Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 41, October 2020

Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Terry Connell: In the past ten years, I have written and self-published two books. The first,
an AIDS memoir (Slaves to the Rhythm), was a 2012 Cowley Literary Award Nominee, and a
chapter was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer Sunday Magazine. From Kirkus Reviews,
“An engrossing and unsparing look at a grueling journey of commitment and acceptance.” My
second book, a collection of short stories (A Little Chatter), was published November, 2019
and won the 2020 IndieReader Discovery Award for Best Short Story Collection and Silver
Prize for Best Cover at the 2020 Independent Book Publisher Awards. From Kirkus Reviews,
“A Little Chatter is a powerful, thought-provoking selection of fiction from a talented author.”

149

AMAZONS UP
IN ARMS

by Christine Hand

I was new to this land, in a culture that was catered to the emerging market segment
totally alien to me; East and West are most of the working rich, typically lawyers, doc-
certainly poles apart as I have learnt through tors and those holding high office in the
personal experience. I had much to under- government sector. Interestingly, although
stand about the South Korean way of life. this type of material divide had taken hold
Being in a city that was miles away from the of Korea, there did not appear to be an ac-
capital intensified the language barrier as companying social divide.
English language speakers were so few and
far between. In fact, the sum total amount- I was soon to find out that the apart-
ed to thirty or so English language teachers ments were under the close surveillance
of American and Canadian origin. There was of the security guard stationed in a little
a small scattering of Korean English teach- hut, his office, in the centre court of the
ers who spoke a rather quaint variation of buildings. Each apartment had an intercom
the language, thus trying to understand the system that communicated with the secu-
local customs as interpreted by them did rity office and was used frequently on a
not always convey the true meaning and daily basis. Not unlike a communist regime
essence. blasting information through megaphones,
the security guard did his bit through the
I was fortunate to some extent to reside intercom system, informing residents of se-
with the family of one of the teachers; he vere weather conditions, cautioning them
was in his early thirties and his parents rather about theft within the estate, reminding
elderly. The suburb of Bong Sung Dong was them of the change of season, highlighting
new and with South Korea’s rapid rise on important rules within the estate and so
the world stage, it was moving into the new forth. It bemused me no end to find out that
era of housing estates. High-rise apartments people actually waited on an official decla-
that are so indicative of Western develop- ration asking them to change their clothing
ment were popping up overnight like mush- from one season to the next. The intercom
rooms. The apartments came at a price too was also used at a more personal level, to
dear for the ordinary working person; they inform an individual that a parcel awaited

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pickup for instance, or that the school bus include a child care centre. While this was
was about to take off. accepted by a some of the residents, the
majority were not in favour as this would
My own experience with this system was incur costs for a service that currently was
rather different and oppressive. On finding free to all. Besides, where would the older
myself alone in the apartment one day and children who were past child care centre
feeling out of sorts, I decided to play my fa- age play? The pros and cons of the devel-
vourite Queen album at full volume. Soon opment gave the security hub ample oppor-
competition emerged between Freddie tunity to deafen my ears day and night.
and the security guard on the intercom but
as I understood nothing of what he said, I I would generally rise rather late in the
could only ignore him. The security guard mornings as my work carried on into the
persevered with increasing indignation and late hours of the night. By this time my col-
eventually resorted to coming up to the league and his parents had usually left the
ninth floor (where I was) and knocking on apartment and I would feel free to have my
the door. It was then that I realized one breakfast in relative quiet. The view out of
of the greatest disadvantages of living in the kitchen window was unsightly; there
an apartment. Kim Il Sung, the dictator of amongst the gentle hills was a hideously
North Korea who was still alive then may untidy construction site. I would watch this
have inspired the South Koreans to install site intently each morning. Where the earth
this blasted contraption everywhere, but to had been dug out and piled up in mounds,
me it was no more than a noisy intrusion on two women worked industriously farming
my private sanctum. But my opinion did not these mounds. It was quite a marvel to see
matter, I had to put up with the blooming them plant fast growing green vegetables
thing bellowing away as long as I chose to and harvest two to three crops before the
live there and Freddie had to take second earth would be moved. Here was a stunning
place, played at below half volume. Not example of efficiency and effectiveness that
long after this incident, I found out that Frederick Taylor, father of the theory of Sci-
there was trouble brewing on the estate. entific Management and workplace effi-
ciency would have been proud of.
There were six blocks of fifteen storey
apartments which comprised this estate. That morning my attention was diverted
The centre court offered parking for the away from the two clever farmers; a consid-
handful of residents that owned cars, thus erable din seemed to be coming from the
ample space existed for the children to courtyard below but I was too high up on
have a playground. It was this playground the ninth floor to see it. I pulled up a chair
area that became the contentious issue as and standing on it I was able to see part of
Ban Ki, my colleague explained to me. The what was happening outside. Development
managers of the estate had decided to de- of the courtyard had no doubt started; the
velop the bulk of the centre court into a diggers and tractors had arrived and I could
complex of retail outlets. The residents dis- see the construction workers in their hard
approved unanimously as this would mean hats. Fences had been erected around the
no play area for the children. Ultimately the area but they were not going to be there
negotiations with the residents had led to for long. The residents were not demon-
the compromise that the complex would strating, they were rebelling and revolting.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Armed with large sticks, pitchforks, kitchen I resided at Bong Sung Dong for a few
knives, garden spades and kerosene tanks, more months and it became clear that the
they forged towards the construction construction company had heard the voices
workers. Together they created a formi- of the residents. They would not dare to
dable army that quickly had the workers confront the women of Bong Sung Dong
running for their lives leaving all behind. again. As with all things in Korea, all the
The fences were torn down and anything detritus from the riot remained for months
ignitable was soon set alight. Everything on end. This area may have been the vision
including the bill boards and utility cabins of Korean ‘high class’, but in the Western
that had been brought on site were soon world the unsightly surrounds and the ev-
turned into magnificent torches. Eventually, er-present stench from the sewers would
the police arrived on the scene but by this have immediately wiped away the premium
time only smouldering ashes remained. The from any property price.
brave band of resident women had orches-
trated the attack unaided by a single male. When I went to Korea, I knew full well
that I was entering difficult territory, a male
By the time I got downstairs, the action dominated society. Yet, as time passed, I re-
was over and police were making notes alized how much real power existed with
and interviewing groups of women who the women. In societies such as this, the
had been part of the riot. There were still males are pampered from birth; first by
a few flames that had to be beaten down their parents and then by their wives and
and the security guard was excitedly trying doting mothers who do practically every-
to explain to others what had happened. thing for them. They are not given the op-
The men were slowly crawling out of hiding, portunity to feel any discomfort; discomfort
many looking more than sheepish, and is only borne by the less fortunate females
others trying to pretend that they had been of the family. In an unfortunate twist, this
part of the action, trying to give their version mollycoddling of the males has resulted in
of accounts to the police. But there was no producing a female who knows that unless
question in anyone’s mind as to who had ac- she is prepared to fight for her needs and
tually confronted the construction workers. those of her family, she will get nothing. Ko-
One had to only look at the clean clothes rean women have certainly earned the right
worn by the men for the clear, sharp answer. to say ‘viva la femme.’

About the Author

Christine Hand is a Brisbane-based academic and has
worked in many parts of the world. She writes short stories
and is currently working on a novel. Christine was frequently
published in the ‘Korea Times’. She was also a regular writer
for an online platform ‘Suite 101’. Submissions were of an
academic nature and covered topics of a diverse range,
mainly socio-political, financial, and historical. Christine
also covered current affairs, book reviews and biographies.

