Search Results

Conundrum of Eggshells There are days when the eggshell cracks symmetrical or close enough with a little tap and a little pull and it all comes out as it was intended. There are days when a half dozen tiny triangles of shell peel off from the edges and fall into the bowl. The yolk cracks and smears and blurs as it slides from the shell, hiding the triangles from view. You know they're in there but not how many. You see them for a glimmering second probe a finger into the bowl and they swirl away. And then what do you do with a bowl of mostly egg and one or more invisible chunks of shell. Your gut says cook it promises you will never even notice. Cook it. Cook it. You worry you'll find one the hard way. Cook it. It will pierce the roof of your mouth when you least expect it. Cook it. Heat the fry pan. This is the moment of decision. You could probably run it all through a colander A strainer of some kind It's probably not even in there. But then you'd have to do the extra dishes And you hate dishes.And the frying pan is sizzling like a dare. And you cook the thing. And you take the first bite of warm egg and it's fine. So you take the second bite and it really really isn't. Eating the Paste There was that kid in kindergarten who always ate the paste. Always nibbling chunks away from the oversized tongue depressor in the plastic jar. He always got his attention, chomping away keeping careful watch out of the corners of his eyes to see who was looking who would notice who would tattletale to the teacher. He always denied it with a victorious grin. Days like this I get the urge to do something out of the ordinary to see if anyone will notice. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs obnoxious enough that everyone will know I did it without having seen. Days like this you need a little victory. I'm going to eat the paste today. I'm going to scream from a window, Dance glamorous in the median. Days like this you need to draw a little attention. Days like this there's a crowd of onlookers that don't yet know their role. Something stupid. Something harmless but strange. Eat the paste lick my lips like it was glorious and let them wish they had some too. Smear it across my forehead let them wonder what it might do for their complexion. Slather it through my hair Squish it between my toes Fling it into the air and glory at the way it rains down again. Let them suspect there was something they were missing. Catch their eye and smile. Let them deny it. Let them gossip and accuse but always, in the backs of their minds let them wonder. ABOUT: Christopher Clauss (he/him) is an introvert, Ravenclaw, father, poet, photographer, and middle school science teacher in rural New Hampshire. His mother believes his poetry is "just wonderful." Both of his daughters declare that he is the "best daddy they have," and his pre-teen science students rave that he is "Fine, I guess. Whatever." Christopher's first full-length book of poetry, Photosynthesis & Respiration is now available from Silver Bow Press. Follow him on Twitter: @xofr Facebook & Instagram: @christopher.clauss. EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING Choice by Jack Stauber

Trams packed with passengers, bags, animals, babies Women clutch bunches of green spinach, spices, garlands of white flowers. Cows amble lazily across the lines, among the rickshaws, then out of sight! Scooters with smart young men and pretty girls weave their way through traffic like bright, fluttering birds. Lorries, vans, carts moving, then once more static. From roadside temples, incense wafts through morning fog. From mosques, Imams call the faithful to evening prayer, In New Market’s labyrinth of alleys the scents of sandalwood and coffee drift, Through the bright bangles, eager buyers carefully sift, Jewellers’ shops gleam with rubies, gold and pearls, Secret caves from fairy tales, of Arabian Nights, of Indian princes, Through the crowds are glimpses of a golden horde of mangoes, spilling out of wicker baskets. Oranges shine, bright beacons in the growing gloom. By the Hooghly, ghats lead down to the fast-flowing river. The city poor shiver, washing clothes and bathing at dawn. In festivals, clay images of the gods themselves slowly sink, Severing the human link with Man, now left to quietly mourn Until Durga, Ganesh, Lakshmi, return next Autumn to be re-born. On the green space of the Maidan, countless cricket matches are underway. Wearing ‘whites’, boys knock balls for six or amid loud cheers they take a wicket Monsoon rains flood the city, streets become brown canals of floating rubbish! In every quarter, rickshaw wallahs plod through waist deep water! The streets are home for many. Clay ovens puff out chocking smoke, As coal or coke cooks staple diets of rice, dal, aubergines or okra. . Death here is no Western-style taboo, no polite euphemism will do. Corpses are carried through the streets on bamboo stretchers white with flowers. At crematoriums or openly at the burning ghats funeral pyres burn for hours. A wonderful city but one of extremes, a city of nightmares, but also of dreams! ABOUT: Sarah Das Gupta is a retired English teacher who taught in UK, India, and Tanzania. After a serious accident, she was hospitalized for several months. At that time she began writing. She is currently learning to walk again. She has had work published on online magazine sites. She currently lives near Cambridge, UK. EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING Ashis Mahato - Kabhi to pas mere aao... at Kolkata

