Poseidon’s Memory

Poseidon’s Memory by Elissa Capelle Vaughn

I leaned over the cliff, expecting Poseidon to break through the waves and flood the sky with aquamarine and gold.

What I found was a sea of rotting kelp beds stretching past the horizon. His underwater forests were just a memory decaying on the surface of the ocean.

The sulfuric air was still. There wasn’t even a ripple under the dead canopy. I imagined myself walking clear across toward the setting sun.

I watched the sun go down on that cliff, but I didn’t lose hope that something magical would happen.

I’ll never forget how bright the moon was when the Loch Ness emerged from Poseidon’s memory like a mountain.

<strong>Elissa Capelle Vaughn</strong>
Elissa Capelle Vaughn

Elissa Capelle Vaughn is a multi-genre writer who fuses poetry, micro-fiction, and fantasy. She holds a bachelor’s degree in art history from San Francisco State University and works in marketing as a copywriter and content writer.

Follow her work on Instagram at @ellepacca

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Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Photo of Lawrence Ferlinghetti reading in front of City Lights Books

A Literary Light: Lawrence Ferlinghetti

A beautiful literary light passed on February 22, 2021. He inspired a love for books, poetry, and art. Ferlinghetti strove to create a social environment where people could gather and discuss their passion for poetry, books, and the arts. And he succeeded when he founded City Lights. He’s an inspiration to me and what Eve Poetry Magazine represents. I encourage you to read further about Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I’ve linked each of the passages to their sources.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, distinguished American poet, artist and founder of City Lights Booksellers and Publishers in San Francisco, died February 22. He was 101 years old. In a tribute, City Lights noted that Ferlinghetti “was instrumental in democratizing American literature by creating (with Peter D. Martin) the country’s first all-paperback bookstore in 1953, jumpstarting a movement to make diverse and inexpensive quality books widely available. He envisioned the bookstore as a ‘Literary Meeting Place,’ where writers and readers could congregate to share ideas about poetry, fiction, politics, and the arts. Two years later, in 1955, he launched City Lights Publishers with the objective of stirring an ‘international dissident ferment.’ [His own Pictures of the Gone World] was the first volume of the City Lights Pocket Poets Series, which proved to be a seminal force in shaping American poetry.”

Shelf Awareness | Obituary Note | Feb. 24, 2021

Ferlinghetti and City Lights

In 1955, Ferlinghetti launched City Lights Publishers with the Pocket Poets Series, extending his concept of a cultural meeting place to a larger arena. His aim was to present fresh and accessible poetry from around the world in order to create “an international, dissident ferment.” The series began in 1955 with his own Pictures of the Gone World; translations by Kenneth Rexroth and poetry by Kenneth Patchen, Marie Ponsot, Allen Ginsberg, and Denise Levertov were soon added to the list.

From: A Biography of
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
on citylights.com
Home » Archives for February 2021

A Stale Chapati

A Stale Chapati by Muskan Sharma

I went into the kitchen escaping from the deadly silence that follows a catastrophe. With my mom weeping in a shady corner of a locked room and my father sternly reflecting over his life on the balcony, no food was cooked that night. I began to search amid the scattered paraphernalia of the kitchen when luckily I found a stale chapati in the casserole. Succumbing to the material exigency of my body, I went ahead to extract a course out of a crumb.

The torn pieces of the ‘whole’ chapati, bit by bit, settled the wavering acceptance of my family’s rupture that had been simmering in me. Liberating my saturated tear ducts while chopping onions, I deceived myself and the desolate kitchen walls into believing the falsity of my tears. 

Flowing into the task of dicing tomatoes, my tears coalesced with their pulp and freshness, bled into the pleasant memories of my once happy family. I kindled the flame to the frying pan, waited for the oil to heat, and finally released the shredded onions in it. Their frenzied splash was no less than a rebellion, silenced with time that shrouded their pain in a golden robe. 