152

ALPHABESTIARY

by Omer Wissman

A is almost the emblem of anarchy, but its Naturally E comes after D, a symbol of
structure, like language itself, is fairly hier- teeth supporting D tongue. But it is also the
archical, with narrow one percent nadir and business end of a pitchfork, and thus is tied
top triangle superstructure over an empty along with D shovel in nutrition, growing
as alienated base. As a pictogram it is al- nourishments (or grave robbing). F is for
most a fingertip, but very much the pencil’s flag, even when that flag is denoting failure.
edge, with which one can begin writing. To me it is a flag of capital F freedom, open
An alpha male, A appears before many a ended, forward feeling all forms of functions.
wording. It is likewise the hidden syllable in
hey, the beginning before much of our dis- G is one of the more visually complex
course, and also the sound aaa of us restart- emblems, perhaps in accordance with its
ing a recalibrated discourse. It is a necessary stature of being the genesis of The Word,
precursor for dialogue, being symbolized by God. The sound G, gee, has replaced for an
the secondary letter B, whose appearance atheist world that God, its absence looming
is appropriately reminiscent of erogenous belittling, because without belief we are left
body parts. It is composed of a necessary like a little leaf flung by the chaotic wind of
backbone I which allows eyes-out-of-socket the empty flag.
looking forward as leading to its essential
see C. This letter is also sea, its visage that of Then H comes to the rescue as a rung
something ready to contain the entrance of on a ladder, allowing also a seat of rest and
whatever is seen, with its aperture allowing reflection on what goes below, as in Jesus
capture but also release, knowing how now H Christ. It is also a covenant between an
must go on. I and an opposite I shaking hands to make
the deal of intersubjectivity, made possible
D is used in current text-based commu- by holes in H-hearts, hearing their hollow
nication to indicate the tongue-out wink of made holy. It is this hand holding which
humorously defusing one’s own message or keeps alive the bonds of H, hydrogen, the
the other’s, the D spoken-syllable so preva- basic building block of our solar system, and
lent in the defusing of meanings, as in de- in H2O sustaining life.
meaning. But a D tongue lunge without C
eyes wink, indicates a tiredness, a breath- It is only after the above meeting of
catching weariness, which to me is at the I’s that they appear with plain i visage,
heart of demeanings. having the character of an upside down
exclamation mark. When, like ants, these

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

little figurines of body and head profile are the adjoining of pronunciations, such as I N
written as individuality, they are given the Thou.
culture’s honor of capital primacy, usually
reserved for beginnings, holy words, and As a permutation in shape and sym-
whole-making names. Yet this holding in bolism of H it is necessarily followed by O,
high esteem of the I-ndividual is accom- of H N O bestowing on every one of us life.
panied by its mathematical and roman nu- Like life itself O is the ultimate container, the
meral modesty, I being always the only one, third eye perceiving a perfect circle planet,
but also always only one. or immaculate atomic emptiness, maybe a
nucleus or membrane, an egg just before
J is the first letter which corresponds to opening. In discourse like the Aaah sound it
the sound of the above mentioned naming, is of a precourse function, yet also of prayer,
Jay as in the bird, the doctor, the great Gatz. not only in “oh god,” but in a way via “oh no”
Graphically it is a hook which catches prey too and even “oh well” and “oh I thought
and its many possibilities into the net of that.” This is a wishfulness, a petition above
naming and branding, leaving one again by laying under all such formulations, from the
hooky crooked a single isolated I. But it is faithful to the faitheist.
also a bent down nose of exploration, cu-
rious sensing what the wind which carries J P of pleading praying is also a closed
the bird means to I the man. off flag of the panoptical, raised above the
population of public-is-personal people,
It brings K, Kay, female counterpart to but still also raised by the spine of an I. To-
Jay in the single-letter name world. With gether they are your IP, the finberoptical
this is mind the character visually suggests means of locating anyone in the polices
the meeting of excited erogenous organs, a polis of WWW. This all-knowing superior
foreword play leading to L, the receptacle of side-tongue a wink of the mouth meets
pure acceptance, a lap for love. its match in Q, that most curious of letter
shapes, a questioning in and of itself. Is it
M is characterized by middles. While a ray of refraction entering the optical O?
seemingly suggestive of the sexual pene- A broadcasting of eye-language? A jumping
tration hinted at by Kay and Jay’s I, it is also outside the nothing of containment? The I
a post coitum romantic hand in hand inti- proselytizing before the all seeing void? I
macy, I’s meeting in the middle of the space guess it is most of all the Q to the A, the
between them, going from H to trinity, I quest questioning O and P’s know-it-all, the
and I apart with two touching lines, their function of dialogue which is essential in
forces combined into an M=am, a being in communication as a precondition for un-
the now. Perhaps because of this M is also derstanding and togetherness.
an uncertainty, mmmm, of trying to find
the next verbalization, or a response to one Naturally following is R, are, where one
which communicates the taking in of the humbles himself to hold high the tongue
other but not knowing how to continue rec- flag of another I’s vocalizations, praying in
iprocity and keep the intimation exchange bow for reciprocity. In that uncertainty R as
intact. rrrrr joins A and M as the three pillars of
our lingual process of finding A’s Am’s Are’s
In comes an N, its hand extension pos- and what comes after them. Somewhat bib-
sibly left one-sided, but potentially sup- lically, Genesis style, sneaks afterwords the
porting a future joining. As such N is is also

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serpent shaped and snake sounding ono- W is a double you, and like V it is a leaving
matopoeia S. Through its convoluted com- of sole self for to search and see through
plexity it seems to suggest that turning an the I of U, as mediated by the Lingua Franca
(A)M into (A)Re is not so simple, even some- of French kiss, and the child holding one
times sinful. S is the worms in the forbidden parent’s left hand, another’s right, keeping
fruit of the T tree, where the words of man them in togetherness in a way they never
can become the cross he must bear, cruci- knew before.
fied to the very T antenna through which he
heard the promise of I H U. X marks the spot we searched the map
for, looking for a kiss, coupled I bowing into
So here comes U to the rescue, where the unknown, together as a variable two.
the atlas I of T can enter and become per-
fect tongue, native, motherly, swinging side Y they do not know, maybe it was all
to side, seeking its balance. just to get to the end, the Z of a one-sided
hourglass, parallels meeting through one
V is that balance, the pure outstretched outstretched hand, holding high and low,
hands reaching a unity without the I’s, the as below so above, where language stops
victory presaged by H. If H was a couple I, and the music of angels rises far above it.

About the Author

Omer Wissman is 36 years old, single, a multidisciplinary artist. Omer narrowly escaped high
school, but not junior high. He barely graduated from university, albeit with some honors.
His soul was partially saved by a book of poems that opened up into a life of writing. After
exhausting local publishing opportunities, Omer returned to the queer’s English, and thus far
has been accepted for publication in Sensitive Skin, Serotonin, and Overland, among others.

155

WHAT IT TAKES
TO BE FREE

by Terry Tierney

Review of The White Field by Douglas Cole

In the first magnetic lines of The White Field a vision of Hell. We hear his passion for
by Douglas Cole, the narrator Tom enters a freedom in his listening, along with echoes
surreal purgatory: “I walked into the sun. It of tethers holding him back: the friends and
seared the road and the rooftops, intense, estranged family from his former life before
blinding.” For Tom, the bright heat greets jail and the stigma of being an ex-con.
his release from prison, but not as a mere
celebration of freedom. The symbolism A visit to his family—his children and re-
forebodes the furnace of his dead-end job married wife—is most poignant. His ex-wife
in an industrial paint shop. invites him to dinner, but she welcomes him
with painful restraint. Her husband, though
An accomplished poet with six fine col- strictly polite, fails to hide his discomfort,
lections, Cole mesmerizes with intoxicating emphasizing his contrast with Tom and the
language. Take this passage where Tom di- life he lost:
gests a jazz refrain:
I saw him direct a cool look at Carol,
Chet Baker came on, playing a song called which I was sure had formed in the cauldron
Night Bird, and I listened as he laid down of conversations they’d had before I came
the first few statements, repeated them, over in which I figured prominently—and
and then took flight…. And I went with him not as the hero.
and closed my eyes and knew in the dark sky
sound I am going and go and boundless go Tom’s son is less restrained, stomping
just like that night bird flying with no walls away from the table and decrying Tom’s
and no doors and no home at all…. criminal past and his prolonged absence.
When Carol awkwardly attempts to recover
Throughout the novel, the music the evening, Tom responds with small talk,
soundtrack adds to the dream-like tapestry, delving into a childhood incident when his
even at Tom’s job which otherwise resembles brother pulled a gun on him. His choice of a

