Guidelines



Submission Guidelines: Send 1-3 unpublished poems in the body of an email (NO ATTACHMENTS) to nvneditor[at]gmail.com. No simultaneous submissions. Use "Verse News Submission" as the subject line. Send a brief bio. No payment. Authors retain all rights after 1st-time appearance here. Scroll down the right sidebar for the fine print.

Sunday, January 10, 2021

ANIMAL FARM 2021:
2. TODAY SHE LOOKS LIKE A SHROPSHIRE SHEEP

by Penelope Scambly Schott
Graphic from Walls of the Wild.


My once-white dog
leaps on black legs
across thawing mud,
 
her bearded muzzle
iced with dirt. Oh, joy,
gusto of dogfulness.

Don’t discuss politics
or the foolhardiness
of those who rule us.

In my next life, I’ll roll
in the spiral cow pies
to praise the new day.


Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her newest book is On Dufur Hill, poems about the cycle of the year in a small wheat-growing town.

ANIMAL FARM 2021:
1. BRAZEN BULL

by E. L. Blizzard




A young male bottle-fed, head-petted, indulged, insulated from common bovine. Aggressive disposition rewarded, elite pedigree admired, need for dominance nurtured.
 
Let loose, it mounts at will. Out for blood. Horning and pawing dirt, snorting, trying to gore everything in its way.
 
Humans walk on eggshells, circling periphery, scratching heads, wondering what went wrong. Much too late for dehorning and castration, but they gather keystone and bands, readying to interrupt its flight zone.
 
pasture grazing—
sickly bellows
scatter the herd


E. L. Blizzard has recent poems forthcoming or in The Other Bunny, Bones, Drifting Sands, Failed Haiku, Autumn Moon, Under the Bashō, Wales Haiku Journal, Femku and Poetry Pea. Over years of nonprofit work, she’s advocated on issues faced by immigrants and refugees, survivors of intimate partner violence in cis and LGBTQ+ relationships, and those experiencing homelessness.

Saturday, January 09, 2021

CAUTION

by David Chorlton




Arizona is reporting the highest rate of new coronavirus cases in the United States, as the state’s governor continues to resist calls to install strong restrictive measures. With an average of 118.3 new cases per 100,000 people, Arizona has become what health officials call the latest “hotspot of the world” because of soaring case loads. —The Guardian, January 7, 2021


Through the cold and shaded
lantana comes a rush
and a buzz from
the hummingbirds
who flash their purple in the grey
morning. The thrasher
recently arrived with  a scimitar
beak moves back
and forth between the seed block and
the water while once
the Cooper’s Hawk has been
and gone from the back
wall the African
lovebirds brighten
the air with their hungry calls. The other
news is all
dark suits and hospital
corridors, interrupted by happiness
staged to sell
new cars in a time of travelling
nowhere. Ten
thousand new cases today
in the state. Meanwhile
at the pond the Vermilion
Flycatcher works
the perimeter, and Northern Shovelers
mix with the Buffleheads and Pied-
billed Grebes. Sharp-witted
and shy, the coyote
down to drink
melts his frozen pose and slips
through an open gate,
wearing each moment’s light
as a changing disguise.


David Chorlton has lived for many years in Phoenix, close now to the city's large desert mountain park. He will have a new book of older poems published this year by FutureCycle Press, Unmapped Worlds.

Friday, January 08, 2021

TWO SIDES TO KENOSHA

by David Southward




Officer Sheskey feared for his life;
thinking that Jacob clutched a knife,
he shot, shot, shot in self-defense,
assured of his own innocence.
No charge was brought: who would convict
a fear too sane to contradict,
when video (which carries clout)
leaves wiggle room for reasoned doubt?

Jacob also feared for his life;
seeing the gunmen, he knew his knife 
would prove no use in self-defense.
He knew no black man’s innocence
is ever presumed, that courts convict 
the captured, suavely contradict
their stories, summon legal clout
to silence them with reasoned doubt.
 
 
David Southward teaches in the Honors College at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He is the author of Apocrypha (Wipf & Stock 2018) and Bachelor’s Buttons (Kelsay Books 2020), and winner of the 2019 Frost Farm Prize for Metrical Poetry.

Wednesday, January 06, 2021

ARMED AND DANGEROUS

by George Held


A pro-Trump mob interact with police after storming the US capitol. Photograph: Win McNamee/Getty Images via The Guardian, January 6, 2021


Sure, the Jew-boy and the black preacher
Saved the leftwing bacon in Georgia last night
But they ain’t gonna stuff us back in the dirt
Or the bottle or wherever we came from
 
To make America great again. We’re white
And proud of it. We’re armed and dangerous,
As the sheriffs’ posters say it, and we might
Have us a little Civil War to settle things,
 
Only this time we win, ‘cause we’re armed
And dangerous, you bet, and ‘cause
The North is a bunch of mongrel cowards,
So this time we win behind General T****
 
And with our militia in defense of Red MAGA.
Don’t you play shocked or angry at my words
When you know I’m right: we are gonna’
Win this time and set up our new capital
 
In Tuscaloosa, where our footballers
Are already Number 1 and we can beat
Any fake students in other uniforms
Like Ohio State or Clemson and be champs
 
Again. Because the South she is rising
To be great again. We’re red from Texas
To Canada and lots of other states
Between the coasts. So join the movement
 
While you can and make us great again
Forevermore: in football and politics
And the military we’re the best
And soon we will really rule the roost.


