October 16-22, 2017: Poetry from Robert Wynne and Margarita Serafimova

Robert Wynne, and Margarita Serafimova

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Robert Wynne

Bio (auto)

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University.  A former co-editor of Cider Press Review, he has published 6 chapbooks, and 3 full-length books of poetry, the most recent being “Self-Portrait as Odysseus,” published in 2011 by Tebot Bach Press.  He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America.  He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife, daughter and 3 rambunctious dogs.

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Robert Wynne and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Lucy Van Pelt Trapped in a Tom Waits Song

Loose Lips pays her bill, and slinks smoothly
toward the door. Outside, the pink neon flashes
“Velveteen Piano Lounge” across asphalt littered

with the yellow dreams of small, voiceless birds.
Joe Cool blows a blue hole in the buttery moon
melting slowly over her shoulder like a cue ball

burying itself in the glove of god’s first baseman.
Amsterdam air sings a watery dirge
as Lucy steals onto a northbound train

with Shroeder’s black and white notes
echoing bright like the scales of zebrafish.
She thumbs the bright harmonica 

she stole from Moe’s Pawn Shop
until it clicks quietly open to reveal
a small deck of cards missing only 

the Queen of Spades and one Joker.
Peacock-tail brushes smatter the snare
and Joe growls a shooting star

across Lucy’s cocked brow, as she sashays
off at the next stop, and back into
the 8-ball pocketing itself solidly

in the corner of another redundant night.

Palinode for Dental Hygiene

No longer can I claim I don’t floss, even though
I still skirt the issue while my hygienist glosses

each dull tooth, my mouth a grey-scale cave
scoured by the acrylic anteater she wields

against every coffee-tinged beer I’ve ever enjoyed.
I do floss, just not enough to dissuade her

from scraping what feels like a rusty screw
across pitted enamel, until my smile beams

like a plantation-era mansion, quietly denying
its own dark reality.  The x-rays are processing

as she shoves a spoonful of blue antiseptic
onto my tongue, singing that skin alive

like a fax modem searing a sleeping ear at 4 a.m.
She gives me an adapter for my toothbrush

so I can reach my forgotten molars.
She sends me on my way, warning me

to be diligent, spreading her sensible fear.
This is what my life has become, an argument

against time and circumstance, a denial
that I am anything but a tapestry threaded

with every decision I’ve cherished
and every compromise I’ve allowed

until there are more holes in this patchwork
than patches, the worn image barely visible

of lips wide open in a song or a scream.



Margarita Serafimova

Bio (auto)

Margarita Serafimova has been shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize 2017. She has two collections in the Bulgarian: “Animals and Other Gods” (2016), “Demons and World” (2017). Her work is forthcoming in Agenda, Trafika Europe, The Journal, Waxwing, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Writing Disorder, Poetic Diversity, TAYO, Punch, Transnational, Sea Foam Mag, SurVision, the Global Poetry Anthology of the Montreal Poetry Prize, and appears in London Grip New Poetry, A-Minor, Minor Literatures, Noble/ Gas, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Obra/ Artifact, Futures Trading, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Aaduna, Ginosko, Dark Matter, Window Quarterly/ Patient Sounds, Peacock Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Wild Word, Plum Tree Tavern,MOON, Outlaw Poetry, In Between Hangovers, MockingHeart Review, Renegade Rant and Rave, Tales From The Forest, Misty Mountain Review, Outsider Poetry, Heavy Athletics, The Voices Project, Cent. Margarita lives in Sofia, Bulgaria. Some more of her work can be found here.

The following work is Copyright © 2017, and owned by Margarita Serafimova and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Τρισμέγιστος (Trismegistus)

I was not going to say, or do anything
fewer than three times.


My power was flowing.
The blood was a flag.

At eight o’clock precisely,
my tears never appeared.
A glorious sunset engulfed my heart.

You were in the light, the light
was in the eye of a fish.
An emerald.


I was holding my helmet in my hand,
hanging by my side,
as heroes do after triumph.


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