Search

BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

Category

Art

2 Poems by Dhiyanah Hassan

moriahmylodearthmandalafall2016.jpg
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

The Electric Keyboard Dreams

 

I take the notes out, I take the sounds away.

This is how I unravel the piano player.

When I let her fingers travel me, 

The treble clef trembles.

The bass weeps for the silence

Descending between

One scale and the next —

 

And this is how I’ll play,

This is how I play.

 

Heavy ghosts pour down,

The swimming pool’s full.

Gelatinous grubs wriggling myopic war dance.

The drum behind the keys

Throbbing against the head of a child.

Piano player with a guillotine

for a voice. Squelching arteries. Shine the jugular,

Upside down the garments

Of the Sun. Right-side up now,
Watching her light spill out.

 

And this is how I’ll play,

This is how I play.

 

She knows more than she can handle,

She knows more than me,

A girl-child child-self holding a program for the apocalypse.

She dreams of heaven every night she runs away.

She dreams of heaven every night she can’t run away.

 

And this is how I play,

And this is what we play —

 

A symphony the susurrus of ancient leaves,

Worn down by a million solar winds.

Spines lying bare at the mother’s feet, 

the poetry slipping out her teeth.

Us lying awake — him reaching, she running, we becoming 

little nothings, all over again. Smash the keys. 

The stars shine, all over again.

The seas rumble, the F Sharp screaming

against D Minor’s weeping –

all overwhelming again.

Emptied bellies growing fangs, together

The kids gang up on the weather.

Heal the ice caps by melting their knees into hot tarmac.

No ancestral fevers now to wipe the ash of the world with,

Just these songs. Just these songs,

 

Sang into the hollowed-out trunk

Of a dead tree. A prophecy

constellated in the stars. Brightly now

the fingers of children

dreaming themselves alive

between arpeggios and wet bed sheets.

The planet’s heart strings

 

asleep 

in every child’s unheard

shriek.

 

 

°•○●□°•○●□¤°

 

 

A Strange Joke

 

Sometimes you bruise a fruit

To make sure it’s real.

 

The songs of plastic

Have nowhere to go

 

But back into the

The hollowed-out hearts of their

 

Price tags. A scratch on this orchid

Won’t release the same 

 

Geometry into the air

The form of bliss, the shape of scent.

 

The sugars in these melons

Won’t attract ants, not even in decay

 

Will they be squashed. If not for the

Fire the winds wouldn’t sing

 

Through them. She told me, “Here,

This flower, token of our

 

Love, look. It won’t ever die.” She placed it

in a vase full of water, a strange joke. Alone, I said,

 

“But it smells like nothing. Can we really

Call it love without ever having breathed life

 

Into it, without having gardened

Through debris and detriment, building from nothing

 

The roots needed to feed

The stories we shape – or is this enough,

 

A slide across the screen, the slippery

Borders between attraction and rejection,

 

Handing our love over to the anxiety

That nothing here was built to last past

 

The twenty-first century, so why should we ever

Get real flowers for each other? Why should

 

Anything living be kissed

into the lonely water of the flower vase,

 

To grow old, to wrinkle up and dry,

To die. Why risk it,

 

When all our foods have turned

More lifeless than stone?”

 

I want to be fed by the heat

That comes from fears overridden not

 

By staying somewhere in the middle,

Draining the feelings out of every sentence. I want

 

To be a vessel for the kind of dreams

That grow through even the worst decay —

 

But she never heard a word I said

As she sunk her head back into a pixelated wall

 

Further away than I could see. And that

Was the last I heard of her, for my phone never

 

Rang again. The apps stopped their pulsing for my attention

After I drowned the old thing in sugar and spice

 

And everything nice. The ants cling desperately

To the floor, the vacuum cleaner we bought

 

Isn’t strong enough to clear out

All this rot.