Methow Valley Whisper up the valley Nudge the branch where the sparrow Claims a perch Calm the fretful horse Tethered to the fence Soften the sharp scent of flame on wood Bring twilight on feathered clouds Drop violet gold over folded hills Offer dreams to the sleepless Grant them the river’s joy Sliding sweetly over rocks Smoothed by her toil Long ago Peony The peony spreads underground Those words suggest a movement Either to build or destory Both, really Can’t do one without the other Unless by building one is Adding to, not replacing The image is not political What is political in nature? Survival & conquering & besting Sounds political, if you filter it Through the lense of human history Which i’d rather not Each spring brings more shoots & each Gives a blossom The heat dome didn’t ruin it Nor the foot of snow A resilient gorgeous plant Plotting to take over the garden San Diego County Slender twisted trunks & flat, fluttery leaves The eucalypts bend toward the light, as if The sinking sun would pull them into the sea Rain so scant the fall of a moment Brings a glisten & shine to the yucca & jade Fire passed here Blackened Singed Spared stone mansions On the ridgetops Full of light, for now Each season could be the one to Hollow out & tear down Leaving behind shadows & soot Remarkable, too In their way ABOUT: Anne Leigh Parrish’s next poetry collection, If The Sky Won’t Have Me, will be published in April 2023 by Unsolicited Press. Her next novel, A Summer Morning, arrives in October 2023, also from Unsolicited Press She lives in Olympia, Washington. Visit www.anneleighparrish.com and her new photography website (3 nature photos from Lavinia Studios appeared in the clip above ) www.laviniastudios.com Follow for more updates @AnneLParrish on Twitter and @anneleighparrish on Instagram. EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING Aaron Krause - Jade (Mason Self Remix)

mission statement WELCOME FELLOW HUMMINGBIRDS! Dipity Literary Magazine aims to shine a light on a wide array of underrepresented voices from different parts of the world including BIPOC, LGBTQ+, creators with disabilities, and also those from Instagram, or aspiring poets. We accept unpublished poetry of all styles i.e. haikus, art, prose, spoken audio, and short fiction stories. Short stories are the exception of previously published ones. Additionally, we spotlight discovered unique writing styles through a bonus shares section and musicians who are supportive of the poetry world. Dipity leverages visual morph art, photography, and experimental digital collage work in each issue. Dipity values human kindness, exposing heartfelt truths, and taking time to have fun in writing while pushing traditional boundaries. You must write what you truly feel and release every slippery banana peel in this dimension. SPOTIFY PODCAST "Elm" Excerpt by Sylvia Plath I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there. Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing. "Whether the weather be fine, or whether the weather be not" by Anonymous Whether the weather be fine, or whether the weather be not, Whether the weather be cold, or whether the weather be hot, We'll weather the weather, whatever the weather, Whether we like it or not.

Phantom Canyon Typewriter Tip Series Brought to you by The Moon Kingseas ™ MORE COMING SOON Listen to more TMK soundtracks on music streaming platforms over 100 tracks of experimental madness, sadness, badness and lol storytelling radness,

featured poetry collections these are just some of the poetry collections I reccommend you read ASAP