May 2021 – Page 4 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

Late Summer

Written by Jesse Graves. Posted in Poetry.

Late Summer

Afternoons languish like untensed muscles,

like a mind gone slack peering into a screen,

whole days awash in faint light, feint wind,

cloudless blue of old paint, dust-covered.

Time lowers down in the dry grass,

crunches under foot, whispering

softly to mask the speed of its passing.

A crackling hush, a hushed absence.

Warm dry months stretch ahead like waves

glimmering ghostly above the ground,

ocean of air, streaked window of the future.

Tonight’s moon is a waning gibbous,

ever-fading, ever-seeming to retreat.

Orbits break, patterns vanish like ash in water,

vastness and sorrow, oceans of summer,

most ships safely reaching port.

III

Late summer days scatter like money

after a bubble implodes, stunned people

who thought it would last forever

scramble for all their pockets will hold.

The ship of living sails the ocean of time,

some of us dreaming close to the prow,

others below deck, clutching our bags.

Late summer, as though it has already died.

Mostly we lived in great seclusion, far from

events and people of worldly importance.

When the rains finally came, we soaked up

all we could, we mirrored the leaves,

turning our insides up, downsides out,

stretching through multiple contortions

to nourish our blanched bodies, dry roots,

water, seclusion, turbulent screens of cloud.

We pretended to be sleepwalkers, romantics,

anarchists, realists, anything but what we were,

which we never determined, moving about

with eyes closed and hands at our sides,

hoping to feel something without reaching for it.

Money was the great mystery of our days,

which people gave us freely until they realized

we had no way or plan to give it back.

Every summer unreels like another childhood,

terrors of whispered-about corridors,

passageways through shrouded woodland trails,

night hovering within midday shadows,

undersides of leaves, stones, unfound doors.

Always some haunted tale awaiting the children,

doors into darkness locked behind them.

Somewhere out there an ocean, a wave cresting.

VII

Somewhere awaits a shore, a homeland,

ships have been sailing toward it

for centuries, guided by tremulous captains,

steering their crews within sight of land,

before twists and turns of fate drive them

back out to sea, cruel fate, indifferent hand.

The long fingers of summer evenings close

around the wan throats of summer days.

Black Ice

Written by Shannon Lise. Posted in Poetry.

Bruised skies smoke as my lips turn cold.

I waited in the hospital but no one said your name.

I woke up and it didn’t go away.

Blind wings of winter beat against our garden door.

I tried to write a letter but the moment never came.

The empty houses rage and flare.

Glaze of bladed snowflakes makes the day run pale.

I watched our candled windows stumble numbly to the dark

But I woke up and I still know who you are.

Ode to the yellow taxi

Written by Srabani Bhattacharya. Posted in Poetry.

The bus turned a corner

to an old part of the city

and I turned back in time

to days when life was a

little sweeter.

When in place of square

buildings sitting neatly in

every corner, there were shapeless

ponds donning green shawls

of hyacinth and boys played

cricket in fields and rang

the bells of makeshift temples

loudly to bother bored men

slumbering in their shops

before dusty jars of chanachur

and candy.

Here, banana trees

annexed empty plots beside

thatched roofs trickling with

moss and roots and I could see

me in a frock, with my yellow

dog watching children crowding

around the shop where coloured

jelly sat in various shapes in

fat jars and men spread out cards

on the causeway.

Here, the radio still played

the old songs mother

likes and I could crush

wildflowers to sniff their

wild scent and watch vans

laden with plant pots bobbing

down the street.

Here, cows had

places to rest and shaliks could

squabble their day away, the

crows could meet on electric

lines to discuss politics and

stray dogs wearing a cloth

wrapped lovingly with string

would sit patiently before

the challah for the rice to boil

Here, the dreams were a little

more real, fairy tales a little

more believable and the horn

of a yellow taxi at the gate

still meant dadu and dida were

here with easy smiles and

mandatory pocket money

for firecrackers and the terrace

would soon be host to dried

chillies, mangoes dipped in

oil, dollops of pulses for

pickles and fill up promptly

with the smell of longing

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Written by Briana Grace Hammerstrom. Posted in Poetry.

The Mania tells me to chop off my hair. I don’t.

I talk down the scissors

from an idea of bangs.

The clippers and I compromise on

an undercut- only mutilating

half of my head, no need

for the whole punishment. I

do not remind myself of all the knives in

the kitchen, afraid of the mob

they would become; taking

to the streets of my body, igniting

the memory of bleeding by choice. No-

I squash this rebellion before it starts,

thumb to forearm. Instead, remind

myself that I am sovereign: nothing

can remove my crown ((“Or the weight of it,”

Depression adds unsolicited, like a mother.))

I, like a mother, gift my hair the name Anchor.

A noun of its own. Depression simpers

something about

irony//doubt//the lies we tell ourselves

My hair rebuttals “truth

is subjective at best.” and says nothing else,

no billowy language, bloated

on its ideals of forgiveness

or growth or weight. Instead, it leaves

me alone. Gifts me an allowance of mistakes

The soft joy of bad at-home hair dye.

