Cover image: "When There's Light at the End of the Storm" by Iris Koffijberg
Gallery 3
Visual Art, Poetry, and Prose
Iris Koffijberg
Iris Koffijberg is a Dutch fine art photographer, based in a small village in the middle of a national park. She makes abstract aesthetic work focused on light, color, and patterns. She works almost exclusively with water because of its power of transformation and illumination. Though she has photographed her whole life, it wasn’t until 2011 that Iris started experimenting with and photographing water, following the images in her head, trying to bring them alive and discovering other images while doing so. In 2013 she had her first exposition. Since then she has steadily grown as an artist, finding new pathways to express herself.
- Website: www.koffijberg.com
- Instagram: @iriskoffijberg
Anne Whitehouse
Anne Whitehouse is an Environmental Humanities MA student at the University of Utah. She completed her undergraduate degree in Biology at Brigham Young University. She strives to use writing to find ways to connect urban audiences with the natural world and ecosystems that we are all a part of. Her master’s thesis research examines the complicated and myriad relationships humans have with urban rivers through ecocritical analysis of Korean writing about the Cheonggye Stream in Seoul, South Korea. Originally from the Seattle area, she now lives in Provo, Utah with her family and her rough collie.
Alex Leavens
Saw-Whet Owl
The best I could see in the dark,
shapes of wings broke free
from the other night shapes,
and flew low,
across the snowy ground.
When I found the owl
under the hemlock
his yellow eyes sharpened
under the flashlight.
He’s like me. Small.
He might not make it through winter.
But he is well-suited for the night,
and fierce, given his size.
He has just enough strength,
just enough eyesight,
just enough quiet on the wing.
He’s just shrewd enough with the talon
to lever over his prey.
Scappoose Bay
Clouds
stand above the island
like grim walls.
Eagles perch
on either side of the canal
like gargoyles: one, corroded-black,
the other, its white head and tail
ditched with streaks of grey,
as though underneath its feathers
there is stone.
The oaks have not bloomed
and some stand on stilt-like roots,
where the soil has washed away from the shore—
and some, completely hollowed,
still hold out bare hands
to the sky.
In the shallows,
a carp with gold fins and grey body
writhes in the grasp
of dead limbs
that reach into the channel.
I nose the kayak
further down the canal,
as a heron spans its wings
in the tall grass,
and a yellow iris blooms
out through the water.
Alex Leavens has worked as a naturalist for the Portland Audubon Society, backcountry ranger and firefighter in the Olympic National Park, and primitive survival instructor in Southern Utah. He holds a B.A. in Literature from Portland State University and currently lives in Portland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Cirque: A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim, Windfall: A Journal of Poetry of Place, Perceptions Magazine, Clover: A Literary Rag, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Montana Mouthful, The Ekphrastic Review, Frogpond, and Modern Haiku.
Léni Paquet-Morante
I generally look to natural landscapes for metaphors about human experience and recently found my gaze returning to the dangling vines so prevalent in our New Jersey woods. Easy to ignore as part of what I call the wallpaper of our commute, they are also wonderfully dynamic. I find them in tangled braids climbing, clamping, weighting, traversing, swinging freely, and sometimes dangling straight down from the canopy, unbound from its tether.
For me the vines refer to roping with all its negative and positive associations, also referencing the tightrope balancing acts individuals experience within and across personal, social, political, cultural, and economic divides.
Léni Paquet-Morante holds a BFA from the Mason Gross School of the Arts. Raised in Maryland, Léni has been living and working in New Jersey since 1984. Her studio is located within the Motor Exhibit Building at Grounds For Sculpture. She is registered with Canada Arts Council and Jersey Artists Registry and is listed in the Women Artists of America National Directory. She is represented by Morpeth Contemporary Gallery in Hopewell, New Jersey. Her upcoming exhibits include Yellow Barn Gallery in Glen Echo Park, Maryland (June 2020), Axelrod Performing Arts Center, and Arts Council of Princeton, both in New Jersey (2021).
- Website: www.lenimorante.com
- Instagram: @lenimakespaintings
Lisa López Smith
The Caves of Galtellí
Tell me again how these caves carved
in tombed rocks, petrified,
stories echoing over glowing flames
and today we sit, listening to the stones
as if stories have changed now
with kids clustered over glowing screens,
leaving the hieroglyphics of crushed cigarette
packets and green bottle shrapnel
as if screens aren’t just another reflection
of the stories we tell about ourselves,
like stories extracted from cave walls
and I’d like to think that this human trait
is just the sameness as we’re all reaching
into the stone a bit deeper
to make a little mark on the caves
of stories yet to come
Sardinia Synesthesia
“We are the uninterrupted reign of the mastic tree, of the waves that stream over ancient granite, of the dog-rose, of the wind, of the immensity of the sea.
We are a land of long silences, of horizons vast and pure, of plants glum, of mountains burnt by the sun and vengeance.
We are Sardinians.”
