-
GLJ On Hiatus
Hello all, I hope you are well. I on the other hand, your lead editor, am not well. I recently got diagnosed with Pelvic Inflammatory Disease. It was constantly missed by doctors and now the infection has spread quite severely, impacting several organs and leaving permanent scarring of tissue. It seems resistant to antibiotics. As such, maintaining GLJ is proving too difficult. I simply cannot seem to keep up with it. As of today GLJ is on hiatus. I do not know for how long. The site will remain up as I remain hopeful that my circumstances and health will change in the future.
In summary all submissions have been suspended. For all who have submitted to GLJ, an email will be in your inbox, with apologies. Your poems are all beautiful. Don’t give up! I truly believe you will all get published one day. Keep working.
It has been a great privilege running GLJ. Hopefully in the future I will be able to take up this mantle again. As for my personal writing, larkspurhorne.net will certainly be coming out of retirement during this time. You can also follow me at RenwickBerchild.com.
As always, I sign off. Stay Brave. Stay Brave. Thank you. -
Revealing GLJ’s 2023 ROAR Showcase Winner: Kim Whysall-Hammond
Green Lion Journal is proud to announce our 2023 ROAR Showcase: Kim Whysall-Hammond. Over the next week GLJ will post Kim’s poems and her Q&A. Her work will continue to be featured on GLJ in the ROAR showcase until December 1st, 2024.
Experiences are life. Fantasy and intellectualization, though integral to the human condition, serve to aid and guide us through this turbulent thing called living – the procession aggregate. Whether to enlightenment or self-destruction (or neither/both), we will not only dream and think, but experience through it all, again and again, time’s arrow unrelenting in its verse of “You are alive.”
The internet has created a time of unprecedented sharing. Never before have we been so exposed to the inner and outer narratives of so many people. In this jungle of human diversity, the question of the interconnected human remains thus: Will we find, or lose ourselves? While reading Kim Whysall-Hammond’s work and words, I felt the skeptic inside me recede, to lean toward the former.
Reading poetry has always felt like reading secrets to me, a shapely Roman à clef, a skeleton key of words. Kim’s use of poetry as a kind of autofiction (popular in the current time) speaks to many, and her rejection of what is sometimes referred to as “the poet’s logic” – that aesthetically versed words imply validity – is refreshing. The growing modern consensus of poetry seems to be that poetry is a way to tell the truth – in full frontal freedom. To employ the senses – sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch – to invite others into our experiences and to, inversely, be invited into them. “Good poetry talks to you.” writes Kim, and so her poems speak to us, with clearly stated themes and intents. Her poetic devices such as anaphora and allusion are serviced not to mystified, but to define.
So Kim’s work is richly defined, through experience. Through her feeling, witnessing, being alive. I can think of no better way of signing off than with more words from Kim, “The internet abounds with poems of all sorts, and long may it do so.”
Long may we do so, these poems of life.
-RB
-
Okay Super-Procrastinators! Last Day To Submit To Green Lion’s 2023 ROAR Showcase
It’s here! The deadline is rapidly upon you!
Submissions have been sliding under the door all year, it’s been a delight peeking at and seeing all the wonderful and moving pieces being sent in, but the submission window is now rapidly closing; get your poems in while you can. The last day to submit for the 2023 ROAR Showcase is today! Submissions close at midnight. You’ve got some time left, but don’t procrastinate too long – get cracking! Send in 5 to 7 pieces of original work in the body of the email or in a single attached document to greenlionroarjournal@gmail.com with the subject line “Submission [Your Name] Roar.” Work that balances on a reoccurring theme or purpose will likely be favored. Be powerful, be vulnerable, be brave. Each poem should have a maximum count of 106 lines. Prose pieces should not exceed a standard page (8.5 x 11). Poems that exceed this limit by a few lines will not be rejected but will be strongly disfavored. GLJ accepts poems and prose published on personal blogs.
Go read the work of our current ROAR champion, Candice Louisa Daquin, to get a feel for what GLJ is looking for.
Admission is free, so you’ve got nothing to lose.