 

 

 

 

Dhiyanah Hassan is an artist, writer, and energy worker whose practice explores the relationships between art, storytelling, and healing. Her work seeks to connect the soul and soil of the internal worlds orbiting within us, finding transformative expressions of the wild, the mystical, and miraculous through artistic and multidisciplinary mediums, facilitating spaces and conversations where creativity is utilized as a catalyst for healing and trauma recovery. Dhiyanah’s poetry has appeared in sister-hood, OCCULUM, and Rambutan Literary. Website: http://www.bydhiyanah.com

 

“Doors” by Lucy Whitehead

IMG_20131016_175633
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

the planchette spirals out 

of control      a giant dog howls 

in the coffee reading cracks

shadows swirl in the crystal 

ball      all the tarot cards are blank

 

the runes have shattered

the mirrors broken

the petals I burnt with our names 

come back      dead moths fly 

through the dollhouse windows 

white eyes flutter

in the palms of your hands

 

the moon has dimmed

the dolls are awake

your crystal pendulum

catches fire      the divining

coins land on their edges

the scrying bowl opens 

to an infinite well

 

the threads unwind

the trees are yawning

a light is shining 

from a split in the yew

tonight is the night

now is the time

this is the place where 

 

the souls pour through

 

 

 

 

 

Lucy Whitehead writes haiku and poetry. Her haiku have appeared in various international journals and anthologies and her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, Collective Unrest, Electric Moon Magazine, Ghost City Review, Mookychick Magazine, Neon Mariposa Magazine, Pink Plastic House, Pussy Magic, Re-side, and Twist in Time Magazine. You can find her on Twitter @blueirispoetry.

“Blind Devotion” by Nick Quaglietta

20130720_140311
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

All crowd in the church-

A lifetime of suffering

For the sake of gossip.

 

Found poem, remix technique.

Source text: Pike, Christopher. Falling Into Darkness. New York: Pocket Books, 1990.

 

Blind Devotion

Nick Quaglietta began writing poetry as a teenager, with his first work in print appearing in his 1985 college yearbook. More recently he has become affiliated with a few local writing groups, including Connect and Heal in Chandler, Arizona.

“in the house of my body” by Mela Blust

20140320_142405
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

in the house of my body the light is mostly low

the rooms filled with ghosts performing an orchestra

of sorrow about all the broken glass

 

once, in high school, a girl i had never talked to

taught me how she held her breath until she passed out.

“after the light goes dim, you don’t remember anything.”

 

in the rooms of my body i wander, shuffling papers into

boxes made of songs i can’t always remember the words to

because i held my breath so many times

 

once a man held my balled-up fist in his own and

compared it to the size of the human heart. i noticed

how he held them both and i could breathe

 

in the cathedral of my body undulating rays of light

spell hope on the cracked facade and sometimes

i remember the words to every song

 

 

 

Mela Blust is a Pushcart Prize and three time Best of the Net nominee, and has appeared or is forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, Rust+Moth, The Nassau Review, The Sierra Nevada Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Collective Unrest, and many more.

Her debut poetry collection, Skeleton Parade, is available with Apep Publications.

She is Head Publicist and Social Media Manager for Animal Heart Press, and a contributing editor for Barren Magazine.

She can be followed at https://twitter.com/melablust.

“Moonlight Part 2” and “Her Will” by Mark Allen Jenkins

20131003_143957
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

Moonlight Part 2

 

The moonlit hills,     silvery sentinels

guarding    the silent

desert.     The jagged

mine         mouth,    a black 

hole         into         twilight 

zone

 

Tim’s voice changed, 

pitch higher.

 

When I hurt 

my hand     in the mine,    something

remarkable     got         under

my skin        something

        begun         to change

     me             for better

        I know it is connected to a great plan

set in motion         billions    years

ago                 out        among stars

 

there is substance        in this mine

allows a human             change from mortal into a god       

I am being                transformed

into a creature            of the universe

 

What do you think?