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story more appropriate for the prison mess But I still had these walls around me, even
hall shows how far away he has drifted. if they were semipermeable membranes I
could slip through at any time. Walls holding
His old friends similarly induce bitter you and walls holding you in whisper similar
memories and current anguish, utterly real- seductive sentences, the womb versus the
istic. They offer help in the form of tempta- tomb.
tion and hallucinogenic drugs, augmenting
Tom’s disorientation: The succinct metaphor of prison as a
womb reveals Tom’s unique sense of con-
…down the quiet hallway with green striction, as does his feeling that he has
glow of fuzzy bulb lights and double row of emerged into another set of walls. The
identical doors rippling like jellyfish I moved tethers of family and friends pull him home
alone and now in terror of seeing anyone but also restrict his liberty.
knowing at least in a distant life preserver
way my condition and how vulnerable I The White Field is finally a road novel,
was…so I slipped spirit-quick outside into both internal and external. As Tom struggles
the protective night land of tilting streets… to test the limits of his freedom, he con-
tinues to sift through his past, eventually
Fitting that Tom feels safe in the night, driving north to find his estranged brother,
devoid of human contact and people telling his father, and his childhood home. With
him what he was or was not, and what he each stop he reenters his personal history
should be. Aware of his emotional vulnera- at the moment he left, confronting change
bility, he tries to balance his desire for com- in himself and others. We join Tom on his
panionship with the risk it implies. Released journey from prison, and we share his de-
from prison, but is he free? Is he reborn or sire to succeed, his mistakes, and his pain of
dead already? failure, like the phosphorous burn he suffers
on his first day at work.
Tom floats through a between-land re-
sounding with moments of transformation Lyrical and beautifully written, The White
and change we can all feel. His attempts Field reads like a series of prose poems, in-
to reconnect flow like dreams but press toxicating and impossible to put down. Each
against tangible boundaries. Even his new- scene and each character we meet is unique
found freedom feels like a prison: yet believable. Freed from prison, Tom’s
quest for freedom has just begun.
I sat up in my bed and realized that I was
rising…because I was still on prison time….

About the Author

Terry Tierney’s collection of poetry, The Poet’s Garage, was published by Unsolicited Press
in May 2020. His poems and stories have recently appeared in Rust and Moth, Fiction Pool,
Typishly, The Mantle, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Lake and other publications. Lucky Ride
(Unsolicited Press), an irreverent Vietnam-era road novel, is set to release in 2021. Terry is
a graduate of Binghamton University, and he earned his PhD in Victorian Literature from
Emory University. His website is https://terrytierney.com

157



POETRY



THE STARS
ARE OUT

by Don Narkevic

I am a kite soaring above you When done, you carry me,
a newborn. Outside, you run,
as you play tag in your backyard. setting me free. For a moment
You run from a boy I falter. Soon I rise above you,
and hide behind a sycamore. above trees, above the earth
As I drop closer to earth until I see your distant face
I crash into the tree’s branches, getting smaller and smaller.
my thin chest pierced,
flight forever now a memory. When your smile disappears,
I dive toward the nearest tree
As my ribboned tail flails leaves crashing again, in need of rescue.
you look upward I see you, your hand blocking sun,
and shimmy up the trunk then reaching for the string.
to untangle me. Broken, I wait for you.
In your hands you gather me
like a collection of frail bones.

Taking me home you mend
rips and tears with swatches
of cloth used to practice stitching.
For hours you mend
like a princess locked in a tower.

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Time Is a Girl Named Yvonne The Stars Are Out

I met her in 1967, of line, brooding about the night sky
city pool, a red bikini, like Brando on a rooftop
a twelve-year-old, where he breeds a flock of pigeons.
so much skin;
I wanted to touch Ancients named constellations
the blue water like newborns who outlive parents,
she swam in. waiting for death like a train

As she burned whistle mourning in the distance,
on her towel, how it rattles the bones
I walked by, like dice tossed by a god
glanced,
the oil-shine gambling on existence of a universe,
of her body, held together by gravity
like staring and wire from an abandoned coop.
at the sun.
I wondered
if I sinned.

*

An orderly asks
if I know the year.
I do.
I keep it,
a memory
remembered,
forgotten,
remembered.
At bedtime,
her face flickers.

About the Author

Don Narkevic: Buckhannon, WV. MFA National University.
Recent work appears/will appear in Street Cake, Neologism
Poetry Journal, and Solum Literary Press.

162

MY GRANDFATHER’S
POCKET WATCH

by Martin Agee

Glass Doorknob Plaster of Paris,
Metallic collage,
You with moist hands Treasure chest
And heavy eyes, Of emerald, ruby,
Reaching up for the glass knob And diamond:
Of a mirrored door. The hardest.
Forward and away.
I was afraid it would break
In your small hand. My Little lark.
Hinged knees, I whispered your name,
Unsteady voice, hoarseness, But quiet, you had walked
Heartbeat: struggling, Beyond the threshold,
Hammering even. Past
Lateness of wisdom. Your fine reflection—
Sorrow of the world, empathy.
But you were inside,
Where no one else would— I choked, and,
Your own Road Not Taken. You were already there.
Wherein you looked upon
A canvas bare, 163
And chose just right
The colors there
From a given poor, but rich
Palette of oils, grease pencils,
Watercolor, chalk.
Pastels.

The Role Of Trees Adelaide Literary Magazine
My Grandfather’s Pocket Watch

Outside my window White porcelain face
Someone is practicing With bold, black,
Roman numerals.
On frozen ground Perfectly round silver
Where roots of Casement,
Burnished
Trees reluctantly offer From cracked, calloused
Their thirst. Gnarled, Hands that loved jeweled objects
More than blonde
Knuckles and joints Curls.
To spiked soles
At eleven
And bitter air. Little girls
Bare branches feel Ride horses,
Run free in fields
The sharp, violent Of golden grasses and
Thud of boot Fine herbs.
At seven they
Against leather, intense, Sprint on awkward tired legs.
Regular, rhythmic kicks Surf breaking,
Rainbows.
Grey, ghostly figure Revel in bright light
Tenaciously pacing, pausing, Azure skies.

Tripping over roots Now beneath dusty glass,
And trying again. Hands,
Ionic pillars
Stifling hot room Frozen, silent.
Strings absorbing sweat Reach for twelve and ten.
Holding up, forever
Litany of scales, In pain
Passages of time. Worshipping.
When
Finely carved wood,
Curly maple, spruce, My brother fell from a carousel,
My mother finally wept,
Stolen from forests: And I climbed a purple hill
Lonely, forgotten trees Above the mist.

Sacrificing their flesh
To transform winter

Back to summer,
While their cousins

Suffer the cold.
Aging knuckles,

Calloused fingers.
Determined to redeem,

Repeating, hesitation,
Longing.