As always, stay brave. I’ll hopefully be seeing you soon. ♥
-
Revisit Candice Louisa Daquin’s The Abortionist’s Chair
In light of the United State’s Supreme Court’s ruling overturning Roe v. Wade, I invite you to revisit Candice Louisa Daquin’s powerful poem “The Abortionist’s Chair”. Candice is our 2022 ROAR winner; go read the rest of her work and her inspiring Q&A here.
Stay brave.
Love,
Renwick Berchild, GLJ Editor
The Abortionist's Chair Candice Louisa Daquin, Poem Behold the abortionist's chair not leather, for leather is thirsty this chair is wreathed in glossy rubber that can be wiped down and disinfected to mute the smell of blood this chair does not owe its shape to comfort, nor seeks it nay, the very contour is built upon a premise bringing life should not be a sentence women are not incubators nor second-class citizens who have no right to their own crown of thorns that is choice these women and girls climb into the chair tearfully the tears are not because they are forced to leave behind a piece of them but the slow sorrow of particular relief regret that contraception failed regret that he left her destitute regret this is her 6th pregnancy and she is unwell regret life is hard and she cannot, she cannot bring a child into the world relief that she has a choice. Before entering the clinic, they watch from their car swells of protesters with plastic babies attached to placards chant and throng hate and intolerance thinking how little has changed in 400 years how if nobody was watching that crowd would fall upon the girl, the woman and have her bloody guts for garters if they could get away with it a murder of crows, the sycophant irony they are trying to save just as they fantasize about killing. These women trapped in their cars stare at colorless clouds a chain of ants climbs along cement walkway easily crushed, invisible to us, these women feel a simpatico; the worth of life, of value, of other’s moral high-ground as those who believe themselves untouchable, eat with their heavy knife and fork bleeding steak at lunchtime pontification lashing the sin of woman, swallowing globs of meat without thought of the dumb beast who trawled to the slaughter yard in a cart of wide-eyed animals who knew they were going to die facing it without words. The chair has seen the doctor wiping her brow as she gives freedom of choice back to women whose womb holds the viability of that life, not politicians whose legs pucker with the cold of heavy instruments and they say she chose this as a form of contraception? They say she is evil and has no compassion? They who would have her led like muted cow to slaughter speaking on her behalf, feigning they speak for her murdered child painting easy shame to denigrate her dignity as life bearer which necessarily includes a symbiotic understanding it’s never that simple and you can’t speak for me! How society thinks they own bodies but won’t pay maternity leave believing a coat-hanger legacy unworthy no reason to grant real lasting equality as her body roils with morning sickness as she knows she cannot bring a child into this world this world of carnivores eating steak at lunchtime gazing at the fine legs of a slender waisted woman walking from the bar and back to bring them a drink the very same men and women who pervert justice calling a girl, a whore if she drank before she was raped a child ‘gagging for it’ if she wore a short skirt asking; are you sure you didn’t lead him on? Thinking a prostitute unworthy of consideration rape a corrective necessity for lesbians. These things are not footnotes in history they happen every day a world that still doesn’t grant equality for women thinking it preferable to spray paint clinics, shut them down, starve them of resources shoot their staff, shame those women who knew they couldn’t bring a child into the world didn’t want to be an incubator for an adoption agency who profits adopting out babies of young mothers whom they have guilted into remaining pregnant because any abortion is a sin, don’t you know you will go to Hell? But isn’t Hell a place where you are a second-class-citizen? Your rights eroded; your body controlled by all means choose, keep a baby, or not but to have no say in what happens in your womb? Hell is shame placed on your every action — trapped, trapped, trapped yes, I would say that is hell a world where clinics are closed and protesters have nowhere to hate anymore so, they come up with something else (because they will) it’s not even about sparing little defenseless babies if that were true, they’d give a damn about all those unwanted kids of color in foster care it’s hate of convenience, a conviction of superiority, a penchant for judgement extended through the laws of patriarchy and beyond twisting religion and doctrine to your will, as if you speak for Gods controlling what others do with their bodies, like you are one even in cases of rape and incest because; it’s not the innocent child’s fault, meting out the sentence let’s ask ourselves then, whose fault is it? A society where rape isn’t taken seriously or punished? Or people who think a survivor’s rights are worthless? The abortionist’s chair is gathering dust and some people cheer this as they bite into their $50 dollar steak and pieces of a life far more sentient when it was ended get stuck like slivers of placenta in their righteous clenched teeth. Who then, we ask is the greater criminal? The woman who seeks choice or the hypocrite who denies her the solace of saying what her own body will bear?
