48 Hour Poetry Contest
Sometimes as a magazine editor, life throws you curve balls.This time, for reasons beyond our control, we had two stories come out from under our feet at the last minute. So like any good executive editor I texted Autumn, our trusty senior editor for an idea. Within a minute I got this reply: "We should host a 48 hour poetry contest. The top three winners get published and a free copy of the magazine." Go figure. I was stopped the other day in the parking lot of a grocery store by an older gentlemen who saw my Emerging Artist Magazine decal on my car. He asked for a copy of the magazine and asked if we published poetry. I politely said, "No sir, we are strictly a visual arts magazine." How ironic. We had such a good response we may consider publishing more. Inbetween shelves of Neruda and OvidBy Jonathan Christ
Inbetween shelves of Neruda and Ovid I took your hand and placed it upon my clothed, engorged thickness I found your ear with my lips and asked, “Can you feel how hard my heart is beating?” You then told me you had given your heart away to someone who didn’t cherish it. You were waiting for it to return but feared that it never would. Holding you tightly I whispered “Let me plant a seed with my kisses and you will grow a new one in the cavity.” Her Armored Heartby Jonathan Christ
Erode that chitinous armor that you’ve sealed your heart behind. Hold your heart in front of your eyes as a beacon. It will draw them in like moths searching for the Moon. Hold your heart in front of your eyes, let it guide you to him that truly deserves it. Untitled
By Jonathan Christ
I have to keep my emotional vault locked tight it’s contents contain more than it’s capacity I cannot afford to open it too wide in case the pressure forces the door open and it washes away all who care with the the truth of who I am and who I am not. Advice
By Jonathan Christ
If you are going to take your life by slicing open your wrists while in the bathtub, either give yourself an enema or starve yourself for a few days prior. There is nothing fatally romantic about being found submerged in water contaminated by fecal matter. Jonathan Christ is a visual artist and a DJ from Portland, Oregon. He is currently working aboard the EPA’s only sea vessel on the Atlantic Ocean. Seeker
by Julie Claire McGowan
In the starlight, the listening silence, I stand before the moment. Without a battle, perplexed by galaxiesthat my mind Wars to understand. In the silence, the aftermath of past ...listening, jaw slack. Within a beastly, breathing moment holding heart high if only just for the time- To form words, an ecstasy of speaking volumes ready, and pages blank. In eyes of fiery chance, Unproven melody- five senses, lost, in silence. Julie Claire McGowan is a visual artist, a musician and a poet in Salem, Oregon. |
Tainted
by Dana McCarty
Ripping, pounding, crashing into me with his languid eyes. He had me, held me, holds me without question and I asked none. His words, like nails, bury into my chest. His hearts’ beating deafens my senses. Frozen hands and tongue caress my skin like razor blades cutting away at me. Seething fluid drives through my veins. Vast waves of anger and lust fill the void. He ruins what he touches. Devours what he sees. He is a monster, a beast, a glutton. Let him feast. Dana McCarty is the lead singer for Faerabella, a Dark Cabaret Trio based in Salem, Oregon. Proper Courtship of a Museby Olin Unterwegner
That woman, that thought of last morning’s dripping sink. When we reflect, when branching tastes dominate. The crisp process, accepting, severing, the pacing tigers. Several glassy eyed children, riding the trails set in place, by their glassy eyed father, and his hard american values. The sweat from last night’s sheets, the transference of one’s gripping terror to another. Slivers lost, as they float down through the air. Cheaply made matchbooks with the other day’s sequences, high again, the image has inched up the wall again. Let me tell you about this dream, a shifted eye, gulp of staleness and gone. A short strain of brow and desert dwellers, and song. Didn’t look in the mirror today, the drifting electron holiday was enough. When you left me, I knew you might not come back. I knew this, started thinking of factory plots and faded catalogs. The things I might want, if I lived alone forever. Can’t tell you how great it’s been, not scouring through those piles of junk. Can’t tell you how little I’ve missed your congruent up and down stares. Paper and implements melted down into their baser elements. I did not know their rising smoke would summon you. Licking at your high wave theory, your hidden lakes and paradises. Your earth tones, lost in a pause. Your fame, and your insolence, your howls of laughter in the face of the simple deaths. The thousand simple deaths, the thousand tuesdays of the apocalypse. The thousand grains of static, gathered, and thrown into the sky. They fall back down, into my mouth and flow through my head, as I welcome your return. Olin Unterwegner is a visual artist, a curator and a poet from Vancouver, Washington. Ikea
By Santi Chandravongsri
The low bass hum of the wheels pushing against the asphalt The uncomfortable silence between my mother and I Translucent brake lights glowing in the friday night traffic Portland’s expanding skyline becoming nothing but a blur Radio commercials filling empty space Buffed graffiti creating a landscape for the solitary transit passenger “Is art school fun?” Silence again Mind envisioning hazy eyes and dancing smoke Tired of thoughtless responses Moving stairs transform into a swedish hellhole White Americans claiming to eat ethnic Newlyweds cuddling on display beds Minimalistic “Portland style” Do curtains really matter? Asian trophy wives eyes low with depression Love triangle achieved naturally Eat the feelings away Santi Chandravongsri is a student at the Pacific Northwest College of Art in Portland, Oregon. |