Sorted vegetables, basic spices, and a stale chapati were the ingredients of my art, a recipe borne out of grief and hunger.

Adapting to the engulfing isolation of my room, I strived to eat. Every bite initiated fresh tears, loaded with anguish and amazement to trickle down my drooping cheeks. The unreasonable guilt of being hungry on a day, symbolic of my family’s failure ached my heart. My parent’s infidelity was a sword stained with the murder of my jovial childhood, abandoning a dispirited teenager, uncertain of her actions in this wildly unsettled world. 

The simple yet so appealing flavours of the dish evoked an impulsive response of awe in my heart, which made me wonder if it is loss that makes us cherish the simple pleasures of life. 

With no reaching hands, no affectionate cajolings, without a smile, slowly and with difficulty, I struggled to finish the food that night.

Food, though a requirement, appeals to the senses and invokes the warm memories of love, happiness, care, intimacy, and sometimes, grief. To me, the memories of food were the unconditional love of my grandmother poured every summer in a mango milkshake jar, the school friendship kindled by the sharing of my special pasta, the blueberry pancakes that sweetened the air on my first date. Those cute fights with my mother when she promised but did not make my favourite dish and my father’s affection boxed in an ice cream tub until the day my parents sanctioned their divorce and all those beautiful memories faded into the painful one of a stale chapati.

<strong>Muskan Sharma</strong>
Muskan Sharma

I am Muskan, from India an undergrad student majoring in literature. I am an avid reader and a writer.

I feel strongly for the things around and do not shy away from voicing my opinions. Apart from literature my interests lie in music, drawing and calligraphy.

Instagram: @thelabyrinthinethoughts

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Mountain House

Mountain House by Ron Tobey

You wear chaste tennis whites
modest skirt hemmed at your knees
front-buttoned short sleeved blousy shirt
white socks and canvas shoes
for the clay court
unusual attire for a date
we sit on a double wicker chair
on the Golf Shop porch
next to the Coca Cola dispenser.
At the record hop for teen guests of the Waumbek
you slow dance with me
a golf course employee
keeping greens
press tight as a lady’s deer-skin leather golfing glove.
Eighteen, reddish brunette hair cut above your shoulders,
skin blossoming rose after the day’s trials,
40-love
point
set
match
the model for the Coca Cola ad campaign
on the back cover of Life magazine
1963.
When you kiss you relax
your tongue gently traces the outline of my lips
in your mouth I glimpse life’s distance
moonlight reflects off the Presidential peaks
snow furtively glows above the tree line
Reverend Tuckerman’s glacial ravine
skiers in July race slalom flags and rocks
hay
mowed meadows
grass hills
roll out of Jefferson Intervale
the Waumbek golf course
pours liquid in the evening over the near landscape
dew settles on the whipped bentgrass
moles in silence hollow out their dark worlds
at whisker length beneath
ancestors in the cemetery call me
from coffins in granitic ground
near the 1913 Episcopal stone church
a cool Sunday morning you pray
bow your head
as now to rest upon my neck.
You are the girl I cannot see
falling for me
twist my life in poetry
I hear you fondle my rhymes
recite my lines in whisper
magically in my ancestors’ lyrical Irish brogue
play the Mountain House tennis circuit
two weeks here more contests
Balsams, Mount Washington, Mountain View
you hold my hand until your mother drives you away
from the portico where porters load your luggage
your blue-black tote of stringed tennis racquets in your car trunk.

Let go
you reappear

alarms clog the gutters
worry taps the window
death coughs at the door

in dilapidated memory
I am not free.

<strong>Ron Tobey</strong>
Ron Tobey

Ron Tobey lives in West Virginia, where he and his wife raise cattle and keep goats and horses. He is an imagist poet, grounding experiences and moods in concrete descriptives, including haiku, storytelling, and recorded poetry, and in filmic interpretation. He occasionally uses the pseudonym, Turin Shroudedindoubt, for literary and artistic work.

