Winter Whispers

Winter Whispers by Francesca Mari

Winter whispers willful to Time’s Tale
For the fourth chapter of this masquerade
As quiet undercover luring nightingale
Silver its feathers, freezing the jolly serenade
Sang in the dim light of a Sun now pale,
Imposes his coming on every window pane,
Steals from the leather leaves a steel rail,
Spring is a weary memory of the older maid,
Persistent stumps announce his steed: Hail
He engraves dense fog with an ice blade
The figure escaped from crisp folktale
Creases tell of horror and barricades
His eyes liquid mirrors for the sky of Dales,
Immutable indomitable General leading the charade

<strong>Francesca Mari</strong>
Francesca Mari

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you Nobody too? 
– Emily Dickinson

I’m a Nobody finding her way towards being Somebody, Francesca Mari, nice to meet you. I’m a young poet and aspiring writer born and raised in Italy or, in other words, a little woman following a dream. I believe in the power of words and the change they can inspire, which led me to choose Modern Literature at university.  

I’ve always expressed myself and tried to encapsulate the world around me through writing and art in general, being music, acting, dancing, photography or with brushes and paint. 

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The Midnight Sun

The Midnight Sun by Lindsay Schroeder

I wish to see you
every hour of every day,
watch the sun come up with you
and watch it as it goes down.
Making coffee, holding mugs,
interlacing our fingers one by one.
Each hour goes by and I miss you more.
Our desire like the midnight sun,
never sleeps but glows brighter.
The winter has a way of connecting
our souls in the silence of its balance
of long days and sleepless nights,
learning to rest, learning to wait.
How valuable it is to grow in
the delay of gratification,
finding that we took the right risk
in letting each other in.

<strong>Lindsay Schroeder</strong>
Lindsay Schroeder

Lindsay Schroeder is an artist turned poet from Vancouver, Canada. Her art ranges from landscape painting to mixed media collages, gathering inspiration from hiking into the mountains and sharing memories with the ones she loves. Her poetry speaks about love, heartache, beauty, healing, and nature, and her poetry book The Art of Letting Go combines both poetry and her moody collages. You can find her on instagram: @poemsby.lindsay 

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Yair Michaeli

Nurse Mary (I Need You) by Yair Michaeli

I checked into the lobby of her one room apartment,
darkened corridor filled with paintings of Jesus.
The fountain throbbed in the hall of this hotel,
shuttered windows,
subtle innuendos,
three knocks.

The night was hot and black,
clothes stuck to our shirts.
The story is about summer and you,
and her dark little island of a room,
and all of her crooked roads,
that had their footprints in my odes.

She was born under the star of Venus, three stars above me.
Her light blue eyes, filled with humbleness, softly saddened.
Her painter’s eyes, mercury mouth at the biblical times.
Hair that was colored like wine dark sea fell down on her breast,
on lips that looked like bare roses,
blushing with blood, eating themselves with desire.

I was a wounded soldier, long afloat on a ship less sea.
Deserted and displaced from the war.
A war between the black and white,
A war between the man and the woman.
Utopian infant, Eutopian mother.
Born into this life, thrown into this world.

We entered the darkened room, and purposely didn’t turn on the lights.
She threw her house keys and bag on her bed, lit a cigarette.
Offered me one, however she took some of my own.
Looking into her eyes through the smoke, where the moonlight floats.
Lit lamp that was hanging from a distant boat.
Now I saw, there was a painting by Arnold Bocklin hanging on the wall.

Spoken Word by Yair Michaeli

A small rowing boat is just arriving at a water gate and seawall on shore.
An oarsman maneuvers the boat from the stern. In the boat, facing the gate, is a standing figure clad entirely in white, a lone loon dives upon the water. Just behind him, there is a festooned object commonly interpreted as a coffin. The tiny islet is dominated by a dense grove of tall, dark cypress and willow trees. The Mephistopheles is just beneath him. As siren grabs him from the of the edge of the boat, underwater.

And she wraps up my tired face in her hair
And she hands me the apple core,
Two birds in a cage, drinking lovers wine and eating bread.

I’ll stop in the middle and skip things between me and her. (It comes to us all, soft as a pillow)

The oarsman has gone
And the loons have flown for cover.
And me I am on trail, in the funeral of my lover.

