Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
"Anna Bristow grew up in the Bronx and now lives in Brooklyn. She is a freelance editor and has an MA in English from Fordham University. Her poetry has been published in several online journals, including The Pregnant Moon Review, and Flask and Pen, as well as included in Names in a Jar: A Collection of Poetry by 100 Contemporary American Poets and an upcoming anthology of poems themed by state. She is also an Assistant Poetry Editor for the literary journal 42opus. Her life is divided into trying to make a living editing other people's work, and trying to find enough time to write her own."
The Starbucks Hover
He is outside
One hand is occupied
with a clove cigarette,
its long, slim, black outline unmistakable
even through the translucent window shade.
Curls of smoke wind upwards
mating with small puffs of breath
before both disappear.
With one finger he traces a spiral design
on the glass.
Inside, people sit
at little round tables.
Laptops, textbooks, newspapers
open in front of them.
Striped shadows fall across arms
as the sun shifts. Other people hover –
waiting to pounce when a chair is pushed back.
Glances lift now and then,
but if other eyes are met,
all look down quickly.
No one notices him outside,
his scruffy face and baseball cap,
as leaning towards the window,
he watches them,
crowded together pretending
The office is so quiet that
my breathing feels forced, sounds
out of place in the boxy grey room,
with fluorescent light
and plastic plants in the corners.
My face too warm,
my hands too cold. They tingle.
My nose starts to run,
a snot-nosed little kid –
and I know I won’t
be getting this job. The interview will be
as stuffy as my nose. And
after answering asinine inquiries:
“So, you’re probably thinking
‘what should I do with a degree in English?’ ”
I will want to run out of
that building on 5th avenue,
losing myself and my ‘That’s rights’
in a sticky clot of transitory tourists
who throng the sidewalk, bewildered and stuck.
Nowhere in a Hurry
The treadmills are lined up, facing the window. They wait, going nowhere, wishing they could watch HBO instead of MTV, which always seems to be on. They hate the sweat droplets that fall onto their long, narrow backs.
So, one day, when an aspiring (and perspiring) athlete steps on and presses the ‘Start’ button – a treadmill shudders, speeds up, and throws him off.The man, in bright blue spandex, yells in shock, as he shoots backward into the wall. Silence descends over the gym. Vibrating with its triumph, the treadmill blinks on and off, not quite believing its success.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
"I am a writer in Syracuse, New York, and I am submitting three poems for your consideration.
I received a bachelor's degree in communications/journalism from St. John Fisher College in Rochester, New York, and a master's degree in film/video from American University in Washington, DC. I have worked in both print and broadcast journalism at various outlets throughout the U.S., and I am currently employed as a video producer at Syracuse University."
Vagabond bones creakin’ down the road,
bound for somewhere in-between,
a home-sweet-home dissenter,
relishing the unknown.
A courtship of contempt,
filled with swirling fury and churning angst,
not halted by the hands of God.
Zealous rituals express unwavering faith,
and outstretched arms set hearts aflame.
Trees topple under a crescent moon –
a gleaming scythe that carves the frost-burnt night,
invoking stones to crush the gnarled root,
as fragments of salvation disintegrate
into insurmountable self-hate.
A great sigh emitted,
arising and then dissipating,
but remaining forever unheard,
the echo of a soul reverberating,
in recognition of the inexorable.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
"Christopher Mulrooney has written poems in Guarnica, Vanitas, Beeswax, The Deliquent, Moloch, and fourW"...And now, on O Sweet Flowery Roses. -ed.
the poisoner’s wife
in the cool like lemonade
of a hot summer’s day he went
as though it were unto a pool
the sodium he administered
made us a great salt cellar
with appurtenances of a modern-day Cellini
the furnishings and fixtures round the pool
the ask it man
in his pastel dragon shirt
steely hair and frames
he gives the world of information
the virtual sign of no more hope
beyond a certain point
and thence no whence
new faces of whenever
there is such an arduous
songbook in every generation
you can’t say this is
such a tonsillectomy
without you calling you such hogs
with a hoot in a holler
save for the return cantillation