Archives for posts with tag: drawing

Putting together the pieces of myself
by Suvojit Banerjee

A little boy
wistfully star-gazing on a night, and seeking
warmth from the farthest corners of the
universe; the hapless man
standing amidst the heat-haze
of a city crowded with faces
unknown, and talking
to a cat,
thinking it will lead him to love.
A shy, timid creature
who’s Dorian Gray at self-love,
yet knee-weak for that toddler
and its toothless smile.
A romantic who dwells
on the hypocrisies of seeking infinity
in finite, flesh-and-blood
Little pieces of stardust
fall from the sky
while stars tinkle, and they become
Tiny droplets of love
trickle down through the mountains
and manifest unto
One by one
faces come, faces fade
bucketful of memories,
images in a million mirrors;
They become

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My creative process is mainly based upon observations and then me trying to put those random, haphazard things into orderly lines of words and meaningful sentences. Living in a cosmopolitan city has certain benefits, as through my daily activity to work and back, I can observe many individuals busy in their own chores. My work, from time to time, also gets influenced by other writers and their amazing works.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Suvojit Banerjee‘s work reflects searching-for-answers moments and changes that he sees his city go through every single day. His work has been published in a several online magazines. He currently works in a software company, but writes his heart out every chance that he gets. He lives in India.

IMAGE: “Starry Night” by Alex Ruiz. Prints available at Visit the artist at

by Sarah Thursday

I love the teeth of your love
how you pit-bull deep
into the flesh of loving
How you make shrines
in the empty spaces,
abandoned apartments
Shrines to former residents
of borrowed books and toiletries
envelopes full of photographs
and letters in pen
How you never fill
the same space with new
but keep building out
expand the frames and floors
How you know when to change the locks
and when to nail it shut

I love how you calculate
estimate the risk
How you trust
the unnamed algorithm
the intuitive push, flashing “Yes,
love this one, let that one in!”
How soft your wrought-iron grip
holds every name tight
each face, its own story
each moment, a glass in your pane
How you refuse to argue
about the wrong
or right way to love

I love how so much of it matters
how you will forgive
as many times
as they will call
and ask for it
How you defend this weakness
with the expense of wasted time
Your time-to-give being
your love currency
not words, not gifts,
not your doing-for-me
But your minutes and hours
your speak to me, eat with me
your listen and watch with me
sit in this space of air
I breathe with me is love

I love how love-greedy you get
How you collect time
and stuff it in bags and boxes
shove it on shelves, in closets
covering walls, blocking doorways
in empty apartments
You guard-dog this house
an unapologetic hoarder
How you refuse to purge it
refuse to loosen your grip
Set shrines in windowsills
light blood candles
There is always room
for more

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I consider this poem a self-portrait because it describes what I love about the way that I love. This was inspired by another poet’s love letter to herself. I thought about how hard it is for me to let go of others, but that I love that about myself. I love like a pit-bull.

IMAGE: “The Passion Pit” by Dean Russo. Prints available at Visit the artist at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sarah Thursday calls Long Beach, California, her home, where she advocates for local poets and poetry events. She runs a Long-Beach-focused poetry website called, co-hosts a monthly reading with one of her poetry heroes, G. Murray Thomas, and just started Sadie Girl Press as a summer job and way to help publish local and emerging poets. She just completed her first full length poetry collection, All the Tiny Anchors. Find and follow her on, Facebook, or Twitter.

by Lejan

My hair is like a waterfall, straight with many layers. It is as black as midnight, with bits of brown, as dark as a wet tree trunk.

My eyes are as brown as brown, shiny as a coin, big and gloomy, my eyes are.

My nose is like a slide, sloping downwards. Bumpy and rough, but smooth also. Medium sized, placed in the middle of my face.

My mouth is pink like a faded cherry. Soft and squishy. Like a birds feather.

My face is like the sun, light and round. Ovals are crossed with my circle. It’s an Ovacircle.

My body’s like a duck, not fat, not slim, it feels like dry straw. Rough and Smooth.

My feet are like turtles, slow and steady. Wide like the endless ocean.

My hand is big, skinny, and soft. Strong like the wind.

