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Lambda Literary Award attentionbeam

May 2, 2010 \pm\31 9:29 pm

The 22nd Annual Lambda Literary Awards will be held at the end of this month in New York City. This year four of the nominees are No Tell contributors:  The Brother Swimming Beneath Me by Brent Goodman (Black Lawrence Press), The First Risk by Charles Jensen (Lethe Press), Stars of the Night Commute, by Ana Božičević (Tarpaulin Sky Press) and Bharat jiva, by kari edwards (Litmus Press). A full list of all the finalists can be found here.  Good luck to everyone.

In honor of these four wonderful poets who I had the pleasure of working with, I share a poem from each.

[ science fiction ]

by Brent Goodman

For this role I learned to play the Theremin.  The plot unfolds:  after the spaceship tears through the water tower all the cows’ milk turns to ash.  At first, we welcome them in the cool shaded corn rows. Then green army men descend in their own shiny aircraft.  Before our pets go missing, before our children turn against us, the general radios the president.  I play the scientist who insists they’re more like us that anyone might imagine.

Manuela Grieves

by Charles Jensen

She is full

of organs.

The liver, which putrefies the skin;

the heart, failing

all who touch it.

The son who died that night

beneath a car,

Manuela’s high heels

dashing to the point of impact—

he was once inside her,

a second heart sharing blood.

He lived on her.  She equally,

not metaphorically,

lived on him.

Voicemail Anthem

by Ana Božičević

Face — stay the face — O

don’t be yet a name — Be not

the Beatrice.  (Of longing)  You’re

a nose, hot damn!  And what you do best’s a

criminal beauty.  Don’t be a word I needs must

mispronounce.  If you do — even though

we have no child, I will have gained and lost

a kingdom.  Don’t laugh.  City’s not

as in movies, harmless.  Here they can take away my

papers.  Be.  In the personal mystery.  Not in

the phantom ring of

telephone in the shower, & when I get there, dripping —

Nothing.  Nostril!  Where’s your passport?

Nostril, rip her.  She’s too thin and

neither snow nor pine-branche.  Listen:  stars are blooming.

Out of me.  And I’ve become a blooming place.  Almost


from: Bharat jiva 43-44

by kari edwards

in some ways
I am afraid
I’ve been someone
in a headache of dust
not adept at advocating for souls
transpiring away in crevices
between smithereens and darkness
instead I grasp
pronoun logic
the texture of cement
picking at the present tension
one that has been mostly
a b-side on repeat
with a skip
at best
a disassociation of matter
sinking profoundly in progress
preparing to enter as nothing more
than a presence
dark above
the clutching hand
of unconsciousness

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