Mimesis 2 is now available either from Paypal on the Order page or from Lulu. If you have some spare cash and a hankering for poetic misdeeds, make sure to buy a copy!

More information about the issue can be found here.

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Of course, what this also means is that we're now looking for fresh submissions to Mimesis 3! Check out the Submissions page: [link]




IN THIS ISSUE
Poems from:

E. Kristin Anderson, Kirsten Irving, Patrick Loafman, Ian McLachlan, Charles Musser, James Owens, Amanda Rogers, Charlotte Runcie, Kasper Salonen, Salli Shepherd, Andrew Shields, Todd Swift

Also: an interview with poet George Szirtes.

Artwork from:

Bjorn Bauer/~BjornBauer (cover) and "Sarah Hayes"/*thepurplemonster.


Sample poems


Kirsten Irving / *discocabrado

No Surprise Gladioli

There are no amber lockets
bought on a whim to match
the colour of her hair,
no duck egg nursery walls,
no easy chair. Not when
you want to open her face.
There are no giggling tumbles
into hay-strewn barns,
no illnesses nursed,
no in-jokes,
no knee-bending. Even for play,
just lunatic urges to dissassemble
the maternal smile with steel
as she nestles you in her swellings.
You don’t get as far as Ovaltine,
served in twin cups, piping
in a queen-sized bed.
There are no rings exchanged,
no surprise gladioli
thieved from the city gardens.
Under skirts, no soft joy.
From her Vesuvius
no warmth, no sap.
You daren’t. At most you trace
zigzags over veins, plan goodbyes.



Salli Shepherd / *salshep

The Suitor

Don Emilio calls on us each week. My sisters
watch him like hungry cats: Juanita,
so thin she pokes holes in the sheets,
sour-lipped Pilar, and poor Ines
with her crooked back. But it is to me

his black eyes most often wander.
Mama serves him coffee,
and tightly rolled flautas. Our guest picks
at the food, boasts of his villa
in Guanajuato; immaculate hands dip
and hover, like jewelled birds.

I have begun to suspect
that Don Emilio is not looking for a wife.



Todd Swift

Miyajima

The orange character set in the sea
Was a gate; the moon another lantern
Over the mountain; the shrine out to sea
Sailing for Hiroshima, light-anchored.

A monk bicycling in the frog-loud night
Silent as Ozu’s nothing; a face half-lit
In ordered lanterns. Altering day to night
Required a tidal disposition, pouring selves

Out to sea, returning as a candle;
The slight figure pure as anything lit
(Water ladled onto hands at a shrine)
Aspired to abandon all that was mine.