IMAGE: “Blue Sea Turtle” by Coastal Colors Cape Cod. Prints available at

by Bruce Beasley

As the gone-

jet-blasts into evasion, vanishing

while its ink-sac spurts
a cloud of defensive

mucus & coagulant
azure-black pigment,

octopus imago in ink, so the shark

gnashes at that blobbed
sepia phantom,

that disperses into black

nebulae & shreds
with each shark-strike

& the escaped
octopus throbs

beyond, see-through
in the see-through water, untouched— :

so, go
little poem, little

& -print, mimicker

& camouflage,
self-getaway, cloud-

scribble, write
out my dissipating

name on the water,
emptied sac of self-illusive ink . . .

SOURCE: “Self-Portrait in Ink” appears in Bruce Beasley‘s collection Theophobia (BOA Editions, 2012), available at

IMAGE: “Octopus” by Susy Q Studio. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Bruce Beasley is a professor of English at Western Washington University and the author of seven collections of poems, most recently Theophobia (BOA Editions, 2012) and The Corpse Flower: New and Selected Poems (University of Washington Press, 2007). He won the Ohio State University Press/Journal Award for The Creation, the Colorado Prize in Poetry (selected by Charles Wright) for Summer Mystagogia, and the University of Georgia Press Contemporary Poetry Series Award for Lord Brain, a poetic meditation on neuroscience and cosmology. Wesleyan University Press published his books Spirituals (1988) and Signs and Abominations (2000). Beasley has won fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Artist Trust, and three Pushcart prizes. His work appears in the Pushcart Book of Poetry: The Best Poems from the First Thirty Years of the Pushcart Prize and other anthologies.

by Mary Stone Dockery

Before they came for me, I exfoliated in white wine,
watched the glass empty itself like it had every
time before, watched the way my hands exposed
the blue-red veins beneath the skin, how my
fingers would keep moving, touching buttons
or peeling the label from the bottle, or reach
for an invisible choke in the air, grasp, release
nothing. I had waited a long time for their smiles,
their long arms, white teeth. I had waited a long
time to be held like that in someone’s arms,
as if being lifted for the first time. And they took
me, carried me into a place where my body
disappeared slowly into grains of paint, colors
and canvas. There I was able to watch them all,
my hair never blowing up in the wind, the wine
bottle on the table before me never opening,
never spilling, their faces before me large, eerie,
my ability to see more in their pores
than they in me.

SOURCE: The Montucky Review (August 25, 2011).

IMAGE: “Head of a Woman” by Pablo Picasso (1946).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mary Stone Dockery‘s poetry and prose has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of journals, including Mochila, Gargoyle, > kill author, Midwestern Gothic, Weave Magazine, The Medulla Review, scissors and spackle, and The Montucky Review. In 2011, she was the recipient of the Langston Hughes Creative Writing Award in Poetry. She is also the recipient of the Thomas J. O’Donnell Award for creative nonfiction and an honorable mention for the Vic Contoski award in fiction. Her poetry collections include Mythology of Touch (2012) and One Last Cigarette (Honest Publishing, 2013). A Pushcart Prize nominee, she received an MFA from the University of Kansas in 2012. Visit her at

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hair which she still devoutly trusts is red.
Colorless eyes, employing
A childish wonder
To which they have no statistic
A large mouth,
Aceticized by blasphemies.
A long throat,
Which will someday
Be strangled.
Thin arms,
In the summertime leopard
With freckles.
A small body,
But which,
Were it the fashion to wear no clothes,
Would be as well-dressed
As any.

IMAGE: Portrait of Edna St. Vincent Millay by William Zorach (1923).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, the third woman to win the award for poetry. During her career, she was one of the most successful and respected poets in America. Like her contemporary Robert Frost, Millay was one of the most skillful writers of sonnets during the twentieth century — and also like Frost, she was able to combine modernist attitudes with traditional forms, creating a unique American poetry. Her middle name came from St. Vincent’s Hospital in New York City, where she was born. Friends and family called her Vincent.

by Charles Wright

There is a street which runs
Slanting into a square
There is a marble hand

There is a pair of glasses
A statue also
Casting a long shadow

Someone is crossing the square
Nailed to a door
There is a pair of gloves

SOURCE: Poetry (September 1969).

