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My poem: THE DEPARTUREMomma, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly.
I thought you should know.
At night I hear the police helicopter circling like a fat buzzard, contemplating if it
will kill- perhaps, not kill. It hums as it picks the city clean while I am a sieve,
howling hungry. I gape and gape and run right through the days, thinking: to kill
or not to kill. I thought you should know.
Tuesday rolled into Wednesday and I was caught somewhere between, slipping
through myself. I dreamt of orchards: tart citrus splitting my tongue and bees
working themselves through my hair. Grandpa was there, asking after Grandma,
his shirt, crisp from the iron, eclipsing the fruits. He was no more reachable than
the summers he spent under the verandah, his shirt, crisp from the iron, safe from
the sun. I was eight, treading water, and from the edges: bursting oleander. You
were coming to pick me up, Momma. When I dried off, my legs read: MEAN MEAN!
MEAN and I was balled
was included in issue #27 of Up the Staircase Quarterly upthestaircase.org/rhiannon-th… which just received a review over at New Pages. I was mentioned, pretty cool!

"...Editor April Michelle Bratten does a great job of selecting art that not just opens the issue well, but also chooses aptly when it comes to the images paired with each poem.

The poetry section starts off strong. Rhiannon Thorne’s “The Departure” kicks it off. Beginning: “Mama, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly,” readers are immersed in the speaker’s dissipation, “caught somewhere between, slipping through myself. I dreamt [. . .]” Louis Staeble’s “Radiate” is the accompanying photograph; its muted tones and texture pair nicely with the atmosphere of Thorne’s poem.

With a completely different mood than Thorne’s piece, Al Ortolani in “Fox on Greenway Lane” recounts the release of a trapped fox back into the wild..."

More: www.newpages.com/item/28410-up…

PS, also in the issue? :iconamoxes: :heart:

by Amorak Huey

I have begun to see my body as gap, absence, rending:
the hole between a moment
and the more meaningful moment that follows.

Between, say, calling to request “Legs”
and the DJ finally playing the song.

Between my friend’s stepfather careening home
and the yelling downstairs.

Between pushing play and the tape beginning to turn.
Between the tape and the sound.

Or the pause between Oooh, I want her and Shit, I got to have her.
Oh, to sing like that. To be honest about desire.

The broken porch light. The dark driveway. The squealing tires.
We have no idea what we want or how to escape.

My friend is embarrassed by his stepfather’s swearing,
by the store-brand cola in the refrigerator, by his own mutable flesh.
My friend doesn’t look down when he pees.
My friend has no idea how I feel about his older sister,
her thighs and the Judas Priest concert shirt she wears to bed
my plans to tap softly on her door

after everyone else falls asleep and before this narrative falls apart
because I have no idea what happens next –

how the time might pass between that moment and the rest of my life.

I have no idea how old I am in this story. In any story.
I will never feel any different than I do right now but I do not yet know this.

My friend has to get up early
because he goes to church with his mother on Sunday mornings.
Also Sunday nights and Wednesday nights.
This is so much God, you have no idea.

On their way to salvation, they will drop me off at home
because I do not have appropriate clothes.
I will lock myself in my room and catch up on my dreams:

the ripening. The fall. The chasm between.


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'Tis the season!
Killing the Spring

When the cold rains kept on and killed the
spring, it was as through a young person had died
for no reason.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Spring had been bulldozed under.
She would not, would not, would not.
Late April, late May
and the metallic rains kept on.
From my gun-metal window I watched 
how the dreadful tulips
swung on their hinges,
beaten down like pigeons.

Then I ignored spring.
I put on blinders and rode on a donkey
in a circle, a warm circle.
I tried to ride for eternity 
but I came back.
I swallowed my sour meat
but it came back.
I struck out memory with an X
but it came back.
I tied down time with a rope
but it came back.

Then
I put my head in a death bowl
and my eyes shut up like clams.
They didn't come back.
I was declared legally blind
by my books and papers.
My eyes, those two blue gods,
would not come back.
My eyes, those sluts, those whores,
would play no more.

Next I nailed my hands
onto a pine box.
I followed the blue veins
like a neon road map.
My hands, those touchers, those bears,
would not reach out and speak.
They could no longer get in the act.
They were fastened down to oblivion.
The did not come back.
They were through with their abominable habits.
They were in training for a crucifixion.
They could not reply.

