Categories
2014 2016 Poetry

Melissa Crowe

FORGIFTET GARDEN

That long, ugly winter over, I still can’t
put aside the death of the young giraffe
at Copenhagen, shot by keepers
while he lipped chunks of rye bread

in the zoo. And I’m sad because
you’re always lying—today you call to say
you’re mad with pain from kidney stones
the size of walnuts and since you can’t have

painkillers, you’ve asked the doctor again
for the methadone our father has begged
she not prescribe. I cry for the stones,
which don’t exist and which you say

may take months to pass and for your
mutilating need, which does and will never.
I can’t walk the prettiest road
in our neighborhood this spring—the one

with flowering trees that rain pink
blossoms that brown almost before
they hit the ground and fill the air
with a scent like dying jasmine

and star fruit—because a rabbit lies
melting into a tuft of grass in front
of one house unrented since March.
Did you know after they culled

that healthy calf, wrong
for the breeding scheme, they fed
his body to lions while a crowd watched
from behind a fence? I can’t look too long

at little boys at the grocery store, the park,
with freckled cheeks like yours and curly
hair so thick and cut so short it looks like fur.
Did you know the Danish word for poison

is gift? You tried heroine at fourteen.
What did you want? You nuzzled from some
sweet hand while another you couldn’t detect
reached around to seize your slender neck.


STILL LIFE WITH GEESE AND OXYCONTIN

Brother, we heard your hunger cries; we rose
to bring your milk. Now you eat pills
and sleep with skinny women, blue ghosts

of other men’s names inked on their breastbones.
We kindled to sounds of your keening will.
Brother, we heard your hunger cries and rose.

Dad told us years ago the bird let loose
at the back of that deep V is feeble,
that he’ll wing toward a flock of ghosts

till sister, mother, father from him go
and, like breath, his own unsung will
evaporates. Brother, you cried. We rose,

and rise, at least as far as wishing goes
(although you strut and stagger, steal
and stick around). So like our own your ghosts,

your hollow honking song. We can’t let go.
Neither can we stay, hover still,
abide your hungry cries. And if we rose
to ours, what then of you, oh brother, ghost?

_________________________

Melissa Crowe earned her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and her Ph.D. in English from the University of Georgia. Her work has appeared in journals like Atlanta Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Seneca Review, and her second chapbook, Girl, Giant, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. She’s co-editor of Beloit Poetry Journal and lives in Asheville, NC with her husband, Mark, and their daughter, Annabelle.

Categories
2014

Winter XIV

The Boiler - Winter 2014
Cover Art: Conversation by Rachel Mulder


POETRY

K.T. Billey
Amy Carlberg
Lauren Camp
Justin Carter
Kallie Falandays
Rachel Eliza Griffiths
Jane Huffman
Alex Lemon
Anna Meister
Matt W. Miller
Larry Narron
Greg Solano
July Westhale

FICTION

Beth Bretl
Jon Chopan
Andrew Nicholls
Zach VandeZande

NONFICTION

Lori White
Gina Williams

REVIEWS

Apocryphal by Lisa Marie Basile reviewed by Janae Green
Mezzanines by Matthew Olzmann reviewed by Jeffrey W. Peterson

DOWNLOAD PDF

 


Artists


Rachel Mulder
is a draftswoman living in Portland, Oregon. She grew up in rural Wisconsin and received her BFA in Printmaking from the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design in 2007. Constantly yearning for the happy accident prevalent in traditional printmaking, Mulder uses a typewriter to create large-scale works on paper while she produces smaller works embodying similarly obsessive and formulaic methods of drawing. http://rachelmulderart.blogspot.com/
Cover Art: “Conversations,”Rachel Mulder, 2014

Erica Parrott is a graduate of the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design, and lives and works in Naples, Florida. Her work oscillates between cryptic and relatively universal, sincerely enthusiastic and darkly ironic. www.ericaparrott.com

 

Categories
2014 Poetry

Jane Huffman

CONJURING

Leave your soft metallic subordinance behind,
leave your cashmere leg wraps, your ponds
of copulating flutterfish, your unmowed lavender,

leave your thrown disemboweled, your plate of beak meat
and wishbone unsnapped, leave your funeral gardens
unwatered, your husband, nonstinging jelly, wonting.

Leave your damselfly boudoir of molten gold drapery
and dozzled pearls, leave your flask of malt vinegar,
leave your council to the dogs, your dogs to the strangers.