George Held is a longtime contributor to TheNewVerse.News.

TRUMP OF THE WILL

by George Salamon




"That 'Triumph of the Will' is a great propaganda film, there is no doubt…”  —Roger Ebert


Watching the 'Save America' rallies
for T***p is a reminder that we cannot
do Fascism the way the Germans did
as was captured in that infamous movie
of the Nazi Party rallies back in 1934.
What we see in Washington is a drab,
rag-tag bunch of stragglers, wannabe
warriors for a stumblebum president
clinging to power, any movie made of
their antics would gather the worst of
reviews on Rotten Tomatoes for any
"Trump of the Will" version of an ism
that may come to America by the ballot
box on petit bourgeois feet instead.


George Salamon wonders if the "It can't happen here" argument about fascism is still heard in faculty lounges and Starbucks coffee houses in the blue areas of America.

GEORGIA ON OUR MINDS

by Art Goodtimes




Feels like we’re moving
Pushing like we did in the 60’s
Knowing it’s still kiss & kill


Former poetry editor for Earth First! Journal, Wild Earth and the Mountain Gazette and current poetry editor for Fungi magazine, Art Goodtimes was Colorado’s Western Slope Poet Laureate (2011-13) and has been poet-in-residence for the Telluride Mushroom Festival since 1981. He retired recently after 20 years as the Inner Basin West’s only Green Party county commissioner. His latest book is Dancing on Edge: the McRedeye Poems (Lithic Press, Fruita, 2019)

MIDNIGHT'S MORNING: AN ODE TO EPIPHANY 2021

by Jill Crainshaw


Epiphany Painting by catherine forsayeth


“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the star takes us.”
“What star?”
“The fierce one—”

“I never liked the graveyard shift.
How will we stay awake?
When will we sleep? I need sleep.”

“Sure, why not? I think the star
is whimsical, by the way.”

They turn their eyes skyward. At night.
Eager. 
Reluctant.
Nonchalant.

“Wisdom wizards follow foolish flight of fancy—”
a cosmic planetary alignment
    a sixth spirit-sense
    a thousand lifetimes of longings

“Stop looking back.”
“I left—things—lost—things—back there.”
“What’s lost waits up ahead.”
“What’s lost nips at our heels.”

They emerge from a forlorn forest.
First light nudges Mama Wren from nighttime 
nesting in a smooth-barked dogwood.
The whimsy-fierce star hesitates—

They do too. 
Midnight morning trees breathe
an infant lullaby,
music brighter than light.

“Come with me.”


Jill Crainshaw is an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and a liturgical theology professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

CHANCELLORSVILLE

by Rick Mullin




The civil war that everybody fears
will one day bring our guns into the street
has been a virtual reality for years.
We are many battles in, replete
with bloodless disestablishment of norms
equating to the end-stop of a dream,
the downfall of democracy and state.
On Facebook, nobody can hear you scream.
It’s harmless when a friend posts, “Feel the hate”.
We laugh and like it and the hatred storms.
But this year the Epiphany may yield 
at last that dreaded outcome, civil war
with something like real armies in the field
and abject treason on the Senate floor.
With carnage in its more familiar forms.


Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Lullaby and Wheel.

Tuesday, January 05, 2021

2020-2029: FOR MY STUDENTS WHO WILL GRADUATE THIS YEAR

by John Hodgen


 

Consider the twenties, not Gatsby, not  
       Daisy, not that Roaring, and not  
just that double deadbolt year  
        just past like a Times 
Square mask. I’m meaning 
     all ten, that bright decade  
you were hoping for after college  
     like a swath unwinding, like red brocade,  
like ten Handmaid’s Tales crossing 
     Lafayette Square against the light,  
holding their bonnets, laughing 
     their asses off, like bridesmaids nearly  
collapsing, all of them needing  
     a bathroom, bad, before joining  
the Women’s March. You can do anything
     your parents said, or was it your  
sloppy, drunken aunt, waving 
     her Tanq and tonic like a scimitar  
at Thanksgiving or your hot cousin’s wedding, 
     nearly falling out of her dress  
like Delacroix’s Liberty Leading 
     the People.  And since it all goes so  
fast, that dreading, 
     that mindsuck, that hellscape  
doomscrolling, 
     you only get one shot, one Hamilton,  
maybe two, considering, 
    and then you’re gone, tik tok, (think  
Lorde, think Lizzo.) You listening? 
     And since it’s also abundantly clear  
there’s no gaming  
     the future for us (think Zuckerberg,  
think Bezos), I’m thinking 
     there’s only the present then, the art  
of self-promoting, posting 
     the mini-marvel movies we make for  
ourselves, starring us, of course,  
     like flashing dwarves, elves, like little  
DiCaprios, each a wee King 
     of the World coolly leaning over last  
year’s cruise ship railing.  
     We’re our own Captain Americas,  
Wonder Womans now, hawkeyed, land- 
     locked, running for our lives, down  
to our last Mohican, imploring, exhorting 
     our loves: I will find you. You must stay  
alive. So we stay living then 
     every blursday with this singular  
difference from anyone living  
     for the last hundred years. We’re  
zombies for life. We’re increasing  
     our brand, and no one can tell us  
a goddamned thing. 


