Poetry – Page 2 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

Written by Brianna Fay. Posted in Poetry.

I have dreams

every other full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun had already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

he flashes his high beams at me.

On, off, and on. Three times.

I’m driving down the dip in the road

He’s coming at it from the other direction

His high beams light up the cabin of my Chevy Trailblazer

They illuminate the yellow dashes in the road

They light up the wheat on either side of the street.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

They light up the abandoned machinery in the field.

It’s been abandoned;

every time I pass,

every time the car drives by in my dreams.

The fields by this road are my favorite part of this town.

My family used to watch fireworks from that hill at the top of the road

and when the sun is setting

the city skyline lights up over the trees.

I used to take that road as a short cut to get home from Jay’s Diner.

It’s where I got pulled over for the first time.

It’s where I drove the car to the side of the road to spend three hours crying

just because everything was falling apart.

I have these dreams

every full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun has already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

and he flashes his high beams.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

Is there something wrong with my car?

YOU’RE DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION

Lately, the landscape has changed

but I still take that route home.

The machinery has been moving dirt.

Dad says they’re building soon

and we might not be able to see the skyline from that hill

GET OFF THE ROAD

I never go to Jay’s Diner anymore.

BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

I don’t even know if this route is really a short cut.

GET OUT

On, off, and on again.

IT’S NOT TOO LATE

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.

Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8

Written by Thomas Ketchersid. Posted in Poetry.

I dreamed that I wrote

a poem

for someone inappropriate

who needed

one.

I dreamed that they later

shared it

with the world and it felt ok

with everyone

but me.

Sometimes a sprawling

resort on a cliff where

I do not belong and live

in shadows, sprints, and

confidence.

There is another country

I travel to in some dreams.

There is an airport in my

shadowland I have spent

many days running late to,

many days on a train to.

I wonder if I am on my way

to someone else’s shadow

and all of our ports and all

of our trains look the same

and we will never grant each

other entry, asylum, bondage.

I will swim up

and down the floors

of the house I

grew up and learned

everything important in.

I find your corpse

floating in the attic

I don’t remember

you ever visiting.

Like a cathedral cut from stone

my favorite exhibit in a museum

of the other country I visit in my

dreams appears before me with

heights and depths I can never

hope to absorb or comprehend.

I move through the levels, mansions, and

rooms like Kowloonon

on the run in my other country with dank

flower sweating in hand.

If I could smell it would be Genoa docks

and wine breath.

If I weren’t saving the terpenes these legs

would never move.

Grown Ups

Written by Grace Willis. Posted in Poetry.

Do you remember when you were seven years old

and you wore the pale blue t-shirt,

the one with the pony on it?

When you skipped arm-in-arm with your best friend

toward the swing set while classmates pushed

and ran and threw wood chips?

In youth’s soft round whisper you held no belief of betrayal,

sharing secrets and self like broken halves of crayon.

Now you wear practiced smiles at the grocery store,

at church and for the neighbors,

wanting the man that loves you in bed each night

to hold you like a surrogate mother,

a canary of assurance in a wound that will not heal.

When you were a child, you could catch frogs

and release them.

Now intimacy turns blue in the grip of a white-knuckled fist

squeezing until the body falls limp,

lifeless in your hands.

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

My Brother, David

Written by Sara Reynolds Cox. Posted in Poetry.

Do you remember

bleach-blond David?

Hair becoming green from the potent chlorine?

Boyhood David

Athletic-swimmer David?

Anchor of the dream team relay

Baseball-jersey-all-year-long David?

Touchdown, homerun, all-star David.

Still get glimpses of reckless David

unfazed-by-limits David

tackled-a-kid-in-third-grade-for-calling-our-mama-ugly David,

bought-a-dog-without-anyone’s-permission David.

“Hey, dad”

called three-year-old David

no-fears David

already travelling down the steep hill

on my scooter, David.

No helmet, no knee pads

Daredevil David.

You’ll need patience for mouthy David.

Anti-authority David.

Walked out of Spanish class because she wouldn’t let him piss –

ISS-once-a-year David.

Unplugged the teacher’s minifridge –

poke-the-bear David.

Sweating rivers, dusk to dawn

‘cause he’s hard working, that David.

Skoal cans in the truck bed

trying-to-kick-the-habit David

Daring David

Speak-up-for-the-weak David

Named for our granddaddy, David.

Not too cool to teach Bible school

Friend-to-the-friendless David.

God-fearing David

My brother, David

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Quarantine/SSRI Dreams Nos. 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and 8

Grown Ups

Ode to the yellow taxi

My Brother, David

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