IMAGE: “Love Song” by Giorgio de Chirico (1914).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Charles Wright  published his first collection of poems, The Grave of the Right Hand (Wesleyan University Press), in 1970. His second and third collections, Hard Freight (1973) and Country Music: Selected Early Poems (1983), were both nominated for National Book Awards — and the latter received the prize. His collections also include Scar Tissue (2007), the international winner for the Griffin Poetry Prize; Black Zodiac (1997), winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize; and Chickamauga (1995), awarded the 1996 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets. His many honors include the 2013 Bollingen Prize, the American Academy of Arts and Letters Award of Merit Medal, and the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. In 1999, he was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. He is Souder Family Professor of English at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville.

Author photo by Yusef El-Amin

by W.S. Di Piero

There’s no description in the braided stone,
the pear, the stone in the pear, the birchbark,
bread hills on the snowfall tablecloth.
The dog of work gnaws the day’s short bone,
snarls a mountainside into lavender and green.
In the mind where objects vanish, almost is all.
Element of pitcher, sky, rockface, blank canvas
plastic and vast in one off-center patch.
To copy what’s invisible, to improvise
a soul of things and remake solid life
into fresh anxious unlifelike form.

SOURCE: “On a Picture by Cézanne” appears in W.S. Di Piero‘s collection Shadows Burning (Northwestern University Press, 1995).

IMAGE: “Self-Portrait in a Felt Hat” by Paul Cézanne (1894).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Poet, essayist, art critic, and translator W.S. Di Piero has taught at Northwestern University, Louisiana State University, and Stanford, where he is professor emeritus of English and on faculty in the Stegner Poetry Workshop. Elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2001, Di Piero was awarded the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize in 2012. His numerous poetry collections include Country of Survivors (1974), The Dog Star (1990), Skirts and Slacks (2001), Chinese Apples: New and Selected Poems (2007), and Nitro Nights (2011). Di Piero has also published a number of volumes of essays on literary and visual art, most recently When Can I See You Again: New Art Writings (2010). A translator of Italian poetry, Di Piero’s first translation, Giacomo Leopardi’s Pensieri (1981), was nominated for a National Book Award. He has won many honors and awards for his work, including fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Ingram Merrill Foundation, and the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Fund. He lives in San Francisco.

by Pablo Picasso

I walk a lonely road, the one and only one I’ ve ever known.
I don’t know where it goes, but I keep walking on and on.
I walked the lonely and untrodden road for I was walking on the bridge
of the broken dreams.
I don’t know what the world is fighting for or why I am being instigated.
It’s for this that I walk this lonely road for I wish to be
So I am breaking up, breaking up.
It is the lack of self control that I feared as there is something
Inside me that pulls the need to surface, consuming, confusing.
being called weird I walk this lonely road on the verge of broken dreams.
And so i walk this lonely road and so just keep walking still

IMAGE: “Self-Portrait” by Pablo Picasso (1906)

MORE: Pablo Picasso started writing poetry at age 54. In 1935, he stopped painting, drawing, and sculpting, and committed himself to the art of poetry. Although he soon resumed his art career, Picasso continued in his literary endeavors, writing hundreds of poems, assembled in The Burial of the Count of Orgaz in 1959. In 1968, City Lights published his collection Hunk of Skin as Number Twenty-Five in its Pocket Poetry Series. To read more about Picasso’s poetry, visit


ABOUT THE AUTHOR/ARTIST: Pablo Picasso (1881–1973) was a Spanish painter, sculptor, printmaker, ceramicist, stage designer, poet, and playwright who spent most of his adult life in France. As one of the greatest and most influential artists of the 20th century, he is known for cofounding the Cubist movement, the invention of constructed sculpture, the co-invention of collage, and for the wide variety of styles that he helped develop and explore.

PSALM 11.5
by Patrick T. Reardon

The LORD is mine.
I shall not want.

He maketh me.
He leadeth me.

He restoreth me.
He leadeth me.

Yea, though I walk,
I will fear no evil:
for thou art with
thy rod and thy staff.

Thou preparest.
Thou anointest.
My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness
and I will dwell.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Is there a poem, maybe half-good, in half a great psalm?

IMAGE: “Andean Good Shepherd” by Father John Guiliani, an icon artist known for depicting God and the saints in the faces of Native American peoples. Father Giuliani states, “My intent in depicting Christian saints as Native Americans is to honor them and to acknowledge their original presence on this land.” For more about Father John Guiliani, visit


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Patrick T. Reardon is the author of the recently published Catholic and Starting Out, available from actapublications. Visit him at