Leave your haliographer to his salt, your turkey feather
vireton to the soldiers, your red mun waxes to the girls,
your dinmont to the butcher, your emerald cross garnet

to be melted down for stock. Pack lightly this time.
Bring only your languages and one or two good coats.
Leave your sun wolves, your copper upspear headdress.

Forget the unripe lotus. Forget the bathhouse, its labbing,
baptizer of small orifice. Forget the aurelia, its waiting.
Wait no more. Leave at dawn. Leave the rest to me.

VILLANELLE FOR SIMPLE MACHINES

I can pose the mosaic layer’s clay,
finger his glass tessellates, his jewel dye,
ask: what shade of blue will God wear today?

I can hold the florist’s blade to his bouquet,
keep the beekeeper’s wasp from his sandfly.
I can pose the mosaic layer’s clay.

Women like me never learn how to pray.
Rather, like simple machines, we pry:
ask: what shade of blue will God wear today?

And if I found a child in the hay,
I would lie.
I can pose the mosaic layer’s clay.

My own child, born in the chance of May,
she too my own doing, looks to the sky,
asks: what shade of blue will God wear today?

Mother, I know exactly what you’d say,
that mothers must mother things that must die.
I can pose the mosaic layer’s clay,
ask: what shade of blue will God wear today?

________________________

Jane Huffman is a Michigan-based poet and playwright with recent work featured or forthcoming in Arroyo Review, Moon City Review, Cold Mountain Review, Word Riot, RHINO Poetry and other journals. She is currently studying poetry and theatre arts at Kalamazoo College.

Categories
2014 Poetry

Kallie Falandays

Come closer, come wider, come open my windows.

Come closer, come wider, come open my windows.
I came into your room and I unlocked your cage.
I tried to feed you winged things:

one angel story about trying to fly but forgetting how to open;
one ghost story, the one in which I remembered you writhing;
one tiny wing clipped from the underside of a fairy-thing;
one looming fan,
one wailing hand.
I tried to remind you from where you came.
Tell me the opposite of ceiling light.
The opposite of tapestry.
The opposite of opera.
I tried to give you memory holds:
Broken night, dirt, a finger’s whisper.

I tried to remind you of the before-morning-time:
the opposite of infinity, the opposite of no, the opposite of no,
the backwards hand-pull of moonlight. I tried
to pull you out of your blankets:
Your face was dripping in my head all morning.

She thinks of places to hide.

She thinks of places to hide. Rips up the carpet and slits herself inside. The ground pulses under her back. She moves quietly around the kitchen thinking of watching someone watch her. Goes to sleep in the dark, wishing for it like a blanket. Pretends she didn’t think of him. She wants to go back. To go back back. She unscrews all of the cabinets and hides the bolts in her bedroom. Paints every mirror black and more than that, all the windows. Tries to hide everything inside of itself, so it won’t see her leaving.

__________________________

Kallie Falandays has poems in PANK, Black Warrior Review, Salt Hill, december, and elsewhere. She runs Tell Tell Editing and is the managing editor of Kenning journal.

Categories
2014 Poetry

Rachel Eliza Griffiths

FRAGMENTS OF POEMS RETURNED TO SENDER 

You were waving when I looked back.
When I scraped winter from my flesh
& mimicked the silence of geese,
bruised arrows skimming grief.

Somewhere I moved beneath trees.
I’d love to name their limbs for you
but can’t you see past all that? Anatomy
says we’re all the same.
Symmetry, flawed by soul, errata,
elegy & so forth.

I was crawling across lawns,
feral & flattened
into lies & scored lines,
dive bars & overtures.
In the dark I swung my legs
across the wooden prows
of men & women lost at sea,

the misery
of a jukebox, paid & repetitive.
Appreciated for nostalgia
alone. Closer now is the absence
of snow. Because it is summer
& the heat unfastens like a black dress
around my legs. My dark cries
claw the dance floor.

Give me a call,
let me know how you’re doing,
I write to my friends
from the hospital
in a common gown of birds.

Somewhere resembles you
but it is not a location. There is no point
where the map picks up
the sum of oceans. The grid’s ablutions
raised over blue madness,

the symmetry of absence
in a mirror with no one
looking.


WOMAN TO LIGHTNING

after Ai

We rolled in flashes of God, fighting
pleasure as it tore
our shadows across smoke.

When we burned of life nothing was better
than our purgatory of embers.

I wanted a matchbox. A grandmother clock. I wanted the dark
house shingled in blue & bruised

wildfire. Touch me or, err.

How could I ever forget the shame on my floor,
a birthmark of you. I covered every mirror. I grieved
the squalls of our silhouettes, rising & dying. Once slave,
I pulled my passage over the earthly gush of swells.

