  In 2019, he received two Pushcart Prize nominations and was selected by Ishion Hutchinson as winner of the Foothill Editor’s Prize.  He holds a BA from Middlebury College and is currently enrolled in the MFA program at San Diego State University.

#finalpoems / [?]

THE LAST POET’S LAST POEM

How love and death are best defined
in terms of intelligence distilled into truth
matters little now that this world is gone

under Gondwanaland, and us too;
but at least we can say we lived our lives
to the full, stretched our potential, knew

the impunity of being true to ourselves, which
was only being what we dreamed we were.
At least we knew love under the stars,

dared to dream, to feel all, to see free.
No archaic-hearted words could fathom
the privation we seem to be about to forego –

and so the cold vacuity of space will grow
emptied of the human form and hang about
like a Mark Rothko painting on the wall of

God forever without any senses to perceive it,
to live it and take it in. – The irresponsible
matter of the elements can reign againe,

like a romance of chemicals and dust –
and I trust that silence will win – but I
thank you for the good times we shared,

the inspiration you gave me to write, though
all our poems were useless for the end
was always going to arrive, marrying

the prelapsarian and the eschatological,
into one ultimate terminal and end-point.
The good book says loss is the mother

of imagery, intimation with death breeds
new truth, but how we will ever know that now
I do not know, and would you like

to see my insect collection, and has
Pooh Bear found his inward God on a plane,
and shall we run away and have a jam?

John Tucker was born in London in 1982 and is now based in Cumbria. He graduated from Lancaster University in 2009 and has had poems published in various webzines including snakeskin and gists and piths.

#finalpoems / [?]

Our Story

You send me off into the night
with the deepest kiss and the idea
that this life is not mine. Tiny
fairies light up the dark
as I push away from your shore
and think who am I to claim ownership
of this rickety craft, this barely
floating vessel: your not returning
my things or throwing them by
the wayside meant we would meet
again, of course we would, and join
souls in yet another thunderous night
of joy and utter delight. You said
life is too short. And how could
I not agree despite plenty else
we fought over, insisting the other
was the jerk and so why even bother
trying. But it’s a recurring dream:
limb latching on to coiling limb
as we become this sturdy mast
over hurling waves. I am always
prepared to forsake everything,
even the house where I supposedly
live. I’ll take off my mask and breathe
in all the viruses of the universe,
not to mention those hidden virtues
from my other life, and I’ll dive
into that political morass they call
truth, or away from it, into a lucent
skin called being: a sweetness
of pastures and steppes and all
the wildflowers of the heart. When
I was a boy I knew you were real
and when I die I would want to go
the same way, drifting off down
stream and watching those fireflies
splinter the brooding summer
interlude like a million ticklish
pinpricks of heaven.

Francis Fernandes grew up in the US and Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in Mathematics. He has published in The Zodiac Review, What Rough Beast, Third Wednesday, Poetry Potion, Montréal Writes, Underwood, Bywords. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.

#finalpoems / [?]

‘Infinite’

you came without
an invite

patted down

and here you are
at an awakening

the excitement of
an unprecedentedly perfect
drink of hot milk,
still, in the glass,
a meal of steam
waiting to leap
at your throat,
give it honey

will there be women,
will there be dancing,
slow and deliberate
behind plastic screens
at the press of //fingers//coins//
the wave of //notes//hands//

needle heels sucked
by ethereal rubber
neon asking
fingers traipsing
the threat
of a pink corridor

teal blue pixelates
into bright night that
is all that stands
between you and your fortune,
having the kindness,
the paternity
to make you wait,
clear your throat, straighten your suit
before you enter

Darcy (she/they) is a queer, bisexual actor-writer of mixed British and Asian heritage, based in North Yorkshire. Her work has also been featured on Alpha Female Society, Forever Endeavour and 330 Words.

#finalpoems / [?]

Upon My Death

Upon my death,
The Final Breath of Consciousness.
The played out pawn dropping
All the pain upon the promise
Of a better life’s dawn.
Letting go of the world insane.
Forgetting thoughts and feelings
The reel killing freedom seen through
The stained glass window in my brain
That also shows me everything
To live my life like heaven’s king.
Count my blessings
I am ready for everything,
I am ready for nothing,
I am ready for severing.

Upon my death, I humbly request the mental rest of emptiness.
Been chilling in this make believe mess of an absurdly endless existence
Looking at the living through a lens of the infinite bend,
The great beyond is skimmed
The light that shines on the shadow of the night is dimmed,
Until the reality of romance and a slow dance settles in,
And at the top of the pyramid
All alone
All one
Again.

Upon my life, I strive to reconcile the deep divide of the hive mind.
Upon my death, one more, one less
Breath of Consciousness
I wish to leave behind a better world than this
Blessed by the core of the source,
An endless outpour of bliss,
I blow out my flame of time
And blow the burning world a kiss.
Upon my death, they may ask why
But life is an open ended question
And I whisper my answer: goodbye.

Arken Porter is a nomadic poet, short story writer, novelist, photographer, filmmaker, painter, fashion designer co-founder of Body Bag Artifacts and lyricist/frontman of a band called Vomit Sawdust, born and raised in Tampa, Florida with an adamant tendency to embark on world adventures and lead a life of raw creativity completed by cycles of endless observation and expression beyond one mind’s imagination.

#finalpoems / [?]

Every Poet’s Heart’s Desire

Every poet’s Heart’s desire
Is each Truth told—that we Aspire—

Long we to be so gladly Dead
With not one buried Word unsaid—

Pray not our thoughts Wild remain—
Save ones found in the Public Domain

Mary Louise Kiernan’s poetry has been published in The New York Times and elsewhere. She was awarded the 2015 Poetry Prize co-sponsored by Tempe Public Library and Arizona State University. Her full-length collection, “The Gift of Glossophobia,” is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

#finalpoems / [?]

Life Journey

There were times when I’m also tired
of this journey we call life.

You see, I’ve done all that needs
to be done, welcomed many moons,

climbed many mountains, nurtured
children from my aging womb,

welcomed grandchildren, cherished
loyal dogs, battled cancer, taught,

many to write, cared for a volatile mother.
I’ve paid my dues. I paid them all.

I am ready to wave goodbye to memories
and bow to gratitude—

offer a love, profound now, and take in
the passion which has sustained us.

And so it is. Please let me
go now…please.

Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a poet, memoirist, blogger, teacher, and award-winning author of ten books and 1000 articles/poems. She blogs for Psychology Today, Wisdom Daily, Thrive Global and many others. She frequently speaks and facilitates workshops on writing for healing transformation. For more information, visit: dianaraab.com. 

#finalpoems / [?]

Green June, late
Morning, bright
Light

Make your coffee, make
Your eggs, meet
Me out back

Water the plants,
Move some things around,
Pick some arugula

When was the last time I washed my hair?
When was the last time you said you loved me
And meant it?

Soap up each other’s backs in the shower
Tell me that all of your firsts
Have been with me

Just love me,
Or at least lie to me
Just a little longer

Arielle McManus is learning as she goes and writing one liners from a tiny, sunlit room in Brooklyn. Her work has been published on Literary North, and more of her work can be found on her site, ariellemcmanus.com.