Candice Louisa Daquin is of Sephardi French/Egyptian descent. Born in Europe, Daquin worked in publishing before immigrating to America to become a Psychotherapist, where she has continued writing and editing whilst practicing as a therapist. Daquin is Senior Editor at Indie Blu(e) Publishing, a feminist micro-press. She freelances as Writer-in-Residence for Borderless Journal and Poetry & Art Editor for The Pine Cone Review. Her latest personal book of poetry is Tainted by the Same Counterfeit (Finishing Line Press, 2022). Find more of her work at http://www.thefeatheredsleep.com
-
What the Trash Reveals by Renwick Berchild
What the Trash Reveals A woman’s reliquary. Whole photo albums doused in nicotine, each bit of uneaten Shepherd's pie with scissor snips, split pencils, blue crayon nubs— for don’t you know— I adore blue, in the ways it wantlessly weaves the woad soul through button holes and Cuckoo wasp mouths, in the ways it waves from waves to lonely instruments to Annie Lee to The Virgin of the Rocks da Vinci to unworn dress suspended in the shop window, in the ways it sideways ways to unblue blue moon, unblue blue plate special, unblue blue cheese— I chant— Ia dore blu. Ia dore blu. Because I am, I am. Oh ow, oh oo. In the unstratified island of the garbage, printed faces fold up with stony contact lenses and barbed stenches that howl along cupboard corners with inundated eyes bored in tears of eggshells, strawberry tops, jagged glass shards tinted brownie red. Cherry stems black tar scars scraped over plastic thing, useless thing, pretty thing, priceless thing, thing whose entire value is hung on its disposableness— in saying this— on come the philosophers, on come the skeptics, on come the mystics, on come the dystopian tirades, all their horizontal forms and lain flags and doorless rooms— I chant— Ia dore blu. Ia dore blu. Because I am, I am. Oh ow, oh oo. In the trash the slash in a single sock without its twin, the pale dust of flour swooped down like a swan’s wing. In the muck grey of snot rags, those rags my mothers, rags my fathers, rags my lovers, rags my friends, rags my priests, rags my feasts, rags my executioners that trundle in in the morning, like bright mustard teeth through the glumness, a milelong ribbon named sick, who’s sobriquets can be cutting Valentines or screamin’ meemies or blue devils or black-dog or down in the gills. The dog eats it, fittingly, oh ow, the delicious dump as if it were elixir, oh oo, tasting of chocolate cake and bloody liver, the dog’s chops smacking thumbtacks gums red, thrilled to death— thrilled. to. death.— with hunger. For don’t you know I adore blue, oh ow oh oo I a dore blu.
Renwick Berchild is half literary critic, half poet. She is lead editor of Green Lion Journal and writes at Nothing in Particular Book Review. Her poems have appeared in Porridge Mag, Headline Press, Whimperbang, Free Verse Revolution, Spillwords, Vita Brevis, The Stray Branch, Streetcake, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. She was born and raised on the angry shores of Lake Superior, and now lives in a micro-apartment in Seattle, WA. Find more of her work at http://www.renwickberchild.com
-
Green Lion Journal is Accepting Submissions for GLJ Blog and For ROAR Showcase
Submissions are now open for GLJ Blog and for ROAR showcase.
Green Lion Journal is an online independent literary review for poetry and prose, with an annual feature, ROAR, showcasing several works from one poet for a full year, and a blog which publishes poems on a regular basis. GLJ proudly displays the works of both greenhorns and hardened veterans, and aims to be a platform for powerful, stirring verse from all walks of life and experience.
Confessional verse is very welcome here. Green Lion likes pieces that impact the chest, stretch the nerves, and invoke that white hot feeling of surrender to emotion. The work does not necessarily have to be dark and sinister; in fact, if you can avoid this route, you should. What Green Lion looks for is introspective, explosive, and attached; detached nihilism and ersatz spooky lines will likely get you rejected. (Though if you truly feel you have “it”, send it in regardless.) Poetry and prose that holds the sensation of intense caring and need, inner conflict and internal analysis will hit the notes that will get you published.
