Sean Howard : Two poems

 

 

 

Poems (added to the Manchester Guardian, November 8, 1913)

 

DESTROYERS DAMAGED IN NIGHT EXERCISES IN THAMES ESTUARY
The Teviot’s Bows Were Damaged – The Dee Had a Rent Astern

M.P. AT WRONG MEETING
Fog Adding to Excitement at By-Election

MAD KING OTTO OF BAVARIA
Conversations with the Invisible

THE REIGN OF TERROR IN MACEDONIA
Servian Persecution – Worse than the Turks

*

Militarism’s same boat, the hard
on collision… (Elections? Politicians
closing in, descending…) Monarchy
mad, all kings talking to their
selves… Heaven scent?
Mosques, Cross
fire…

 

 

Woken Poems (from the Manchester Guardian, December 1, 1913)

 

MR. CHURCHILL AND NAVAL AVIATION
First Lord of the Admiralty Returns from Tour of Naval Flying School in Eastchurch
He Made Two Flights – He Slept Aboard the Enchantress

TROOPS CALLED OUT IN ALSACE
Strained Relations between German Garrison and People of Zabern
Old Grievance Leads to New Disorders – Kaiser Said to be Furious

CALL FOR PAUSE IN GERMAN ARMAMENT INCREASES
Baron von Hertling, Premier of Bavaria, says “people will not be able to bear any further burdens”

ARMAMENT EXPENDITURE
Protest by the Free Church Council – £45,000,000 Spent This Year
Four More Dreadnoughts, Costing £2,750,000 Each, To Be Laid Down in 1914-15
Speakers Criticise Mr. Churchill as “Unsafe Leader”

*

Safe hands? The sleepwalking Lord, quite enchanted… (Flight making
the return to Earth impossible?) Troops, people carried too far: rigid

ranks, disordered shadows. (Fit to burst, if the Kaiser increases
any more…) Iron Law: the path to war laid long

before…

 

 

 

 

Sean Howard is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently Overlays: Scored Poems (Gaspereau Press, 2025). His poetry has been widely published in Canada, the US, UK, and elsewhere, and featured in The Best of the Best Canadian Poetry in English (Tightrope Books, 2017).

 

Han VanderHart : Three poems

 

The Lily Crucifix (c1450)
              Godshill Parish Church, Isle of Wight

Christ crucified on
his mother’s flower.

What is with you
until the end?

The crown of thorns
still visible.

The nimbus
slim as a stamen.

A flower holds Christ there.
Something holds you here.

The full moon rising.
The warm petal of your
dog’s tongue.

The pull of the waves.
Your child’s feet in them.

The flounder your love breads
and fries, apologizes over.

The lilies, the petals green
blades around you.

Mary’s flower is the most
dramatic in death,
staining the countertop gold.

You have not brought enough
days of Lexapro.

Your head hurts from the light.

Yellow Jessamine threads
the yard’s live oaks.

 

 

Swallows
          after Vladimir Tolman

Their feet do not touch the ground
They hover above the grass
Their arms are thrown up

Their heads bend back
Their hair rises behind
You cannot see their faces

Their dresses float in the air
What do you call a woman who lifts like a bird?
You call her a dancer

There is a moment in any leap
when the effort looks serene—
when it looks like no work at all

Bird Song Sounds Out of Tune Only to the Human Ear

in the quiet between November and December,
a white-throated sparrow sings
five long notes

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

for weeks I insist I hear an off-key bird,
stand barefoot on the porch
of my not-knowing

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Po-or Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody
sings the sparrow, passerine toes
holding the pine

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

even when I did not know your name, sparrow,
I knew your song, the particular way
you break the silence

 

 

 

 

 

Han VanderHart is a queer writer living in Durham, North Carolina, under the pines. Their second poetry collection Larks, winner of the 2024 Hollis Summers Poetry Prize, is forthcoming in April 2025 from Ohio University Press. Han is also the author of What Pecan Light (Bull City Press, 2021) and has essays and poetry published in Kenyon Review, The American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, AGNI, and elsewhere. Han hosts Of Poetry Podcast and alongside Amorak Huey co-edits the poetry press River River Books.

