This poem traces the life of Lavender, a daughter christened with whimsy by her mother Betty, who filled her childhood with stories of dragons, ball gowns, and enchanted forests. As Lavender grows, she must fashion her own path, meeting flawed princes, vanquishing everyday evils, and making homes where no castles appear. Augustine’s lines weave the tenderness of maternal love with the resilience of a woman who carries her imagination into old age. Both humorous and poignant, the piece celebrates the myths that shape us, the struggles that define us, and the songs that stay alive long after the dragons have fallen silent.

In this poem, love and desire are entwined with the rhythms of time and the shifting hues of day and night. Managan captures the tenderness of bodies folded together beneath quilts, their passion blistered yet renewing, their closeness both fragile and fierce. The language is lush with color and movement, evoking moonbeams, sunsets, and the quiet revolutions of intimacy. At once physical and meditative, The Gathering celebrates connection as both a dance of passion and a sanctuary of rest.

Heaton's poem draws on the rhythms of history, myth, and faith to evoke the endurance of the Gullah people and their cultural inheritance. A prophet wanders into a ring shout and carries away a basket woven from memory and suffering, filled with offerings of food, scripture, and art. With images of overseer lashings and magnolia altars, the piece bridges biblical vision with ancestral resilience. At once lyrical and solemn, Gullah honors a legacy of survival and the sacred power carried in song, ritual, and craft.

In this fierce and lyrical poem, Heaton fuses the landscapes of Kansas with a yearning that is both earthly and mythic. Storms, crops, livestock, and sunshowers rise alongside thunder gods and old sod houses, grounding the poem in the grit and grandeur of rural life. The voice insists on tallgrass and harvest, on the satisfaction of butter, wheat, and maize, even as it reaches for intimacy and companionship. Raw, sensuous, and unflinching, Bring Me My Sheaves captures the longing to claim both land and love in their most elemental forms.

Set against the tallgrass prairies of Kansas, this poem intertwines frontier history with the quiet labors of care and endurance. Heaton evokes both the scars of conquest, Coronado’s horse sparking fire on the hills, and the humble tending of wounds, fevers, and final rites. The imagery is rich with sand plums, bluestem, and range fires, where healing meets harvest and memory becomes sacrament. At once elegy and testimony, Country Doctor honors the land’s resilience and the solemn duty of those who minister to its people.

Gallagher captures the exhilarating moment when a toddler crosses into childhood, trading uncertain steps for the joy of motion. In the wide expanse of an airport lounge, the boy transforms wandering into flight, taxiing, scrambling, swaggering with newfound freedom. The poem brims with energy and affection, its language lifting from the tangible to the abstract in rhythm with the child’s growing confidence. Both playful and poignant, Take Off celebrates the courage and wonder of a first true launch into the wider world.

What begins as a fleeting glimpse in the garden deepens into a meditation on persistence, craft, and the marvels of migration. Gallagher’s poem follows the willow warbler from dahlia bed to hidden lair, its beak weaving strands of terrier hair into a careful nest. Domestic remnants mingle with wild instinct, as Kerry becomes linked to distant landscapes through a single bird’s flight. Gentle yet precise, Warbler affirms the quiet wonder of noticing and the unlikely harmonies Nature composes.

In this brief, haunting piece, Reilly conjures the fruit bats of dusk as figures of both fear and fascination. Their leathery wings carve gothic shapes against the fading light, stirring memories of childhood dread and dream. By daylight they are hidden, yet in twilight they embody the mysteries we half-fear, half-revere. Flying Foxes is a delicate meditation on the shadows imagination casts, and the creatures that glide through them.

Reilly’s poem confronts the horror of the 2011 bombing at Marrakesh’s Café Argana with unflinching clarity. From the shattering crack of the explosion to the eerie silence that follows, the piece captures both the terror of the moment and the unsettling voyeurism of its aftermath. Mannequin-like figures sit amid fire, as survivors and onlookers respond not with mourning but with the sterile salute of camera phones. Stark and unforgettable, Blast exposes the uneasy intersection of violence, spectacle, and silence.