Revision that I was. Passing through the aviary of dead poets,
their naked bird ribs glittering with time. The universe
pressed like a coin upon their opened eyes.

Saltwater poured over joyless shoulders
as I was carried out of my life. Through blood

I sang & erased my name
until I could only name your arrows.

I’ve got the scars to prove it.

The nights were static & strained. I left the radio low
& returned to its amnesia each morning. America,
shining like a gun. I practiced. The barrel of my voice

aimed at thunderheads & headless saints. The volume of my life
so uneasy beneath evenings of starlight & dread.

Loneliness dragged me by my hair through back rooms
where emptied velvet chairs watched me struggle
with this blow of light.

You were happy, weren’t you?

I tried to grasp the fingers slipping through
(the smear of)
my dreams. My footing struck clouds. I swear

I meant no harm.

But you were happy, weren’t you?

Like the backhand of a palm flying
to my face.

The desire in the flying,
the wing, blurred.

MY DRESS HANGS THERE
(click to read)

____________________________________________

Rachel Eliza Griffiths is a poet and visual artist. Her fourth collection of poetry, Lighting the Shadow, will be published by Four Way Books in 2015. Currently, Griffiths teaches creative writing at Sarah Lawrence College and lives in Brooklyn. http://rachelelizagriffiths.com/

Categories
2014 Blog

Best of the Net nominations for 2014

We’re pleased to announce our editor’s picks for Best of the Net nominations!
If you’re not already familiar with Best of the Net, you can read last year’s here


Poetry:
 

Jan Bottiglieri  – Whatever You Call it Will Be Its Name

Michelle Y. Burke  – Driving Alone

Adam Day – Frank’s All Right

Jake Levine – Kim Jong Il Looks at Things

Rachel Marie Patterson – The Mirror

Caylin Capra-Thomas – Interior Landscape

Fiction:

Darlene P. CamposSigning Off

George Ovitt – Dancing Lessons

Nonfiction:

Kristen Keckler – Here We Are

Ellen Wendt – Sugar Baby

Categories
2014 Blog

Special Announcement

Dear Reader:

Since our inception, we’ve been  proud of the success the online medium has allowed us. However, we feel it’s important to continue to celebrate the print medium and our two years of production online.

To celebrate our two years, we’d like to produce a limited print run of 500 copies celebrating our past two years and to distribute them to you, dear reader, and our past contributors. We believe our authors are awesome and we’d like to share that with you on the page!

Our writers have published widely and been featured in Best American Poetry, Best New Poets, and won various awards. The Boiler is an advocate of the writers we publish because we believe in their work. We nominate our writers for Pushcart, Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and other major anthologies. 

The Boiler is currently funded by its staff and generous contributions from its readers and authors.  These cover the cost of maintaining our website and our Submittable account.

To support our goal, we kindly ask you to visit our KickStarter page and donate. Any amount helps and we only have humble offerings and thanks to offer you in return. 

Please donate by following this link.

Thank you.

Regards,

The Editors

Categories
2014

Fall Issue XIII

Fall2014, The Boiler
Cover Art: The Legs Would Be the New Transporters,” Kari Garon, 2013


POETRY

Megan Collins
Vanessa Jimenez Gabb
Laura Anne Heller
Amorak Huey
Kathleen Jones
M.P. Jones IV
Les Kay
Ariana Nadia Nash

F. Daniel Rzicznek
sam sax
Brittney Scott
Jeff Whitney

FICTION

Kirsten Aguilar
Petrina Crockford
Brian Porter

NONFICTION

Heidi Czerwiec
Donald J Mitchell
Linsey Scriven

DOWNLOAD PDF

 

Artists

Kari Garon is a multidisciplinary artist from Milwaukee, WI. Primarily recognized for her prints and collages of figurative forms, she communicates through intimate illustrative drawings and object making. Garon’s work often focuses on addressing the contemporary political and sociological issues of identity, multiculturalism, and the American ideal. More specifically, the continual fluctuation between real and imaginary personas creates a cast of characters in an attempt to cope with a multiplicity of intersecting identities; each seeking to understand historical and contemporary issues of power and agency. Her artwork has been seen in solo shows through out the state of Wisconsin and group exhibitions internationally.
Cover Art:  The Legs Would Be the New Transporters,” Kari Garon, 2013

Pete Madzelan resides in New Mexico with his wife and cat, Manny. He has had fiction and poetry published in literary journals, including Poydras Review, Cigale Literary, Bellowing Ark, Wind, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and Scapegoat Review. Photography in New Mexico Magazine, Epiphany-epiphmag.com, Bellingham Review, Apeiron Review, San Pedro River Review, Switchback, Off the Coast, Foliate Oak, convergence: journal of poetry and art, and others.

