Friday, January 28, 2011

riverbabble 18, winter 2011


Icicles by Lauren Howard

riverbabble 18

Winter Issue

Featured Poem

Ixchel, la diosa luna/Ixchel, the Moon Goddess

Ruth Pérez Aquirre:
Ixchel, la diosa luna (Spanish)

Nina Seranno:
Ixchel, the Moon Goddess (English translation)


Rafael Jesús González:
Canción de cuna: las luces de Marfa /
Cradle Song: the Lights of Marfa
Conversión de un tamborilero/Conversion of a Drummer

Laura McCullough:
To the God of Pryrography
The Small God of Winter, a Little God of Temperatures

April Michelle Bratten:
White Flowers in Winter 2000
Nighttime Range

Suchoon Mo: Snow Flake

jd Daniels: Ghazal of the Now

Timothy Gager: When It Is Still Winter

Maude Larke: Center Congregational Church/19 January 1979

Stephanie Bryant Anderson: White Ground, Glares

Colin Dardis: Deepest Breath

Joanne Faries: Innocuous

Zoë Gabriel: Pendulum, Not Tightrope

Morgan Harlow: Accumulation

Travis Hedge Coke: Impromptu 49er, 1:25 a.m. Los Angeles

Robert Jacoby: the voices in the hallway I'll never tell you about

Jocelyn Paige Kelly: Soul Flakes

Anthony Adrian Pino: Of Storms and Cities

Tim Tomlinson: Gulf Stream

Ekphrastic Poems

William Landis: The Nude The Sea The Sky Standing Open

Aleathia Drehmer: Cy Twombly / Animula Vagula, 1979


Jon Sindell: Donuts

Anthony Adrian Pino: A Meditation on Snow: The Death of J. J. Finkelstein

Eric Prochaska: Shadows in Midgard

Renos Nicos Spanoudes: Status

Tim Tomlinson: Just Tell Me Who It Was

Flash Fiction

Ted Chiles: Lot's Wife

Francine Witte: Halfway Up the Mountain

Chella Courington: Bad Night

Joyce Lautens O'Brien: Dystopia

Michael K. Gause: The Work of Snow


Jannie M. Dresser: Is the Music Over? Has Free Verse Made Poets Tone Deaf?


(communes with the night) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think I caught. A girl. Some girl. Best thing could happen to him. (he murmurs.) . . . swear that I will always hail. ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts, art or arts, . . . (he murmurs) . . . in the rough sands of the sea . . . a cabletow's length from the shore . . . where the tide ebbs . . . and flows . . .

James Joyce, Ulysses, p. 4901-4954


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