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    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

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    …andromeda whispers breathe as you go – Four poems by Michael Amitin

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The woman doesn’t want to wake up crazy: Selected poems by Mariya Grabovska

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Three Poems from The Stony Guests – Neil P. Doherty

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    PHOENIX (Part III) – YIN Xiaoyuan

  • Fiction
    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    THE SOUL AND THE BODY / DEHATMATATWA – Abhijit Sen

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Door to My Inner Self: Four Prose Pieces by Abdallah Zrika

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

  • Non Fiction
    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    Listening to Our Listening – Gary Whithed

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

  • Interviews & reviews
    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    Everything Comes from the Soil: Painter Tendai Makufa Interviewed by Camilla Boemio

    Everything Comes from the Soil: Painter Tendai Makufa Interviewed by Camilla Boemio

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    That Elusive Orgasm – Nandini Sahu

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    BOUNDARY/GONDI – Abhijit Sen

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    The Stony Guests: THE STORY – Neil P. Doherty

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

    Films From Palestine: A Poem – Farah Ahamed

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    …so I turned on the light: Poems by Antonio Merola

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    …andromeda whispers breathe as you go – Four poems by Michael Amitin

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The woman doesn’t want to wake up crazy: Selected poems by Mariya Grabovska

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Three Poems from The Stony Guests – Neil P. Doherty

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    LAUNCHING PAPER BOATS OF HOPE: Five Poems by Halyna Kruk

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    PHOENIX (Part III) – YIN Xiaoyuan

  • Fiction
    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    OCTOPUS – Nandini Sahu

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    THE SOUL AND THE BODY / DEHATMATATWA – Abhijit Sen

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    Roble Negro – Lucia Cupertino

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    The Dreaming Machine. Motherboard. A conversation with Zoè Gruni – Camilla Boemio

    The Door to My Inner Self: Four Prose Pieces by Abdallah Zrika

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Chapter ten, from”Come What May” by Ahmed Masoud

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    Remembering Carla Macoggi: Excerpts from “Kkeywa- Storia di una bambina meticcia” and “Nemesi della rossa”

    In memoriam – Swimming in the Tigris, Greenford: The Poetical Journey of Fawzi Karim, by Marius Kociejowski

    The Naked Shell of Aloneness – Kazi Rafi

    Pioneer’s Portrait: How Voltaire Contributed to Comparative Literature, by Razu Alauddin    

    The Shadow of a Shadow – Nandini Sahu

  • Non Fiction
    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    Listening to Our Listening – Gary Whithed

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    SOME CONSIDERATIONS ON METHOD (Part I) – Gaius Tsaamo

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    “My family is gone,” she wrote, her voice silenced by the weight of her words – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Mathematics As Poetic Thought; Sans Barbarian Evidence – Will Alexander

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Lingual Mesmerism That Rises From Haunting Evidence – Will Alexander

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

    FUTURE PERFECT – IYA KIVA

  • Interviews & reviews
    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Coordinates for a poetic debut. On “Allora ho acceso la luce” by Antonio Merola – Iuri Lombardi

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    BEING AS TRANSMUTATION: THE LIGHTNING PATHS OF WILL ALEXANDER – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Understanding the Mathematical Metaphysics of Nandini Sahu’s Zero Point – Bhaskar Bhushan

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

    Monumentalis. An aesthetical alchemist: Camilla Boemio interviews Marta Kucsora

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    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    That Elusive Orgasm – Nandini Sahu

    The Wait – Bitasta Ghoshal

    BOUNDARY/GONDI – Abhijit Sen

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    The Stony Guests: THE STORY – Neil P. Doherty

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    Chapters Four and Five from La Cena (The Dinner) – Božidar Stanišić

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    In Exile, War is Bitter – Hedaya Saleh Shamun

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    My Annan’s Photo – Appadurai Muttulingam

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    WRITTEN ON THE TONGUE – Andrew Joron

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

    Of Farms, Poetry and Philosophy: Three Poems from Gary Whited’s Collection Being, There

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  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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Home Out of bounds

The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

The Shipwreck Saga - Lynne Knight

April 15, 2023
in Out of bounds, Poetry, The dreaming machine n 11
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The Shipwreck Saga

 

 

                                                One: Departures

 

 

Blue Dress

 

 

That lousy daddy-man done up & gone

when I was bitty like a leaf in early May.

My mama cried & cried he was no good

 

for walking out on all of us without a word

& heading straight into the neighbor lady’s arms.

Delilah, Mama called her, & then she’d laugh

 

that laugh that made your cheeks curl up inside.

That lousy daddy-man sure ain’t no Samson,

she would cry. We wondered what that meant

 

but not for long: the lousy daddy-man had upped & gone.

I grew so fast my pants were almost shorts

so Mama said it’s time you wore a dress to hide

 

those pretty legs. First time the word came by

my way. Good thing the lousy daddy-man’s long gone,

my mama said, because those legs. She sighed.