<strong>Yair Michaeli</strong>
Yair Michaeli

Yair Michaeli is an aspiring Israeli poet, musician, painter and an upcoming short stories artist. He has been a lifelong writer and first began creating other worlds and characters at third grade.

In addition to the Bible, many other literary influences can be found in his texts, such as Leonard Cohen, Homer, William Faulkner and Bob Dylan. But his most significant muse is Leonard Cohen, saying that he is the reason why he writes. His poetics are romantic, melancholic and are often based on transcendence, often taking the Old Testament as a point of reference. Citing Romantic painters and 20th century philosophers as a significant source of inspiration.

Maintaining lyrical obsessions that frequently describe death, religion, love and violence scenery. Yair lives and works out of his home, and spends his summers traveling and going to the beach with his friends.

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Ari Lohr

A Poem I Wrote for My Hypothetical Husband While Stoned by Ari Lohr

hi. nice to meet you. my name is Ari. better known as the poet, known as the guy who saw you on tinder once, swiped right, wrote three half-assed similes about you and told you that i was a writer over text. when i say i’m a writer, i mean that i’m awkward. when i say that i’m awkward, i mean i will double-text you a love poem.

apparently, i’m not that good at first dates.
turns out
hiding all your flirting in mixed metaphors
because you’re too scared to talk to people
is a terrible way to continue a conversation
or establish any sort of human connection.
who knew?

some might say i’m a prick but i prefer the term rosebush. i’m cute, flowery, and pink, but at the same time i’m not afraid to cut a bitch. i am the type of guy who calls themselves badass, but gets embarrassed when their cat sees them naked after a shower. sometimes, i fantasize about gravity, write some weird metaphor about saturn, or love, or beg for you to dip me in your wedding ring arms like watch this, like listen to this rising pulse reach crescendo, like each heartbeat i give is a manifesto to breathing, like i love you so much i cannot breathe without being in your orbit, like sometimes, the difference between cardiac arrest and love is simply how poetic it is to write about. when i tell you that no one can write you like i do, i mean when you comfort me in the middle of an anxiety attack, i thank you by exhaling despite being breathless at your touch, by holding hurricanes in my chest and calling you my storm chaser, by not knowing what else to do but make noise, because indecision is the loudest form of silence i know. in that moment, i will tell you i love you for the first time that is not a poem. but what is this if not a poem? what is love if not the lonely language of ink? what is a poem if not the home of the heart’s most violent vocabulary? give me a pen or make me a god – i will love with the same penmanship. when i tell you i love you, i mean that in some stanza, somewhere, we are still sharing our first kiss. that in the space of three lines, our hearts harmonize in 1000 different dialects and swell to the silent song of the same supernova every second. when i write, the paper sings. with a single sonnet, i could serenade the sky to sleep ‘till this night lasts forever. there is no eye in this storm, only us. somewhere, i once saw a bottomless pit and jumped, which is to say that i am always falling for you.

when the sun rises and the ink dries, i’ll press my ear to the page and hear your name thaw in the warm morning air. i’ll text you and say i’m a writer, when, really, i am just braver over a keyboard than in person. i’ll be so crazy and chaotic and weird, but i’ll cherish every minute i spend searching for the right words. when i say that i’m a writer, i mean that every day, i greet the morning with ink, close my eyes and reach out and again, you are right here. i am always too awkward to say anything except

hi. nice to meet you. you know my name already.

<strong>Ari Lohr</strong>
Ari Lohr

Ari Lohr is a wannabe-astronaut-turned-poet attending university in Boston, MA. He is a Brave New Voices semifinalist, and has performed at various regional slams such as Slamlandia, Portland Poetry Slam, Verselandia, and more. Focusing on the symbiotic relationship between gravity, mental health, queer love, and grief, Ari’s poetry appears in the Big Windows Review, Kalopsia Lit, and Incandescent Review, and is set to appear in various publications in 2021 including the Imperial Death Cult. He is also the managing editor for the Bitter Fruit Review magazine, and the editor-in-chief of the Jupiter Review. Ari can be found at arilohr.com or @i.o.jupiter on instagram.

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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

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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