Mimesis 3 is now available either from Paypal on the Order page or from Lulu. If you have some available funds and want to read some fine poetry accompanied by fantastic artwork, please do buy a copy.

You can also now download an electronic copy of the issue for the paltry sum of £1.50, if you're a bit too low on cash to stretch to the print edition. That's available from the Lulu page.


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 4! Check out the Submissions page: [link]




IN THIS ISSUE
Poems from:

Arlene Ang, Annie Bien, Jeff Calhoun, Anthony DiMatteo, Brent Fisk, Fred Johnston, Matt Merritt, Derek Motion, Steve Mueske, Alistair Noon, Chris Powici, Dave Rowley, Carolyn Srygley-Moore, Jon Stone, Mark Terrill and Emily Tesh.

Also: an interview with poet Catherine Smith.

Artwork from:

Alex Eckman-Lawn|~TheABones (cover), Harmony Becker|~ilsung and Asad T. Syed|~TheGlome.


Sample poems



Brent Fisk

Below the Surface

A slight fear at the end
of the dock, some connection
to the drowned, unease
at the term bottomless.
The green growth obscured the lakebed,
its hidden objects and snags.

Old Pierrepont always trawling by,
his head turned slightly to pull my brother
into view. The disturbed
water sucked at our fat white calves.
Pierrepont spat a jet of tobacco juice
out across the prow, waved flailing
fingers at my father.

When the troopers trucked the dozers in
that autumn and found the boyish
bones snugged against his basement wall,
my mother’s hands shook like the heads
of spent flowers in a breeze.
Then she crossed herself, touched
our fine hair, held her breath as if striking
out across the mirrored lake.




Arlene Ang

Cordon Bleu

Their mother called every night cordon bleu.
She drank. For as long as seven days, she managed
to hold down a job washing dishes, like nausea.
The Catholic nuns educated her well. They taught her
Agnus Dei—which means things could be worse.
Like an orphanage. She reads the newspaper
every day. She listens to the radio from upstairs.
What is the upper class, she wants to know, if not
sleeping on the top bunk? She lets her children
steal what they can from the world. She locks herself
in a one-room flat. They enter like cats, bringing in
slaughter. Her hand wrinkles their hair. She lets them
take their turns on the bunk bed. When she passes
out, the green parquet freezes her cheek for a kiss.




Alistair Noon

Spacewalking

When spines hit concrete, movement doesn’t cease:
the fingers of the audience deflect
each others’ eyes to windows they suspect
have opened onto airy stairs. Police
lazily scrub the street’s red grease
with broom and tree-bed earth. Medics detect
no beat, no breath, no beat again, have checked
this tired mid-summer has revoked its lease.

Moonrise by day. This astronaut avoids
the ambulance’s urgent trolley but
will take the grey van’s slow, veiled bunk. The throb
of veins now in official polaroids.
Ignition. No siren. The door slots shut.
A dog trots off with a glove in its gob.