Here are some keywords to reflect upon:
Catastrophe, loss, power, deep, indomitable, explosive, fate, sudden, fierce, passion, pain, clash, titans, imposing, metamorphosis, infiltration, release, love, tragedy, concentrated, unidirectional, control, surrender, hot, expansion, panic, unknown, force, scars, vast, imploding, stricken, freeze, red, resurrection, clung, volcanology, tumultuous, struggle, event, verity, running, daring, pressure, corybantic, leviathans, confusion, shadowed, want, broken, triumph, polarizing, overwhelm, core, fear, courageousness, alone, realization, entanglement, captured, writhe, full, opposition, shape, genuine, flow.
Submissions for showcase in ROAR are open January 1st until September 10th each year. Admission is free. Send in 5 to 7 pieces of original work in the body of the email or in a single attached document to greenlionroarjournal@gmail.com with the subject line “Submission [Your Name] Roar.” Work that balances on a reoccurring theme or purpose will likely be favored. Be powerful, be vulnerable, be brave. Each poem should have a maximum count of 106 lines. Prose pieces should not exceed a standard page (8.5 x 11). Poems that exceed this limit by a few lines will not be rejected but will be strongly disfavored. Poems that have been previously published or accepted elsewhere will be rejected. GLJ accepts poems and prose published on personal blogs.
Submissions for the blog are open year round and are free. Send us 1 to 3 pieces of your best work in the body of the email or a single attached document to gljblog@gmail.com with the subject line “Submission [Your Name] GLJ Blog.” Maximum line count for each poem is 45. Keep your prose 300 words or less. Preference is also for unpublished pieces, but exceptions are made. If your work has been published elsewhere please leave a note at the bottom of your submission stating where your poem or prose piece has previously appeared.
We accept simultaneous submissions, but please alert us as soon as possible if your work is accepted elsewhere.
At this time, Green Lion Journal does not offer payment for accepted submissions. The hope is this will change in the future.
Should your work be chosen for publication, in either the blog or in our ROAR showcase, all rights revert back to the author following one month after publication and we ask that you credit Green Lion Journal when appropriate. Distinguishment between GLJ Blog and Green Lion Journal’s ROAR is encouraged. By agreeing to be published by Green Lion, you grant Green Lion Journal one-time electronic rights.
Please include in the body of the email a short cover letter and a small bio, and if you feel friendly, a picture of yourself. Make sure you have sent your submission to the correct email. Turnover rate for the blog is fast so rejections or acceptance letters are churned out quickly. Responses for those aiming to be in ROAR will likely show up in your boxes around the first week of November. The winner’s poems will be up for viewing December 1st each year, and will remain featured until November 30th, when next year’s compelling poet takes the podium, and so forth.
“This is my death … and it will profit me to understand it.” – Anne Sexton
Send out your words, tell your stories. Roar.
For any additional queries contact editor Renwick Berchild at renwickberchild@gmail.com
-
I Miss by Jesse Finn
I Miss Jesse Finn, Poem I miss the nights of a small town. The trains, iron wyrms winding through town, Rolling on in thunderous rhythm, A lullaby louder and a hundred times More calming than lapping ocean waves. On humid summer nights, the fairgrounds came alive As the wild folk proved their superiority in drag races, Demolition derbies, engines roaring as lions, Onlookers whooping and hallooing in raucous abandon borne from years of experience: Summer is already fading. With the darker months, there was quiet. Fall and Winter, all was still, the skies clear and dark, and crisp and full to bursting with starlight A car would backfire a mile down the road, The sound clear as the church bells calling Sunday mass. But in the city, real and proper, such still nights are anomalous, Confusing those who never knew anything but the constant hum; Cars roaring by from dusk to dawn, late-night revelers In the street and the apartment next door. And not a star to be seen. I miss the nights of a small town, But on occasion, the world takes pity on me, Gifts me a silent night, And in the distance, a train whistle blows, To sing me to sleep.
Jesse Finn grew up on the frozen shores of Lake Superior before packing his life into boxes and moving to the Pacific Northwest. In between reading the next book in a very long list and staring out windows, he sits in the dark night after night and writes. This is his first publication.
