FAUNA QUARTERLY ISSUE ONE: Table of Contents

Andrew Wells | 2 Poems: “This Evening’s Run” & “My Turkish Step-Great-Grandmother”

Heath Brougher | 2 Poems: “The January House Colossal” & “Perishable”

Laura Thiessen | Poem: “Chronologic Notation” & Flash Fiction: “A Little Descent”

Charles Bane Jr | Poem: “And Then At Times”

Bryan Gewicky | Poem: “The Nighest”

A. Leyla Hess | 2 Poems: “On The Train” & “Woman Speaks of Shells”

Akif Rashid | 2 Poems: “Constant Contact” & “Obscure Life”

Scott Thomas Outlar | Poem: “Raw Electric Waves”

Louis Gallo | 2 Poems: “A Late Elegy for Isabella Gardner” & “Double Exposure”

Soyla Ise | Poem: “Denouement”

Click the names of the poets to read their work!

Issue One: Soyla Ise

denouement

on gum hill a face like a slab of ham is watching the snap-

collapse of jupiter. that’s me, i am picking milky handfuls

of butadiene rubber for popcorn, i’m dying of enteroliths.

comets are whirring over the black: floaty follicles. salt

star particles. everything is expiring, except the local gas

station; it was rotting and now it’s an algae incubator,

i can see it from up here sweating its electric in the dark

blue air. black holes also are breeding pools, looking like

masses of frogspawn in the sky, that’s funny. i’m pink

and fuzzy like a peach. it’s my birthday, i’m going mad.

my nucleic acids are gelatine and always dancing when

i am sleeping. in the daytimes i put cigarettes to float in

empty aquariums, in the cool water they are so beautiful.

ultramarine universe, the perfect glass air, i upturn into

technicolour. glitter glob. i drown in the little sudsy sea.

 

Soyla Ise is a student living in London, currently studying English Literature, Philosophy and Maths. She has some pieces of prose and poetry forthcoming in (parenthetical), Phosphene Literary Journal, and Wildness.

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Issue One: Louis Gallo

A Late Elegy For Isabella Gardner

Fatally gorgeous, you lie in the narrow bed

Alone, moonlight drenching your sizzling bones.

Do you dream again of that milk man’s clink

Or have you had enough at last to drink?

 

Double Exposure

It’s one of those spontaneous shots

that came out wrong but better

because there you are at the bottom half

anchored to the green, fecund earth

of solid reality

and then the phase shift

diagonally down the middle, a

kind of schism or transition

from the Akron, Ohio

sort of reality

into a realm of luminous ,

glowing ether,

like the Kabbalah’s Adam Kadmon

exuding light in all directions,

an accidental bodhisattva,

still you but more than you,

your aura, the nimbus smear

subsuming your body.

So you slide the photo into a plastic

sleeve of the album you’re working on,

close the covers and think hard

on what it means to so drift

from one such dimension that other

and when it might happen

for good.

 

Louis Gallo’s work has appeared or will shortly appear in Southern Literary Review, Fiction Fix, Glimmer Train, Hollins Critic,, Rattle, Southern Quarterly, Litro, New Orleans Review, Xavier Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Missouri Review, Mississippi Review, Texas Review, Baltimore Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ledge, storySouth,  Houston Literary Review, Tampa Review, Raving Dove, The Journal (Ohio), Greensboro Review,and many others.  Chapbooks include The Truth Change, The Abomination of Fascination and Status Updates. He is the founding editor of the now defunct journals,The Barataria Review and Books:  A New Orleans Review.  He teaches at Radford University in Radford, Virginia.

  

 

Issue One: Scott Thomas Outlar

Raw Electric Waves

chocolate espresso bar

in the midnight hour

 

a little sip of coffee

a little puff of smoke

 

I can see crystal cities

beyond the haze

 

I can feel electric light

coursing through the veins of night

 

Inside:

 

Wi-Fi waves smog the room

bathing in the collective vibe

 

Candle burning end to end

all paths lead to inner peace…

eventually

 

Outside:

 

Owls send early morning signals

through songs of audible consciousness

 

A swamp of synchronicity fills the air

a perfect crest in which to nest…

eternally

 

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry and fiction can be found. His chapbook “Songs of A Dissident” will be released in January of 2016 through Transcendent Zero Press, and his words have appeared recently in venues such as Section 8 Magazine, Dissident Voice, Yellow Chair Review, Tuck Magazine, and Literary Orphans.

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Issue One: Akif Rashid

Sonnet: Obscure Life

While I had been wishing upon a wistful star

The push of the ocean poured through my cracks,

Drowning me dutifully and delicately insofar

As death can be – with a laugh and a pat on the back.

