Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Tuesday poem #302 : Noah Falck : NOTHING’S LULLABY


It is immersed in the whole blackened wildness of night. A revision swallowed in the cinema of hurt. A sound we know only by stepping through. Like fire scribbling through a cemetery. We run through it as if a season or a cartoon, our nervous systems exposed. In one of the scenes you can see our little orange hearts booming. Tiny flares always about to go out. We stay awake as a way to punish our sketched-out bodies.





Noah Falck is the author of Snowmen Losing Weight (BatCat Press), and EXCLUSIONS (forthcoming from Tupelo Press, 2020). He lives and works in Buffalo, New York. Find him @nofalck

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, January 08, 2019

Tuesday poem #301 : Elisha May Rubacha : see



200 acres of space
that I was afraid to explore

between the fishers, coyotes, and cougars
my father warned me about

“if a cougar attacks you,” he’d say
“your only chance

is to pull out its eye”







Elisha May Rubacha lives, writes, and gardens in Peterborough, ON. She was a finalist for Peterborough's Outstanding Emerging Artist Award (2018), and shortlisted for the PRISM International Creative Non-fiction Contest (2016). Her work has been published by Apt. 9 Press, Electric City Magazine, Puddles of Sky Press, Bywords, The Steel Chisel, and Skirt Quarterly, with a publication from Exile forthcoming. She is the editor and designer of bird, buried press.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, January 01, 2019

Tuesday poem #300 : Jane Virginia Rohrer : untitled


always comes back to who
do you really know
                                    in the end, it is
only ideas of the big thing, the city
shrinks whenever you stretch a hand,
although you’ve lived inside, beside it
                                    two hole decades
there isn’t much you have to share—you
are one slim sliver, meaningless,
of the human whole, &
your moms     dissolved into
album folds, school-made heart-shaped cards
before you
         even got to ask the big stuff,
the what was it like to break open, how many
years did it take to disappear,
                        what does it feel like
to be all someone thinks about until they form memories,
and by then they have so much more than you,
was it hard to let that go?      
i wanted
            to learn everything about you,
your softball batting average, when your eyes change,
what was your first drink—
    but there’s so little time, we’re already gone,
we hardly even made it here to begin with,
like the many building-ed view from a train window
                        it’s hard to remember all those lives besides yours
going on, always, together & not

feels good to forgive the good, feels good
to remember the bad, feels good to feel good skin



Jane Virginia Rohrer is a writer and teacher from Southeastern Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington and is currently pursuing a PhD at the University of Pittsburgh where she studies sound, radio, and contemporary poetry and poetics. Her creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Peach Mag, Metatron, Bone Bouquet, and others. 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan


Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Tuesday poem #299 : Joel Robert Ferguson : After Turner's Stags



an ekphrasis on London From Greenwich Park
by J.M.W. Turner


I see a clutch of red and fallow, all
enclosed off-canvas. Day chases night
with a can of black and tan,
while jumbo jets float
in the pink of a bad year, caught 
in marmalade above Gatwick. 

Sweltering Brits! Long grass tamps
down the slope. Robust regard 
for parks but sold out of cornettos. 
Again and again explained a drive to flee 
for Kent, Galloway, Somerset, the din somewhere 
waves crash into stone lions’ cliff-carved maws. 

Polyphemus is in the next chamber, his father stirring. 
The rubber map of an old port's streets I leave
as giants grind down to enjoy feeling
a city squish beneath heel. Fairy-rings
are sprouting around Saint Paul's.
Underwater tunnels are the last damp place, cool,
the Thames’ old bricks quivering green jelly.

The point of dogs to Turner’s at-bay stags.
The roars are hollowed, 
weather no polite conversation
when an age of aftermath arrives. Two centuries on,
Greenwich, I didn’t mean it. Straw hats,
subscription lawn chairs should take note.



Joel Robert Ferguson’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Contemporary Verse 2, Lemon Hound, The Columbia Review, Prairie Fire, and The Capilano Review. Originally from the village of Bible Hill, Nova Scotia, he now divides his time between Winnipeg and Montreal, where he is pursuing a Masters in English Literature at Concordia. His first book of poetry is forthcoming from Signature Editions in 2020.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Tuesday poem #298 : Joan Naviyuk Kane : UPON LEARNING THAT SHE’S HUNG A FOX PELT FROM TED HUGHES FROM THE RAFTERS ABOVE HER DESK



Not an easy thing to shake as she defers
her rapprochement with apoidea
over false oxlip & phlox. A glacier

makes a river of ice, of earth,
of everything that is & is not she.
A paradox: the present as a dark

text to (re)turn (in)to. She strikes
the bright inscriptions, which might
yet teem for a long time.

We tread the paths of myth, grown
sick, like the boy who banged
an adze until it grew dull

& the snow ceased. & like that
which presupposes it, & us:
line, image, lilt. I am not quite

myself within other declarations.
I do not exalt with great nimbleness:
& did not notice the lemming

as he slipped through a hole in the fenestra
on some annual migration to the sea,
past himself as his own pelt-monger,  

& far past the point where he pulled an awl through the fauces.

In these words, enclosed, too, at times
within the old enchantments—
one broods beyond the problem

of being bound to place,
to anything at all. & then,
the ballista, too, becomes its own

source of wonder. An omen,
albeit one tempered by the concise
splendor of a mind as it moves

quick, unsick, within the confines
of night. Breach lyric. Split time.
Will she?— she will —explicate

the fixed architecture as it flickers by,
“trying over and over its broken line /
trying over and over its broken line.”




Joan Naviyuk Kane’s books and chapbooks of prose and poetry include The Cormorant Hunter’s Wife, Hyperboreal, The Straits, Milk Black Carbon, A Few Lines in the Manifest, Sublingual (November 2018), and Another Bright Departure (March 2019). She is a 2018 Guggenheim Fellow. Kane was a Harvard National Scholar, and the recipient of a graduate Writing Fellowship from Columbia University’s School of the Arts. Inupiaq with family from King Island and Mary’s Igloo, she raises her children as a single mother in Anchorage, Alaska.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan