Jefferson Hansen

Schizophrenics

the people I know
with schizophrenia

are a far cry from “schizos”—
the stereotypical guy
drooling in his beard
who takes a break
from braying at the moon
only long enough to ask
for a quarter

as for violence
most violent acts
are committed
by so-called healthy folks

the actual dangerous category

if a person with schizophrenia
is violent
does the condition
have anything to do
with the act

why is it okay
for the TV news
to mention “a history
of mental illness”
when no relevant link
has been established
between the condition
and the crime

prisons are full
of the mentally ill
but what sane person
wouldn’t go crazy
there

time to consider cause
and effect

time to think through
the implications
of metaphor

would we say “drunk like
an Irishman” or
“stupid like a Polish
person”

why “crazy like
a schizo”

the people I know
most reckless with
others’ feelings
are horrifically “healthy”

you would probably
be surprised to learn
how many schizophrenics
you interact with
on a daily basis

what is it to stuff
a human being
into a sealed
metal category



wind of a reason


without
the wind of a reason
aimed in a particular
direction
started walking
like a root
curling and
branching its way
toward water—
it thinks
in its way

Jefferson Hansen has been publishing in a variety of contexts for several decades.

 

Austin McCarron

A City of Palms


The summer is eating
the colours in my room
with teeth of blue water.

The sea falls on my beach
with
stones of light. My blood is

amazed at the whiteness of
sand.

Birds drowse in shining trees.

The sky is on fire with matches
of gold
and like a visionary animal
it wrestles with some great hurt.

I sit at a loss, in a city of
palms, browner than faces of rain.

Tatjana Debeljački

Familiar With Insanity

– am I gifted person? Is it important, since I no longer exist?!
 

I was sailing through the endless space, still angry at the death that came in malevolent
time. The success was feasible. The space is so cold, and my physicus, which I imagined,
transformed into the powerful energy that has no use. I did not have a plan.
 

– Probably I do not need the plan here, – as if the thought was spotted.
 

From some star constellation, a man in white floated towards me. He was tampering
something about my bodiless being, and then suddenly disappeared.
 

People around me were freely walking in their pajamas, it was only me bound to bed

Tatjana Debeljački was born on 23.04.1967 in Užice. Writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia - HDS Serbia, HUSCG – Montenegro and HDPR, Croatia. A member of Writers’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008, HKD Croatia since 2009 and a member of Poetry Society "Antun Ivanošić" Osijek since 2011. Deputy of the main editor (cooperation with magazines & interviews).

http://diogen.weebly.com/redakcijaeditorial-board.html

Editor of the magazine "Poeta", published by Writers’ Association "Poeta"

http://www.poetabg.com/

Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and Immigration – Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin – Belgrade. Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry: “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in 1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodna knjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOLCANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CD book “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in 2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, published by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008. Her poetry and haiku have been translated into several languages. Email/Websites/Blogs http://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/

Casey Creek

In Germany

a lion jumped out

of a swimming pool

and started hugging children

they locked the doors

and ran away

the crocodile snarled

because we stole

its puddle

the chimpanzee giggled

at the buffalo missing

its two front teeth

and the giraffe applauded

because the penguin was

throwing a tantrum

an elephant stole

my bicycle and

ploughed it into

a car the hole was

a banana shape i

had to pay the fine

i must have been back

in germany

where the buildings are

underground in a maze

where cakes are sparkling

on a table

where books in the library

call my name

caroline with the light brown hair

pushes it behind her ears

and ponders another maths equation

xxx

or

xxy

Casey Creek: I am eighteen years old, live in the North island of New Zealand. I have suffered from depression and anxiety for most of my teenage years due to prolonged emotional abuse. Part way through this year I suffered a complete mental breakdown from which I am still recovering. My worst symptoms were intense panic attacks, frequent suicidal thoughts and terrifying nightmares. Poetry has been a huge part of my life from a young age, in helping me to survive and explore who I am in this world. Poetry helps me to see the bright side of life and I look forward to a much happier future.



