“For most of us living in Europe or the US, we’re so used to seeing altered rivers that we don’t know what a wild river looks like.”
Category: 21st century
ONE POEM – Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
Most of my life-years,
you were already dead. Even in our brief overlap
you were not known to me.
It’s hard being a poet in 2020 – David Giles
It’s hard being a poet in 2020
Which is when this will be published
If you have the GUTS to publish it
Which I doubt
Being bitter & twisted
My Response – Lucy Zhang
In response to your suicide letter, I write that I now order a bowl of vegetable ramen from the local Izakaya whose waitlist fills up twenty minutes before its five pm opening.
ONE POEM – Teodora Lalova
I often think of telling you
There is something wrong with time here.
I’m not sure whether I age faster or, quite the contrary –
Once we’re introduced again, I’ll be annoying in my youth.
TWO POEMS – James Carroll
She’s pulling up weeds from the flowerbed
And then starts feeling one tug back,
Wrapping her water grip and dragging her
Through the claggy earth.
TWO POEMS – Niamh Gallagher
I look at my bright and blotchy cheeks in the mirror with blurry-eyed fascination, but not for too long because I have crying to do.
COMFORT FOODS // A History of Goulash – Maryana Lucia Vestic
My earliest memories of goulash are full of warm, satisfying sensations—soft, chewy egg noodles draped in thick brown gravy and big chunks of beef adorned with a few key ingredients like green pepper, onion, and paprika.
An interview with Bex Saunders
In our conversation we discuss how Bex began her photographic journey and the point of photography, the ways in which food can become subversive and suggestive, and the My Chemical Romance reunion.
TWO POEMS – Alexandre Ferrere
I had
one chance out of zero,
but spent a youth chasing
what I am still not.
ONE POEM – Lauren Bender
points for you if you are boss of the building, every lock
warm at your fingertips, every door’s soft click
yours as it shuts, every window with your face
reflected in it.
ONE POEM – Richard Brostoff
Above the house a low sun like a wrecking ball,
the world at the horizon splintered like a Rothko
