The Mother and Daughter, like lunar eclipse The daughter who is born writer doesn't write and tells her mom to write, like the mom used to tell her. Now, her mom has become the daughter's youthhood. She's the daughter is the mom is the daughter... the mom would do it for the daughter, like the daughter should've done it for the mom; they are two in one. Who would've guessed it? Not the Earth, nor the moon. (c) Byung A. Fallgren
from The Dream Songs John Berryman (1914--1972) 257 The thunder & the flaw of their great quarrel abased his pen. He could not likely think. He took himself out of it, both wrong & right, beyond well beyond moral, in the groves of meaningless rage, with ach & stink unlike old shit which loses its power almost in an hour, ours burgeons. When I trained my wives, I thought now they'd be professional: they became professional, at once wedlocks went sour because they couldn't complete with Henry, who sought their realization. The J.P. coughed. Married life is a boat forever dubious, with the bilge stale. there's no getting out of that. Gong & lightening crowd my returned threat, I always wept at parade: I knew I'd fail: Henry wandered back on stage& sat. John Berryman was born John Smith in McAlister, Oklahoma, was a teacher and scholar at Brown, Princeton, and the University of Minnesota. Received the Pulitzer Prize in 1965 and National Book Award in 1969.
Anticipation magpies hover over the ash as a homeless man waits for good news Attraction in the pile of wrapping papers and old ornaments a terry bear still sings (c)Byung A. Fallgren
Lines Written During my Second Pandemic Eduardo Corral All water flows toward loneliness. Loneliness is a black eye, a gleaming pit, we have yet to split loneliness like an atom. Loneliness arrives on a leash of scorpions. In my scull, loneliness opens like a parachute. It's illegal to chain loneliness to a fence. Flickers tunnel though loneliness to build nests I sprinkle a spoon of sugar over loneliness. In some languages, loneliness is imperfect. Antlers crown the bald head of loneliness. Like rough trade, loneliness won it kiss you. Loneliness crouched in a tree afraid of dirt. In the dark, loneness ripens too quickly. Beneath the roof of loneliness, my blood drifts. Eduardo C. Corral is the son of Mexican immigrants, the author of Guillotine (Gray wolf Press, 2020), his work has been supported by fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation and the Lannan Foundation. He lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.
The Lesson on the Trail The brilliant red leaves of the shrub shrugs off the snow, like a stubborn child of Mother tucks it under the blanket. the lodgepoles in the white coat toss the snows at the passerby, as if warning. Feeling it, I turn my head but see none, not even him; move along the trail, indulging in the peace. yet hear a sound in the no sound, feel an eye in the no eye zone. there, it groans; I turn back and meet it. the mountain lion on the boulder on the slope, hungry, fierce eyes. I froze, then slowly pick up the big stick, mistake. It jumps off the boulder and slinks toward me. toward...the hare playing a statue. I run to the car, inside it, I see the beast chases the hare into the dense woods that whisper, whatever it is, I only wish for the hare home safe. and so, do I. (c)Byung A. Fallgren
On Desire
Dujie Tahat
A firm hand. The shadow waves of satin.
I am not yet flesh. He calls me baby,
and I touch my face. I'm searching for god
when I oil my body in the mirror. To love it
mean to love a man mean an opening
to another man. When I take my glasses off
all the lines blur. A body is a body without
language, I tell my girlfriend and she laughs,
mouth wide enough to hide in. she shows me
my soft parts. I dissolve into what. I forget
hiding also means a good beating, the way
passion can be suffering. I can't believe
my whole life I never touched what made me
holy. We have bread, butter and nowhere to be.
Dujie Tahat is the author of "Here I am O my God"
(Poets' Society of America, 2020), selected for a
Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship,
Salat (Tupelo 2020), winner of the Tupelo Press
Summer Garden Chapbook Award.
The Window in the Corner Usually, it is hidden behind the blinder, for the funguses blooming between the panes--guilty one, jealous or lazy soul, with no way of purge it; but when opened the blinder it provides an excellent view of the pasture in all seasons--a person with a lot of potential, like the unfinished project in a box in the dark basement deemed to be silver, if not a little piece of your dream. So, why not banish the blinder? because... the blinder winks; fungus, like the man who would have been there; what can I say? (c)Byung A. Fallgren
Winter, if only well-orchestrated The cows wonder why the cowboy moves them down to the pasture only when the snow covers the whole field; why doesn't he keep them, up in the high country. Only you, mountain lion, laughs at the bovines, not understanding the man who knows beyond his field too much, much more than he needs. Silent songs of the tall haystack at the edge of the pasture; footprints, small and large, on the snow sparkles in the sun; pronghorns be-friend with the cows. Howling coyote at night, wakes the couple of bull snake in their home beneath the sagebrush on the slope, asks why-me-e-e? like the shivering people in the shacks; responding voice, who, who; this is winter says the voice, we need it to cool our heads, time to sit back and think and prepare for spring. Don't cry. (c)Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 