Jack Hodil

Digging

It could have only
risen from the dirt
by force,
breaking through and out
of the sediment.

But we were there too long.

What crawled out
from that earth
could never be reburied,
and, in the end,
the soil had nothing for us.





When not writing, Jack Hodil can most often be found avoiding school work, battling inanimate objects, purchasing cheap packs of cigarettes with loose change, or watching cage fights with his action figures. 

Jack Galmitz

Looking Out


Through the door
pass a hundred clowns or more
each with a dagger
through the door
A woman enters my room
eating her placenta
through the door
the ballroom floor covered
with prayer carpets
through the door
Men seen dying
in fictions
through the door
infants working
without compensation
through the door
troubadours
forget
their songs




Jack Galmitz is on SSD for 4 or 5 mental illnesses.

Nima Kian

BODY GUEST

I.

Body, I see you walk away.

Gravel streets recognize

my absence in your soles.

Did you learn a new language or did I

forget the way we talked to each other?

You grew quiet like a vessel, drained.

II.

We cannot emigrate out of skin

that holds us together.

Another language changed us

from the inside. We are

foreigners in our self.

I understand that

our body-guest rearranges our living

arrangement, removes myelin

sheathing you draped

around axons of our brain and spinal cord.

Your reactions—what feel like multiple

tiny legs running on my skin,

electric water pouches under my feet,

crumpled fingers like deformed paper—

alarm me.

III.

We possess a personal painter

who resides throughout our nervous system.

You and I, plus one whose abstract arts—

little white lines, narrow, scattered—

weaken us.

A new language takes time.

Fluency rescues.    

Nima Kian lives in Lincoln, NE, where he teaches writing at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in, Saint Mary's Magazine, Black Lantern Publishing, Mascara Literary Review, Mythic Delirium, Stone Highway Review, Strange Horizons, Blast Furnace, among others.

Linda Hunter

Torture

Racing thoughts run through my head,
I believe the demons are trying to keep me in bed.
Shake with fear all day long and hear a strange pop,
Please someone help me! make this stop!
I pray for the thoughts to stop tormenting me,
I feel like jumping high from a cliff into the sea.
Bad dreams and scary nights feel each day,
I wonder how long I will have to stay.
The drugs I take to make me well,
Fill my head so big I don’t want to swell.
So many tormenting years to come,
Why me? This torture is no fun.



Linda Hunter suffers from bi-polar type 2. She takes numerous medications.

 

Jade Wallace

The Vines

twine upon the wall, garlands

for brick red hair that falls

from the head office

how do you feel about that?

sand skittering across rock with the

sound of

wordless whispering;

but my mother had words for it,

and she said-

let’s talk about you

I’d rather speak of the white

bench, around which the

trees huddled in quiet

ceremony

why don’t you speak of yourself?

myself, lying

on woven grass,

small egg in a vast nest.

the sky is pearly

curving blue:

I am on the inside

of a seashell

i really think we need to work on developing your sense of self

senses: five:

radar by which

I receive images and

translate the transmissions

into paper logic

same time next week then?

thank you, doctor. 

Jade Wallace is an M.A. student in Social Justice and Equity Studies at Brock University. She currently has two chapbooks available for sale through Grey Borders books (http://www.greyborders.com) and has recently been published in (d)ead (g)end(er) magazine (see: http://deadgender.blogspot.com). She also has two blogs: http://madamedechevre.tumblr.com (her literary blog) and http://lasciviousort.blogspot.com (her silly but serious Star Wars-inspired blog). Also, Jade really likes her new eyeglasses.  

 

John Pursch

All-Out, Butyl Steerage

Mingle freely at the gala's vapor lock,

clamoring for jutting parlor tricks

and donut boys given over to time travel.