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About the Author

Martin Agee’s career as a professional violinist has brought him to the major concert venues,
recording studios, and theatres of New York City for over thirty-five years. He performs with
the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra at Lincoln Center, American Composers Orchestra, and
the American Symphony Orchestra, among many others. During his years as a professional
musician, Martin Agee has remained active as a writer of poetry, fiction and critical essays.
His work has recently been published in the U.K. by Belle Ombre, www.belleombre.org.
Website: www.martinagee.com

165

SONNET CDLXII

by Terry Brinkman

Deep velvet Azul of the Nile
Steely skies rolling ridge wheel
Gallivanting around as they kneel
Meadow of murmuring water has a Crocodile
As luck would have it a glass half full
Oli covering old sloppy eyes Ell
Solitaire with deck of Fifty One what a deal
Penny Diamonds Golden Poop Vital
Skiing in Switzerland’s thistle
Sleepy Whale dreadful vizier
Star of the curly headed whistler
Fra line with Gypsy-like eyes brisker
Unshed tears jockeyed rule missile
Dressing-gown nose rag Whiskey

About the Author

Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years.
He started creating Poems. Five Amazon E- Books. Poems
in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed, Jute Milieu Lit and Utah Life Mag-
azine. Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Maga-
zine, Variant, Tide and UN/Tethered Anthology, the Writing
Disorder, Winamop, Ink Pantry Parentheses, and in Ariel
Chart.

166

WHITE MEN IN
BROOKLYN

by Michelle Hulan

i carry this house with me / because in me is this house

she wants horses, so young me adolescent me has a new desire
carefully glides the marker to run my hands over her soft purple sweater.
across the ruler and builds
four walls for the stable, my brother’s best friend comes out,
an oval for the trough. and i never learn what my brother says
or see ryan again.
she works on the landscaping,
making comical lumps i try to make sense of why i lie
that i imagine are rosebushes when i say i’m not focused on her
interspersed with wild chives through the scrambled snow on tv
growing along the edge of our house. erasing the line drawn between me and ryan.

she tries so hard to color my friend convinces me to kiss andy,
in between the lines while i create a sensation of his tongue and mine
rooms with glass walls settling for each other.

i carry this house with me i long to dissipate in her cigarette smoke
to sense in myself something more
an 8th grader with shoulder-length blonde hair than abstractness or compulsion
walks down the hall with her hands when performance feels like survival.
tucked into the straps of her backpack.
in me is this house

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My Body Is a Site of Contestation

I celebrated my tenth birthday only days ago, and now, in the checkout line of the
Piggly Wiggly in Brandon, Mississippi, an old man stares at the tips of my newly grown
breasts, soft pointed mounds I had thought very little of until this moment.

I stare back, studying the way his tee shirt cradles his gut and tucks into his cargo shorts. I am
curious about this man, how he feels comfortable enough to suck his teeth and say to my mother,
Well, looky here. You’ve got yourself a real Natalie Wood. My mother blushes before thanking him.

When we get into the car, she angles the rearview mirror towards her and dabs just
underneath her eyes with the edge of her shirt. You’ll need a bra to avoid lewd men like
him, she says. It was then I learned how the body can be consumed without teeth.

a poem in which i bear witness to our breaking

you press   my palm on your chest  this is
a request  to consider the white    space
in between  our words what language  cannot carry
to notice   when i take in my hands
the thin red thread  which on closer  inspection
connects  my palm to your chest pulses & thickens
it this interloper
i try to pluck your body  goes limp
when your eyes  widen i lift   your head
i listen  for your breath to check    your pulse
how your lips    part
enough i consider    this togetherness
to marvel at give in to sleep  but wake up
how the thread  braids onto itself sensing loss
our new agonizing  truth the end   making its way
with a note   haven’t you had enough
alone
i pull  our growth

to me

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Son, Our Brains Can Only Understand White Men in Brooklyn
Time As Now and Not Now
White men in Brooklyn
I know this is hard to understand Will let their dog piss on your
but think of it this way: Leg and blame your pants

this sandbox
represents your life.

The not now
is the small pile of sand

your fingers have already sifted,
what your knees have already pushed.

It is every untouched granule, surrounding
you in nonlinear possibility.

But the now,
is the lone grain

stuck to the drool on your chin,
one moment

informed by all the rest,
as you make you way to the other side.

About the Author

Michelle Hulan is a Brooklyn-based Canadian poet. She
earned her MA in English from the University of Ottawa
and spends her free time visiting every independently
owned bookstore in New York City.

169

HEROES

by George Gad Economou

all those times no one’s ever around

“how can you breathe in here?” she once asked, curiously
all the moments lasting an eternity at some other plane of existence
countless empty bottles decorate an apartment soon to be abandoned

—forever—
can we find each other once more let me explain apologize for the first time
old flames reignited in the distance black smoke in the air the forest is finally

devoured
new fires an earthquake swallowing up the town surrounded by an infernal wall

and nothing else
from afar visible the airplanes of the enemy approaching fast
are we ever to discover sanity? it was lost inside a bottle our love
cockroaches in beer glasses drinking nonetheless for there’s no money for more
ants swimming in bourbon bottles drowning insects and they’re gulped down
we escaped the tears through the phone sorrow voices and sobbing eyes
never there to catch your tears in
bottles of wine swimming ashore coming
moans from empty beds
bodies underneath blankets of snow
persistent fights for survival turtles pissing on nameless graves
dirty needles underneath the couch bags of blow on the coffee table
nothing but the page doors and windows locked nothing but a candle
there was never a way out only the entrance
“how can you live like this?” she asked multiple times she found out the harsh way
a runaway train I’m coming oncoming lights BAM

the end
it was all over

we fucked it up
and there was nothing we would have done differently

170

that does not even exist Revista Literária Adelaide even if it meant
bourbon going higher reaching a heaven

outside an empty bottle of

The Mauve Moon

lonely wolves howl at a mauve moon
and marauders raze ancient landmarks.

stare up at the starless sky, the great green mushroom—all gone,
nothing left but the final wails of unborn souls trapped in limbo.
sour grapes turned into sweet wine, bottles emptied horrid taste,

gruesome realities and morbid details, nets made of fire catching
the rational men. eradicate, destroy, rebuild; what a fine writing

on a half-ruined brick wall in the middle of the ocean.

look down, all the towers emerge from under the sea—old homes,
now belonging to fish and mermaids. Ulysses’ sirens reappear,
under the liquor store they swim, amidst the shelves they sing.

if you are, die; if you think, you don’t exist. Voltaire’s ghost
promenades in the ruins, somewhere in the distance
Aristotle’s swilling Thunderbird.

and we’re still around—in the liquor store the clerk polishes a shotgun,
two kids shotgun beer in the back alley.

and the mauve moon howls, its echo shattering what little
remains of the
world.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Hollow Dream from a broken bed

years chasing around the same fantasy,
an impossible dream doomed to remain in its stillborn grave;

every tiny step towards it equals five big steps away from the end of the tunnel,
it’s alright, all these years
chasing the same old dragon, through various means,
some legal, most illegal,
indecency, debauchery, immodesty, everything done by the book
of hell, and yet
all the rulebooks in the world will not provide an answer,
all the libraries on the planet do not contain the one simple answer
so desperately needed.

it’s okay, she used to tell me back when we lived together
and watched wrestling all day and night long emptying cases of beer
and bourbon bottles; we binged ROH, PWG, CZW, WWE, NJPW, ICW, etc. etc…
goes on and on, we lay on the fold-out blue couch, holding hands, her head
on my shoulder, we kissed, watched, smoked, drank… now,
she’s in a nameless grave somewhere in Aarhus, I couldn’t even
go to leave a flower when I moved away.
only the yellow pages I threw on the coffin that fateful Sunday afternoon, I was so
drunk I didn’t even know where I was; I only knew why I was there. all
I needed, after all. nothing else could matter; nothing else
ever mattered since then.

the dream still plagues me while
I look everywhere (in street corners, cheap motels, expensive strip-clubs)
for a pair of eyes to remind me of hers. nothing.
only cheap replacements, cold embraces, fallen angels that only last
from dusk till dawn.

one day I may make it (as long as John Martin’s soul is still alive in some
starving editor somewhere in another skid row) and then I’ll go on with the clichés,
“I never gave up, I followed the impossible dream, struggled yet made it”
and I’ll know I’m lying my ass off; I gave up the day I drew my first breath.
I gave up when she exhaled for the last time. I give up whenever I get a rejection slip.
I gave up when I moved to Aarhus. I gave up when I moved away from Aarhus.
I give up every single second I’m breathing; even now, as I type this poem
that will either remain unread or will be in future anthologies I’ll never see,
let alone curate. and it’s alright, either way. I gave up a long time ago,
and tomorrow I’ll give up again, and again.
and the day after.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

the impossible dream; no fuel to keep me going,
nothing to make me push forth. more obstacles,
more hurdles,
no strength left to jump over them and reach the finish line.

carry me away, I’ve given up;
wheel me out of the track, of the world, of the universe…
I’ve never started, so I even failed at giving up.

