ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Cover
Masthead
Rane Arroyo:
Brokeback Mountain
Frederick Lord:
Diving Bell
Allison Tobey:
The Wedding Photo
Frederick Lord:
Cupping My Car Keys like a Bird I Want to Keep Quiet
Tom Carson:
Breakfast plate portraits
Ryan McLellan:
Too much life
Peter Gunn:
Tate Modern
Tom Carson:
The beach
Sally O'Quinn:
October View
Jeff Crouch:
thermostat
JR Walsh:
Maybe he'll adopt our children
Carine Topal:
Eating Apples
David B. McCoy:
Skylight
Lightsey Darst:
Don't
Amanda McQuade:
At the Shore
Lenore Weiss:
U.S. Soldier With Traumatic Stress Disorder Syndrome, Post Iraq
Adam Houle:
How I Imagine the Seasons on a Walk with My Dog
Daria Tavana:
Bunkered Up!
Martin Willitts, Jr.:
Forest Haiku
Joseph Reich:
from Twelve Odd Stanzas Involving Culture
Lisa Fay Coutley:
In Love, Fridays are Best Spent Watching the Discovery Channel
Ray Succre:
Seedless Blackberry Jam
Davide Trame:
The Threshold
John Grey:
Glassy
Ryan McLellan:
Exploratory
Kenneth Pobo:
Leave it to Buble
Joseph Hutchison:
Poplar
Amanda McQuade:
Happy Hour 3
Adam Penna:
from Lyrics to Genji
Lisa Fay Coutley:
In e-Harmony
Anne Baldo:
jenny hanniver
Jackson Lassiter:
Instant Oatmeal Instructions
Taylor Graham:
Erinys Erinys
Celeste Snowber:
water litany
Davide Trame:
Moth
Contributors
Volume One Issue One
Exploratory
Just found what sounded right under fingers,
no training or technique besides the ears, listening
to lectures from lunatics who heard whole orchestras
through dead ear drums; always wanted lessons
and mamma said "Even if I don't get you the
lessons' I'll definitely get you the keyboard so
you can teach yourself," and she led me on
again and I was too stubborn or stupid to just
get either for myself; but the sound was there
in the box, the mystical classical tones and tinkles,
they found their way into my head while in
a soundproof booth with the door open, songs
meandered out the wrists and finger-tips while
killing time on graduation day, the keys sent signals
over the synapse strings and slow blues bruises
with a side of scrappy song were the products of
twenty minutes of experimentation; smiling each time
the chord sounded just a bit better, refusing to curse
even though I wanted to when I messed up, no reason
to while my foot was on the pedal and the note held
strong as long as I wanted it to; begging me to try
one more time, one more take, one more musical mess—
around; just find whatever sounds right to the ear, the heart,
the head … whatever feels right under your fingers—
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
