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Alleyne, Chris |
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Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
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Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
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Centorbi, David Calogero |
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Hivner, Christopher |
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Young, Mark |
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Zimmerman, Thomas |
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Shy by Christopher Hivner I watch you but don’t say hi. The note you found in your mail was
from me, unsigned I know, but I meant every word. I tried to be
poetic in professing my love, like Shakespeare or Neruda, although
those two never had to work in “the severed head” or “your
eyelids flutter when you sleep.” I have mapped every step you’ve
taken for the past year so I always know where you are or where you will
be. Someday, when I get over my shyness I will introduce
myself to you and we can begin.
This Desolation by Christopher Hivner My ship has run aground on an island of shrubs and rock, my
mate is dead, and I am starving on sticks, dirt and
boiled sea water. The
remnants of the Sarah M sway in the waves, planks
breaking loose to
drift away, one more piece
of me gone. The
beach is covered in
S.O.S messages, I scan the horizon as I fish for food
to live but the waters
seem to be barren and the horizon
lost. The paper on
which I write this
last statement was
torn from a book in my trunk that
washed ashore intact. Apologies
to the author but your words were
of no comfort to me in
my weeks of need so
your pages have become my epitaph. Goodbye
to the Sarah M, my
home for two years in
my search for a
place to belong. Perhaps I have
found it after all, here on this
desolation is mayhaps where I have been
destined all along.
Night Poem by Christopher Hivner I
can’t see to write, attempting an outside vibe, but
the sun has
gone down, now I sit in the dark with an electric
poem wallowing
in my head, my handwriting in the notebook disjointed
lines forming
not so much words as hieroglyphics with no translation. Go
inside, you say, but the atmosphere is different there, artificial
light, separate
smells, no
noises of nature, only the groan of ancient water
pipes and
the slither of ghosts in the walls. If I walk away from
my outside mojo it may not follow me past the force field of
the door frame. The poem could be lost and
what if it’s the one, the lines I’ve been trying
to write for thirty years? What if it could
unlock being me or explain why people leave? What
if it’s funny and makes readers laugh? What
if it’s the last poem I ever write, one final idea that
solves everything? My ruminations have distracted me while
the poem made its escape, walking right out of
my head past
my pen. I
was a fool to think I could capture a night poem in
the light and now I have to pay the
starry muse with blank paper. Christopher Hivner
writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes
of music. He has recently been published in Monomyth and Weird
Reader. Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams
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