Best Poetry

it lives on cocktail napkins of dim lit joints in the worst alleys
where the worst of humanity hides, where they’re tossed to save
the rest from seeing them—lounges are good for dancing, for
meeting that sweet young woman to take your heart and keep it for a while.

a dive, a real goddamn rundown dive that reeks of dried urine and
cheap booze and even cheaper junk cooked down to being genocidal,
is the birthplace of literature, of poetry—sterile classrooms are good
for bestselling lists; in the dive
lines are written with real blood, the sweat and tears are not because
of a malfunctioning air-conditioning unit but from breaking your back
for two green beers

through cheap booze, rough women, and southpaw fighters you discover that
the strongest lines reside in weak loves and cold embraces and prepaid kisses

it’s the dreams that die with the first ray of sunlight that form
the poetry to inspire the real people of the world—poems of
cheap thrills, cheaper drugs, and plenty of booze, for people
living in alleys and under bridges, for those breaking their backs so that
students can rally for their safe spaces and their comfort puppies
and their pronouns it’s a simple world, cry loud enough you’ll be heard,
but build the foundations so the skyscraper don’t come down on
our heads and you can go wither in the dark corner don’t worry you
won’t be remembered no one gives a shit because you’re you
but not special like us

Kentucky rotgut in the lowball pencil on the napkin and someone’s
calling his wife a whore three booths down, somebody else is punching
the walls and two junkies play darts with their spikes.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Heroes

aspiring heroes give out their first cry under
flickering fluorescent lights, they burn down words
and meanings—come look at the new heroes, they’ll
dig up the old and burn whatever’s left—they’re here
to save us, burning down the towns, shooting down
phallus shaped airplanes, while ships go down, submarines
grow wings—he stepped into the empty dive, ordered
double rotgut, seeking strength to do what had to be done—graphite
shelters get crowded, gunshots over bunk beds—canned beans
used for trade, a fifth of vodka costs a kidney—nothing left, it
all went to few hands, the many lie in dead volcanoes—boats
anchor amidst schools of sharks, away from mushrooms—something
in the air, a mist, a ball of fire—here’s the end! another crazy man with
sandwich plates screams, for once he’s right—villains live, heroes die—it goes
vice versa, too

About the Author

George Gad Economou holds a Master’s degree in Philosophy of Science and resides in
Athens, Greece, freelancing his way to a new place. His novella, Letters to S., was published
in Storylandia Issue 30 and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary magazines,
such as Adelaide Literary Magazine, and his first poetry collection, Bourbon Bottles and
Broken Beds, is slated for release in 2021 by Adelaide Books.

174

VOICES

by Grace Nask

Backwards Voices

People say time is a circle or The voices filter throughout my head:
line, but really, it’s a Please help
Ray. It has one point fixed ages ago, Good luck living in a box
and the rest shoots out like a line, I’m sorry for your loss
Moving forward and forward for all Bane
of eternity. Of course, we’re Teacher’s Pet
Nothing more than a line Tiger who destroys everything they touch
segment, with a specific It’s just a cat
Stop and start within. I know You’ll never make it.
all this, but somedays I
Wish time could be a loop The first pill floats on
and fall back on itself. My tongue, riding on that sip
of water. I swallow.
Think about it.
The tear dries from the cracked sidewalk. Exceptional
The moisture leaves the ground back Great job
Onto my face. The wetness Awesome
absorbs back into my I knew you would do it
Eye. My head lifts. And I walk, slowly, slowly, Thank you
Backwards and away. I’m speechless
I know you’ll become an author someday.

The second pill sits in my mouth, leaving a
Chalky texture and taste like sand. I want to
Spit it out but swallow. I need to swallow.
Hey
Good luck
Goodbye.
And then they’re gone, and I’m alone.

175

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Knifed

Loving you is like holding a Would always want more, even when
knife, something that’s you couldn’t see the price.
Terrifying but necessary. After a while,
you forget that this thing can I never met you third owner, so I don’t
Kill, but it’s always in the back know what she did with you. But in her
of your mind, the danger. Hands you showed up everywhere.
I couldn’t stand it.
Your first owner, seeing your beauty, kept I have yet to own you and probably
you in a glass case and wanted it that way never will, but I asked her to borrow
Forever. They didn’t see the need for caution; You for a moment. With a
They didn’t see the potential. Wicked grin, she complied.

Your second owner didn’t see that You were magnificent.
same beauty and used you Gems encased in the hilt, and a
To cut vegetables and make dinner. vein of gold streaking through
You gave her nothing more than Your core. But you couldn’t deny your nature.
A few cuts on the fingers, and
she a duller blade. It was Loving you is like holding a knife.
A healthy relationship. But a knife such as You were sharp and dangerous, but I didn’t
Yourself can’t stay in a kitchen Care. I didn’t heed the warning signs.
nor a case. A knife like you No wonder I got knifed.

About the Author

Grace Nask will be attending the Philadelphia Writers’
Conference in the fall. She has had or will have work
published by Fledgling and Down in the Dirt Literary
Magazine. One could learn more about her by visiting
her website at https://gracenask.wixsite.com/books and
her WattPad (under Grace Nask) and Facebook (as Grace
Nask’s Books and Manuscripts) profiles.

176

THE COUPLE

by Arianna Sebo

The Couple Explosive

Clouds tipping overhead There’s a guy who’s in love with a woman
Heavens spilling forth their but he can’t tell her
bounty There’s something wrong with his self-esteem
love and tenderness seeps into He has none!
the ether Or maybe the timing just isn’t right yet
the couple watch the Timing is important with these things
air twirl their love into Love can be volatile
a cyclone Sometimes explosive
towel wrapped ‘round their
naked bodies
sea water dripping from
their enlaced fingers
sand between their
toes
they lay
together
in love

177

Adelaide Literary Magazine
Fall Waver

I sit and listen to the city sounds He had slept with her but swore
alarms sounding, children crying he felt nothing for her
people dying while they sit last night
patiently in anticipation trying to make a haven in her bed
waiting to live sinewy muscles thumping,
being born pumping in the darkness
falling in love sweat droplets conjoining into
tying knots in the delicate strings that suspend miniature pools
the shaky platforms that we live on teeth biting flesh
golden glass wings help us to fly pulling on full lips
when they break, we fall black hair
into the arms of loved ones zigzag patterns of biological matter
into the open meadows spattering the white pillows and sheets
and dark blue oceans a flurry of swirls trying to jump ship
we fall in love before drowning in the sea of her curves
and fall out again
never falling completely sensing closeness
always afraid we will find ourselves he stops his thoughts
hopelessly
deeply he failed this Rorschach test
truly time to get out
in love

And then we realize
what greater joy than to love
what greater pain
what greater sorrow
what greater courage needed than to
allow one’s self to fall
never abandoning the self
but opening up to it
allowing your unicorn soul
to fall
in love

178

Revista Literária Adelaide

Just Be There

Sitting at work
not much to say
back is sore
bloated
funny taste in my mouth
my friend is scared
his mum is waiting
for her results

cancer
lymphoma
scary stuff
who knows what will happen

all I can do is be there for him
have tea with him
pass him the milk
and the sugar
maybe make him smile
with some inane joke
or observation
best I can do
is just be there

