June 29, 2019

Hiding out in Bathrooms by Julia Hwang

Posted by in Member Writing & Art, Writing
Hiding out in Bathrooms by Julia Hwang

I. Shame eating + the sterility of bleach = A well-balanced breakfast? I stuff Kit Kat wrappers in with feminine waste and wipe my hands of chocolate on too tight pants   II. Scream and smash and scream some more and throw the vase’s remains against the door Icy water surges and deafens I recoil into a pool of red  How shocking! That a hand holds this much blood That our pain could clog a drain III. DON’T DO IT Whoops too late I POP and SQUEEZE and SCRATCHwatching tiny pricks of blood bloom across my face I am bumpy, bitter ugliness I refuse to recognize her  I dab away tears with salicylic acid I bury her with clay  IV. I am grown I am a woman yet still, I hide out in bathroomsscarfing down deli meats wiping at my nose, sloppily I am a girl eavesdropping on whispers and giggles avoiding conference calls and confrontation drowning out crying babies, sirens wailing catching a breath always ashamed still alone  Julia Hwang is an emerging poet writing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her work, which tends to be narrative, women-focused,…

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June 25, 2019

Charles Rammelkamp: History, Politics, and People

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Charles Rammelkamp: History, Politics, and People

The Crud   My mother called him “the crud,” my brother’s friend Alan. I’m not sure what she had against him, besides his lack of ambition – she was a schoolteacher, after all – Alan destined to work in one of the steel factories after graduating from high school – at least until the steel factories all closed.   The Crud loved cars. He could tell you the make and model and year of anything with four wheels and an engine, sported decals of hotrods and muscle cars all over his school folders.   He did speak vaguely of “joining the service,” as his older brother had, then having all his teeth pulled, dentures installed in their place, the stubby twisted teeth in his mouth, a source of private anguish.   When my brother mentioned…

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June 17, 2019

Kyla Houbolt: A Natural Poetic Eye

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Kyla Houbolt: A Natural Poetic Eye

What the Bears Do  If this is a dream I will open the eyes of my eyes before life kills us all.  I want to see what the bears do. I open the ears of my ears when there is a dear hum  or sound of grinding  that burns. The bears  hear it too. The bears   are not dancing. They may surround us with their large smell  of hot fur or drop to the ground, lope off into woods we did not know were there until  the bears claimed them.  We have received from the bears something of fur of the woods of knowing in our blood but what about  when blood is gone?  What then?  Then I will wait for the tiger  sure to come. I am not prey. I will follow  and not be mazed by that hungry  chthonic gaze.  It may be that any death should feed somebody, but in my family we burn our dead.  Journey For a Monday  Monday and suddenly I feel an intense longing for the desert….

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June 13, 2019

The Poetry of Michael Glassman

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The Poetry of Michael Glassman

DEATH IN THE DESERT  Heat waves frolic along the desert’s endless edge I hear the shuffling of camel’s toes The soft landing of camel dung  The smell adding to my woes My knees embedded in sand Awaiting the wrath of the Queen of Hearts The bald ibis watches from his rocky perch I glimmer a glint of silver through shrouded eyes To the camels and ibis it’s no surprise They’ve seen many times how a man dies  Heat waves frolic along the desert’s endless edge Having no power to stop their play On a whim of the wind they hold their place The camel and Ibis are rarely seen Betwixt the sand and the dust devil’s space The wind has no say as to what happens next When frolicking ends and attention is paid A man with no head leaves them perplexed To the camel and ibis it’s no surprise They’ve seen many times how a man dies  NEWTOWN SCHOOL BUS DRIVER’S…

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May 30, 2019

The Poetry of Emily Strauss

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The Poetry of Emily Strauss

I Will Be Buried with Mice   Archaeologists in Egypt have recovered about 50 mummified animals, including mice, from a well-preserved and finely painted tomb.. NYT 4/6/19     My name is Ta-Shirit. Let my tomb be painted in ochre and lapis with falcon wings outspread on the lintel. See my life. There sits my husband Tutu on his throne watching over us. I hold my daughter’s hand another falcon glides by. She plays hand games as the mice run underfoot. I love them all, my young husband who comes with furry animals for me to pet, who brings our beautiful child into the winter sun, the second wife sweet and doting to us. We are happy together.The mice eat crumbs their rustling at night a sign that day would return; all would be right…

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