John Hodgen, Writer-in-Residence at Assumption University, won the AWP Prize for Grace (University of Pittsburgh Press). His new book is The Lord of Everywhere (Lynx House/University of Washington Press).

Monday, January 04, 2021

A REQUIEM FOR OUR WORLD

by Janet Leahy


For more information about the Boccaccio Project, please click here.


How will our story be told, a world
in mourning for the millions who have died.
Who will write the score for the new
requiem, our sense of loss overwhelms,
day by day we feel the dread of what 
may come next.  How will a new symphony
hold the pain of pandemic, will the cello
anchor the gravitas with a call to prayer,
will strings of violins rage against
the virus, will the oboe conjure healing 
in the slow low notes of a minor key.  
Is a musician at her piano today, 
arranging chords to evoke
the pain of isolation, the fear of Covid.
Does she know her music will save us,
will redeem our lapses into despair.
I think of composers from the past… 
will a new Mozart, Verdi, Dvorak, arrange
dissonant chords to tell this story,
a Requiem Mass for Our World.


Janet Leahy is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets. Her poems have recently been published in Halfway to the North Pole, the Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar 2021, and Art in so Many Words.  She has published two collections of poetry.

Sunday, January 03, 2021

PORTRAIT OF WARPAINT

Pencil on paper with typed spoken word by Deidra Suwanee Dees




Dr. Deidra Suwanee Dees is Director/Tribal Archivist at Poarch Band of Creek Indians. She teaches Native American Studies at the University of South Alabama, initiated by the Tribe. She earned her doctorate at Harvard. She is the author of a chapbook, Vision Lines: Native American Decolonizing Literature. Heleswv heres, mvto.

Saturday, January 02, 2021

THE YEAR IN REVIEW

by Bonnie Naradzay


after Ilya Kaminsky

we lived happily, forgive us, 
we survived, even thrived, 
the way we slunk into the mud
beside the walkways, gave in, 
turned our eyes away, gestured 
with gratitude, wore masks, 
our eyeglasses clouding over, 
vision blurred, happily seeing
hypocrites roll up their sleeves, 
watch them all jump the lines, 
pull rank, Pence with his naked 
flabby arm, bravely showing 
how it’s done, we stood aside,
read about the one pardoned 
for ordering her police dog
to savage a homeless man 
backed against the wall,
showing how it’s done, 
war criminals pardoned,
mercenaries, paid with 
our taxes, gunning down
children with impunity, 
the nakedness of our nation,
we bowed in obeisance, 
sidled by, raised our hands,
excused ourselves, waved 
a note from the teacher,
we lived happily (forgive us)
                     the long year, is it over yet?  

     
Bonnie Naradzay's recent poems are in AGNI, the American Journal of Poetry, New Letters (Pushcart nomination), RHINO, Tar River Poetry, EPOCH, Tampa Review, Kenyon Review Online, Potomac Review, Xavier Review, and One Magazine. For many years she has led poetry workshops at a day shelter for the homeless and at a retirement center, both in Washington, DC.   

Friday, January 01, 2021

MAHLER'S NINTH SYMPHONY

by John David Muth


 

Alone for the first time in months, 
I sink into the strings 
of an adagio, 
the final movement 
of Mahler's Ninth. 
 
I listen to this piece  
on solemn occasions: 
the loss of girlfriends I have loved, 
the death of my mother. 
It grieves for me,  
expresses what I cannot, 
even when I’m by myself. 
 
How did he feel  
as the subject of a dying empire, 
witnessing a way of life ready to end? 
I am beginning to understand. 
He died three years before the Great War, 
never read of poison gas or barbed wire 
never lived to see Austria crumble 
never saw the bread lines 
of the Great Depression 
the rise of fascism  
the murder of his family and friends. 
Maybe he was lucky. 
 
The violins wail  
and I think of my country,  
hundreds of thousands dead 
economic collapse 
leaders inept or insane. 
I am almost glad  
those I lost years before 
cannot see what we have become. 
 
The coda lingers: 
the last complete thoughts 
of a dying man who didn’t want to die. 
Resignation fades to silence 
the old CD stops spinning 
stairs creak from footsteps. 
My wife is back from her walk. 
I hide my red eyes 
in feigned sleep.




John David Muth was born and raised in central New Jersey. He has been an academic advisor at Rutgers University for twenty years. His latest book Dreams of a Viking Wedding (Aldrich Press) was published this year.