Review by Mindy Kronenberg New Found Land is an inspired collection of moments and life events revealed by a contemporary voice that echoes and gives homage to mythic tradition. Each poetic narrative casts an observant and philosophical glance on its subject, whether a view of the landscape from above the clouds, the invasive paths in a wilderness, or the discovered exotica of domestic existence. Carolyn Clark is an adept tour guide, keeping the reader aloft and in motion with tectonic shifts in topography and emotional territory. The world we’ve inherited and move through is…
Author: Mom Egg Review
CONNECTING, EDUCATING, ADVOCATING, & LEADING SINCE 1917 WNBA Writing Contest 2018 The Women’s National Book Association Writing Contest is now open! Submit Poetry, Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction/Memoir and Young Adult. Publication for top 4 winners in each category and Cash Prize for first place winners. $250 cash prizes for the winner in each category and publication in The Bookwoman. For contest requirements, fees, and submission information, please go to:www.wnba-books.org/awards To submit: https://wnba.submittable.com/submit Joan Gelfand and Carol Smallwood
MER VOX Quarterly – Winter 2017 Poetry #MeToo a folio curated by Jennifer Martelli and Cindy Veach “Everyday, we are witnessing women speaking out, giving their trauma words. Ten years ago, Tarana Burke urged us to “tell your story, if you’re compelled to tell it.” The #MeToo movement was born out of her need to create a place of empathy for women who have been victims of sexual violence…” Featured Poets Jennifer Franklin Jessica Goodfellow Idrissa Simmonds Lesléa Newman Rebecca Hart Olander Zeina Hashem Beck Eileen Cleary Poetry and Prose A Mother’s Love: Essays and Poems Exploring Grief and…
Breena Clarke Fifteen for Najeeb Walid Harb (1974 – 1989) He stands behind a screened door, mesh inside a wooden frame, the old kind from the earliest part of my childhood. This iconic door is meant to let breezes through and keep flies out. These doors were always slamming or not slamming depending on how obedient a child was, and gouges in them created breaches where all the flies and other insect pests that harried the hot and humid Washington, D.C. summers in my childhood entered the kitchen to light on the food, the table, the floor. In…
Amber Flame I was unprepared for my mother’s sudden death to bear gifts. Learning about grief and loss is a lonesome journey, filled with heartbreaking revelations and insights that I am always unprepared for. “They never talk about ____________” or “no one ever told me __________” are repeated refrains, as if enough conversation or guidance or understanding could lessen the weight. But truly, I’ve never heard of anyone discussing the gifts of grief. How heavy they weigh in my hands. How bitter their sweetness. My mother died traumatically, when she was both too young to expect it and doing…
Lynne Connor Language of Grief I come from unreliable narrators. I come from my birthmother’s womb. I was next to her heart for nine months. And then I wasn’t. Who she was—Unkown. I was born in Korea—South or North—most likely South. But the exact place—Unknown. My abandonment story—a policeman found me on the firehouse steps and brought me to the closest orphanage. My adoptive mother, a strong independent white woman who chose not to marry—she liked to say I came from a 747 that carried me to the Philly airport in December of 1979. So with this birth story…
Regina Jamison “I love this picture of my mom and myself. Here she looks small and vulnerable, but I remember her as a powerhouse, a great force within our household.” Regina Jamison’s poetry has appeared in Five Two One Magazine, Artepoética Press Anthology: the Americas Poetry Festival of New York 2016, Promethean Literary Journal, Off the Rocks: An Anthology of GLBT Writing Vols. 14 & 15, Magma Literary Journal, and in various online journals.
Sonia Jaffe Robbins Audiences My mother died the same week as J.D. Salinger and Howard Zinn. She was an original red diaper baby, born right after the Russian Revolution; her father was an early member of the American Communist Party. She said she wasn’t political, by which she meant she’d rather curl up with a good book than be handing out fliers on the street. I imagine my mother sitting between Salinger and Zinn on a banquette at the back of the boat sliding through the river Styx, as the men argue over the primacy of literature or…
CHERYL BOYCE-TAYLOR STILL THE SWEETEST WORDS I EVER HEARD: Mom, I found my girl, she reminds me of you. Her name is Deisha. Mom I’m getting married walk me down the aisle. Mom I’m coming home for your birthday Mom I love you Mom grandma is my best friend I ever had Mom the album went gold Mom I have a son his name is David Mom I love that little guy. Try to forgive the wish of the body leave the ache behind tears pressed into a damp box start by burning the mosquito nets let river rise…
EILEEN CLEARY THE WAY WE FLED No branch silhouettes the snow. Tree limbs cut down by some bastard or buzz saw, chipped remains scattered afield around the stump as if they’d tried to escape the carnage, the way we fled from my father after school. Our legs gave out. He’d gather our grains in a burlap sack, sprinkle us around the corners of the house, soak his roots in whiskey. If you ever find you are defenseless it’s best to compliment the buzz saw, caress its teeth ─ pour it a glass of Jack Daniels. Let it snarl. Wait…