Categories
2014 Poetry

Amorak Huey

FIRE GOD ACCIDENTALLY CREATES THE BLUES

The variations of any story, the sum of our choices.
Which is to suggest infinite possibility,

but electricity does seek certain trees.
Convenient to say you were evicted from the garden,

that given your pick between righteousness
& the world you could not resist taste of iron on tongue,

heat of forge on flesh: to feel something,
that’s all you asked, & to be looked at without pity,

to be touched the way hammer touches.
This is flame, & you are first to see it

& after that it does not matter what you do.
Sometimes you rise from water,

or you battle cruel sea,
or you have two faces, but the truth

exists only in reflection of lightning in river:
two shimmering bodies moving askew,

sudden, temporary, fractured
there’s particular unkindness in such jagged light.

When she leaves, you put the cities ablaze.
Still, she does not return.

Desire creates, devours:
to burn is to love. You cannot be blamed

for what rises unbidden from fire.

PORTRAIT OF MY YOUNGER BROTHER AS A BUDDY MOVIE

A man is never as young as his older brother thinks.

The rules of the genre demand a lesson learned,
a compromise reached, realizations all around

but a man knows his motorcycle is exactly as safe as he wants it to be

and the promise that each of us contains
the best and worst of the other

is not exactly a lie – more like a whisper
in someone else’s voice, a neat way
of wrapping up an implausible third act

when you’ve backed your story into yet another abandoned factory
             and your nemesis has the drop on you

the path out is laid with oil slicks, ridiculously vicious machinery,
             a lifetime of lost keys,
             hand-me-down shoes,
             unasked-for advice.

A man has no choice but to accelerate. Forward
             into the roar.

_____________________

Amorak Huey, a longtime newspaper editor and reporter, now teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His collection Ha Ha Ha Thump will be published by Sundress Publications in 2015, and his chapbook The Insomniac Circus is forthcoming in 2014 from Hyacinth Girl Press. Poems appear in The Best American Poetry 2012, The Cincinnati Review, The Collagist, Menacing Hedge, Poet Lore, Rattle, and many other print and online journals. Follow him on Twitter: @amorak.

Categories
2014 Poetry

M.P. Jones IV

THE BROKEN BRANCH

after James Wright

Standing on the stone path
before the cabin door, staring out
at the scarred oak that leaned
in the dooryard, ancient and solemn,
shading the cedar fence and the fire pit
where we gathered until late,
when the stars echoed their bright
syllables across the pasture.

By the time the first branch has fallen
onto the soft loam outside
the windows of the empty house
in the cold afternoon light,
the trunk is already hollow,
mute, illiterate, nearly forgotten
as it strangles with dirt
from the steady motion
of the carpenter ants,

the deliberate sunlight
pressing against everything
like a miller’s wheel,
turning drops of shadow
violently from the hole,
dripping tiny fragments of dark earth
where the black branch hung,
sorrowful and late,
until the orange heart
crumbled to dirt and ruin.

Those owls who nested there
all those long winters would haunt
the deepest nights with songs
of their longing. When the mother
leapt from branch to branch
crying out as her fledglings left,
leaping one-by-one into the fieldgrass.

You would go, grandfather,
so faithfully to clear the debris
from the dying trunk, until your
own body lay in ruin. And the ice
storm came in the night, as I slept
alone in the dark house, with light
from dying embers licking the ceiling.

And the tree threatened, even in its ruin
to survive you in the desolate field,
but it had grown so heavy
with the worn tenor of night,
like the edge of some long road
coming abruptly to its end
before you can even imagine,
that it cannot begin to bear
the weight of  its own memory
or offer its relentless green refuge.

And those owls who knew
not how to weep or were too wise
that nested there have long flown.

_____________________________

M.P. Jones IV recently received a master’s in literature from Auburn University where he read for Southern Humanities Review. He is also founder and editor-in-chief of Kudzu House Quarterly, a journal of southern literature and environment. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly, Harpur Palate, Portland Review, Tampa Review, Cumberland River Review, Canary Magazine, and Town Creek Poetry, among divers others; creative nonfiction has appeared in Sleet Magazine and decomP magazinE. His article on The Shadow of Sirius can be found in the current issue of Merwin Studies; and he is also the author of a poetry collection, Live at Lethe (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013). He teaches first-year English and creative writing at Point University in West Point, GA. Visit his author’s page: ecopoiesis.com