In this strikingly direct piece, Wielhouwer wrestles with the paradox of creation, proclaiming herself no poet even as she shapes lines of fierce rhythm and emotion. The poem insists on the need to speak, to "poet" whether or not the listener is willing, driven by passion, angst, and the ache of an emptied heart. Its refusal becomes its own affirmation, laying bare the tension between denial and expression. I am no Poet is a testament to the compulsion of art, even when the artist resists its name.

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow with Frank J. Hutton and C. Mannheim) This collaborative piece pairs Longfellow's timeless verse with striking black and white photography, creating a dialogue between image and word. Scenes from The Song of Hiawatha, wedding feasts, fading nations, sacred stars, and the fragile endurance of wisdom, are mirrored in stark landscapes and quiet details. The photographs by Hutton and Mannheim draw out the lyric weight of Longfellow's lines, grounding myth and memory in visual textures. Together, poem and picture invite reflection on tradition, loss, and the ways art preserves what might otherwise fade into silence.

This story follows Georges Amocine as he sits in his cornfield, reflecting on a lifetime shaded by memory and light. Shadows become companions and metaphors, carrying him back through boyhood fears, the Korean War, and the enduring presence of lost friends. Anchored by his love for Esmel, who still watches for him at the window, Georges sifts through voices of family and comrades, the sweetness of youth, and the solemnity of old age. At once lyrical and grounded, The Old Man in the Garden of Long Shadows is a meditation on mortality, memory, and the quiet constancy of love.

Houtman's story captures the raw solitude of grief, where silence fills the house and memory becomes both comfort and burden. A widower navigates casseroles, paperwork, and well meaning strangers while clinging to photo albums, whiskey, and the echo of love now gone. The writing is spare but deeply evocative, each detail—an old wristwatch, a worn floorboard, a muted TV, carrying the ache of absence. Poised between despair and fragile belief, An Empty Chair reflects on time, loss, and the stubborn endurance of memory.

Set against the backdrop of the 1960s, Lowe’s story follows fifteen year old Miranda Marcuso as she tumbles into love with Willy Amoroso, swept along by a bossa nova beat. What begins with detention and flirtation soon collides with loss, betrayal, and the weight of an early pregnancy. Through friendships, family tensions, and a Vegas detour that reshapes her life, Miranda’s voice captures both vulnerability and resilience. Lyrical and unflinching, The Girl from Ipanema explores love’s promises and failures, the struggle for independence, and the long arc of reunion across decades.

Frank J. Hutton and Carole Mannheim pairings offer a thoughtful visual echo to the poetry, drawing on Longfellow's mythic storytelling and the photographers' timeless compositions.

This visual feature offers a poignant glimpse into nature’s shadowed elegance: bats or swallows traced in gothic silhouettes against a dusk lit sky. The image plays with light, darkness, and the subtle drama of winged movement bringing an almost dreamlike reflection of what lies hidden in daylight but revealed once night falls over our imaginations.

Wielhouwer's poem explores solitude in the shadow of intimacy, where the presence of another is felt only through absence and traces. The imagery of shoes, large, infant sized, scattered, becomes a metaphor for the man’s restless body and shifting desires, contrasted with the speaker’s quiet refrain. Sensual yet unsparing, I Sleep Alone captures the ache of longing, the tension between passion and abandonment, and the strange ways love leaves its imprint.

RIn this generous review, Augustine approaches Lantry’s collection not as a critic but as an enthusiast, savoring the poet’s formal care and sensuous language. The volume, adorned with Pre-Raphaelite art, glossary, and thoughtful notes, invites both intellect and emotion. Augustine praises the love poems for their elegance and restraint, but finds equal beauty in the grittier pieces rooted in gardens, storms, and craft. Anchored by Lantry’s aspiration “to write paradise," the review celebrates a collection both refined and deeply human.

In this classic essay, Irving offers a lively portrait of Little Britain, a fading quarter of old London once graced by dukes, booksellers, and sturdy John Bull traditions. With his trademark humor and affection, he evokes its narrow lanes, antiquated customs, gossiping neighbors, and rivalries between apothecaries, cheesemongers, and “fashionable" families. Both satirical and nostalgic, Little Britain captures a fragment of English life clinging to roast beef, holiday rituals, and neighborhood feuds even as modern fashions creep in. A timeless glimpse into how communities preserve identity—and how easily that harmony can be undone.

