An update on the new direction of ‘The Poetry Jar’!

8th July 2013,

Hello to all aspiring writers and poets!

I have recently taken over this blogzine from its creator Bruce Ruston, who has decided to focus on other artistic endeavours at this time.

I have many thoughts and goals on the new direction of The Poetry Jar, the main aspiration being to provide a platform that explores the ability of different forms of creative writing, to access unconventional disciplines that would not traditionally be associated with the creative arts.

At this point in time, I would like to put forth a call for submissions of poetry/short stories/dialogues that marry creative frameworks with unconventional subject matter. There is no limit on creativity, imagination and scope.

There is no payment made for published material. All copyright rests with the writer. Please feel free to publish work elsewhere simultaneously.

Cheers

Stacey McPhail

 

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Seeking Submissions

I am currently seeking submissions. Please feel free to send me your work via the normal route. Usual terms apply :)

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Lilith in the Patriarchy – Stacey McPhail

Hewed in form twice removed is not Lilith’s
curse.

Shackles can be riveted flesh of the flesh.

Words and the World iteratively peg shame
as Time and Social Media fuck together.

Wombs cannot find purchase, and we can’t
all be named Sarah.

She seeks justification in patriarchy;

She cannot see her freedom from the finite.

She is endless, cup overflowing and identifies
the deity without possessive pronouns.

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It Starts To Rain – Laura Stamp

while we’re eating pizza

at the Mellow Mushroom,

but that’s okay because

we brought umbrellas

(his black, mine gray),

and it’s still raining when

we walk across a vacant

lot with our pizza boxes

(two slices in mine,

five in his) to where we

parked our cars on Lady

Street, when a man with

a backpack runs toward

us, saying he doesn’t

have a gun, and he’s

not on drugs, but he’s

just been released from

the detention center,

and the Oliver Gospel

Mission won’t give him

a place to sleep because

he doesn’t have an ID,

and he’s HIV positive,

and he’s hungry, and he

needs help, and he’d like

some of our pizza, so

I give him mine, which

he accepts, thanking me

as he rushes away, and

an hour later it’s still

raining, harder than

ever, the limbs of the

palmetto trees and pines

dancing beneath each

glazed drop, when I

realize I forgot to tell

him I’m allergic to

wheat and my pizza

was gluten-free.

 

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Fragrance of Oranges and Cloves – Michele Belluomini

Fragrance of Oranges and Cloves

 

they were just some marionettes, hanging forlornly

seen through a grimy window    the closed variety store

a king and a queen, dressed in cloth from India

puppets to tell a story from the Ramayana perhaps

the store was closed    the day cold

I boarded the trolley and forgot them

 

but now they haunt me    jiggling stiff and awkward in mind’s eye

conjuring tales of the Gujarat:

elephant-headed gods, warrior-kings, tigers feasting on pomegranates

the goddess Ishwari, dancing in the monsoon rains of the Malabar coast

surrounded by fragrance of oranges and cloves

what do they want from me?

 

today it is raining     a cold, late winter rain

the wind bullying things over   pitching them down the street

keening songs into my ear

and I keep seeing the two of them there

abandoned in the shop      who am I to save them

save them?

 

just the sight of them stopped me

their strangeness flaring out amidst a hodgepodge of gloves,

umbrellas, other cheap bits and pieces afloat in the gray January light

 

something in me prised open

as if a story was about to begin, only wanting

for the main characters to take their places on the stage

the story cloth to be unfurled

 

maybe it’s that winter will not loose its hold

making me long for elsewhere

the tigers padding softly beside the tracks

carrying the illusion of journey fulfilled

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