—Grazia Deledda (the second woman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, 1926)
Thousand year old stones housing Sardinia’s music:
One man chants an ancient theme and three more harmonize—
echoing the chorus, the song: a type of hummm—
thrumming, smoky sharp as pecorino crumbs on the tongue,
clamouring arbutus gum and gritty honey, I succumb
to this Sardinian morning, mountaintops plumb to the sea
fig trees bare as the bottom of the rum in January,
air smelling of burnt coffee, stones, citrus, wild plum and
bracing cold, fingers numb, and
thank God for another breath. This one.
In Sardinia the song slums across the palate:
from raisins and wine and apricots,
junipers, cork oaks, and thick cypress spirals, deep from
Monte Tuttavista where colours pretty as pond scum and
almost tasting of a thorn in the mouth of the sky, struck dumb,
thrumming bees in the almond trees and grim oily skin of the sheep,
a dance, the drum, some sweet zigzag on forestscapes, blue from
mountain loam, lined with ochre and gold and rust and cold and God
whatever the outcome, harmonious and holy,
Come, the mountain whispers,
under glum cypress and eucalyptus gum, and
Myrtle sum across the tongue, this Sardinian song:
it hums, as it always has done.
Depression, con’t
predictable–
this dust dry heat of May yet i’m still surprised every time
how the scent of rotting rabbit carcasses
clings to the skin for so long and
the monotony of greys and browns under a wretched sun, and
the dead grass, grim grey skies, prickly heat, blank pages, soup without salt,
another lamb that didn’t make it despite the force of my all willpower–
or is it just loneliness with a thousand other names?
Please, tell me you feel it too.
At least there’s the second best coffee in town,
the sun still generous on the long fields of milpa,
the sun still cruel scorching on another crushed dog
by the side of the highway inflating with heat and flies and
sometimes it seems like the only thing to save me from drowning in this desert,
is that on the enormous nopal
known for its bitterness of flavour and useless fruit–
there’s one golden cactus flower.
There was that time eating nieve de garrafa in plastic cups with the kids,
the roadside still dusty with a lavender shower of jacaranda petals all about–
falling like stars in the dark,
falling ice cream dripping,
with the only three flavours that he sells:
mango vainilla nutela,
there, sitting under dying skies and smiling for the kids,
at least there’s a cloud today,
please tell me you feel it too.
And then my favourite sheep statistically had her own little miracle,
and there was death to what had to die
in myself, mostly all the things i imagined myself to be
and that there’s a reason for everything.
Because at least there’s endless revisions, heathens, street vendors, small mercies, gentle critiques, avoiding small talk, chiles soaked in oil, kindness in sufficient doses,
a glimpse of a stranger who reminds me of a friend i used to know, a glimpse
of who i used to be and where i’m going, and the breeze filling the curtains.
At least there’s the decision to be truthful at last,
knowing this sorrow is engraved in my blood,
because there was that time i didn’t apologize for what i really wanted,
the failures i’m starting to accept in myself, and really,
enough with pretending to be someone i’m not:
there was that time i didn’t hold myself back to say out loud
at full volume,
this is me–
spectacular cracks and all
Lisa López Smith is a shepherd and mother making her home in central Mexico. When not wrangling kids or rescue dogs or goats, she can probably be found wandering the wilds of Jalisco. Recent and forthcoming publications include: Helen Literary Magazine, Jabberwock Review, Mom Egg Review, Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, Mothers Always Write, and Bluestem.
Jerome Berglund
Not their Prerogative Solely
in Plato’s cave
I find we can make shadows too
with my callused hands
I form the expanded wings
of a majestic bird
by flapping them
perhaps we can fly away
out of this place
to freedom
catch a draft
blowing through
ride its current
to the nearest fissure
and out into the sunlight
of Spring
Stained Glass
Church windows are pretty, but blurry.
It’s hard to see through them.
Awfully expensive when they break.
Often crawling with depictions
of young saints martyred horribly
in lurid, sensational ways,
who deserved it for the most part.
Crusade at your own risk.
Jerome Berglund is a graduate of the University of Southern California’s Cinema-Television Production program and spent a picaresque decade in entertainment before returning to the midwest where he was born and raised. For the last several years he has lived a relatively quiet life, spending his leisure time reflecting on and exploring what he learned over the course of a somewhat checkered young adulthood via writing, poetry, and fine art photography. Berglund has previously published a short story in the Watershed Review, a play in Iris Literary Journal, and poetry in Abstract Magazine and Ulalume Lighthouse.
Tom Jessen
Tom Jessen is a multimedia artist. He holds a BFA from the University of Iowa and an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Art. His work is in both university and private collections and has been shown nationally. He teaches at the University of Maine at Farmington. He can be found on the web at www.tomjessen.com.
Mark Simpson
Sometimes You Feel Like an Electric Fence
How dusty the shop windows are in this town;
how a ladder leans acutely against the wall
of an empty building.
Also, the fuzz into something brought on
by atmospheric physics—the splendid sunset
breaking through all-day clouds or the clouds themselves
rolling like foreign tongues across the peaks of mountains,
lenticular in form, vaporous; and like good logic,
a sound, ripe melon of thought punching its
way through.
Jan discovered the storm drain
where the meth-lab cooks poured chemicals,
those ragged people with bad teeth discussed at
the neighborhood watch meeting.
Sometimes you feel
like an electric fence or blameful like a dumpster
set afire.
You know the feeling will go away,
but right now your life flaps like the blue
tarp tied half-assed to the ’87 Nissan pickup
you’re following on Route 9 as it changes from
four lanes to two.
Mark Simpson is the author of Fat Chance (Finishing Line Press, 2013). Recent work appears in Columbia Journal Online, Third Wednesday, and Apeiron Review. He lives on Whidbey Island, Washington.
Ken Olson
Granville Grade
It’s one of those county roads that somehow, by some mysterious process, or perhaps the lack of one, manages to hang on to its name. Granville Grade. Funny how that is. Even when new signs are needed, they paint 65th Ave, Granville Grade, and then 67th Ave.
If you’re curious, please don’t ask anyone in charge of anything. They will think you’re complaining. Then a superintendent of something, somewhere, will get nervous and change it to a number. I like roads with names and I don’t care about efficiency. Beyond that, I don’t count for anything, and neither does my vote. Therefore, it’s easier for me to mess something up than make it better. It’s called retirement. What I can do, however, is hope for the best.
Besides providing a lovely driving surface with a great view, Granville Grade also forms the western border of a large cherry orchard. One very warm July evening I took my motorcycle out for a spin. I turned up Granville and started climbing. Just as I got to the cherries, the strangest thing happened. My bike ran out of gas and things got strange. I swear, the cherries started talking to me. Saying things like, “C’mon chicken,” and “Hurry, the man is coming.” They were daring me to taste one. Or two.
It turns out someone does live on the property. In a nice house partially obscured by a couple rows of cherry trees. So, I asked myself, “How often does it happen that a person’s vehicle runs out of gas and someone in a nearby house pops, lickety-split, out the front door with a can already full of gas?”
I don’t know the answer, but that’s what happened. To me. The gentleman living in a house two rows deep in the cherry orchard on Granville Grade, is uphill from me, so of course, his jaunt is downhill. I swear, he is filling the motorcycle with gas before I can even climb off and stretch. A truly helpful individual, he is. Then he waits right there with me, to make sure I get the bike started and I don’t end up stranded in the dark, in his cherry orchard, listening to the fat, juicy, dark-red cherries daring me to try one. Or two.
Ken Olson lives in the Pacific Northwest. His poetry is published in the major haiku print and online journals in the U.S., England, and Australia. His poems have also been selected for the Red Moon Anthology four times as well as the 2019 Special Issue of Right Hand Pointing. In 2019, Ken’s stories were published in Crack the Spine, Sky Island Journal, and Silver Needle Press, and in 2020 his work appeared in the inaugural edition of the Centifictionist.
Hannah Krehbiel
Hannah Krehbiel finished her Master’s Degree in Philosophy and English Literature at the Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz, Germany, in the winter of 2015/2016. She moved to New Orleans the following fall, where she started taking ceramics and sculpting classes at London Clayworks and the Academy of Fine Arts. Since then, she has dedicated herself to practising throwing and sculpting, as well as taking as many workshops as her financial means allow.
She moved into her own studio space in May of 2019 and took several workshops and further painting and sculpting classes, including both a mold making workshop at the Academy of Fine Arts in New Orleans in April of 2019, and a ceramic, raku, and book making workshop at Penland School of Crafts in October of 2019.
- Instagram: @little_shed_gallery
Jewelia Dare
Three Classes
There exist three roles for the same performer,
Or so the Japanese say–
Which one will I play today?
Will I play the Cleric?
The one for the world,
desperate to leave a good impression?
The one without lips
who can only speak through words?
She’ll duck her hooded head and do what you said
(Even if the task is impossible)
But inside, her thoughts are swarming,
Her feelings festering like infected wounds
She pretends that she can heal her peers
But her spells are never for her
Will I play the Fighter?
The one for my friends,
desperate to protect them from everything?
The one without fear
who can only lead with her eyes shut?
She’s cool and confident, no lies from her
(Or at least, none she’ll say to you)
But inside, she’s terrified,
Destroyed by her drive to be perfect
She pretends that she can protect her friends
But she can never protect herself
Or am I the Dungeon Master?
The one for me,
making what I will of the world?
The one who’s nothing more or less
than how she defines herself?
But then again, how do you play as
A mask that just sits on the shelf?
Jewelia Dare has been creating stories since before she was old enough to jot the words down herself. With a variety of different writings clogging up valuable hard drive space from a one-act play to an overly-long novel, her long list of projects (both finished and in progress) grows longer by the day as she works to obtain her BA in Professional Writing and Political Science at Bridgewater College. She and her computer currently reside somewhere within the bounds of Rockingham County, Virginia.
Al Bright
Al Bright is a young female poet and artist from the hills of West Virginia, the abyss that is Appalachia, now living in the great big city of angels (though some might say zombies) Los Angeles. She ran from the hills at the young age of 17 with the opportunity to travel the world and cause general mayhem. She draws from her experiences alone in big foreign cities (such as Tokyo, Delhi, Santiago, and Miami) and her rural upbringing to explore the incessant search for self-discovery prevalent in the youth of every generation.