While I was busy counting sand grains again

A scorpion saw fit to fix its merciless tail to me,

And the venom worked its way to blood and brain

Birthing hallucinations of lives I failed to be.

What is this fear, this discontent, this vague ache?

Another time, another chance, another foolish hope,

I have hidden in hideous acts – all taken to break,

For sweet slumber can embalm my dreams I know.

Yet need I know you feel, lest all times be a hell:

Had you not slit my throat, I’d choke on myself.

Constant Contact

I saw this baby pink rose dance prettily:

Reaching for a fruit ere ripe upon the treetop.

When I tried to have her, rebuked she wittily,

“My scent is desire, his taste is, and you forgot

My thorns are erect, breaking your own redness.”

Once these winds strike palms to our chests

I see her in the white glitter of the rushing rapid

But her depth serves only bronze bods a nest,

And I beseech her with opens arms and rabid

Fervour. The dying embers suffice for a forest fire.

Yellow and brown was to crunch crisply so

Yet it crackles in cradling a careless caress:

Borne in this burning was a hope of life mo’e

Whence the time doth go to the final rest.

But what lives long in the unnatural cycle?

Snow falls, fell, had fallen – away to the blazes now.

Be no more than the ashes hidden underneath,

The marks of a short history, glossed on the mouth

Of hungry earth, the cavern that ne’er speak.

Never safe, never fed, never finished, as we be.

Akif Rashid is Pakistani, and currently lives in Oslo, Norway.

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Issue One: A. Leylâ Hess

Woman Speaks of Shells

i

 

I used to candle

eggs:

 

a grey clot

of ash    strung

 

in yellow amnion

said bird

 

through

thin white

 

stone.

 

ii

 

           I taste

          of invert peach.

 

          stonefruit wo-

          man, marble

 

          skinned.     pin me

          to the light

 

          and think of

 

          gal/

                  atea

        breaking open

        like an

        egg

 

On the train

On the train,

a river made of bottle-glass

stares opaquely back

through the window,

 

wholly blind. Gauze-eyed,

cataracted; pupils

silt-slit.

 

In my seat, I shift,

feeling somehow

naked.

 

*

 

A hill, suddenly, and gone.

   (The river blinks.) And then,

the vein-fork scratch of a tree-

branch /  A tongue.

 

*

 

The river is an infant:

its cheeks bowed in and pitted

as it worries on a stone.

 

(The river has forgotten

how to spit.)

 

The river is a surface: its curves,

the ghost of something

slowly winnowed

into silt beneath.

 

*

 

Somewhere—many cities ago—

you are spitting me nude and shivering

   onto the sheets.

                             Somewhere,

a breaking bottle-glass against

the wall becomes a window

   (then, a river staring back).

 

*

 

I push the river out of me.

 

   I am as wet as the night; I feel myself fermenting in the veins of someone else; I feel myself dissolved completely—     Let it come! Let it come, let it come like rust on steel on steel from bottle-green glass /

 

I push the river out of me,

        blood-sullied on the sheets.

 

*

 

Somewhere, many cites ago,

we are a surface /   We are curves

of silk and something stirring

ghost-like underneath.

        Somewhere, I am

        winnowed into silt.

 

*

 

The train thrusts treelike

from my body, silt-fed, a scratch

against the turbid river-glass.

.

An afterthought:

   I have forgotten how to swim.

 

*

 

Suddenly,

I am fear-sick that the river

heads its body in your teeth.

 

There is nothing in the water

to suggest this /     and yet

   and yet…

 

*

 

It is dark. My glances

bead like rain against the window,

sluicing off.     I do not know

the face traced in the water—

   not yet.

 

A. Leylâ Hess is an amateur poetess and professional student, completing her undergraduate studies in chemistry and philosophy. Her current work arises from histories diverging from Turkish heritage poetry to process theory and treats on themes of textuality and transgender embodiment. She is a co-founding editor of HAVERTHORN Magazine, and writes at allegroinquieto.tumblr.com.

Issue One: Bryan Gewicky

The Nighest

There is a posture of inadequacy that feels everything around me:

golden river of lights, trees, caterpillars, unseen sky,

spider.

Death is not grown in terms of death; there is no antecedent.

                                                                                                               Please bury me

                                                                                                               somewhere no

                                                                                                               one ever goes.

There is still brightness far from the white-

My arms are full of grief,

and wilted from the heat of

joy. Peace like a river

-drowneth

I : carry it in the screens around me

: am the way

Dusk, the bringer of anxiety.

:the truth

in the garden

there is a cup

in the palace

a question : and the life is only known in terms of death

Bryan Gewickey is a recent graduate in English from UC Berkeley and has been previously published in Moorpark Review and Miles To Go’s Promises To Keep Vol. 1. In his time at Berkeley, he was an editor of Berkeley Poetry Review.

