The erect face of the narcissus 
is looking ahead into a height 
that does not yield to description.

*

Time is insurmountable. 
A dark falcon lightly looks aside 
as he passes above it.

*

It is beyond the great waves 
to think of an answer 
when they pour out their passion.


Author Bio:
Margarita has published one book of poetry, "Animals and Other Gods", in Bulgarian (Sofia University Press, 2016). Her second book, "Demons and World" is forthcoming in March 2017 (Black Flamingo Publishing, Sofia). These three poems are translations from "Demons and World". Margarita is a human rights lawyer by profession. She thinks languages are the ultimate creation. 

I saw the open bodies of many people, covered in nothing
but their skins. They lay down like big wounds.
They were very quiet—they knew there was no other way.
They knew what was expected.
The large male body they lay in was kept invisible.
I watched them change into shadows the shape
of their bodies, become dark holes
 
filled with nothing. They made their way between
the man-body’s tissue, its layers of blood and meat.
They were too empty
to consider leaving some space
for their own air. I also noticed that the lamp in the big body was dimming.
The lamp was really a void—a dry sea with a night
sky in it—and there was no woman to switch on a star.


Author Bio:
Annie Blake is an Australian writer who started school without knowing any English. She has poetry published or forthcoming in Into the Void, Southerly, Hello Horror, Verity La, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, GFT Press, About Place Journal, Australian Poetry Journal, Cordite Poetry Review and more. Her poem ‘These Grey Streets’ was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize by Vine Leaves Literary Journal. Poetry helps her to develop her life-narrative by emotionally-suffusing her memories. She loves analysing her dreams and using their symbols to guide her through her unconscious world. She is excited about the process of self-actualization, research in psychoanalysis, philosophy and cosmogony. She holds a Bachelor of Teaching, a Graduate Diploma in Education and is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne. When she is not mothering, reading or writing, she can be found surfing the offshore waves of Torquay in Victoria. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and five kids. She can be visited on annieblakethegatherer.blogspot.com.au and Facebook.

I got stuck somewhere, wandered around aimlessly, and then I was bludgeoned.

My last match fell in the snow.

I vanished, until over the horizon I recognized the distinct gait of someone I once knew. 
I hid in a wood shed until they passed.

I drank from puddles, and ate insects.

There was no way of proving who you were. Your nation of origin became your
surrogate caregiver. You were dropped, drooling, on the embassy’s doorstep.

After days of wandering, half crazed, you came across some unknown peoples, 
and your tongue was cut out.

You lost everything, your passport, your pocket money, your driver’s license, 
credit cards, phone number, an address.

Your fingerprints were unrecognizable.

You, yourself, didn’t know who you were.

You gave up going home, got too deeply into drugs, and your face changed.

Your horse broke down in the middle of nowhere, east of nowhere, between nothing and
nowhere, an impassable desert, irregularly traversed by salt caravans.

You were shipped out with lucrative promises, to end up as the cheapest whore 
in the smelliest backwater. All ways unlucky, 
you just started walking, because really, all you were left with was your legs. 
You needed fuel. You needed a cooling system. You needed hot water. 
You couldn’t do without food.

Unfamiliar with local taboos, you absentmindedly knocked on the wrong gate. 

You turned the wrong corner.

It was all in the timing. If you had been a few minutes too early, or too late, you might
have been back before sun down. You had a few thin blankets in your pack. You were
soaked to the skin.

The tire blew just as you crossed the most dangerous intersection in the city.

At noon, in the desert sun
you discarded all your heavy clothing.

You were handcuffed to a prisoner
who died.

You forgot your umbrella in the train station
the one your mother had given you.
The taxi driver was a rapist.

You bought one last souvenir
and missed the bus.


Author Bio:
Andy Peyrie is an autodidact who started writing to ameliorate the boredom of some of his paying (yet nevertheless unmonitored) jobs. His piece "Recorded Music" can be found at Word Riot. 

​It is as if
a giant rake combed over my body
and like wet soil
I was morphed,
left thinned and open.
I used all the strength that I had
to fight away moments like these
but as I fell to my knees
I could only sleep.
Like thick honey I slept
as clouds passed through the afternoon sky
in silence.


Author Bio:
Kimberly Pitzrick has always been interested in expression. She has always been a sensitive girl, noticing and holding onto other people's emotions. During her childhood, she was given her first typewriter by an old, friendly clerk. She spent hours as a young child developing short stories about adventure and mystery. During Kimberly's high school years, she began to write her first poems. After discovering what poetry could do for her and her soul, she decided to hold tightly onto this tool and never let go. Today, she explores life with an open heart and mind and comprehends her experiences while expressing herself with both art and writing. Life is very complex, and expression is one way for Kimberly to decipher the language of existence.

In the dark, a hermit shares his secrets with a cat. 
He was once an albatross, an island, a planet, a boulder, a wolf, a banana tree, an ant,
​a snowflake, a raindrop.
What were you in your past nine lives?

