Tag Archives: blue

clarence wolfshohl | angel of dachau

Her eyes must be a cold sky blue, but on this grey mist day they are iron grey to fit the fix of her face amongst her ashen hair, the only looseness about her. She guides us through the chilled drizzle from barrack to bunker, across graveled yard flanked by watch tower and entry gate with its Nazi smirk of “Arbeit macht frei,” each place forcing her monologue of horrors, the speech sounding clear English with only a touch of Bavarian mountains flattened with the shame she knows with each word. Later, outside the barbed wire, she tells us she is an archaeologist, guides these tours only twice a month; she can do no more, she says, a tear allowed to fall.
SONY DSCClarence Wolfshohl is professor emeritus of English at William Woods University. He operated Timberline Press for thirty-five years until the end of 2010. His poetry and creative fiction have appeared in Concho River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Colere, Rattlesnake Review, Cenizo Journal, San Pedro River Review, and Melic Review, Houston Literary Review, Right Hand Pointing and Red River Review online. He will be featured poet in the August 2013 Red River Review. A chapbook of poems about Brazil, Season of Mangos, was published by Adastra Press (2009) and a compilation of three earlier chapbooks, The First Three (2010) and Down Highway 281 (2011) were published by El Grito del Lobo Press. In Harm’s Way: Poems of Childhood in collaboration with Mark Vinz was published by El Grito del Lobo Press in early 2013. A native Texan, Wolfshohl now lives with his writing, two dogs and two cats in a nine-acre woods outside of Fulton, Missouri.

katia mitova | leap year

I open the wax-sealed envelope: a day of summer towards the end of a long winter. Father and I on a yellow tandem. We pedal quickly but are not moving. I like this. My brother in the garden, still a baby, crawling toward a blue-green caterpillar, never reaching it. A tawny puppy perpetually chasing its tail. My mother on the porch, at her sewing machine. She is hemming a length of white cotton – without thread, without making any noise. We are happy. Suddenly – a buzz. An invisible bee hitting a window pane. Am I the only one who hears it? I jump off the bike and follow the noise. It leads me to the window of my room. The pane is all iced save for a small opening scratched by the bee. I look through this peephole: inside, winter continues. I step back, slowly fold the day, put it back in the envelope, moisten the glue on the flap with my tongue and seal Being & Becoming together.
From Dream Diary (Virtual Artists Collective, 2013).
Katia Mitova was born and raised in Sofia, Bulgaria. In 1993 she moved to Chicago and stayed. This is an orally-enhanced version of a poem about her now almost mythological Bulgarian childhood. Check http://katiamitova.org.

larry d thomas | san antonio zoo

The peacock faces us in a splay of lust, prompting the unconscious holding of our hands, blinding our eyes with iridescent blue collapsing our lungs with breathlessness. Hand in hand we enter the penguin exhibit, and we see them standing erect, motionless, their backs to the glass, their heads tilted upward among outcroppings of fake gray rocks rising to a concrete wall of painted Antarctic vistas. We stand for several minutes and not a penguin moves, each brooking the bitter cold, keeping its back to viewing humans, living with every bit of possible dignity the dire little fictions of its life.
Larry Head ShotLarry D. Thomas, a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and the 2008 Texas Poet Laureate, has published twenty collections of poetry, most recently Uncle Ernest (Virtual Artists Collective, Chicago, 2013). His Larry D. Thomas: New and Selected Poems (TCU Press, 2008) was short-listed for the National Book Award. Visit his website at LarryDThomas.com.