He has published in several dozen digital and print literary magazines, including Truly U Review,  Prometheus DreamingBroadkill ReviewCabinet of HeedAtticus Review, and The Light Ekphrastic. His video poetry may be viewed at vimeo.com/userturin, recorded poems at soundcloud.com/turin-s.

Twitter: @Turin54024117

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Comfort

Comfort by Arwyn Vincent

You were a bipolar mess
and I was covered
in the low-road dust
of aimless men
but as you sobbed into my chest
I found tangled
iridescent
threads of heaven
coiled into your brown hair
and together
we gathered them
into a generous blanket
of shimmering lace
to veil
and comfort
our tumultuous hearts

Lie to Me by Arwyn Vincent

We know where this is going . . .

so before Time’s groping
hands take us into its cold embrace
and we fall into the dust
of old dreams
just
(for the love of God!)
kiss my careless lips
and lie to me
(please lie to me)
tell me our souls will unite
as afterglow in the dreams
of young lovers

Radiant Gift by Arwyn Vincent

I love the mornings
when it’s like the sun
leans over the earth
just for me
and lends me
its waking radiance
its slow dancing
glow of new morning light
to restore my heart
from desolate
night

<strong>Arwyn Vincent</strong>
Arwyn Vincent

I am an American author and typewriter enthusiast from the Northeast. My poetry is a remix of my experiences, observations, and imagination.

I gather these fragments and braid them together to explore my favorite subjects: love and heartbreak. I try to keep it simple.

Find me on Instagram @arwynpoetry

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The Antidote

The Antidote by August Jackson

When poison drips
from their gaping lips,
you may feel that
all you possess
is a river.

My dear,
you carry the antidote
in your veins,
so whatever lies
they may feed you
know that they serve
no purpose
here in yourself.

When A Man Cries by August Jackson

Tell me, darling.
How does a gentle snowfall
inspire a raging avalanche
as exquisitely as you do?
How does such an unmovable presence,
such an untouchable peace
become so frigid
and gorgeously undone?
Help me to make sense
of these contradictions.
How, my love?
How do you make weakness
look so strong?

<strong>August Jackson</strong>
August Jackson

August Jackson is a passionate poet and aspiring author from Florida. With a love for soul sharing, she is currently working on her debut collection of poetry while pursuing a bachelor of arts degree in Georgia.

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Listen

Listen by Gabriel Angrand

I listen
to the whispers
of One who filled spaces
with words
and birthed light
out of nowhere

Warped time and space
to terraform homes
for all kinds of life

Spoke autobiography
into biospheres that leave us
with a million
thousand words
behind our irises

And from mountain
tops to ocean floors
all nature roars in volumes speaking of its Lion King

I’m listening
to the whispers and
they tell me,
“He can reform you too”

“Rebrand you
with the mission
He gave your ancestors
and we hope you’ll let Him
speak through you too”

<strong>Gabriel Angrand</strong>
Gabriel Angrand

I am Gabriel Angrand, a Haitian American pastor’s kid who started writing poetry in the 4th grade! I feel like I’ve always written poems like mirrors because poetry became a powerful way to reflect on my emotions and my faith.

Just like me, I hope you can see yourself in my poetry and come away from it learning something new. I have a second book coming out this year, so follow me on Instagram to stay up-to-date!

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On Deck

On Deck by Stephen Mead

Crazy and not minding what is, after all,
only a word.
Further down is the street queen wearing
her usual wedding dress. It always looks
new & her hair is just so, immaculate Geri-curls
framing a face wizened as an infant’s
with the whisper of a smirk.

She’s wearing that now
as prowling tom cats in sailor suits,
as souvenir-laden tourists, the immigrants to come,
the immigrants of old, hold an inner Ellis Island,
hold a home port or know not knowing a home to lose.

I am on this ship banishing all thoughts
of selfishness for that, to us, may be just a walk
to some junk shop. What is forgiveness to some junk
on high seas, some multi-tiered wedding cake
about to pull anchor?