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Issue One: Charles Bane Jr

And Then At Times

And then at times

the dips of our marriage are

no different than the falling

into love in Richmond Park

before we started home, and I

wrote every day until the motion

of the ship made me certain that

for every berth going out,

new souls put in, spit from

foam. If I could read Greek or

understand the errand of the

cardinal we watch for with coffee

in our hands, I could make poetry

on the tips of fence spears where

he stops and the fire of you would

go urgently from land to land.

Charles Bane, Jr. is the American author of The Chapbook ( Curbside Splendor ) , Love Poems (Aldrich Press) ,  Three Seasons: Writing Donald Hall (  Collection of Houghton Library, Harvard University ) and I Meet Geronimo And Other Stories ( Avignon Press ). He created and contributes to The Meaning Of Poetry series for The Gutenberg Project, and is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida.

http://charlesbanejr.com

Issue One: Laura Thiessen

Chronologic Notation

bygones are ancient groves

lines of extinction—faded

pleats, pressed together

by steam irons at the local

laundromat—everything

on thick wire hangers,

thrown away, replaced,

a malodorous polish plait;

talisman, waiting for good,

wicked—infinitesimal changes

of generational death and

something like love

A Little Descent

It was hot and the sheets were damp, sleep elusive. In the dark, clothes were scrounged from the floor. I couldn’t find a bra, but decided it was too late for anyone to care.

Hands in my pockets, I took a walk, nowhere in particular and I ended up somewhere less than special. The liquor store that used to be a gas station and now has a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant hanging off one side of the building.

They carry everything from diapers to end-of-season swimsuits. They also have my favorite midnight snack. A one-inch circular slab of ice cream pressed between two fudge brownies. I can’t find it anywhere else, so I come here to release the hounds of craving.

I’d like to think the cashier is eyeing the fact that I’m not wearing anything under my pink shirt, but he’s probably just wondering why I paired with purple shorts and green flip flops. I would have thought he’d be used to seeing laundry basket couture at 2 am.

As I pull the cash out, I glance behind him at the wall of cigarettes. Marlboro Lights are just past the cashier’s left ear. I just point and he adds it to the total. They’re a lot more expensive than I remember. As I headed out the door, he says, hey, and tossed me a packet of matches.

It had been a long time since I lit up. The plastic bag holding my snack crinkled against my forearm as I struck the match on the side of the building. The matched burned halfway down before I was certain I really needed to do this.

Of course, I coughed a little after that first drag, so I took it easy. Only small huffs until I got about halfway home, then deeper, filling my lungs with toxicity I had long ago decided wasn’t for me anymore. I had forgotten the bit of light-headedness that came with that first cigarette. It felt good. Rebellious.

The ice cream had melted by the time I got home, but I didn’t care. The fudge brownies were sweet and cool after the burning in my lungs.

Laura Thiessen endeavors to be a vegetarian, but misses seafood and will occasionally cheat. After an extended recess, she has returned to school to obtain a degree in English, but she has no intention of teaching. In her free time she enjoys video games and margaritas, but not necessarily at the same time. More of Laura’s work can be found on her blog at pomegranatepithos.wordpress.com.

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Issue One: Heath Brougher

The January House Colossal

The morning pulse, the eye-colored dawn

was a hue we linked to thriving,

yet a pale frozen orchard

spoke through chattering teeth

its bounty of ice. We wandered,

at a pace low on sleep,

through the aisles of fruit,

nibbling frozen berries—a hard candy

at the break of day, anew, alight,

weaving meekly through the driest air.

Still only half awake, we wished

that winter would fade away

and turn our faces toward Spring.

Perishable

Sitting under cement trees

wrapped in the blissful numb

I chose the songs

left in the space between trough

and entrails, walking the sky

with my fingers,

toddlers of the air, I rose

to feel the grass stains

and bruises of my inertia

on my back. They were purple

as a tilting cup of grape juice.

This trunk must be hollow,

I said, watching a squirrel emerge

with cheeks bloated to acorn-width.

I looked into the black hole

and saw children keeping names

and jumping through ropes.

The smell of melted plums came

and I ate their essence off the concrete

slowly turned brown through years of wood.

Heath Brougher lives in York, Pennsylvania and attended Temple University. He recently finished his second chapbook, with two others on the way, as well as a full-length book of poetry. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yellow Chair Review, Of/with, Mobius, *Star 82 Review, Main Street Rag, MiPOesias, Lotus-eater Magazine, Third Wednesday, BlazeVOX, Calliope, Otoliths, Red Ceilings Review, Gloom Cupboard, Indigo Rising, Van Gogh’s Ear, Icebox Journal, Stray Branch, Inscape Literary Journal, and elsewhere.

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