In the dark, an orphaned lamb bleats for milk.
It finds an empty well. Sticking, it’s head in, it begs for wisdom. 
It begs for nurture. It begs for love. 
The well simply echoes in reply.

In the dark, cicadas sing lullabies for the Bisan spirit who wanders the camphor trees.
Tales of a world beyond the green, with lights brighter than the sun.
Hope! Hope! Hope! They sing.
The Bisan knows she will be forgotten, but smiles still.

In the dark, I listen. 


Author Bio:
Muhammad bin Abdul Rashid began writing short poems as a way to romanticize his nightly musings. His stories take heavy influence from his culture, spirituality, religion and this fast-paced country. He loves to incorporate old cultural practices in a modern society to see how such characters interact. He enjoys watching foreign European and Asian films with his family. He holds a diploma in Film & Media Studies. Muhammad enjoys filming, photography and exploring nature spots across the island.

Crowds came to me pleased
But they would leave in sorrow
What a snake I am


Author Bio:
Jordan Rhoades is a senior in high school, and has been writing poetry, plays, and screenplays since the eighth grade.

I have a friend
grew up in Tehran,
says my assessments
of things are spot on.
 
My other friends
from right here at home
prefer not to listen
if I observe something wrong.
 
The Iranian friend
remembers the Shah,
the revolution, hostages,
the Ayatollah.
 
My other friends lack
the same reference frame.
To them life is nothing
but a long, boring game.
 
They don't stop to think
about the chill in the air.
What bothers me most
is they don't really care
 
when all signs are pointing
as blatant as snow
to authoritarianism
beginning to grow. 
 
They'd rather believe
democracy's shell
is impermeable
when it all goes to hell,
 
despite what we teach
our children in class
about its fragility
in societies past.
 
“We're better,” they boast.
“We'll never succumb
to anything like that.
Those lessons are from
 
history.  We've learned
all their themes.
Don't worry.  There's nothing
implying nafarious schemes
 
could in any way
disrupt our streak.”
That's how they respond
everytime I speak.
 
Iranian friend knows
otherwise.  She's also in tuned
to the climate, the con,
how our elections are ruined
 
by unlimited money
suffucing the system.
She knows when she talks
I'm willing to listen
 
to her stories of warning.
I'm not so naïve
to assume we're immune,
nor for once to believe
 
she is lying.
I take to heart
what sages and prophets
for millenia have taught:
 
simple things are usually
the first ones to go.
After a while
we wouldn't even know
 
they're gone.  Then another
freedom we once enjoyed
we're forced to surrender
to bureaucracy's void.
 
A third, a fourth, a fifth,
sixth, seventh, twelfth.
Eventually nothing is left
we can rely on for help.
 
Family and friends become moles
to protect their own hides.
We dare not reveal to them
what we're feeling inside.
​

Author Bio:
Ted Millar teaches English at Mahopac High School and poetry at Marist College. His poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, tiny poetry: Macropoetics; Scintilla; GFT Press; Inklette; The Grief Diaries; Cactus Heart; Aji; Wordpool Press; The Artistic Muse; Chronogram; Brickplight; and Inkwell. In addition to writing poetry, he is also a frequent contributor to Liberal Nation Rising. He lives in the heart of apple and wine country in New York's Hudson Valley with his wife and two children. 

Temporal hurts cause sensations to quake
within a metal case, emotions forsake
pervasive it spread, somewhat sporadic
left a warped mind, deemed actions erratic
somber, I told them, the feeling had set
returning daily. I can’t soon forget
still I don’t remember how it began
three years have gone, on a diverted plan
in blows December, and I’ve yet to find
the loq's long lost mind, though I've tried to rewind
while self destructing, I tried to appeal
a damning sentence, but this is not real.

Occipital, it leaked, changing positions
past due was the deadline to stop the transmission
disappointing, she said, of the certain downfall
this pulsing, she stated, was not real at all
tensions seize up underneath tawny flesh
temples invert, causing memories to mesh
emotions no better, seldom separate
leave but one expression, it’s all been a mistake (perhaps this is fate)
tremors flourish within dark metal shells
bring emotions to head, can no longer be quelled
I was once a fixer, now messes congeal
the brave heart has broken, but this still is not real.

Parietal, soft droplets on wood,
not much was spoken of it, wouldn’t do much good
munchausen, he says, it’s been ruled fictitious
an ache, to which all comfort had proven malicious
no fault, claimed he, this had all been on you
I do my duty, the concept isn’t new
just smile and push through, my he hasn’t a clue
no empathy, and she’s physically caught in a bind
brows furrow in distress, seek to uproot unyielding vines
daily, it pulses under tendon and raw skin
mass brimming, suffocating from within
this sensation, spread through head and breast
seeking new refuge, caused tightness of chest
this sensation, it spread behind dull, glazed eyes
causes ruptures, damp storms, shed its disguise 
laziness, he said, is what caused her demise
what she needs is focus, not help, it’s all lies
silent she fell, accusations surreal
vowed to stopper this phase, for this couldn’t be real.