 

I think you need to go back to the hospital 

 

This is a found poem. Source: Pike, Christopher. Hollow Skull. Hodder, 1998. Page 75

 

Her will

 

Transformation    inevitable 

   

She has grown        great

now,             difficult 

with words 

 

cooperate for 

your         own        sake

 

you’ll understand 

everything soon

 

head    slurped     back

she saw stars        grin

demons

 

 

This is a found poem. Source: Pike, Christopher. Hollow Skull. Hoddler, 1998. Page 76.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Originally from the hilly corner of Ohio, Mark Allen Jenkins’s poetry has appeared in Memorious, minnesota review, South Dakota Review, Every River on Earth: Writing from Appalachian Ohio, and Gargoyle. He recently completed a PhD in Humanities from the University of Texas at Dallas and currently teaches in Houston.

Womannotated – Calpurnia

Calpurnia

After Morticia Addams describing Wednesday’s
role model (“Wednesday’s great-aunt Calpurnia.
She was burned as a witch in 1706. They said she danced
naked in the town square and enslaved a minster ..
but don’t worry. We’ve told Wednesday: college first.”)

Young girls require a patron saint — aunt’s
abysmal ashes antiquate entwined,
Massachusetts grave, with God’s servant
whom she enslaved. Impious mind
in clerical cravat a town square dance
(performed in only raven plaits) bewitched Continue reading “Womannotated – Calpurnia”

Essaouira Diary by Finn Lafcadio O’Hanlon

In Anton Newcombe’s studio in Berlin, there was a typewriter. On this typewriter was a faded, dusty note that read, Everyone should be shipwrecked once in their life.

These words had an unsettling effect on me. Whether I understood it at the time or not, my ship was already on the rocks.
Continue reading “Essaouira Diary by Finn Lafcadio O’Hanlon”

Motel Drumming by Sam Lou Talbot

Continue reading “Motel Drumming by Sam Lou Talbot”

RELICS FROM THE LATE CARNAGE [erased-erasure re-edit] by John Vincler

RELICs cover

Continue reading “RELICS FROM THE LATE CARNAGE [erased-erasure re-edit] by John Vincler”

Two Collages by Shloka Shankar

memory (n.)

Title: memory (n.)
Year: 2019
Medium: Collage on paper, digitally altered

Continue reading “Two Collages by Shloka Shankar”

Two Aural Compositions by Sean Hogan


 

Continue reading “Two Aural Compositions by Sean Hogan”

Apocalypse Poems [Visual Poetry/Collage] by Jeremy P. Bushnell

apocalypse 1

 

Continue reading “Apocalypse Poems [Visual Poetry/Collage] by Jeremy P. Bushnell”

Artwork by Bobbi Lurie

many eyes altered state

M.R.I., 2019
Drawing on paper

Continue reading “Artwork by Bobbi Lurie”

Pruina, Sleeping Soul by Jaisha Jansena

Continue reading “Pruina, Sleeping Soul by Jaisha Jansena”

Two visual poems by James Knight

These images are visual excerpts from Chimera, a cycle of visual poems exploring evolution.

Continue reading “Two visual poems by James Knight”

Owen Vince: after Brodsky

Head Disaster I and Head Disaster II – after Brodsky

Continue reading “Owen Vince: after Brodsky”

Artwork by Disgruntled Beast

Bloody Media
2019
Collage
Traditional collage on paper using magazines and comics. Continue reading “Artwork by Disgruntled Beast”

Artwork by Falco Verholen

Weaker Sides fragment

Continue reading “Artwork by Falco Verholen”

Two visual poems by Imogen Reid: overprinted pages from Samuel Beckett’s Company

Continue reading “Two visual poems by Imogen Reid: overprinted pages from Samuel Beckett’s Company”

Collages by Sophie Herxheimer

Index card collage poems

Continue reading “Collages by Sophie Herxheimer”

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: