• 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.


  • 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.


    Renwick Berchild, GLJ Editor

    The Abortionist's Chair
    Candice Louisa Daquin, Poem
    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 
    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, 
    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

    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.

    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
    ..those that bled red
    Knew plastic
    not to be their destined
    Let them bleed
    And while not depleting
    The tainted red
    found itself pouring endlessly
    Through this and that
    moments buried in my
    Lull personality.
    …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.
    …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
    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/.

  • “[D]on’t be precious.”: Q & A With Candice Louisa Daquin, our 2022 ROAR Showcase Finale

    “[D]on’t be precious.”: Q & A With Candice Louisa Daquin

    Q. What is your earliest memory of poetry?

    A: I have a very bad memory of early years but I do remember the poem “Small Hands” by Walt Whitman* being spoken in a Woody Allen movie and me being really deeply affected. I think it might have been “The Tyger” by William Blake. Although to be fair I think children are surrounded with poetry if you think about it.

    Q. Have you ever cried reading a poem? Which poem was it? How did it affect you?

    A: Without doubt. Mostly ones written by people I know or ones on subjects that are very evocative personally. I cried editing We Will Not Be Silenced because I was so angry that women’s rights and the #metoo movement was having to struggle so much and still wasn’t on par with other rights. I cried editing Through The Looking Glass because of all the mental illness people experience with so little support and compassion. I cried editing But You Don’t Look Sick for the same reason. I even cried with SMITTEN because of the love between women and how hard it can be in society to be same-sex. I think poetry can easily bring you to tears because it’s immediate and visceral and honest.

    Q. There are hundreds of types of poetic forms. Is there a particular form that speaks to you? Why?

    A: Not at all. I did a MA in writing including learning all the poetic forms like the back of my hand and I was singularly unimpressed. I mean sure, yeah, go at it, but for me – it doesn’t do a thing. I like my poetry raw and steaming on a plate.

    Q. Do you ever experience writer’s block? How do you overcome it?

    A: Someone once told me they never did and I didn’t believe them. I have not met a writer who hasn’t. There are some good tips for avoiding it – but mostly it comes down to discipline. For me I find it hard to write when I’m too busy with other things. I think poetry needs space. I overcome it by reminding myself when I die I will not think ‘I wish I had spent more time in the office’ and trying not to be that typical American who works all the time – that’s not who I want to be and it’s not how I grew up (France) so I make a conscious effort to balance work and life as much as is realistically possible.

    Q. Some writers have methods that help them write. Do you? Will you share it with us?

    A; When writing prose – don’t be precious. Start. It doesn’t matter if it’s not linear because good writing never is. Just write something. Anything. And keep going. Even if it’s piecemeal you’ll put it together. Have faith in the process – instead of thinking you have to write it how it’s going to ultimately be from the very start. Same with poetry, write it out, then edit it and then wait and then edit it again. Sometimes it comes out perfect the first time but that’s rare.

    Q. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote in Beyond Good and Evil, “Poets treat their experiences shamelessly: they exploit them.” Do you think this is true? Why or why not?

    A: I definitely agree with this. I think writers in general are egotists. I think artists in general are egotists. I think in this world anyone who thinks what they will do for a living is to create for others, and thus they rely upon an audience and thus they need people who like what they do, is by necessity an egotist or they will not succeed. It is a shame. I like humble people without egos but I have yet to meet one in the art-world. It is unfortunate that people who may not have big egos often get nowhere whilst those who do often succeed because it should never be about that but of course it is, especially as we go from 7 billion people all trying to get somewhere and earn their keep. It makes us very dog-eat-dog and I wonder if it would be possible to be pure? I expect once it was.

    Q. In 2013 Alexandra Petri wrote the viral and infamous Washington Post article “Is Poetry Dead?” Some people believe poetry doesn’t have a purpose in the modern world and that it is a dying art form. Do you agree? Why or why not?

    A: I think the whole idea of poetry being dead or conversely, alive, is just rhetoric. That’s why I don’t like a lot of articles [op-eds] written by people because we mistake them for fact but they’re just noise. The truth lies in simple places. We don’t have the power to pronounce an art form dead or alive. We do it to sell articles, magazines, ad-space, to justify our existence as journalists. But journalism is more dead than anything else. Everything has a purpose in the modern world if people want it to – and it’s not about how many people want it to but about one person wanting it to. We forget that.

    Q. Have you ever read the work of prison poets? If you have, tell us about them and whether or not their works have affected you, and if so, how?

    A: No – except clients I have had who were in prison. I wouldn’t be adverse to it but then again I can think of other groups I might have more time for – like those who the people in prison victimized?

    Q. Do you think trauma and poetry are connected? If so, how?

    A: They can be. Essentially because trauma can be best illustrated using art and poetry is a form of art.

    Q. What does poetry mean to you?

    A: That’s an evolving perspective as it means different things depending. Right now I’m embracing prose even more than poetry and I never thought that would happen. It does discourage me that not enough people read longer, more detailed poetry and I really loathe the whole IG meme poetry movement although I respect others’ love of it. I read a poem the other day from a girl I know well who is dying – so on that day poetry meant I was losing my friend and reading them writing about dying and it slayed me.

    Q. Do you think a poem can save a life?

    A: No. I think a poem can help save a life. Saving a life is ultimately going to be a personal decision or the intervention of someone else.

    Q. How or why do you think poetry is important to the world?

    A: Because humans think expression matters and it does – even if nauseatingly we’ve gone too far in our expression, better that than no expression. Poetry is a form of expression that has music literally. I admire singers who write their own songs more than poetry because they go beyond poetry, they transform it to music and thus their art is greater but all writers are musicians if you consider words and how they play.

    *Editor’s Note: I believe the poem Candice is referring to here is the poem “somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond” by E.E. Cummings which ends with the line “nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.” But I have not seen many movies, so I digress. Memory is a fickle mistress.

    Candice Louisa Daquin

    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 next personal book of poetry is Tainted by the Same Counterfeit (Finishing Line Press, coming out 2022). Find more of her work at http://www.thefeatheredsleep.com