About the Author

Arianna Sebo (she/her) is a queer poet and writer living in
Southern Alberta with her husband, pug, and five cats. Her
poetry can be found in  Kissing Dynamite,  The Coachella
Review, Ariel Chart, Capsule Stories, and Lucky Jefferson.
Follow her at AriannaSebo.com and @AriannaSebo on
Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

179

STATIC

by E. Samples

Temporal Lapse, Chestnut Street Static

I move clay pots and watering cans, In my dream you look like yesterday
plant chamomile under cloudy first light, but this is not the past.
emerald clover velvety against shins. You tell me after you died
There’s a song in my head with no place to go; you could still see me,
I hum notes in the rising veil, but I couldn’t see you.
I tap rhythms; limestone melodies. You say you heard the static, too.
I sing spells scattering mint leaves. Now is a dream and in it someone else is gone.
I forget the day, forget time. She’s dead and you ask me if
I lift my eyes and open my palms I think she can see us.
to the new morning rain. Before I can answer the air ripples
and cracks, bone snapping
white-ice-pop of flesh grazing metal.
Her presence ruffles the pivot;
A cat’s paw on water;
A dissolving red cedar wood scent.

In the momentary lack of counterweight
we exist spherical as the nothing
containing everything.

Morning inhales today and my eyes open.
A chain of pastel paper hearts
flutters to the ground.

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Revista Literária Adelaide

a madness most discreet*

are we a film with a tragic ending
duotone shot of streetlights in rain
final silhouette against
shell-shocked brick wall
does our soundtrack conclude
with music by radiohead
a foreshadow of crows shriek
i’m destined to confront a glass vial
or maybe cold steel pressed
on skin sunburnt from our last
beach holiday spent mocking
stuffed shirts swimming the ocean
out beyond shallows waving
their arms crying undertow
we jeered nothing ventured nothing gained
but what did we gain
as our love scene requiem crashed
through a poltergeist t.v.
did we risk enough explicit content
and graphic violence to guarantee
a romantically sadistic demise
what we fear but don’t want to admit
is that this fades out snoring
a candlelit close-up of my graying
eyes in an aging house waiting
for the cinematic climax
that’s scripted and expected
while you stalk a rising star and frame
your next feature presentation

*  The title is from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.
181

Snow for Your Birthday Adelaide Literary Magazine
ceremony

January 4, 2017 vagabond universe
shoulders & soul
I don’t have to get you anything this year, irises
but I wonder if there’s anything you need. greens, browns, whites & grays
shimmer
January moons will come blue and go stones of a riverbed erode. create.
whether river water flows or freezes, erode
whether coal skips, sinks, or smolders reflex-tradition &
heaped on the sandbar. spontaneous vow
breathe union. breathe discord. breathe
This birthday crunches under tangled bloom
boots barely leaving prints. wild
Fresh cold falls, crustacean pressed
sharp and white. & tilled ground
My palm holds pieces for my mind to trace suspended in pin-drop
from one unfixed point to the next creation bangs
over ridge and hollow. open the deeps
& the blues
What ungiven gift says it best? indivisible
Like you, these lines will always be unfinished.

About the Author

E. Samples is an Appalachian contrarian living in Southern
Indiana. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in
Abridged, The Stillwater Review, Black Bough Poetry,
Lucent Dreaming, Crêpe & Penn, Variant Lit, Still: The
Journal, and elsewhere. She is on twitter @emilysamples

182

RIBBON

by Mya Alexice

frontier my torso, in all its divine incarnations

me, stochastic1 and riverine— all quiet on this chest turned front.
a watershed body. beavers build here fleshy, there taut. curves and
their meanings not born but taught.
temporary dams inside my large arms raised above my head flattens
intestine. I am no agent. I am my breast to an androgynous ovoid
crest. my jaw, if turned at a point
only acted upon. sometimes ecologists under the right light, could be
pry apart my arteries with latex hands, a knife-edge and not just a keeper
of bones. the circumference of his
inspect my perpetual motion blood hands can fit around my meridian
machine. inside brackish waters new waist. here, rounded. there, hard.
I am a blouse turned inside out,
species bloom—a microbiome of raised edges along the seams
fauna in my blossoming gut. I am a revolt in so many words.

a transgression in the shape of an they teach you to draw women
ongoing flood. my river mouth does with circles and men with squares.
draw me with a shape we’ve yet
not ask for forgiveness when the levees to name. my body is prelapsarian,
break. blushing fruit left unplucked.
there are no names here, no adam
to category and classify. this
body is leviathan, yawning with
rows of waiting teeth.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

did you know that half of you
is made of alien microbes, sister-
sons of the big bang immortal. wade
into my tidepool as coral gnaws at
the sides. I am sentiment and
sediment and psychosis in a gut.
I am a fraction of a limitless whole.
with you, I am just as small but
somehow take up the entire room.

Ribbon

I spin just for an instant then fall still. press play and
cue a timelapse study of the notorious night-blooming rose.
the entire time I unfold I’m thinking of
the wilting that will come later.
fanning outward, facing the invisible sun.

I’m beckoning for a witness.
I’ve heard there’s a chance I’ll reappear next season but
what is a probability if not a halfway lie?
they’ll say the poor thing couldn’t even bear fruit. they’ll pull my
postmortem petals and ask who loved and who not.
I am bursting into my full wingspan while the gods shake their heads. this
overgrown body begins to eat itself head to tail. my vessel was not meant to hold
so tight. I understand the price and the circle but it still hurts. it hurts.

but did you see me there, for just an instant, birthing myself out of nothing, blooming
then dying so soon but never not not. I swear to you, I was there the whole time.

About the Author

My name is Mya Alexice. I cherish the opportunity to have you all read my poetry. I’m a
current MFA student at Rutgers-Newark, a writer at Book Riot, and a reviewer at Kirkus.
My poems can be found in several publications such as The Raven’s Perch, Quarto, The
Legendary, 4x4, Echoes, and more.

184

WAITING FOR RAIN

by Edward Reilly

Muse Waiting for Rain

You disconcert me at times, silent at the door, Waiting for rain, forecast with
As in the morning breeze your a cold depression
long tresses flutter, That should pummel its way
Eyes downcast as if you were about to confess even to Queensland,
A sin so terrible that it can’t be uttered. Promising to bury us in snow-bound solitudes,
Each house on the street
I am neither your confessor, nor confidant, shuttered and still by day,
Though you have burdened me Nightlights creeping past doors.
with those long histories
Now piled on my bookshelves Before the black clouds sweep
or stored in boxes: in from the Otways
So many, it would take all my life to describe. Our garden trembles, bees
massing on lavender,
I would rather have Thalia Sweet sparrows singing in the apple tree.
come sleep in my bed, Riverside, families of magpies
Or Terpsichore lead me on and currawongs carouse
polished dancefloors. To the beat of wind across the plains.
There are other men, surely,
who’d gladly serve you A friend, doctoring in the north
With pen and ink, making books suburbs, gravely ill,
thick with splendid words. Schools still closed for weeks,
petrol at 88 cents.
But you, Erato, have claimed We all have coughs, wet and dry, we’re tired.
me, decked this chamber They say only three more weeks til we can relax
With wreaths of myrtle, seduced At the University café, to discuss
doves to carol us.
And so, I will rise and learn the Our lives, but even then, we will be diminished.
arts of love with you, Talk will turn to the past, rather than the clouds
Making each minute an æon in paradise. Rolling from the cold seas, and of dreams,
Parents’ histories, returning like so many ravens
To sit still on shoulders, whispering.