 

Those breasts. Pretty. She made a dress of blue.

It slid on down like sky, & so I knew the world

I’d one day know: where sorrow makes it so.

 

 

 

 

 

Gray Sky

 

 

That blue dress faded like a sky in late November.

Turned into a wash of blue, a slate of blue, then gray

the way the sky was on the day my mama promised

 

all of us would get our wish for Christmas if the Lord

kept smiling down, but since the Lord don’t smile down

on whiners or do-nothings, it was time to put our shoulders

 

to the wheel. What wheel, we said, because the house

had chairs & table, a stand for water from the well,

but wheel? No wheel. Baby Brother drew one in the dirt.

 

Dirt floor, I mean. Not there, my mama said. Out here.

She made the world inside her arms. Too late for me

to hide from, squeezing my eyes shut. Thirteen. You need

 

to understand there ain’t no thing called free, Mama said.

She waited while we got it. Scaled our wishes back to real.

Scuffed away the wheel that Baby Brother drew. Said nah,

 

we didn’t need no wheel to prove we was okay despite

the lousy daddy-man’s desertion. The Lord could put His

shoulder to the wheel, watch over us till kingdom come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See Saw

 

 

Big Girl, my mama said, you need some lessons

in mortality. You see them flowers on the peas?

I nodded. Spring already, & the crunchy ground

of winter like a word we lost in distant echo.

 

They be gone so quick you wonder they was there

at all. What else was new? That’s your life, too.

So make a pretty thing of it, you hear? I swore

on stacks of Bibles that I would. But pretty how?

 

My legs, my breasts, okay, but I had Mama’s face,

too stern & thin for pretty. Too knowing what’s in store.

I went outside to watch the flowers drain their white.

Not so quick as that, I said to Mama, going back inside.

 

She shook her head. You wait. I waited. See?

She stirred the air the way she stirred her tea. I saw

the flowers lift into a sudden wind, the wind go west,

the sun wrap all its light up for the blank of night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Feet, the Skull, the Nape of the Neck

 

 

I put the pants back on & ran the woods,

a deer-like thing so light I rarely snapped a twig

or kicked a rock aside. Who cared if back at home

 

my mama sucked the air like someone hungry

for a bit of news that didn’t come with blood

all down its side or middle. The woods smelled clean

 

the way our hair did after baths on Saturday.

I breathed until the air squeaked through my lungs.

Sometimes I thought I saw the shadow of

 

that lousy daddy-man, but it was just a tree or fallen-

over tree, or sun leapfrogging in a stand of birch.

I yodeled, sang, & called my name in languages

 

I’d never heard. When no one came, I shuddered

that I’d gone so far alone, but always when the time

came right for turning back, I stood so still I heard

 

my breathing breathe, my blood rush through.

They said to call that prayer although I knew it wasn’t.

Just me, so close to all my bones I felt no need.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bible Tells Me So

 

 

The day I turned fourteen, a wind came up

that beat the house like fists. Then rain spat down

to turn the yard to mud, the scrap of garden

with its tender starts of peas & carrots mush.

 

So Mama wept. Don’t cry, I pleaded. We can plant

as soon as things come dry. But rain was all

it did for days. I didn’t like to say, but even dreams

were hard to find in all that noise & wet.

 

I must be Job, my mama said the ninth day.

I’m Job, you my children, & we all be doomed.

Baby Brother scoffed. Ain’t no such thing as doomed.

He’d just turned twelve, & there’d been talk

 

of dropping off the Baby from his name,

but names are there no matter what you say

or don’t, like Big Sis never sending any word

from the big city, us wondering was she dead

 

or married to a rich man she felt too ashamed

to tell about the family she’d quit: Mrs. Job

& kids. I went outside to watch the worms

come oozing through the muck before it dried

 

when all that rain was gone & sun came back

to scorch us just in case we had our doubts

about its power, Mama said. The worms were life.

They’d help the peas & carrots, push doomsday away.

 

 

 

 

 

Run Off with Lightning Speed

 

 

 

The snake that Uncle brought lay coiled in the back

seat of his car. You keep that thing away, my mama cried.

Uncle laughed. Took a big stick & poked the snake

right through the open window. Listen to that rattle,

he told me. You hear that in the woods, you get away

like lightning. No snake can strike at lightning.

 

You damn crazy, bringing that thing here, Mama told him.

Crazier than your crazy loser brother. Uncle sighed.

More power to him. He never was a man for sitting

in one place. So Mama said, He never was a man,

& that includes his you-know-what. Uncle’s eyes all wide

at that. You mean he couldn’t get it up no more?

 

Mama looked from him to me & shook her head

in warning. But I knew. Lousy daddy-man needed flesh

not just the bones that poked from Mama’s dress.

Her hip bones like a shelf. Her wrist bones, eggs.