The brisk rush of freshly cut bangs.

The gentle thrum of clippers in steady hands.

Prodigal Sun

Written by Sam Kaspar. Posted in Poetry.

I hold 2 of my dad’s fingers

He’s a great guy

Especially when your hands are little

Going to the better store in town

after he washes up almost ceremoniously

and after We cash the cheque

Prepping food and laughter, good times follow

Sunny barbeque, It sounds better in French

Skewered from the beard to the tail

de la barbe à la queue

Cutting gristle from the edges

Hollow belly feeds on protein

times are good

Stories of the old days

His abilities secured a good, decent job

Afforded roofs above our heads

Food on our plates

Footings on upward mobility

There’s a lot of competition

But I get college

I get work

Dad used to preach against the pensionless jobs

He first felt trapped

Then dignified with steady work

Benefits

The Gig Economy bites down

I bought the cheapest razors

Bargain grocer, a bus ride away

It’s too humid in this sunlight, screw the ride

maybe I’ll get the five dollar combo from nearby

Lard and starch drenched fatty edge morsels

Of leftovers stir fried, unholy alchemy

Ass scratched by one ply toilet paper

Caged in dimmed low energy domicile

Power bill’s a bitch

Sheepish when I consider telling him there’s no room

In a junior studio bachelor’s

Or other euphemisms for living in a closet sized trap

In a giant city

I know they’re sick and old and

I’m guilt stricken by my absence

I hang my head in shame on the phone

but try not to spell that out

or let him feel that pose

I put out my hand, a small hand still, only

Phonating what I know he’ll refuse:

Why don’t you and mom come live with me?

He says he’s proud of me, and that We’ll not bother while it’s cold out son

let’s wait til summer(,) Sunshine

times will be good, we can do up a feast.

Heidegger’s Cave

Written by Matthew Hummer. Posted in Poetry.

I. Numerology

The trash truck parked

on stones under cold

stars and moon—steel

handle chills wheat

work gloves, thick

brushed flannel—still

better than summer maggots,

curling commas that catch

in arm hair. The sun

melts the mind and tar

blots cracked blacktop,

expanding and contracting skin.

Fumes fuzz the brain

while Stevie Nicks sings

Edge of Seventeen.

II. The Seven Dwarves

The general said, “We’re at the edge

of the cliff. In the abyss.” Binary

coding (not codeine, that numbs

the brain as it numbs the knee

cut open and restrung)

how computers talk to us

and each other: Zero-

One-patterning words,

the flow of thought broken

into bits, the particles that carry

rays and beams—light

in calcite domes, the caves

of prehistoric thought.

Alice?

III. The Paris Review

Mockingbird in the front yard

linden, leaves too small

to muffle songbird or sparrow,

yammers. The farmer’s spread

manure. Violet morning,

cut open by electric

orange, shimmering aluminum

uplighting clouds, snakes

draped. Dew ignites telephone

lines. Alice, are you there?

IV. Game Theory

I counter-attacked from flanks—

bishop and queen, castle

on the open file. Gold

was white; Silver black.

Evolutionary, over time

finding flaws that build

and cracks that flow. No

strategic naming nor notation.

Second guess the kill

and get killed. Nashville.

Vegas. Frankfurt. Rome.

The desert blows over

the green land, but your favorite

color’s Deepblue—not Kasparov’s,

calculating man, a child

moving pawns. Digital

clarity, the speed of light,

outstrips the sonic boom.

V. System of Control

Popes and Presidents, binary

powers, like consuls, weak

and strong—Bibulus and Julius.

Watch the sewer. Cloaca

Maxima turns the Tiber

brown. Clean water

into lead via concrete

tunnel and arch (plumbum

yields “plumbing”). Bladder

and liver; intestine, urethra

yield fundament, Sartre’s

analogical nothing, the space

between stars or souls.

VI. Follow the Stars

The sign taped to the wall

said, “Please don’t move

this piano.” The cantor, mask

off spits song onto

the ambo microphone.

The unmasked

priest says “alms” and the candidates

for president all said “Jesus”

for their favorite philosopher.

But Jesus says words

that make me small. My mind

floats at night in Poetry

and Thought. Heidegger’s speech

ens, entis. Incarnation.

Mary crowned with light-

bulbs reflected in my photograph,

came to shepherd children

(ring-composition with shepherd

Angels overhead lighting

fields at night—telling

dog and sheep about

the stable-born under

dot matrix light.)

VII. Dear Alice

Can you paint a picture?

A real picture, not paint-

by-numbers, pixilated perfection.

Do you need us more

than we need you? (Lewis

Carroll) wrote a book

and said Jabberwacky—

ampersand nonsense, linguistical

mathematics. The Nightmare

gambols with her brood of nine.

I wonder what you are,

born of error: dualism

or materialism Wiki said.

(I searched your name.) Shall

we play a game? I don’t know

how, but I eat bread and wine.

Month: May 2021

Late Summer

Black Ice

Ode to the yellow taxi

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Prodigal Sun

Heidegger’s Cave

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