185

Adelaide Literary Magazine

Abandoned Chapel

Mortar as tough as the ridges from which stone was cut,
They had erected this chapel, brick over blue boulder,
As much in memory of their motherland’s bleak aspect,
Wind scudding across northern seas, as for themselves
Found lumbering into the vast weald of the interior,
Only to come to a point where nothing useful grew,
Turning back to cling to the unforgiving borders
For surety and comfort: basalt then their godhouse,
Black oak for beams to hold a shingled roof against the sky,
Windows lanced to allow a faint glimmering to trickle in
From an upside-down Moon and scattering of alien stars,
When all they really had was their innermost light,
Some half-remembered prayers and dog-eared hymnals
To guide them and theirs through the coming years.
Priestless by choice, though taking in a few wanderers
Who could read and offer an explanation of the Book,
Keep a register of marriages, births, baptisms and funerals,
Maybe marry into the community before moving on,
Who kept themselves as cobblers and saddlers, taught
At the township’s school or helped out in the morgue.
One of them blessed my great-grandparents’ marriage,
Others buried them in the dry dustlands of the Wimmera,
Driven, in the long run, back to the coast by the drought.
How long could the congregation persist in the face of
The trials of that long War, Depression, and War again,
When all they wanted was a little space to call their own?
Peace, please give us peace, was their simple prayer,
Whilst heaven’s hounds never seemed too far away.
Yesterday, in the Mill Markets I saw a battered harmonium
Tucked away in a sunny corner, a sign, For Sale, in red,
Placarded with the legend ‘[illegible illegible] Chapel 1852’.
Its pedals still worked, though it wheezed and coughed,
Just like the old pensioner fingering its keyboard,
Quietly singing to himself, ‘Thou shalt arise, and mercy yet,
God in his glory shall appear’, stopping to forget words,
Then passing onto the next item as his granddaughter chatted.
The hymnal lay open, its black letters heavy with Knox,
As if northern cold were struggling to comprehend the light
Saturating a pewter dish as he hymned in his Springtime,

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Revista Literária Adelaide

When her favours caused the
golden grain to glow,
And there were children at his knee, a house of stones
Rising out of the iron soil like a temple in his verses.
How little do we know of how other men read the Book
Or take the priests’ words into their hearts, or sigh
When the town’s music mistress walks up to the podium
To lead the schoolchildren’s choir in a simple ballad.
We read into each other what is inscribed in our souls,
Stubborn as the black granite blocks with which we build,
Temples and chapels, to guard against Winter night,
Believing what we choose when the angels come by.

About the Author

Edward Reilly was born in Adelaide, South Australia, in
1944 and has lived in Geelong, Victoria, since the 1970s.
His MA (Deakin Uni. 1992) was on the Irish poet Thomas
Kinsella & PhD (Victoria Uni. 2000) concerned Poetics:
founding editor of the literary journal Azuria (2010 –
2019). His poems have appeared in Nimrod (Tulsa), Poetry
Ireland Review (Dublin), Salzburg Poetry Review (Salzburg),
SideWalk (Adelaide), Eureka Street (Melbourne), Literatura
ir Menas (Vilnius) et al. He has also published a travelogue,
criticism & a new chapbook, Three Poets (2019).

187

COMPASSION

by Lisa Tomey

Hang a Light on the Moon Music in A Dream State

Keeping a close watch Rock Star Plays the Scene
eyes glazed from lacking true sleep harsichordic moments flash
it’s the thing he does before purple haze
watching each breath in and out dancing on a cloud of pink
praising every moment air bounding off solid ground
looking for the signs rounding the hot strings
wondering what happens next side bar on the tambourine
never coasting hope beside the lava light
as the moon shines like a friend shading against neon shakes
shining to appeal his thoughts vibrations charge vividly
appealing powers dancing on the top
please hang a light on the moon children crawl beneath bleachers
giving energy playing toy soldiers
to the souls entwined here now it’s a natural lifestyle
who knows when they will release Janis sung in the shower
one thing is certain the music of dreams
moonlight is always shining slumber comes until one shakes
even if not seen humming in dozed state
if the clouds should hide the view what is that you say? say again
knowledge is the assurance write it down and sleep
illumination jumping on a cloud
backdrops shadows ’til the dawn blending days into the nights
knowing soothing dreams casting forward thrusts
ever comforting slumber pulling back but for nothing
souls hope for another day sleeping on the pull-out couch
when days turn to end
and forever rests come forth 188
comfort will be there
the soul no longer bottled
broken free for true release

Revista Literária Adelaide

Compassion

take notice of pain
it comes in all kinds of ways
soulful and sadful
spiritually obscure
physically in malaise

hold close the hurting
if not in arms try in hearts
you may not know what
kind of aching may be felt
trust that caring matters more

cries may not have tears
anguish manifests diverse
not for us to judge
just the same, judgment will come
and is often in telling

pull the chains from souls
release viral compassion
secrets can be held
truly, passions can be shared
without conditions all known

189

I NEVER LEARNED
TO SHUFFLE

by Jordan Mattox

I Never Learned to Shuffle The sound of the shuffle
shocks and splashes and
Cards cling together, continues until
but break in colliding the split resurrects
waterfalls of cardboard one card to the top.
not ending in order
but creating chaos of red Who splits? If I knew
and black. the answer, death would end
and magic would not
The game returns order, require a magician;
Patterns picked and piled, your card would always be
but once complete are known.
returned back to the sea
to find new
places to hide.

About the Author

Jordan Mattox is an educator and writer in the central valley
of California. He has written non-fiction for publication in
a journalistic outlet, but this is his first foray in the poetry
domain.

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FLOWER GIRL

by Michael Lee Johnson

Tears in Your Eyes Silent Moonlight (V2)

Poems are hard to create Record, she’s a creeping spider.
they live, then die, walk alone in tears, Hurt love dangles net
resurrect in family mausoleums. from a silent moonlight hanger,
They walk with you alone in ghostly patterns, tortures this damaged heart
memories they deliver feeling unexpectedly daggers twist in hints of the rising sun.
through the open windows of strangers. Silence snores. Sometimes she’s a bitch.
Silk roses lie in a potted bowl Sunlight scatters these shadows
memories seven days before Mother’s Day. across my bare feet in
Soak those tears, patience is the poetry of love. this spotty rain.
Plant your memories, your seeds, your passion, Sometimes we rewind,
once a year, maybe twice. sometimes no recourse,
Jesus knows we all need more numbness, no feeling at all.
then a vase filled with silk flowers,
poems on paper from a poet sacred,
the mystery, the love of a caretaker−
multicolored silk flowers in a basket
handed out by the flower girl.

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At Hamilton Lakes Adelaide Literary Magazine
Fall Thunder (V2)

Stone carved dreams for men There is power in the thunder
past and gone, freedom fighters tonight, kettledrums.
blow past wind and storms. There is thunder in this power,
Patriotism scared, etched in the powder blends white lightening
the face of cave walls. flour sifters in masks toss it around.
There are no cemeteries here for the old, Rain plunges October night; dancers
vacancies for the new. crisscross night sky in white gowns.
Americans incubate chunks Tumble, turning, swirl the night away, around,
of patriotism over the few centuries, leaves tape-record over, over, then, pound,
a calling into the wild, a yellow fork stabs me. pound repeat falling to the ground.
Today happiness is a holiday. Halloween falls to the children’s
Rest in peace warriors, freedom fighters, knees and imaginations.
those who simply made a mistake. Kettledrums.
I gaze out my window to Hamilton Lakes
half-drunk with sparkling wine, * This year, 2020, due to COVID-19 I watch
seeing lightning strikes ends, fireworks off my condo balcony alone, share
sparklers, buckets full of fire. darkness alone, share bangers in the open sky.
Light up the dark sky, firecrackers.
Filmmakers, old rock players, fume-filled skies,
butts of dragonflies.
Patriotism shakes, rocks, jerks
across my eye’s freedom locked
in chains, stone-carved dreams.