Popping out of the portal in antique gear,

marshaling too much reserve, holding back

when all-out, butyl steerage is called for,

relying on relics long submerged,

our hero plunges headlong

into the enemy's third tour

of dutiful, four-alarm fire,

only to be raked under the shoals

by fedoras and boas of a font

rarely seen in this century.

Such are the verisimilitudes

of warehouse work,

launching clerks and boxboys

into lies of brute, impending regret.

A cavalcade of wanton images,

soupy in its cluttered sawdust protocol,

delivers stringent, hyperbolic missives

at twice the regular clip,

unraveled and scented with lilac.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His poetry has appeared in Breadcrumb Scabs, Calliope Nerve, Camel Saloon, Carcinogenic Poetry, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, experiential-experimental-literature, Four and Twenty, Orion headless, Puffin Circus, and vox poetica. You can follow his work at http://twitter.com/johnpursch . 

Christopher Barnes

Ungodly Piggling Anarchists

Foreign Office thinks we're a cut above
not knowing our raison d' etre
is persuasive deniability
they try to pin us down.

Our dynamite's in the diplomat's bag
a slap in the face to pride.
We're heirs to a set-up
that must be snared.
A front-rank flying start.




Christopher Barnes: in 1998 I won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 200 I read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 I debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of my poems. Each year I read for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival and I partake in workshops. 2005 saw the publication of my collection LOVEBITES published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

On Saturday 16Th August 2003 I read at the Edinburgh Festival as a Per Verse poet at LGBT Centre, Broughton St.

I also have a BBC web-page www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml (if first site does not work click on SECTION 28 on second site.

Christmas 2001 The Northern Cultural Skills Partnership sponsored me to be mentored by Andy Croft in conjunction with New Writing North. I made a radio programme for Web FM community radio about my writing group. October-November 2005, I entered a poem/visual image into the art exhibition The Art Cafe Project, his piece Post-Mark was shown in Betty's Newcastle. This event was sponsored by Pride On The Tyne. I made a digital film with artists Kate Sweeney and Julie Ballands at a film making workshop called Out Of The Picture which was shown at the festival party for Proudwords, it contains my poem The Old Heave-Ho. I worked on a collaborative art and literature project called How Gay Are Your Genes, facilitated by Lisa Mathews (poet) which exhibited at The Hatton Gallery, Newcastle University, including a film piece by the artist Predrag Pajdic in which I read my poem On Brenkley St. The event was funded by The Policy, Ethics and Life Sciences Research Institute, Bio-science Centre at Newcastle's Centre for Life. I was involved in the Five Arts Cities poetry postcard event which exhibited at The Seven Stories children's literature building. In May I had 2006 a solo art/poetry exhibition at The People's Theatre why not take a look at their website http://ptag.org.uk/whats_on/gallery/recent_exhbitions.htm

The South Bank Centre in London recorded my poem "The Holiday I Never Had", I can be heard reading it on www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/record.asp?id=18456

REVIEWS: I have written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star & Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival On September 4 2010, I read at the Callander Poetry Weekend hosted by Poetry Scotland.

Michael Tugendhat

Psychosis


Like imprecision, psychosis
is nothing but a botched amputation

where you live amidst the nowhere.
In hidden life

she chews through you
toward incapacitated

momentum.

There is nothing
in the imperfect

but a shade
of something other.

The cuts in your wrist
are just wide enough

for blood to pour through,
palms flush cold

where the knife inserts
in the bow-tie veins

of your wrist, the dog licks
below at the blood pool

you’re knee deep in it now,
that schizophrenic cool.




Michael Tugendhat has been living with bipolar, psychosis, and obsessive compulsive disorder for the last two years. His memoir is due out from Turquoise Morning Press in 2012. This memoir details what life is like with a mental illness. He hopes to educate and inspire. He lives and writes in Philadelphia.

Anthony Ward

Begrudged



For those who think we’re ‘pleasuring ourselves with sadness’,
Well, maybe we are!

