Atelierwand (1872)  
after Adolf Menzel

The centerpiece is
a young woman’s torso
bathed in light.

On a dark old wall
plaster flesh hangs
from hooks in half-shadows--

a menagerie
of dismembered
brittle white cast,

rows of death masks
and ashy pale heads,
eyes peacefully closed.

The centerpiece is
a young woman’s torso
washed in cold light--

firm right breast,
nipple sharp to
an old man’s face--

ash left breast
by a muscled chest
hung in shadows.

Scissors hang on pointy
spikes with calipers
and tangled wire.

A gray German
shepherd head
looks to the floor.

A left hand
palm turned out
delicately catches light.

Andrés Castro 

This poem first appeared in Glasschord.
​
Andrés Castro is a PEN member/volunteer and he is also listed in the Directory of Poets and Writers. He recently launched a blog for new and not so new practicing poets: 
https://thepracticingpoet.edublogs.org

On Considering Winter Landscape with Ice Skaters 

We’re pretty much done with winter here
Though today the rain showers have turned
The whole place into an ice palace no one
Really appreciates unless one has the luxury
Of looking outside from the inside where
Almost all of us are, at this moment, taking
Note of the few skaters outside without 
Skates, some leaving earth for only a brief
Time, then returning without having seen
Any of the heavens, just a slight slip that
Takes the whole body out of what keeps
Us all grounded until we step on the patch
That will catch so many unscheduled lifts
Only to be returned briefly, a second later,
Arriving not upright but at a slant, not feet
Landing as we are accustomed to, but our
Already sore back will be the first to reach
Earth, and none will consider any laws of
Gravity that keep us here, and not up 
There, but soon, we will watch the skaters
Attempting to regain poise as the feet 
Slip on even more of the place no one
Should place a foot, but then, this is
Where we are, for now, and then we turn
To the kitchen to warm up what’s left
Of homemade soup, and warm bread,
And pretend that it’s really no different
Than any skater who looks out on a 
Medieval pond seeing those who are
Gliding, and those, sadly, who are not.

DeWitt Clinton

DeWitt Clinton recently retired after teaching 30 years in the Languages and Literatures Department at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. He continues to write and publish short creative non-fiction and poetry in a variety of national and international journals including works published  in 2016 in Wise Guys: An Online Magazine, Negative Capability, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Verse-Virtual, New Verse News, Peacock Journal, and Stark: The Poetry Journal No. 1 which featured a “shortlisted” poem for the Wisehouse International Poetry Award.  

After Vermeer

A brow lost in thought while
making lace. Bread brought

to life as if someone were
expected right about now.

The point in a music lesson
when radiant light falls on a

rug-draped table, say, or an
open-mouthed woman reads

a love letter. Privacy unfolds
in the intimacy of a room.

A spiritual calm as milk is
poured, its white bounty.

Richard Waring

Richard Waring’s poems have appeared in the Ars Medica, Comstock Review, Chest, Sanctuary, Contact II, Dark Horse, the American Journal of Nursing, Mothering, Inward Springs, ParentSource, the Journal of the American Medical Association, and other publications. He has been anthologized in The Pocket Poetry Parenting Guide, Rough Places Plain: Poems of the Mountains, and the Unitarian Universalist Poets: A Contemporary American Survey, and has appeared on Phone-A-Poem and the cable TV show BookBeat. His first book of poetry, What Love Tells Me, was published by Word Poetry in 2016. His chapbook, Listening to Stones, was published in 1999 by Pudding House Publications. He is a senior layout artist for the New England Journal of Medicine.

Stripped

He tries taxidermy animals first, 
             but the wires 

that shape their batting 
             make a poor substitute, 

for bones, not all armatures artful.  
             Better are road kill, 

dead but inexplicably whole, able 
              to partner blooms 

without shame, skeletons as graceful 
              as stamen and anther.  

The animals seem stunned 
              to stillness 
    
by their exposed joints, as naked 
              as Adam and Eve 

before God’s surgical gaze.  
              The artist chooses 

not to return to them
               any colour, finding 

in their hinges decoration enough.
               Embarrassed by lack, 

they cede the focus
                to their rooted cousins, 

finally humbled 
                by stem, leaf, and bloom.

​Devon Balwit

Devon Balwit is a writer and teacher from Portland, OR. She has two chapbooks forthcoming--'how the blessed travel' from Maverick Duck Press and 'Forms Most Marvelous' from dancing girl press. Her recent work has found many homes, among them: Oyez, The Cincinnati Review, Red Paint Hill, Timberline Review, Sow's Ear Poetry Review, Trailhead Review, and Oracle.