Updates

Hi all. As you can tell, things have been quiet around here in the last six months. Heather and I have had the most exciting of lives--he said sarcastically--which has  hindered progress, let's say. We haven't gotten many submissions either, as I think poets assumed the market died. Nope. Still alive, just coming out of a lull. Look for more frequent updates going forward, as we expand back into poetry news and links from around the web as well as original poems from the small cadre of writers who follow us.

Priority list for LNP:

• outreach (finding new poets for us to publish)
• interviews with small press poets and editors
• curating poetry news (send your news to our email or PM us on social media)
• updating the Paul Blackburn page. You can follow my Black Mountain Poets obsession as I read my way through Blackburn's letters to Julio Cortazar, published last year by Lost & Found: The CUNY's Poetics Document Initiative.
•  writing on Joel Oppenheimer, Black Mountain poet and columnist for the Village Voice from 1969-84, and first director of the Poetry Project. He's a slightly younger contemporary of Blackburn (see how all my roads lead back to Blackburn?) and perhaps unjustly considered a minor figure. I've just begun considering his work, but it intrigues me.
• following the wind. By which I mean, we're going to do some fun and edifying stuff, and we hope you'll come along for the ride.

John, by Matthew Borczon

John

had been

a fireman

less than

a year

when he

got a

call a

small boy

fell into

the deep

end of

frontier creek

John said

they were

on scene

in less

than 10

minutes

but it

was too

late he

dove under

the water

until he

found the

body and

did CPR

for 20

minutes

in the

ambulance

until a

doctor took

over

but the

boy died

less than

an hour

later and

now John

can't swim

at the

beach or

in a pool

or even

take a

bath without

searching

under the

water for

tiny hands.

Matthew Borczon is a poet from Erie, PA. He has been a nurse in a combat hospital as well as a county prison. He is currently taking care of adults with developmental disabilities. He has published eight book of poetry, the most recent is My Reality through Alien Buddha press. He publishes widely in the small press and when he is not working he is raising 4 kids with his wife of 22 years.

A Haunting Gaze, by J.J. Campbell

there's

a darkness

in your eyes

a haunting

gaze that

sucks me

in and

convinces

me

i never

want to

leave

i

understand

it's not

exactly

love

but we're

not exactly

the kind of

humans

that need

such shit

holding

hands on

the eve of

the apocalypse

is thrilling

enough

J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck and In Between Hangovers. You can find him most days bitching about something at his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (http://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Choosing a version, by Rob Plath

you dream yr mother’s alive again & yr both discussing her death.  in the dream, the dead version’s in the cemetery like in real life & the alive version sits at the kitchen table w/you. the alive version is trying to ease yr grief. she keeps telling you not to dwell on the dead version. it’s strange tho b/c the alive version isn’t bothered at all by the dead version.  the alive version only thinks of you.  you both continue into the wee hours of the night.  when you awake in the morning, the mid-September light is shining.  you jump up & make green tea & open the kitchen window.  the breeze presses thru the mesh, generously filling the little room.

Rob Plath is a 47-year-old poet from New York. He has over a dozen books out. He is most known for his collection A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (epic rites press). He lives alone with his cat and stays out of trouble. See more of his work at www.robplath.com

Oblivious, by Misty Skaggs

Oblivious

If you try and convince me

you can’t smell the rain coming,

I’m liable to conclude

you’re full of shit.

Or else I’d shake my head

and bless your heart.

It’s hard to imagine existing

with your nose stuck in the air

and not a clue what the wind

is trying to tell you.

Listen. The rain crows

are cooing soft warnings

as they pick through the grass

waiting for the worms to wake up.

Look. Every little leaf

turns its pale belly skyward.

There’s a storm coming

and they’re ready to drink it all in. 

Misty Skaggs is an author, artist and activist hunkered down at the end of a gravel road in East Kentucky. Read more of her poems and see pictures of her favorite tree on Instagram @mistymarierae.

Hunger by John Grochalski

hunger

he’s eating something italian
out of a styrofoam container
over a blue garbage can that matches his coat
occasionally he lifts up a plastic jug to his mouth
and takes a big drink
of something cloudy that has noodles in it
he’s a discerning and somewhat picky eater
picking things out of the can
and discarding them at will
he likes the half-eaten bacon roll
but isn’t much for the unwrapped snickers
a few blocks ago i had a hunger that i couldn’t stand
and had to stop and split a butter bagel with my wife
after all, it had been ten hours since my last meal
and i wasn’t sure if i could hold out for lunch
he goes back to the italian food
which might be beef or chicken or, god forbid, veal
there’s not even an italian joint around this block
so someone had to go far to toss this out
but it’s his good luck that it was sitting there
on top of the half-drunk tub of coffee
and the barely touched pork fried rice
he has a beard like santa claus
that is wet from the cloudy noodle concoction
just like the front of his coat is soggy too
and as he chews he doesn’t even watch the crowd
glide by playing on cell phones
while i think for a single moment
about buying him a bagel and a coffee
but don’t because i’m a chicken
and i’d probably be doing it more for myself than him anyway
so i walk off and head into sunset park
so proud of my imaginary altruism
astounded that my stomach is still growling
taking pictures of that beautiful skyline of manhattan
there in the distance
looking fat enough to feed off of everyone
looking like a crystal or golden palace of plenty
depending on your position
and the tilt of the morning sun.

John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street Books, 2014), and the novels, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and Wine Clerk (Six Gallery Press 2016).  Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where the garbage can smell like roses if you wish on it hard enough.

A History of Grief, by Tom Darin Liskey

A History of Grief

There were nights

I couldn’t sleep

After you died.

The cancer 

That stole our father

Took you as well.

In Geneva

Your ghost came

Back to me

In a rush of memories

The coma.

The hospital bed.

The brass crucifix on the wall.

The cancer growing

Your broken body.

Grief turned

My eyelids

Inside out

Like celluloid;

Flayed my heart open

Like a dumb animal.

So, I dreamed awake

Like ghosts do

Walking the narrow

Night streets of Carouge

Past alleyways

Where Arab boys

Sold hashish,

My feet moving

Always forward

To a clock

Without hands

Every muscle

Yearning for exhaustion

Something to bring rest,

But none ever came.

I became a stranger to myself

Hating the reflection

I saw in darkened shop windows—

The ghost of a drowned man

Floating on black water.

An image that only you would understand,

My sister.

Tom Darin Liskey spent nearly a decade working as a journalist in Venezuela, Argentina and Brazil. His fiction and non fiction have appeared in the Crime Factory, and Driftwood Press. His photographs have been published in Hobo Camp Review, Roadside Fiction, Blue Hour Magazine, Synesthesia Literary Journal and Midwestern Gothic.