-
What Follows by Robert Okaji
What Follows Robert Okaji, Poem His hand can't collect what he finds at daybreak. Traffic rumbling, pulses ticking and the layered smells of dried leaves and last night's pizza. Her smile, in sleep. In ecstasy, even while the week's tasks drain through his punctured pockets and nothing deters memory and the never was. Wondering why it took so long. How stress surrendered, and what follows. Perhaps I am, he thinks, justified in my actions. Like the red shouldered hawk ripping into the squirrel. Like last year's tornado. And all the broken trees.
Robert Okaji lives in Indiana. The author of multiple chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vox Populi, riverSedge, The Big Windows Review, North Dakota Quarterly and elsewhere.
-
Two Poems by Robert Okaji
Been There Robert Okaji, Poem Imagine how summer rain differs from winter's. How I've become the blackest ribbon of your nights. What if pine needles rose from the earth to rejoin branches? And your conspiracies all wove true? A tapestry of bleak faces concealed in untruths. Bottles uncorked and emptied. I no longer fill your glass. Nor do I listen.
Rockport Robert Okaji, Poem Is this rubble home or destiny? They live in the interim, forever between. Submerged yet floating. Crowded, alone. A smashed boat on dry land tells one tale, the roofless house in knee-deep water, another. Still, no sirens announce their fury. Nothing to return to and nowhere to go. Flies shattering the returning calm.
Robert Okaji lives in Indiana. The author of multiple chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vox Populi, riverSedge, The Big Windows Review, North Dakota Quarterly and elsewhere.
-
Shaded Complexity by Sia Morweng
Shaded Complexity Sia Morweng, Poem I made a stream of My frustrations —Beneath it all Instructed. ..those that bled red Knew plastic not to be their destined container Let them bleed And while not depleting The tainted red found itself pouring endlessly Through this and that moments buried in my Lull personality. Persuaded. …those that fell clear seen by myself from dreams Adopting many of my shortcomings I watched; watched how long they’d keep their frontier “Holier than thou” And to my dismay They kept falling Till my dreams were flooded. Amidst the confusion And unclarity I felt it safe to drown. Pardoned. …my frustrations then paused running.
Sia Morweng is an emerging poet. She writes a blog called That Gut Wrenching Poetry, where she puts all her undiluted thoughts, fiction and music that she loves. She says, “What I want to do is write poetry in how we speak and turn how we speak into a melodramatic consequence.” Find more of her work at https://siamorweng.wordpress.com/
-
Before A Lifetime by Sia Morweng
Before A Lifetime Sia Morweng, Poem What would a forgotten you be like, not left to your devices or scratched off my embroidered moments; simply my thoughts placing a curtain before my adamant desire to chase fantasy? Would I live up there with a forgetful wall, mirroring an empty space or would there be a shadow I cannot trace? What would my filled words sound like uninspired by teenage dreams? Could I still call a blue sky serene or pretend I know how to call the sun hope? Walking possessed by the mood of an untroubled day becomes My own mood, so the moon’s infinitude could accompany me into fruitful sleep, could my words still identify with those emotions? Are you significant to my painting of life I call my own in breaths? I wonder how I’ll call my star a jewel if it’s not a reflection of a look I captured in my galaxy “his eyes on me” as rare glimpse when I caught you catching my dreams? What would an unnamed you tell my dreams, as a stranger, could your voice reach synchronicity with the leap of my heart? how my heartbeat would duet with your voice when my thoughts were occupied christening my mind with changing season? This mystery… What would a you I’ve never met say to my swan like face, I dreamt a figure I drew and I’d like my eyes to convey to my thoughts and those To request my soul a mating dance?
Sia Morweng is an emerging poet. She writes a blog called That Gut Wrenching Poetry, where she puts all her undiluted thoughts, fiction and music that she loves. She says, “What I want to do is write poetry in how we speak and turn how we speak into a melodramatic consequence.” Find more of her work at https://siamorweng.wordpress.com/
-
Who Will Say First? by Sia Morweng
Sia Morweng is an emerging poet. She writes a blog called That Gut Wrenching Poetry, where she puts all her undiluted thoughts, fiction and music that she loves. She says, “What I want to do is write poetry in how we speak and turn how we speak into a melodramatic consequence.” Find more of her work at https://siamorweng.wordpress.com/.
Green Lion Journal 