Our apartment in Stockholm had a blue kitchen floor, or so I am told. I was three when they brought me back to America, where both my parents were born. I wanted my blue floor, I am told I screamed, in the English-Swedish hybrid I spoke then, when the world that was not my parents had a different language. And then everything used the…
The Sun’s Going Down by Clifton Bates
It’s getting dark, the sun’s going down. Winter’s around the corner. Fields are turning brown. Won’t be long I’ll be a skeleton hobbling around trying to type with boney fingers carrying a cranium full of memories with vacant eye sockets staring at wishes. Won’t be long and I’ll be just one more of those people dying who have never died before. Image by: Kıvanç…
What Happened by Clifton Bates
The snowball hit the baby The mortar missed the father But the snowball hit the baby. Image by: Nigel Wedge
Poetry to Return
Poems will return, with pleasure, on Monday. They were out on a short vacation and neglected to tell the rest of us, silent as they are. Sam Newson, Punslinger, Poetry Editor Image by: Lovelorn Poets
The Hunting of the Snark an Agony in Eight Fits
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK an Agony in Eight Fits by Lewis Carroll PREFACE If–and the thing is wildly possible–the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.4) “Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes.” In view of this painful possibility, I will…