c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Stan Kaplan

In rapture,
I require memory mixed with madness.
I coordinate all restrictions, and resentfully
send them back to inner space.

Say it. Say that speech, the song and dance
that separates that space, that soundless
muffled mess.
Melting asphalt, and rude, ridiculous sweat.

In dreams I find my dead father, faint,
far away, eating pigs feet in a smelly
greasy spoon in some Brownsville
dead end.

O God, who is godless himself,
boxed away on some dusty store shelf,
chewing on a cheap cigar,
where are you, you brittle baby?

Leaving us to lament a long ago loss
you side step your clay,
a character actor in a stale movie,
a fancy man forever far away.

HATSHEPSUT by Samantha Cox Colborn

HATSHEPSUT by Samantha Cox Colborn

by B.Z. Niditch

How you learnt English
from the Russian
you told us it was Auden
who made you modern
after "the bronze horseman"
of Pushkin
in the land of Lenin,
how you wished to emigrate
after reading
"Notes from the Underground"
and we signed petitions
to the new heads of state
and waited for years
until you came
appearing to be our emigre
reaching out to us
suited for us in grey
to teach us by our shore,
in newborn smart verses
you held us captive
as a sounding millstone
took your enlarged heart
only to soon leave us,
as we translate
and celebrate your days
in a nightfall you depart.

WINGS by Brent Wiggans

WINGS by Brent Wiggans

by Frank De Canio

I don't believe in miracles.
I only know the aging Marschallin,
rising before the tabernacle
of the heart-stopping dawn;
slowing up the flow of time
clocked across her puzzled face.
"In God's name," she'll grow resigned
to giving up with solemn grace,
the young Octavian who, in her place,
holds Sophie in his arms.
His former love's by younger love, displaced;
her love transformed to that of chaperone.

Out of the bittersweet formality
of stale custom's silver rose,
a blushing fervor crimson's Sophie's
cheek which now, "in Gottes namen" glows
with young love's golden luster.
Yearning churns the bawdy measures of a waltz
to sparkling clusters of light-conversant stars.

The stage is paved for the servant boy
to brush away the mist that grows
with a handkerchief's wave, imparting solace
as solvent as the tonic close.

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