The Seaman’s Death They were worth a lot, the five years that the painter kept in his memory and heart the scene of a maritime funeral procession, that took place on September 11th 1934, in Teel’s Island. It had been a lapse of time in which he honed and trained his brush, until 1939, enabling the birth of this masterpiece. In true, like some others, he had not seen, but heard about, the transport to the island for burial of a 96 years’ lobsterman, a remarkable event, remembered long afterward. The man, one that his family was the name of the island, where he was born and had lived all his entire existence. In a bird’s eye perspective, both grave and lyric, we see the collision, also the coexistence of two worlds, the sea the man had much loved and the mainland with so hard a hillside to be climbed. The sea was liquid and bright to honor him in this day, the earth, substance and shadow, ready for his rest. Edilson Afonso Ferreira Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 78 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in selected international literary journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement from a bank. Since then, he counts 181 poems published, in 287 different publications. Has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize 2017, and his first poetry collection, Lonely Sailor - One Hundred Poems - was launched in London in 2018. His second book Joie de Vivre – Caressing our Joy, with fifty new poems, has been launched in April 2022. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.
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The Giantess after Leonora Carrington after Tracy K. Smith Daughter, you need to grow into your body, understand its dimensions, how to move in this world. I tell her this as she mops up water from a glass she’s knocked over. She is constantly bumping, tripping, leaving frames askew. She hides in hoodies & sweats, but the girl is all legs, taller than me at thirteen. I want her live in her body, not padded in layers of fabric, shoulders hunched, veiled in long hair, behind glasses. Push it back, I tell her, I want to see your pretty face, in the voice of all women, telling all other women how to be seen. She talks of feminism, tells her brothers Mami will disown you if you are not a feminist; quick to bark, quick to snap, to claw, to sink in a tooth. Arrows & daggers at her feet & her moon head overcast, as she watches wide-winged geese circle her body. A family takes refuge between her ankles, us or her future family. A lumen cape hangs from her shoulders, but the egg— all sun—she holds close to her chest. How to be a tower, a pillar of confidence, to inhabit that body at thirteen, still surprised to be on this earth— how is it that things work? Do you want to play a game with me? She wants to skate on smooth streets, go out into the world without someone shadowing her. She wants to live in her skin. I bite back my anger at her awkwardness, show tenderness for the fawn stumbling to find its legs, mewling kitten. She is far from these helpless animals. Wolf at the foot of her bed, she draws or reads, curtains shut in a freezing room. She doesn’t belong to me as much as her body belongs to her. I look up to her, rising stories above me, rising above her own body &—haven’t I seen her elsewhere & before—she is what waits to be said. Alexandra Lytton Regalado Alexandra Lytton Regalado’s second poetry collection, Relinquenda, is winner of the National Poetry Series (Beacon Press, forthcoming fall 2022.) She is the author of Matria, winner of the St. Lawrence Book Award (Black Lawrence Press, 2017). Alexandra is a CantoMundo and Letras Latinas fellow, winner of the Coniston Prize, and her work has appeared in The Best American Poetry, The Academy of American Poets, Narrative, Gulf Coast, and Creative Nonfiction among others. Her poetry has been anthologized in The Best American Poetry 2018, The Wandering Song, Misrepresented People, and others. Co-founder of Kalina publishing, Alexandra is author, editor, and/or translator of more than fifteen Central American-themed books. She is chief editor at lapiscuchamagazine.com (a literary magazine dedicated to the Salvadoran community) and she is assistant editor at SWWIM (Supporting Women Writers in Miami). Her ongoing photo-essay project about El Salvador, through_the_bulletproof_glass, is on Instagram. For more info: www.alexandralyttonregalado.com Ranko Dad still tends to his flowerbeds with the care and attention he puts into his chess, Mom gone all these years. His sunflowers, glowing faces, absorb the fading sun. My visit will surprise him. I wander through his quiet Saturday night kitchen. Remnants of Istrian Yoda, his Zagreb childhood’s favourite stew, smoky and sauerkraut-fragrant, in his one big lonely pot. A special occasion that he’s celebrating? Sunflower flaming orange in a vase on his table set for two. Disarray, napkins tossed aside. Poppy seed rolls, slices plump and moist, untouched. Coffee cups, one with dregs of his sharp, dark coffee, its edge alight with lipstick vibrantly red. Another guest I must meet. “Dad?” I follow his mumbling and pass his open bedroom door. “Dad!” I gasp. My old father, his tanned and wrinkled face kisses the woman’s wilted-flower breasts. “Ranko,” she whispers, holding him close and tender as though his body is delicate and rare. Fran Turner This story first appeared at Love in the Time of Covid. Fran Turner grew up on a farm in the southernmost part of Canada, but Toronto, where she's lived most of her life, is the place that's home. She was a nurse, a shiatsu therapist, and worked on cancer programs. For decades her heart was on the Aikido mat, training and teaching at her own dojo. Now she enjoys working on flash fiction. She’s had stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Dodging the Rain, and Adelaide Review. Lavacourt Under Snow There were two stone buildings with closed shutters and several bare trees. There was thick, untouched snow on the ground and in the background a snow-covered hillside. The sky was a soft white. He could almost feel the chillness numbing his face, the muted silence ringing in his ears. There was just one thing that, in his undisclosed loneliness, the attendant longed for. A human presence. Monet had neglected that. No solitary figures, as in so many of his Argenteuil paintings, to provide a moment of warmth in the lifeless cold. The attendant could do nothing about it. *** A tall man and a lady entered the gallery, both smartly dressed, on a late lunch most likely. The lady wore a dark red coat and knee length brown boots that clicked softly on the laminate flooring. She studied each painting they came to, a serious expression on her face. The man, who was looking down at his phone rather than at any of the artwork, was obliged to keep stopping to let her catch up. He seemed annoyed by it. The lady stopped in front of Lavacourt Under Snow. ‘I love this one.’ ‘It’s my favourite, too.’ They both turned and the man glared down at the attendant. He saw that she was pondering the attendant with a faint smile. Slipping his phone smoothly into the inside pocket of his coat, he spoke in a voice that boomed around the gallery. ‘I did a History of Art degree.’ ‘Did you? I never knew,’ said the lady. ‘Moved to law after the first year. No money in art. No offence.’ The attendant felt an overwhelming desire to pick up his chair and swing it as hard as he could into the man’s artless and ignorant mouth. Instead, he said politely, ‘Not much money, no.’ ‘You get to see these paintings every day,’ said the lady, glancing up at the man, her face serious again. ‘It can’t be so bad.’ He nodded. ‘I get a lot of satisfaction from it, yes.’ The faint smile returned momentarily but the man gave a derisive snort and began to walk away. The lady said something to him and he responded sharply. She blushed and the attendant saw her lips tighten into a thin, angry line. The couple moved on to the next gallery and the attendant went to his chair. After a short while, the lady reappeared, alone. There was no one else in the gallery. ‘I just wanted one more look,’ she said in a quiet, determined voice, standing in front of the Monet. ‘Of course.’ ‘It’s just so beautifully captured.’ The attendant stood up. ‘I think it’s to do with the way he’s used different colour tones, along with the white. Like here.’ The lady stepped closer to examine where the attendant was pointing, where the foreground gave way to the hillside. ‘It’s so peaceful and empty. I’d love to go there,’ she said, scrutinising the painting. The attendant turned to her. ‘Yes, you can almost feel the place, can’t you,’ he said. *** The attendant was returned to consciousness by his walkie talkie. He sat up, lightheaded and confused, his energy drained. An elderly lady smiled at him sympathetically. He wondered if he was becoming unwell. He listened to the voices on the walkie talkie. A man at the information desk was searching for someone he’d arrived with earlier but could now no longer find. A woman. A series of negative responses crackled over the airwaves. ‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’ The sudden return of the booming voice made him jump. The tall man loomed over him. ‘She’s not even answering her phone. What’s she playing at?’ His expression was one of disdain, but there was a note of panic in his voice. Some of the other visitors turned to watch. He barely had time to respond before the man had hurried away, the clack of his expensive-looking shoes echoing off the walls and the high ceiling. Then the attendant noticed the Monet painting and an involuntary shiver passed through his whole body. He stepped closer to where it hung on the wall. He was not mistaken. A figure stood near one of the trees. She wore knee-length brown boots and had left footprints in the snow. She had her back to him, facing the hillside. Her red coat stood out against the grey and blue and the white. The attendant felt unable to move. The walkie talkie crackled again. Five minutes to closing time. The last of the day’s visitors moved slowly past him towards the exit. In the solitude of the emptied gallery he continued to stare in amazement. Maybe she’s been there all along, he thought to himself, but he was too familiar with the painting to believe it. Eventually one of the security staff appeared in the archway. The attendant turned off the lights and, in a daze, went to his locker. ‘Look at that, it’s starting to snow,’ said the guard at the front desk, leaning back in his chair and surveying a heavy grey sky outside the window. ‘Strange; the forecast didn’t say anything about snow.’ The attendant did not respond. He frowned deeply and left the building, half walking, half running. From the sky, the flakes were beginning to fall faster and faster. It seemed that there was a red light cutting through the night air. A strong wind suddenly whipped up all around him. He covered his face. When it had passed, he raised his eyes and saw that he was no longer in Trafalgar Square but in the middle of an expanse of snow-covered ground. He felt cold air on his skin. There were two buildings and bare trees. She was standing in the same place. She turned at his approach. ‘It’s the different colour tones that make it beautiful, just like you said.’ She smiled faintly and held out her hand, and he walked through the snow towards her. Andrew Senior Andrew Senior is a writer of short fiction and poetry based in Sheffield, UK. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in various publications including Litro Magazine, The Heartland Review and Flash Fiction Magazine. You can see more of his published work at: https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/ Queequeg You know well how to stare down the abyss, with drill-bit eyes punched open by fate. I see your soul harpooned straight through, colourful with scars and elegant gashes-- your chest tattooed with signs of gods of monsoon and typhoon, deluge and death. One day, Queequeg, you will sink. Your bones will drift in the same silence that fills your eyes the way water will fill them, the way water will hold you. Water: your love of loves, your floating power, your lasting grace. Paul Jaskunas This was first published at Blood and Bourbon. Paul Jaskunas is the author of the novel Hidden (Free Press, 2004), which won the Friends of American Writers Award and has been published widely in Europe. His work has appeared in a variety of periodicals, including The Little Patuxent Review, The Cortland Review, The Windhover, Atticus Review, America, and The Museum of Americana. A recipient of an MFA in Fiction from Cornell University, he teaches literature and writing at the Maryland Institute College of Art, where for the past five years he has edited the art journal Full Bleed. www.jaskunas.com. |
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