« back  |   about ink & ashes  |   current issue  |   past issues  |   submission guidelines  |   contact  |   text size ( S : M : L )  
   
  volume 1. issue two  
 
Feature
A collection of poetry
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

from Mongolian Art Exhibit

I turn a corner, stunned now by faces / on the wall—masks of deities, shamans, / in papier-mâché, carved wood, stuffed skin. / Black brows pull down over glaring eyes, / red mouths stretch in snarls or gentle smiles. (more...)
POETRY
Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Isabelle Ghaneh
Todd Heldt
Pamela Miller
Joan Dy
Lina ramona Vitkauskas
Michelle Bitting
Arthur Joyce
Adrienne Lewis
Anne Durant
Kathryn Ugoretz
Cheryl Stiles
Ellaraine Lockie
Arlene Ang
Ellen Wade Beals
JeFF Stumpo
Lita Sorensen
Andrena Zawinski
Rebecca Clark
Jim Coppoc
Carly Sachs
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Siri Steiner
Theodore Worozbyt
Hal Ackerman
VISUAL ART
Gretchen Skillman
Shawn Sargent
Rebecca Harper
Concetta Ceriello
Patrick Tucker
PRINT EDITION
Coming Soon! If you haven't already read our last issue click here to download the print edition in Adobe Acrobat portable document format.
MAILING LIST
Subscribe and stay informed on new issue releases, submission calls, and literary events.

painting by Gretchen Skillman


A collection of poetry
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Mongolian Art Exhibit

My eye pulls my feet
through artifacts gathered
from thousands of years ago.

I gaze at the human skull—
silver-lined, translucent
brown thin-ness. I ponder core stones
flaked for hunting and tools.

Hear the primordial sound
of the cosmos hum in my ear. Om
resonates in the crevices of my brain. ( more... )


also in this issue...

POETRY BY
Isabelle Ghaneh
Tracing the tip of your tongue across my satin camisole / outlining the bold red splashed print / circling the pattern with your lips / letting saliva droplets mark out the white flowered branches / loose limbed thighs open for your tongue / gently probing each inner crease / traveling down your hand, the sense of myself is erased ( more... )

Todd Heldt
The woman on the subway sleeps between stops, / in half-light could be the first girl I kissed-- / before I learned to unclench my nakedness / for strangers. ( more... )

Pamela Miller
My body with its hair of wild rice and ice storms / Its hair that unfurls from a pirateıs mast / Its thoughts encased in amber that breathes like a membrane / topped off with a fez of forgetfulness ( more... )

Joan Dy
When I die I want to be / shredded down / to bone and fat, the bonsai / trees / of my kidneys exposed / and shish / kebabed for little girls / to poke and finger ( more... )

Lina ramona Vitkauskas
We can't do the voodoo of the everyman, / so let's begin to love myself all over again. / As goes the old Hugo novel, own your mysteries. ( more... )

Michelle Bitting
The AIDS report from Malawi, attached photo, / shakes off its skinny folder. / Children huddled in a small room, / skin the color of turned Earth after it rains. ( more... )

Arthur Joyce
Even at night, the sun burns on. / Dogs have given up howling, / lost in the orbit of their tails. / Heat slithers across the dunes, / meeting no capable enemy. Water / a dead reflection ( more... )

Adrienne Lewis
Our Lady of Salt / and tears, / hail the man couched on his front porch, / beer in hand, let him fall / into the shadow of what he never knew ( more... )

Anne Durant
i pace and smoke / endless cigarettes / thinking housewives / must go crazy ( more... )

Kathryn Ugoretz
Hot water fills / the sink. In the cupboard / thereıs a small jar / of mushrooms, quiet / in brine / for that ghost ( more... )

Cheryl Stiles
This Balinese temple heat / lava rocks / ashy gray paras carved to statues / of Shiva, Garuda, Saraswati / all covered with lichens / ferns and dark green / mosses ( more... )

Ellaraine Lockie
I forgot to bring my book onboard / So I obsess about the sleeping man / in the seat beside me ( more... )

Arlene Ang
The lampshade on the end table / is lopsided. In the room, there are / signs of violence: a spilt vase, / the flowers crushed by fallen / books, the torn curtain, blood / on the sofa ( more... )

Ellen Wade Beals
I Google my name / and come up with yours‹the exact reverse. / I think what if we went to school together, / what confusion there'd be at roll call ( more... )

JeFF Stumpo
The natives had it / backwards. / The camera / doesnıt steal their souls. / The photographer is the one / who forces / his essence ( more... )

Lita Sorensen
The heat-tinged sky / with its roiling trees / blue-pewter stain at edges / breathes silently, / finally as envelopes. Even / the earth is sealed / lulled by insects entranced / with their own song ( more... )

Andrena Zawinski
The crickets can keep you awake / like an old rocking chair / loose on the rails. / The 10:45 CSX can slice the night, / scraping west from Altoona and howling / the bridge above Glade Run Creek / where Mohawk and Cree / once cut a path. ( more... )

Rebecca Clark
Every day itıs another piece / in a new voice, fragments / from everyone who tries / to make it whole, question by question: / it begins with her body cleaved / into parts, how did she end there ( more... )

Jim Coppoc
and everybody sees this motherfucker rise up and walk out 3 minutes after johnny / drops him / and he shoots back heavy in our ears ( more... )

Carly Sachs
To go on forever like water and sky, / that calm endless color content in being. / Of infinite things. What is breath? / The mantra of waves, islands of clouds ( more... )


CREATIVE NONFICTION BY
Siri Steiner
When I was five, my mom and I struck a deal. She handed me a rusty coffee can and offered five cents for each snail I could cram in. I spent a whole afternoon hunting snails: taking care to keep families intact, providing plump grass and leaves, wishing I could eavesdrop on the silent first meetings between Backyard Snails and Frontyard Snails. In the evening, I came out to the back stoop to check on them and found my mom throwing the little guys, one by one, against the wall. They left small, tan smudges on the stucco. ( more... )

Theodore Worozbyt
Onions are those roses which outlast the winter, becoming sweeter, until they finally succumb to their own succulence by releasing reseda sprouts. The world assumes the shape of a Copra onion, a slight swell at its equator. Onions, to my mind, are the truly heroic vegetables. No battle in the kitchen can be won without them, yet they make no claims for themselves, wage no wars, and require no decoration. ( more... )

Hal Ackerman
I always thought it would be my heart. My fatherıs conked out on him before he was fifty. My uncleıs and grandfatherıs too. I do all the right things to counter my genetics; no red meat or tobacco, an approximation of tennis three times a week, an annual physical. All the paper umbrellas we hold up against the thousand pound safe thatıs falling at us from an indeterminate distance. ( more... )


VISUAL ART BY

Gretchen Skillman
Shawn Sargent

Rebecca Harper
Concetta Ceriello

Patrick Tucker

Print Page