Siân Killingsworth : Four poems

 

 

 

Sorry, William

 

I’m the only one awake. The boy mutters in a soft, high-pitched mumble-moan. Trees scrape the roof, trying to break in. How many people whiz by on the freeway at 4am on a Sunday? A motorboat starts up, motor boating down the canal into the bay. My stomach growls. We live within each other unisolated in this tiny community, this tract of social fabric, but even in sleep or sickness or glare of moon, it isn’t taken for granted. The hum of a jet overhead and the bass vibes of the house’s heater drone the same note. We are all the red wheelbarrow.

 

 

to be seen to be considered to exist

 

when every deep breath is a suppression — when lips pressed together is an invocation to the goddess of indifference — a wordless plea for her embrace — and oblivion     — drinking only makes the pains and irritations a little distant — which is to say tolerable — but then the headache

a longitudinal study of 178 poets revealed tectonic plate shifting is a myth — a recent survey of MFA candidates shows that creativity is most effectively measured in fluid ounces

this town cannot make up its mind if it’s shuddering out its last slow constrained breath — or if that mind has been overcome by ghosts — who doesn’t play among the white stones of a graveyard in childhood — grainy as sand and edges worn by weather the angels and obelisks guard the sprawling dead — as fireflies play peekaboo through blue shadows

64% of attendees at poetry readings report a lack of sobriety — two in five American writers agree that breathing is unnecessary

the movies are all wrong — my life isn’t an adventure or a lovestory or even a memorable tearjerker — although it has its moments — these people I live among exist behind a window I cannot penetrate — artfully wild and each exactly like the rest —I’m waving at them trying — trying — to catch an eye

 

 

Cruise Ship Dancer

 

The first thing I do is turn off my alarm and look out the porthole. That tells me all I need to know for success. If it’s cloudy or raining, I put on my Tarantella costume. I will dance the Tarantella of course, but also the tango because it’s moody like the sky. If it’s sunny sometimes I’ll put on my milkmaid costume, but those clogs hurt my feet. Mostly I opt for a green chiffon number and do modern dance. Remember Juliet Prowse on the Muppet Show? I channel that. I pretend I’m a willow tree, my limbs draping gracefully to the earth. I close my eyes and whirl with the wind. I am a tree in the ocean, my beautiful chartreuse leaves fluttering as everyone watches in awe. My meals on the ship are included. I mostly eat lobster and mango. I go for the pricey stuff I can’t afford on land. The sailor’s life is for me.

 

 

Surveillance

 

A woman with pointy bangs was being followed by someone driving a little white Fiat. Everywhere she went, grocery store, gym, office, the little white Fiat was always nearby. The woman with pointy bangs decided to disguise herself by donning big glasses and a fake nose. She took a different route to the gym that day but the Fiat still followed her. She switched the nose and glasses for a pork pie hat and a fake mustache. She sat on a bench outside twirling the long curly ends of the mustache and glared at the white Fiat. Finally, she threw down the hat, marched over to the driver’s door and knocked on the window. As the window rolled down, she saw a woman with pointy bangs. They stared at each other, mirror images except for the mustache. The woman in the car reached out and removed the mustache from her twin. Then she got out of the car and the two embraced as if long-lost family. As they held each other, their bodies merged until only one woman with pointy bangs was left. She got into the Fiat and drove away.

 

 

 

 

 

Siân Killingsworth is the author of Hiraeth (Longship Press, 2024). She has been published in Columbia Poetry Review, Roi Fainéant Press, Stonecoast Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry (Poets Resist), and elsewhere, including When There Are Nine, a Ruth Bader Ginsburg tribute anthology. Siân is the Social Media Manager for the Rise Up Review. She holds an MFA from The New School.