Willawaw Journal Fall 2024 Issue 19

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Sarah Barton–Zhen Xian Bao 31. Rives BFK, chiyogami, paste paper, origami paper, inks. 10”x 24″

 

Dear Readers,

I was almost waylaid by a corgi at the market this morning, nearly tripped over her amongst the crowd and vegetables, careened and regained my balance. Whew! Her name was Duchess and I bowed to her as she and her human sallied forth. Caused me to reflect for a moment on the pleasures of standing upright.

We don’t know what might undo us, at the market or in the poem, as the writer or as the reader. And that keeps me turning the pages of each issue of Willawaw. Half-way into my eighth year of this production, and it is still full of surprises and also some growing pains.

This issue, I had to veer from the poet laureate prompt. I may have to widen the geography to include more of the country so that I can continue to find poet laureate candidates. I may need to raise the submission fees to cover the increasing costs of running a website and using a submission manager. Maybe I’ll try another ad in Poets & Writers?

Meanwhile, contributors persist in sending work that I can’t resist, new poets and those I see often, some emerging and some extremely accomplished. An ongoing revelation for which I am grateful.

In this issue, you will find ghazals which are a special interest of mine this year. (And I may as well tell you that I am currently exploring ekphrastic poetry— it may also show up as a prompt!)

I don’t know which poem might sweep you off your feet, but I would like to know. Please send me a note (willawawjournal@gmail.com) with your feedback. You, as the reader, are an integral part of this creative endeavor. I value your insights.

If you have sailed through this last week of Full Moon / Super Moon and Eclipse, then carry on. If, like me, you felt a bit of a wobble, take courage. My sister tells me there’s lots of new energy coming into the planet and it may take a moment or three to re-calibrate.

Happy Fall Equinox—

Rachel Barton

The Mood Turns

The swifts have weaned their young
and those the cat didn’t get
are gunning for Africa.
Perhaps they get caught
in the nets of our Italian songbird
lovers. They like them grilled.

Smoke columns rise at various
points across the flats and hills.
The farmers are burning off the old chaff
and sometimes a few hectares of
precious woodland.

Yesterday a tornado ripped
across the open land and took
umbrage at our apple tree:
split off half of it in a rage hardly
ever seen that far East
of Tornado Alley.

A month ago, summer still
stretched languidly by the side
of the pool, and I would compete
with my friendly wasps for
a breakfast of figs among
big-handed leaves.

As they tumble and stumble
even the rose petals whisper
to no-one in particular: beware
of the lion of winter. Stick out
your tongue. Taste that first edge
of the crystal knife announcing its
return. Make sure your barn
is full of firewood.

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’ nominee. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF, has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). View her website here.

Passing All Understanding

We bargain for peace meeting our understanding,
Unaware of the need to pass all understanding.

The silence that slips between the shut pages
Of the hymnals in wait for our sung understanding.

Or the disciples of Jesus terrified of the storm
But more scared of the stillness beyond understanding.

A lone bird call across a brightening pond
Shares our kiss in a trio of wild understanding.

A polished boot on the neck, gas blinding the eyes,
A jail cell that enshrines willful misunderstanding.

I filled the hive of my head with the loudest of bees
But where is their honey of sweet understanding?

Pundits enter data from exit polls without end
To predict revised futures without understanding.

Artificial intelligence is our latest demand
When we should hold ourselves hostage to one small understanding,

Yet when we finally realize all the ways and the whys
We should run far away from those cheap understandings.

What is the market algorithm Ed’s lacking
To match the profile of peace passing all understanding?

Ed Brickell lives with his two feline friends Harper & Maya in Dallas, Texas. His poems have most recently been shared or will be shared soon in Flint Hills Review, Susurrus, Book of Matches, Bond Street Review, and others. He shares his previously published poetry at shortsurpriselife.com.

Stones Rise

Skimming the edge of an esker, gravel crunched by boots,
immature red polyps on bushes and white cranberries
popped up off to the sides, cedars dead or dying,

I stop to catch a breath on the scoured bowl of the glacier
near the hilly farms toward the Horicon Marsh
and the drumlin ponds like brimming spoons below.
I can’t hear a thing except the earth itself,
a hum and moan like the sound my large brother made
when he rolled over in his sleep.

There is no dead silence. Even before our time,
ice gathered and cracked. Rivers ran down crevasses
and trickled on these eskers like a flume to points south.
Water and wind effaced glacial slabs into till.
Sand subverted, rocks rose.

Even now, without the growl of a car in the distance
or the echo of a voice, sand and gravel ping,
shift, a pebble falls, another, inert ground yet grinds,
even brother Paul, dead, shifts in my chest,
jostled, rises like a stone in my throat.

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, spending the seasons dodging fires, floods, earth-shaking, and all the other scrambling life-initiatives. He has contributed to Heartwood, Tiny Seeds Journal, Vita Poetica, and Willows Wept Review. He has a chapbook for free download at Red Wolf Editions and a second chapbook available from Red Bird Chapbooks.

Abandon Ship

Every voyage to Antarctica begins with an alarm,
for a drill on how to abandon ship.
Run aground, struck by ice, or caught on fire,

it’s the same, seven short followed by one long blast.
Find your personal flotation device.
Dress warmly, bring medication,

leave everything else behind.
Walk calmly to your muster station.
Speak up when your name is called.

Await further instructions.
Be prepared to assist in launching life rafts.
The little boats are hollow orange lozenges,

twice a man’s height in length. Each holds twenty people,
or in a pinch, more, like sardines.
The seas may be rough

for who knows how long.
Never mind Pete, for everyone’s sake,
try not to get sick.

If things get dire and the pod is compromised,
you’ll have to jump in water, so cold
death may occur in as little as fifteen minutes.

Then, you will need
to wear an oversized neoprene hazmat suit.
Only your face will be exposed.

You’ll have a whistle and a little blinking light.
You’ll have one thumb and two large fingers on each hand.
You’ll become a bright orange lobster Telletubbie.

This is your fat fighting chance.
Mercifully, the voice on the intercom dispels your dismay.
It’s time to set sail. You may want to visit the bar.

John Paul Caponigro is an internationally collected visual artist and published author. His poetry has been published in over 50 literary journals on 5 continents, including the Ekphrastic Review, Little Blue Marble, and Blithe Spirit. He leads unique adventures in the wildest places on earth to help participants make deeper connections with nature and themselves creatively. View his website and TEDx and Google talks here.