I think of love, the fall hard and fast, yet kept under a hat.
I think also of its potential ascension and these waves, words
in a diary writing, wiping themselves out.
Here, all is entirely possible & nothing is.

Now the horizon is a moving night city, a great
lit-windowed bus, and I, feeling all this, believe death
may come as a shrug. The calm then will be neither
indifferent or cold, just another area to open & say
“hello there” to, gladly perhaps, or a bit reserved,
with respect, expectations kept in check entirely.

Perhaps this finally is the time of humanity’s going,
as so many in the past, thought of their own age.
Perhaps this is the dawn of another time’s birth pangs
& it is all always about voyaging. Order. Restoration.
Some here. Some there, with chaos a constant fringe.

“I know. I’ve a few ideas,” the crazy street queen says,
handing me her wedding dress.

<strong>Stephen Mead</strong>
Stephen Mead

Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s, he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have kept various day jobs for the Health Insurance. 

Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations, and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum

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First Snow

First Snow by John Mungiello

The window shows me
Everything. I give it nothing,
But a reflection. Half present—
Wrapped into what I was born
To be by some other man. By
Some other lady who said, “call me love”.
I thought we had to earn what we get, so
Tell me how to live. I can ease your dying
By force. With my arms
Let them knot till the pain pops
In my brain. On a slab they will
Unfold each lobe to find
The word that killed me_______.

I will not die by suicide, but by my own hands
Slowly disappearing, like the wet stain on this glass
Blocking the front yard. I am in
Every snowflake inevitably forming
Into a storm. I am the one
Melting, hydrating the corners
Nobody thought to mark
With a name_____________

Sailing by John Mungiello

She told me they
Told her she
Was too boyish.
I told her they
Told me I was too
Much of a pussy
To be a
Boy, when they looked
At me, brow up. Lips hung.
Not understanding
The woman who lived
inside my only belly.

A suffragette picketing to
Break out. How they hated her
Growing larger than the man
I was told to become
By a smaller man.
By smaller men who
Spit on green lawns.
Turning grass to piss.
Covering windows in egg,
cream and yolk. A hard on.
Wee-wee-wee, all
The way home.

How they love it when I wear black.
Hair slicked back. Crown
Of sharp molasses.
The shine traps an image
Of the boy I was before
I saw the mirror.
Before I had to pretend my hairline
Wasn’t sailing past the horizon.
Rising before disappearing
Under sun. Fading
Behind an ocean
And tell me what happens
Once it’s all gone and what
Will they make me do?
Grow a beard
To balance the disappearance;
Wear a bandanna, printed
With stripes that preach
The new religion of Patriot.
Or, plug the spot with
Hair from my ass.

If none of those, maybe they will
Tell me to button my tie
As tight as they who made
Me say to my Self, goodbye.
No. I’m not keen on choking.
Not keen on resting
Until the kicking in my stomach stops
From welcoming my baby girl into a
Home not shaped like another’s shadow.
I’ll build my own.
Casted from sunlight.
Made for him.
Made for her.
A roofless room
With a crib to grow from.
With a bed to rest in.
With arms to hold and
Breasts to nourish.

For now, she will keep kicking
And I will shrug her off
By calling her “just gas.”
I brought the conversation back
To the present and ended by
Telling her to build her own
Boat. calling herself captain of
Her own body sailing along
Her own shore, holding one finger out
Toward the clearing asking the sky if it hurts
To be out in the open and it will answer
Inevitably, “Never.”

<strong>John Mungiello</strong>
John Mungiello

John Mungiello is the author of Streamlining Oblivion, available on amazon. His poems have appeared in Lucky Jefferson Magazine, CapsuleStories Magazine, and PSPOETS.

Currently, he is working on a new book of poems. He works as a high school art and special education teacher and lives in Riverdale, New Jersey with his wife, Laura.

Find him on Instagram: @jmungiello and Twitter: @jmungielloart

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