Joy’s story captures the fragile balance between fidelity and desire through the quiet discipline of a Masters Swim class. Clancy, sixty and in peak condition, keeps to his training even as his wife lives with the aftermath of a stroke. Sharing a lane with Erica, a younger woman full of vitality, he finds himself caught between physical attraction and the weight of loyalty. With crisp detail and unflinching honesty, Freestyle reflects on aging, temptation, and the small choices that test our deepest commitments.

Ferraro surveys the lineage of women poets in Latin America, beginning with Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, the 17th century nun and rebel whose words still burn with wit and defiance. From there, she follows the thread through centuries and countries, Gabriela Mistral of Chile, Cecilia Meireles of Brazil, Juana de Ibarbourou and Delmira Agustini of Uruguay, Alfonsina Storni and Alejandra Pizarnik of Argentina, and many more. Their poems, lives, and struggles form a collective voice—one that insists on freedom, confronts despair, and sings both the burden and the beauty of womanhood in a fractured continent. With translated verses woven throughout, this essay is both guide and homage, inviting us to hear the “long poem of the world sung by a universal female soul."

Set in New York City in 1967, Augustine’s story follows a young dance student whose day of stolen freedom spirals into violation. What begins with art, adventure, and youthful daring ends with a brutal encounter that leaves her silenced by shame for years. Told with unsparing clarity and retrospective anger, Foolish Dancer examines vulnerability, predatory power, and the slow, necessary shift from self-blame to rightful fury. Both a personal reckoning and a universal warning, it gives voice to what too often remains hidden in shadow.

Cahill’s short story traces a young girl’s return home from London, carrying with her not only postcards and painkillers but the crushing weight of abuse and secrecy. Told in stark, unflinching detail, the narrative captures the dissonance between outward appearances, a kindly stranger, a note for school, a father’s goodnight, and the dark reality hidden behind closed doors. It is a story of silence and survival, where ordinary rituals mask extraordinary violation.

Bill West revisits the life and death of Elizabeth Sidda, Pre-Raphaelite muse, artist, and tragic figure, through her grave in Highgate and Rossetti’s haunting painting Beata Beatrix. Blending history, art criticism, and personal reflection, he explores Siddal's illness, addiction, and despair, alongside Rossetti's obsession with her image. The essay lingers over the unsettling contrasts in Rossetti’s work: love entwined with loss, beauty with laudanum, passion with betrayal. West asks us to mourn not the myth Rossetti made of Lizzie, but the woman herself, whose life was consumed by art and sorrow.

Heavisides revisits Russell’s biopic of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a film at once anarchic and meticulous, blending romantic excess with mordant critique. Drawing on memory, fresh YouTube clips, and critical reviews, he praises the script’s structure, Russell’s bold visual choices, and Oliver Reed’s surprisingly subtle portrayal of Rossetti. With its mix of symbolic spectacle, ironic modernist flourishes, and unflinching intimacy, Dante’s Inferno emerges as one of Russell’s most distinctive works, a portrait in full of an artist both celebrated and condemned.

Set in Carrickfergus in 1895, McClay’s story follows young James Robinson on the day of his mother’s funeral. Amid the stifling presence of mourners, whispered judgments, and his father’s stern rules, James steals paper and pencil to draw the face he longs for most, his mother’s. The act, both defiance and devotion, becomes a fragile bridge between grief and memory. A poignant tale of childhood imagination, loss, and the solace of art.

On a quiet bench outside a deli, a child flicks yolks from hard-boiled eggs into the shrubs, while blackbirds descend to peck at the yellow scatter. A woman, brisk and practical, fetches more food; a man in sunglasses eats parfait. From this small tableau, the narrator’s attention drifts inward, to thirst, to absence, to memories of loss. What begins as an ordinary lunch becomes an unsettling meditation on waste, nourishment, and the fragile remains of what is cast aside.

In this taut, layered short story, Steve Dodd exposes the predatory games of the literary world, where reputation outweighs integrity and the powerful exploit the vulnerable. A grieving sister confronts a celebrated agent who stole her late brother’s ideas and handed them to a Booker, winning novelist. In their verbal duel, sharp with menace, shifting power, and moral ambiguity, publishing is revealed less as an art than a ruthless marketplace. A story of theft, grief, and reckoning, Helena’s Medicine asks what it means to give stolen words back their voice.