Next I took my ears,
those two cold moons,
and drowned them in the Atlantic.
They were not wearing a mask. 
They were not deceived by laughter.
They were not luminous like the clock.
They sank like oiled birds.
They did not come back.
I waited with my bones on the cliff
to see if they'd float in like slick
but they did not come back.

I could not see the spring.
I could not hear the spring.
I could not touch the spring.
Once upon a time a young person
died for no reason.
I was the same.
My poem: THE DEPARTUREMomma, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly.
I thought you should know.
At night I hear the police helicopter circling like a fat buzzard, contemplating if it
will kill- perhaps, not kill. It hums as it picks the city clean while I am a sieve,
howling hungry. I gape and gape and run right through the days, thinking: to kill
or not to kill. I thought you should know.
Tuesday rolled into Wednesday and I was caught somewhere between, slipping
through myself. I dreamt of orchards: tart citrus splitting my tongue and bees
working themselves through my hair. Grandpa was there, asking after Grandma,
his shirt, crisp from the iron, eclipsing the fruits. He was no more reachable than
the summers he spent under the verandah, his shirt, crisp from the iron, safe from
the sun. I was eight, treading water, and from the edges: bursting oleander. You
were coming to pick me up, Momma. When I dried off, my legs read: MEAN MEAN!
MEAN and I was balled
was included in issue #27 of Up the Staircase Quarterly upthestaircase.org/rhiannon-th… which just received a review over at New Pages. I was mentioned, pretty cool!

"...Editor April Michelle Bratten does a great job of selecting art that not just opens the issue well, but also chooses aptly when it comes to the images paired with each poem.

The poetry section starts off strong. Rhiannon Thorne’s “The Departure” kicks it off. Beginning: “Mama, your daughter is dripping down the side of the world, dissipating slowly,” readers are immersed in the speaker’s dissipation, “caught somewhere between, slipping through myself. I dreamt [. . .]” Louis Staeble’s “Radiate” is the accompanying photograph; its muted tones and texture pair nicely with the atmosphere of Thorne’s poem.

With a completely different mood than Thorne’s piece, Al Ortolani in “Fox on Greenway Lane” recounts the release of a trapped fox back into the wild..."

More: www.newpages.com/item/28410-up…

PS, also in the issue? :iconamoxes: :heart:

Comments


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:iconroleplaygold:
RolePlayGold Featured By Owner Feb 22, 2015  New member Professional Writer
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:iconroses:
roses Featured By Owner Feb 7, 2015
Still think of you too sometimes. It's been a very long time... and I'm not sure what I have left to offer, but perhaps we should talk sometime. I've continued reading your stuff sporadically over the years... You've gotten better. But still the same, still you.
I hope you're doing well girlie. Another time perhaps.
Reply
:iconjade-pandora:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2015
:hug: Dear woman you --- I was going to post the Tag a Quality Deviant "GOTCHA" thing, but someone beat me to it and I can't put you through a 2nd Tag even though I was tagged several times and I'm fulfilling more than those two together even require.  But instead of a redundant tag atcha, why don't I just do what I feel from the heart.  That I think highly of you, with respect, but also in awedom of your talent(s). With love, and remember to always:
BElieve in YOUrself by KmyGraphic :heart:
Reply
:iconalfiealpha:
AlfieAlphA Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
thanks for the fav
Tainted Love (Chameleon Detail) by AlfieAlphA  Tainted love by AlfieAlphA  
Reply
:iconvespera:
vespera Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
you know who would really love it? upthestaircase.org/submit.html :)
Reply
:iconalfiealpha:
AlfieAlphA Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
looks like everything is closed :)
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015   General Artist
Tag a quality deviant: You’re it! Quality doesn’t mean that you have a lot of followers, or a lot of messages. It means that you’re nice to other people, and you deserve to be happy. If you get this message, someone is telling you that they love you as you are, and they don’t care how much followers you have. Send this to 10 deviants who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing will happen. But it’s just good to let someone know that you love them! Heart
Reply
:iconvespera:
vespera Featured By Owner Jan 6, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart: :heart:
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2015   General Artist
:iconihugyouplz: :iconbeatingheartplz:
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:iconlombregrise:
lombregrise Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2014  Professional Writer
Tagged by the greyshadow ahahah GREYSHADOW'S #44 + update: double tagged rhaaaa
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