I know someone no doubt remembers me only
in a green dress doughy & believing I'll never
sleep or love again a stranger's narrow mattress
the air turning what was kept private then like
where she put her mouth & if she put her mouth
Laura Hospes
This Is How You Should Treat Someone Who Suffers from Trichotillomania
I turned to the internet to explain my inexplicable behaviour. I refuted my symptoms because they pointed to a chronic disorder. I tried to conceal the evidence. I would often have to discard a pile of hair below me after a long session of pulling. When questioned by my parents who had detected my noticeable hair loss, I explained that I was probably vitamin-deficient. I was ashamed and embarrassed. The stigma of mental illness caused me to deny what I had come to discover.
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Joelle Poulos
Poetry by Leah Nielsen
when you’re the Dead Dad girl
who leaves the party with two boys—just friends—
to see who can leap the farthest off the swing
Gabriel Isak
A Day in the Life by Bethany Ruth Anderson
For the first time in my life I crave cigarettes, I feel the pull of drugs and, though I’ve been vegetarian for ten years, the concept of greasy chicken is tantalizing. I want what isn’t good for me. I want what will kill me first, but I need enjoyment in the process. While I have the capacity to feel, I want to feel it all. I want the aches and the pains and the laughter. I want to consume large amounts of alcohol to make everything funny or interesting, to talk like I have something to say, and to listen likes it matters. I want the morning to be black, the day to be empty--just lying still, concentrating on being alive. The same as every other day, only my body responds and my mind doesn’t matter.
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Gabriel Isak
That Time I Was in a Psychiatric Hospital by Lori Stone
Then she said, almost in passing, "They said I poured bleach into my eyes, can you imagine such a thing?"
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A Review of 'Trance' by Debora Lidov
Debora Lidov’s short collection, Trance (Finishing Line Press, $14.49), contains poems of surprise, elegance, originality, wit, irony, beauty, dark humor, precision, pain, and lyricism. That is a long praise-list and could set up a reader for impossibly elevated expectations, but the high-stakes’ focus of these poems makes anything less than a full layout of its attributes a little lame.
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A Review of Puma Perl’s 'Retrograde'
Puma is New York City. Puma is why New York City is cool. I read her full-length collection Retrograde (great weather for media, 2014) on the subway, while listening to The Cure, walking around LES, and wandering at Coney Island. In many ways, the collection is best read while traveling, as so much of it concerns human movement, both physical and emotional.
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Carli Jeen
What I Didn’t Learn In Writing Workshops
I loved going to graduate school and being immersed in writing. Having the opportunity to study with my mentors and peers was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life—and I learned a lot during the two years it took for me to get my degree. But there was something auspiciously missing from most of our discussions— how to create diverse characters.
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Christiane F. (1981)
The Word 'Slut'
I am 15 years old, and the word "slut" is already part of my everyday life. I remember the first time that objectionable word slipped out of somebody’s mouth, soaring in my direction. Piercing me. I could not feel anything, except for my stomach dropping.
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Nadia Maria
L'Appel Du Vide (The Call Of The Void), Non-Fiction by Lillian Brown
The TV always needs to be on. Sleep rarely comes, but having a dark, silent room certainly aids to the insomnia. My particular comfort in crime shows can be a bit disconcerting, but it’s just background. The television is even sometimes left on during sex, much to the beloved’s chagrin, but serves as a quiet pastime for myself after he inevitably dozes off.
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Lisa Marie Basile / @thedarkpart
From Where She Watches, Fiction By Alexandra Cohl
After that first night, I decided her daughter would always return right around 8:30 p.m. And her mother would sit there, with her hidden bun and slicked back hair, with her bald head and her roaming eyes. And I could watch, only feeling a slight twinge of pain from the nails on my wrist. They’re not quite as sharp as a razor, but still effective; just enough, as Mother would say. Like the time I was baking with her and she said to put "just enough" salt in the cookie batter. Too much would ruin the taste. But my hands would shake and it was hard to get "just enough" perfect. After dropping a fourth of the bottle in the mix, we had to throw the batter away. It’s damaged, Mother would say. Damaged just enough.
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Rob Gonsalves
A Trip To The Deli, Fiction by Anne Foster
Kate neared the back corner of the house now. She was reaching for that sturdy feel of her hand wrapped around molded wood, when the gutter shook and her heart slipped and she lunged for that crisp edge where her hand could grip and she got it and she held on tight. But dear god how her heart pounded. One misstep and she would certainly die. She would fall into the black cavern where at the bottom her body would run through a sharp rock. What would they tell her parents? The girl who went to get a sandwich; never came back. Body never found. Or body found, unsuitable for visual identification.
Read MoreLuna Luna at the New York City Poetry Festival – Saturday, July 30 @ Noon
BY LISA MARIE BASILE
This weekend, you beauties – it's just a few short days away. Are you ready to drink wine in the sun and write poems under trees with hundreds of sweaty bodies? Yes, we are too.
Come out and meet Luna Luna this Saturday, July 30, at Noon on Governor's Island. Our readers are splendid and we hand-picked each and every one of them for their power, humor, mystery and musicality.
- Stephanie Valente
- Yesenia Montilla
- Deirdre Coyle
- Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein
We're also doing something special this year – anyone who comes to meet & greet us will have their photo taken and used on our social channels to promote *your* projects and *your* books. Why? Because you have loved us for four years (our anniversary falls on July 30) and we want to shout you out. We'll be there Saturday at noon, and throughout the whole festival.
Here are our magic readers:
Here are some pics from last year's festival:
Luo Yang
Poem By Kristin Chang
The first Chinese woman in America
lived inside a diorama. A little room
for a little lady, Four Inch Feet
Miss Ching-Chang King.
Aëla Labbé
Poetry By Emily Corwin
you felt me, you left me—moaning open in a landslide. I harden like grease
and there’s glimmer. the saplings anxious for ripping, cleaved the way you
like it. let’s say: you’re the woodsman and I am a girl, slipping in a magician
box, my bra cups filling out—buttermilk, tiny bow in the middle. you wield
a saw, a tremor—sung like choirs, biting through.