The worms live in our basement, in two large storage bins stacked on the floor amid the clutter. Eventually, when I’ve built out more shelves and cabinets, they’ll have their own oversize drawers I can easily slide out when it’s time to feed them. I’ll carve the word WORMS into the wood, knowing that when Caroline and I are dead, new owners will puzzle over what was meant by WORMS. I mean worms. Red wigglers; Eisenia fetida in the Latin. …
Tag: Winter
“2 a.m. Uber on a Winter Night” * Poetry * Leah Mosier-Farquharson
You can’t have expectations for a 2 a.m. pick-upand so it should’ve seemed entirely natural,greased Dali moustache, red-leather interior,the neutral Honda,low to the curb like an anesthetized drunk in their 20son a winter night. We climbed in the backseat,the driver’s ensuing monologue making ustravelling disciples. Secular wine-drunk,looking for a good story or something to believe in. Our fault for asking, “How are you?”The bait, his response; “Not good.”We didn’t even need to provoke, the answers came as freelyas the air’s …
Read More "“2 a.m. Uber on a Winter Night” * Poetry * Leah Mosier-Farquharson"
“Flight of Barn” * Nonfiction * Rebecca Blaevoet
Today I would like to curate a flight you’ve probably never imagined. No barista course or sommelier training will teach you about the subject we will study today, but it is one all farmers know. Our barn is the staging area: it’s long and symmetrical, wood-paneled a la New Brunswick winter, weathered, rustic, unshakable as the hill it stands on. We swing through the little postern, and enter a palatial gallery, tall wooden doors marching down the length like theatre …
Read More "“Flight of Barn” * Nonfiction * Rebecca Blaevoet"
“Harboring Hyacinths” and Other Poems * John Muro
Harboring Hyacinths Fist-thick cobs could well Collapse under the weight Of their fragrant muscle; Curdled pink and purple Pestles that split the tender Lip of bulbs, and, in one Thrust, choked, swallowed And sweetened air. Now Embolden, become near- Perennial squatters by the Bay window; daylong Appeal to smell mostly With a raw, unremitting Redolence as if they knew The sense most easily seduced And addicted to their presence And so overlook their sins of Excess and untimely hope; Would …
Read More "“Harboring Hyacinths” and Other Poems * John Muro"
Three Poems of Out-of-Season Smells * Rob Lowe
Out of Season Sand and stones and the sea Wind and a hazy view Clouds invading the sky Sea defences below Rocks groynes grey promenade Solitary dog-walkers Crash of winter shingle Emptiness you can smell You search for a tissue Turn up your brown collar You appear as closed up As dead shrimps in their shell Green stink of dry seaweed Litter in the old Dingle Whose muddy path threaded Beside a gunged-up stream Broken shopping trolleys A couple of …
Five Visual Poems of Scent by J.I. Kleinberg
These visual poems by J.I. Kleinberg are from an ongoing series of collages (2000+) built from phrases created unintentionally through the accident of magazine page design. Each contiguous fragment of text (transcribed as a poetic line) is entirely removed from its original sense and syntax. The text is not altered (except for the occasional deletion of prefixes, suffixes, or punctuation) and includes no attributable phrases. The lines of each collage are, in most cases, sourced from different magazines. —About J.I. …
“April is the Cruellest Month…” * ‘The Wasteland’ (The Burial of the Dead) by T. S. Eliot
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. …