I swore right there to eat & eat to make my bones

stay hidden so I could keep a man stayed put.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Royal Kingdom

 

 

 

Big Sis left me her books, all twelve of them

lined up along her shelf, beside the Baby Jesus

in a wooden crib & the blue stuffed bunny

the lousy daddy-man won at the fair before

he showed what Mama said were his true colors.

 

Red, I guessed, because the devil’s red.

It scared me I might be the devil’s flesh

& blood. I couldn’t wait to take

communion so I could make the wafer

grow inside me, crowd the devil out.

 

Meanwhile I read & practiced saying

what the teacher said. No ain’t. No them

when it was meant to stand as subject.

Language had its rules just like a court.

The noun & verb were king and queen.

 

They alternated crowns. Then came

all the attendants. It made a kind of sense

to think of it this way. The king & queen

could multiply but had to do things just as one.

Too many attendants might mess the order up.

 

You’re smart, Teacher said. I told her

Big Sis was smart, & look where it led her.

You’re not your sister. Concentrate on being

worthy of your dreams, Teacher urged.

She meant for me to say my dreams. I shook

 

my head so hard I felt my skull contain

all it contained. Then smiled back

& watched my dreams float everywhere.

Out the long windows, up the hill, into

blue sky where clouds went rushing by.

 

 

 

 

Shipwreck

 

 

It did no good when Mama said I had to be

another name than lousy daddy-man’s last name.

So Shipping turned to Meyer, Mama’s name,

but they still called me Shipwreck back at school

 

because I lived in a shipwreck shack, they said.

I didn’t care. Loretta Shipwreck suited me. I meant

to leave them all behind. At sea. With nothing but

their cries while I sailed off aboard my makeshift raft,

 

part plank, part hope, & made my way to shore

like Aphrodite rising from a shell. I liked the myths.

Mites, I called them for a long time. Greek mites.

Shipwreck’s got her head stuck in a book, they taunted,

 

but little did they know. My body wasn’t Aphrodite’s,

but it would do. I meant to keep the pretty to myself

not let some boy put meaty hands all over it.

Until I shipwrecked all my promises one summer night

 

when Benny Anderson came by & asked if I could see

the moon from where I stood. He held a hand out,

waved it like a wand, & I sailed out of who I’d been

into the sea of grief the gods had kept in store for me.

 

 

 

 

 

Hinged

 

 

You let the demon rum inside your belly,

Mama said, you won’t amount to nothing

but a hill o’ beans. & then she drank her whiskey

to ease the pain of lousy daddy-man’s desertion.

 

He’d been gone for years by then. I knew the demon

in my belly, loins, my other parts. You keep

them legs pressed tight, Big Girl, my mama said.

But oh I longed to loosen them & feel the thrust

 

I knew that I’d been made for. The senior boys

would ogle me when I walked down the street

but I pretended not to feel the heat their eyes

stirred up where my legs hinged. I whistled

 

high. I whistled low to keep my Big Girl pride

that Mama said was all I had to bar the door

so shame would never bust on through & leave me

howling like an alley cat. She howled to show

 

how bad that howl would be. Set the whiskey down.

Wiped her mouth with her apron hem & set to work

shelling peas from the scrap of garden. She drank

one drink a day. To not get drunk & lead us all astray.

 

 

 

 

Metempsychosis

 

 

What Benny did unhinged my everything.

I knew the look Mama would give when I came back

across the shabby yard for breakfast in my rumpled dress.

Who cared, I thought. A body has its needs, & need

 

can be so sweet, sweeter even than the filling up

of need. I worked this out while Benny slept.

The moon poured all the light she had to silver up

our bodies. We might have been Greek statues

 

of the gods. I had my head on Benny’s chest,

my legs entwined with his. My woman body rose

& walked into the night. Stopped, beckoned me

to follow. I stayed where I was but followed.

 

When Benny woke, asked what he done to me,

I laughed my last girl laugh. I shook my hair

until it covered all his face. My woman body

grabbed me by the hand. I stood. Ran fast. Became.

 

 

Lynne Knight was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and grew up in Cornwall-on-Hudson, New York. Knight graduated from the University of Michigan, where she won two Hopwood Awards, and from Syracuse University, where she was a fellow in poetry and received her MA in Creative Writing and Literature. After teaching for four decades at both the high school and college levels, Knight now works as a poet and translator. In 2018, she became a permanent resident of Canada, where she lives on Vancouver Island. Knight has published six full-length collections and six chapbooks. Her work has appeared in numerous journals, including Beloit Poetry Journal, Georgia Review, Gettysburg Review, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, RATTLE, and Southern Review. Her awards and honors include publication in Best American Poetry, a Prix de l’Alliance Française, a PSA Lucille Medwick Memorial Award, a RATTLE Poetry Prize, and an NEA grant.

 

Cover artwork by Mubeen Kishany

 

Tags: addictionadolescencebeautyBibleclasscorporealdesertionfamily relationslanguageLynne Knightmale dominationpoetic voicePoetrysassinesssensualitysexsexuality
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    • the dreaming machine – issue number 12
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