This is the only way we can derive pleasure,
From feeling sad.

Whereas you- you can derive pleasure from just about anything,
While begrudging us what little pleasure we have.




Anthony Ward has been writing in his spare time for a number of years. He derives most of his inspiration from listening to music, especially Blues and Jazz- since it is often the mood which invokes him to set his thoughts to rest. He has been published in a number of literary magazines including South, Word Gumbo, Perspectives, Message in a Bottle, and Blinking Cursor amongst others.

Ariana D. Den Bleyker

Hold On



It’s really something from the past
               when you and I split     up.

Let’s be honest, who doesn’t say too much.
in those odd hours through the fractured, spotted
syl-la-bles falling upward into their mouths.

In this splitting and reforming,
through these pretzel-like graceful movements
propelling us, we levitate
our wanting someone,
our wanting to change.

Swim down, swim into it. Hold onto
the decaying that keeps us alive.




Ariana D. Den Bleyker is a Pittsburgh native currently residing in a small town in New York where she is a wife and mother of two. She is passionate about poetry because it speaks to her, influences her daily life, and encourages her to write while she draws much of her energy from her own life experiences. Her most recent work was featured in The Homestead Review and will be included in the upcoming editions of Stone Highway Review, Burnt Bridge and scissors and spackle.

Felino A. Soriano

Recollections 83


|translation|



as yet: of yet a fragmented wholesome
whole then vehicle to tongue you, listener; I
as operating function, finger twisting
non-verbal meaning: may you feed the I
of my language’s plural? read my
manual upon operating sans transgressional
best?




Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974) is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. In 2010, he was chosen for the Gertrude Stein "rose" prize for creativity in poetry from Wilderness House Literary Review. Philosophical studies collocated with his connection to various idioms of jazz explains motivation for poetic occurrences. For information, including his 45 print and electronic collections of poetry, over 2,800 published poems, interviews, and editorships, please visit his website: www.felinoasoriano.info.

Valentina Cano

Anti-Depressant Waltz


He began to see things in

too many colors.

Spikes of anger that

took shape before him

like taloned domes.

He tried to wring the colors out

in a struggle of limbs.

He tried to make things

clear (glass, pool-water) once again.

They refused to leave.

The colors soaked into his carpet,

dancing in a taunt of scales,

dipping under him,

sliding to the edge of the kitchen tiles

and back again.

He clutched at his head

with hands that swelled

in a nightmare of congealed blood

thick, chunky,

like ripped blood sausages.




Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia's Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions A Handful of Dust, The Scarlet Sound, The Adroit Journal, Perceptions Literary Magazine, Welcome to Wherever, The Corner Club Press, Death Rattle, Danse Macabre, Subliminal Interiors, Generations Literary Journal, Super Poetry Highway, Stream Press, Stone Telling and Perhaps I'm Wrong About the World. You can find her here: http://coldbloodedlives.blogspot.com

Kevin Limiti

Going through a maze
A toxic jungle
Headfirst into the weeds
No stopping for water
An array of colors
Strewn across with regrets
Feelings, son, feelings
Says my transcendental father
And I steep myself finally
Like a boulder into mud
And the water cleanses me
Thinking nothing of memories
But holding out for regret
And hating every minute
That I lived in this thicket.



Kevin Limiti has been suffering from Schizoaffective Disorder since he was seventeen years old.

Matthew John Davies

Lamb Licked

again
the small mass
of laboured friendships
has delegated the ersatz faith

the only one
the one that is scrolling
past erstwhile lovers
contemporised
what chance does she have?

the little lamb who
joined society
licked joyfully by envelopes
 


Matthew John Davies' blog is at http://theundersizedshadow.blogspot.com/

Re-launching

We are re-launching our magazine. From now on, we will publish work as it is accepted. Send in your submissions.

Please read our submission guidelines first.

Thank you.

The Editor