Frontal, fully exposed yet still shrouded
an enigma in black, few ask unless guided
mass, ever present, sought secondary escape
that which an open mouth would only misshape 
anxiety, she clawed at imperfections past
left craters in skin and her peers aghast
her alias, it lied, for three years time
though silence, it seemed, they deemed her true crime
should have said something if she needed help
when the only thing she did not do was yelp
daily she sighed and conversed with glazed stares
whilst peers blathered on, words fell on deaf ears
I hate it when you say that. girl, where have you been?
watching things fall apart, much to my chagrin
it’s my attitude, they said, that must be cause
we all know how you act, he said, without taking pause
accusations, tugging already sore veins
a marred outer shell was all that remained
the fault, the blame, rested squarely on her
shoulders, hunched slightly, to late to defer
to begin again, new possible end
a different future, I would not apprehend
sleepless nights, long hours, all for shame
seemingly ending by extinguishing the flame
lit in years prior, like a dark sky
whose dreams and wishes had all gone awry
now fears culminate, leave little chance to heal
merely days until she is sent away
though, perhaps she was never real.


Author Bio:
The past three years have been a learning experience, teaching me the importance of speaking truth, whether it be your own or someone else’s, and the importance if reliable storytelling, in regard to personal writing. It is with this in mind that I submit my poetry, in hopes of having it published.

The past fifteen years of my career, academic and personal, have been shaped by perseverance towards success and activism. My qualifications in design, publication in conjunction to my quasi cynicism would prove a valuable asset to the HerCampus brand. Accepting things as they appear has never been in my nature, neither has withholding truth. In the age of social media and public violences against certain groups, we are more in need of truth of criticism of than ever. Storytelling (inclusive of blogging and any form of writing for the public consumption as well as personal relief) of the future has evolved in tandem with not just political correctness in mind but with an eye for correct portrayal of a history as it is made (whether it be yours, mine or a specific minority group). Troy Maxson said it best: Don’t try and go through life worrying about if somebody like you or not. You best be making sure they doing right by you. We are in age where we can’t afford unreliable storytellers or writing anymore. 

Realizing the ways in which culture and prejudices act on one perceived self worth and their understanding of the world, especially during one’s delicate college years, is important. Far too often, black youth in America, specifically our women - our stories and experience are constantly being degraded or fully eliminated from what is perceived as the cultural norm. Black women are forced to validate their choices, their features, their interests and furthermore their existence on a daily basis, and this is why I create and write. There is one thing that can’t be questioned, at least in the normal sense, and that is art and writing. Once it’s out there, it’s out there for all to see and it speaks for itself. 

--for Chad 

He finds the coils of lilacs along the edge of my neck. There is something about that man and his guitar, he says about Garth Brooks and I nod shaman-peaceful. Maybe I am no longer a fire burning in a thoughtless field gathered by armfuls of mystery and sex. Maybe I am no longer a well concluded by rain or all the men who left. There. In the distance I can see the finishing of a long way here. He can be the current that moves the hair of sirens and that is enough. 


Author Bio:
Anna King Ivey is currently working on her PhD in poetry at Georgia State University in Atlanta, Georgia, and she is the Director of Student Support Services at Eagle's Landing Christian Academy. Her book, Into the Leftover Blue, was published by Another New Calligraphy in 2016. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, as well as Sundress’ Best of the Net Anthology. Some of her publications have been featured in So to Speak, The Unrorean, Antithesis, Stone Highway Review, Sukoon, Dirty Chai, and West Trade literary magazines, among many others. She was offered a fellowship by the Summer Literary Seminars to attend a writing program in Lithuania in 2008 and 2013. She has also been published academically in the Ellen Glasgow Journal of Southern Women Writers, Florida English, as well as in The Apalachee Review.

Looking down at the
Seal skin
Bath water
Left behind by my
Girlfriend:
 
There’s lines
Between
The suds
And, upon a closer look,
I see millions
Of little hairs
From every part of her--
 
Corpses strewn amok
A watery grave. And
Then I go in
 
Souls of the
Fallen follicles
Form as steam
Around me,
Greeting me
 
Rain falls
From the
Showerhead,
Mixes with
The prickly pool,
Rich with genocide
 
Distant car
Horn barks
Seep into the
Mist as a
Groaning
Organ
 
And the black mold
Dotting the ceiling
Are multitudes
Of round widows,
Distraught,
Sweating tears
Of condensation
From the balcony.
 

Author Bio:
Rich Glinnen is a market researcher by day and a writer by night. He enjoys bowling, and drinking red wine with his cats, Hayes, Cleo, and Gizzy, at his home in Bayside, NY. His poesy can be read in the Lakewood House Organ, edited and published by the late Kenneth Warren, at Lingerpost.org, jazzcig.com, kittylitterpress.wordpress.com, and richglinnen.tumblr.com.
His girlfriend calls him Taco.