About the Author

Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the
United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small
business owner in Itasca, DuPage County, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 1098 new
publications, his poems have appeared in 40 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites. Michael
Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2
Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 215 poetry videos are now on YouTube https://www.
youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of
Yellow Haze: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion
in a Vase of Roses available here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089. Editor-in-chief Warriors
with Wings: The Best in Contemporary Poetry, http://www.amazon.com/dp/1722130717.
https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Lee-Johnson/e/B0055HTMBQ%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_
share
https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=Michael+Lee+Johnson&type= Member Illinois
State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/

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INTERVIEWS



STEPHANIE A. SMITH

Author of “ASTEROIDEA”

1. Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the official author’s bio?

Growing up, I loved Sylvia Plath’s Ariel and The Bell Jar, and I wanted to emulate her (not the
suicide part though!) so my mother helped me get a summer internship at Conde Nast Pub-
lications in NYC, her own former employer. I worked for Glamour, Vogue, Vanity Fair, Made-
moiselle, Self, and briefly at GQ as a summer intern, so both The Bell Jar and The Devil Wore
Prada give you an accurate picture of my working summers from 1977-1980. I then worked
as a legal aid in Boston while I attended Boston University, until I landed an internship at
David Godine Books. The summer I worked for Godine, the house published The Hunger
of Memory. We had no idea how big a seller this book would get to be, and we had a hard
time keeping up with the orders. After that, in the summer of 1981, I went out to the West
Coast, to take a Portland State University Haystack summer writing workshop with Ursula K.
Le Guin, Vonda N. McIntyre and Elizabeth Lynn, which had been my dream since I was 16. To
be able to work with these talented women writers for three weeks changed my life.

While I consider myself an author and an academic, I was also an editor at a small press
(Western Imprints, now defunct) in Portland, Oregon for two years; I paint in watercolor and
acrylics; I knit and crochet; and I’m a self-taught cook i.e. my parents didn’t teach me any-
thing, so I had to learn how to cook and bake by myself; I have a thriving herb garden most
summers and I lift weights. I used to practice dressage until my horse, Saab, threw me and
broke my wrist. My secret reading vice is detective novels, any detective novel, which I will
polish off in a few hours; when I was a kid, I used to tear my way through Nancy Drew and
Agatha Christie; I’m addicted to British television series, particularly Morse and Endeavour; I
have two dogs and four cats and would have more if I could afford to do so.

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

The very first thing I had published was a letter to TV Guide; I was 8 or 9. I was an editor
on our Westfield NJ high school fiction/poetry magazine, so I published short fiction there;
then I published a poem and some short stories in SF/F fanzines in the late 70’s but my first
professional sale was to Asimov’s Magazine in 1983, a short story titled “Blue Heart,” which I
had written in 1981 at the Haystack workshop. It was reprinted in a collection called A Space
of Her Own. I was 24.

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3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
ASTEROIDEA is my latest publication. Ursula K. Le Guin inspires everything I write, still, but
this one was inspired in part by my frequent summer vacations in St. Augustine; my love of
the sea; a trip I made back to Portland and to the Oregon coast in 2005; my fascination for
the wonders of marine biology, so evident on either coast; my friendship with Sandra Gun-
ning, who teaches at the University of Michigan—we took our PhD’s together at Berkeley—
and my deep admiration for both Nella Larsen and Toni Morrison.

4. H ow long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

I don’t do a daily word count, but I do keep a schedule. I write three to four hours a day, al-
most every day, first thing in the morning. I get up; we have breakfast; I feed my animals, give
the dogs a walk and then I write until lunch time. Usually I’m working on multiple projects
until one of them just takes over and pushes me to finish it.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?
I start almost everything in longhand first, and when it begins to feel like I know where the
story is going, I switch to my computer. I don’t know if this is unusual, but I need to feel the
words through the pen first, to feel my way into the shape of the novel or story.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize,
or is there more to your creativity than just writing?

As I said above, I paint, knit, crochet, garden; I’m a pretty fair photographer. I used to play
the guitar and banjo but I don’t do that anymore. And I’m a teacher, of 19th c. American
literature and culture. I consider designing a course that is challenging and interesting a
kind of art form.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?
Herman Melville, particularly Moby Dick; Nathaniel Hawthorne, particularly The Scarlet Let-
ter; Henry James, particularly Portrait of a Lady; Edith Wharton, particularly The Age of Inno-
cence; F. Scott Fitzgerald, particularly The Great Gatsby; Willa Cather, particularly Song of the
Lark; Nella Larsen, particularly Passing; anything by Sylvia Plath, Ursula K. Le Guin, Vonda N.
McIntyre, Octavia Butler, Toni Morrison, Nicola Griffith, Michael Cunningham.

8. W hat are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

Yes. My next published work will be STRANGE GRACE which is due out from Adelaide in Sept.
of 2021. It is about an ageing actor who takes on a highly unusual role as an alien on a distant
planet, and the effect that job has on his wreck of a personal life.

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I have a finished mss. that just doesn’t want to settle on a title (right now it is called
OCTOPUS DREAMS but it doesn’t quite fit) about a transgender CEO of a robotics company
who must confront unhappy fractures in his past, while facing some tough life decisions as
he turns sixty.

I have a finished science-fantasy novel titled STONEBREAKER for which I haven’t found a
home.

I’m working on a novel tentatively titled ANATOMICA about a private chef to a perfor-
mance artist who has to come to terms with her employer’s public murder (she’s killed by a
fan in front of her audience).

And I’ve started a novel tentatively titled WOLF, BEAR, DRAGON but all I have are some
notes at this point.

9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

Readers who enjoy the writers I mentioned above tend to relish my work, so I would say my
readers are readers who read a lot, who enjoy complexity and depth, who aren’t afraid of a
challenge—readers who read for something more than sheer entertainment, and those who
like history, science and the plastic arts.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Persist. If you are a writer, write, no matter what.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
My college roommate told me to find a living author who I greatly admired and try to
take a workshop with them. So I did that, I took a workshop from Le Guin. Best thing I
ever did.

Ursula K. Le Guin told me that you have to let the cup in the mind refill itself from time to
time, so don’t worry if you have a fallow period from time to time. Your creativity needs it.

Toni Morrison told me to write the stories I wanted to hear, not what I thought others
wanted to hear, and to never limit myself arbitrarily.

12. H ow many books you read annually and what are you
reading now? What is your favorite literary genre?

I am a full professor of American Literature, so I read for a living, every day—I really couldn’t
say how many books I read or re-read a year. A whole lot. My favorite genre is either the
Bildungsroman or feminist and/or queer science fiction, but I read everything and anything,
fiction, non-fiction, the local newspaper, tea leaves.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?

What is the most important to be remembered by readers?
In my work, I try to tackle the compelling social and technological issues of my life time,
through memorable and empathetic but not always comfortable characters, so I would hope
my readers would remember the characters as if they were living people, and therefore
remember and perhaps emulate how those characters worked through the problems they
faced in their lives. I want to give people some hope, even in the face of failure or defeat.
14.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and

about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?
I have worked in or with the publishing industry since the late 1970’s i.e. over forty years and
my opinion is that the publishing industry as a capitalist enterprise works very hard to silence
and/or demoralize artists by making them “brand” themselves as a reliable and repeatable
product—you always know what you are going to get if the author is J.K. Rowling—thereby
discouraging experimentation and suppressing or even killing actual artistry. I don’t think
authors should “fit” the latest “trend” as if they were in the fashion industry. I think a writer
should pursue the story they want to see alive in the world, even if no one else understands
why, and I don’t think the artist should give up. When I say this, I think of both Le Guin and
Morrison. Nobody understood what Le Guin was doing, at first; she didn’t really see her
work published until her 30’s; and no one seemed to understand The Bluest Eye at first, but
Morrison didn’t give up.

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