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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

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mourning

A poem by Dov Nelkin

Nothing exists but the stories we tell,
True or False, Stories have limits
as do facts
duration isn’t a fact
It’s given only to stories

Continue reading “A poem by Dov Nelkin”
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Two poems by Bill Abbott

Continue reading “Two poems by Bill Abbott”

The Mourning Series by Temar France

(Mourning i 2013, Temar France)
Continue reading “The Mourning Series by Temar France”

Two poems by Shaimaa Abdelkarim

Sometimes we run restless




We live present.
 
سلاما على من تطرقوا الموت وعادوا أطيافاً
 
We know it.
 
                   and in the rush,       we lament
 
fugitively                    against your
                                                 edgings
 
*
 
Today I saw ghost-ling trees
 
and they spoke so vividly through the fog
 
on roots    
            and groundings
 
The archons come
                     to                 claim  
 
but the roots are too stubborn that only water can go through
 
to ground
                                                                        our  re/turn 
 
to visions of living    far from us that      
 
                         claim our anger (we rejoice in anger)
 
and the feel-s of it rush too much
 
             like lavender or
 
          cardamom pods deep soaked in water…

*
 
                         We live present.
 
سلاما على من تطرقوا الموت وعادوا أطيافاً
 
We know it.
 
                   and in the rush,       we lament
 
fugitively                    against your
                                                    edgings
 
 
 
 
Continue reading “Two poems by Shaimaa Abdelkarim”

A poem by Jen Katshunga

Continue reading “A poem by Jen Katshunga”

Grief is a private island by Julia Lee Barclay-Morton

Grief is a private island. You can only wave to people from it. Even people who have lived on that island, who may understand where you are, can only wave back. And yet the island is invisible so unless someone knows you are on it, they talk to you as if life is normal, and sometimes you don’t have the energy to explain or try to that you can’t understand a damn word they are saying because of all the water and wind between you and them.

A very few can whisper from some place different and make you feel temporarily less lonely because they have had a similar enough experience and an ability to empathize in a certain way, but in the end, it’s you and your island. And there’s no shorting the loneliness and sheer pain of grief.

Continue reading “Grief is a private island by Julia Lee Barclay-Morton”

Disjecta – Caesura – Membra, from ‘& The Little Light That Escaped (Vedute)’, by Alexander Booth

Disjecta

A face glimpsed as if framed through a space between the lattice-work of a bench, a day-drinking bar on a shade-lined street of turn-of-the-century buildings, Mediterranean maybe, looking for what, lower lip pinned to upper, unsure, a question: a face glimpsed as if framed through a space between the lattice-work of a bench upon which one word was seen: nostalgie.

But back at the beginning: the station was blue. His face a ruin. Rain.

Someone had disappeared. Continue reading “Disjecta – Caesura – Membra, from ‘& The Little Light That Escaped (Vedute)’, by Alexander Booth”

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