Philadelphia Stories: Publishing Local Writers & Artists
To read “Oshouo” by Shin Watanabe, click HERE.
Shin Watanabe was born in Gainesville, Florida and has lived in New York, New Jersey, Minnesota, and Nevada. He studied philosophy at the University of Minnesota and received an MFA in poetry at the University of Las Vegas. Shin is currently a PhD candidate in English with a creative dissertation in poetry at Binghamton University.
When Prince sings I Would Die 4 U
I know he’s singing the number 4,
the capital letter U, and I believe
there are things worth dying for.
I can hear their chopped off heads trailing
behind Prince’s motorcycle
waiting for the moment they bounce
together and kiss inside a cloud of exhaust.
His motorcycle is a storm,
a purple nebula flashing
magnetized lighting in the distant reaches
of space, where his light is travelling
still, untouched by death. I would die
for just about anything large enough
to love so easily: Your hair.
The taste of dehydration. The idea of you
towering above the actual me.
Your head mouths a letter
and then an alphabet.
Your head spells a word, rain.
Or was it pain?
Prince is touching down,
one wheel, then the other
kisses the ground. I want to warn him
that it’s too late, ask you
to help me lift him back into the sky
before history catches up,
but I don’t see you anymore.
And it’s not too late. You say
there’s more beyond each beheaded
word, outside the constellations
of hurt. As the elevator doors close
Prince says something about going crazy.
He’s still alive, his motorcycle still dragging
the future behind it like a parade.
Von Wise received his MFA for Creative Writing from Florida International University. He teaches English composition and creative writing in Philadelphia, where he lives.
Flight
(Dedicated to Carlos from Guatemala who died at the border)
An invisible hand, vice-like,
grips his shoulder…
Head, turning from the light,
he knows the cage has fallen.
He flees from persecution to persecution.
The arduous and angry road north,
long through jungle and desert and mesa
and up to the border of reason before
the breakaway turn
back into the night of sand and moon.
Huddled in the sagebrush of memory and fear,
the boy bites his wrist to stave the ghost of hunger,
too hungry to remember how to eat
or how his mother sang when cooking breakfast.
“Oh little vampire with blood in your teeth,
what energy can you derive from draining your life?”
Looking at the grains beneath his shoes,
he remembers a man named Tyson on the television,
saying as many stars exist…
To visit such a one!
He licks a finger with more blood than spit,
delicately sticking a single grain of sand
near the nail.
Here it is, a glorious star, big enough
to shine a way for him,
a child searching for magi.
There, in the desert night,
a one like the hijo Jesus,
hiding from Herod’s men.
With no strong-armed carpenter to build him a home,
no Madre’ Maria to suckle him in his shivering death.
The cage is everywhere,
infinite in its capacity to stretch and follow,
grabbing the bird-bones of his shoulder,
bidding him to step into the darkness.
Six, seven, eight steps south, now,
are like the breadth of a continent.
How does a cage like this get built?
Who orders its erection?
What is its material?
Everywhere unseen,
it falls like a weighted
drop of rain,
making a sound, but not in any instance to be found
in the desert night.
Moments… and
as great a star as the little bit of silica had become,
it has fallen from the finger,
itself in flight from the cage, to return
to its constellation on the desert floor.
As the keepers of the cage know no shame,
an echo cries, “Uncage the primitive!” but the voice is
a hollow in the scorpion’s den, where the predator remains
sophisticated in his charms.
The boy rubs the empty space at the tip of his finger
and hears the distant notes of his mother’s voice on the night breeze.
He can see her ebony braid swishing rhythmically as she cooks eggs
while he makes a bed in the lightless constellation of ages.
Khalil Elayan is a Senior Lecturer of English at Kennesaw State University, teaching mostly World and African American Literature, and he loves gardening and spending time in nature on his farm in north Georgia. Khalil’s poems have been published in The Black Fork Review, About Place Journal, and The Esthetic Apostle. Khalil has also published creative nonfiction, with his most recent essay appearing in Talking Writing, and his latest short story has shortlisted in The Vincent Brothers Review Annual Short Story Contest.
To read “Tía rebuilds her house as she snores,” click HERE.
Purvi Shah seeds healing through anti-violence advocacy and creating art. Her most recent book, Miracle Marks (Northwestern UP, 2019), investigates gender violence & her prize-winning debut, Terrain Tracks (New Rivers Press, 2006), plumbs migration and loss. Purvi relishes sparkly eyeshadow, raucous laughter, and seeking justice.
In the boat of the Buick, lake of ice
glinting in front of us like a tarnished mirror—
there in the empty Acme parking lot, my father
tells me: Step on the gas. And there it is
that moment of this-can’t-be-right, but
he nods, winds the window down until a small crack
forms along the edge and slips
the remains of his lit cigarette to skate
orange down the pane. He exhales smoke
from both nostrils and says, Step. On. The. Gas.
As my boot levels pedal to floormat, the tires
begin an almost useless spin—as frictionless
as teenage excuses. A brief catch
as tire grips asphalt and the car guns
forward until he says, Now, stop. He has prepared
me for this, and yet every instinct
tells me no. I freeze then force myself to flick
foot to brake oh how we spin—our DNA stretching out into endlessness,
the double helix pulling so tightly
against itself that it ribbons. Turn against the slide
against it, and I do—back treads gripping nothing, connecting
with nothing, and we sail in glorious squirreling circles
until gravity slows us
and we stop.
And again, his commandment
as he sparks lighter to fresh Carlton,
But this time turn into it—you’ll see, so again I punch foot to gas
then pound the brake, the back of the car flying out
from behind us—the tail turning the fish.
And twisting into that slide, four thousand pounds of Detroit steel
comes under my control, the steering restored, the tires aligned,
and as I pump the breaks softly, as he tells me to do,
as though there is an egg underfoot,
we glide to a stop.
There, in the rare silence that is the snow, cigarette now pinned
between his teeth, my father grins. He flicks ashes
sideways into the waiting mouth of the ashtray—
the yellowed tips of his fingers
stained with nicotine.
Tara A. Elliott’s poems appear or are forthcoming in Cimarron Review, 32 Poems, Ninth Letter, and The Normal School among others. An award-winning educator, she also serves as Executive Director of the Eastern Shore Writers Association (ESWA), and chair of the Bay to Ocean Writers Conference. A former student of Lucille Clifton, she’s been awarded numerous grants and honors for her writing and outreach, including the Christine D. Sarbanes Award from MD Humanities, The Light of Literacy Award from Wicomico County Public Libraries, and a Maryland Arts Council’s Independent Artist Award.
Make Her Dance
After Juicy J
When the ones fall from the sky
we confuse the source of the Rain.
The ass shaking caused a deluge.
As it should be yet the hand is considered
the source. The clouds aren’t even the
source. White science pales in any comparison
forced by Black alchemy. The gold, the
shine, the minerals in deep conversation
but we only see paper. Shiny teeth snag on
the lights, a Diamond in the rough was carbon
first. life Fossilized then consolidated. Some LLC
is paid homage and the rain dancers are
forced to tip out. House money isn’t real. Plantation money
is. The club separates the haves and have nots. Miss recognition
got a smart mouth. All hail the fat ass, the rain bringer,
clapping and winning the battle of the bandz.
Vincente Perez is a poet and scholar working at the intersection of Poetry, Hip-Hop, and digital culture. He is a PhD Candidate in the Performance Studies program and a Poetry and the Senses Fellow at UC Berkeley (2021). His debut poetry chapbook, “Other Stories to Tell Ourselves” is available now (Newfound 2023). Their poems have appeared in Obsidian, Poet Lore, (De)Cypher, Honey Literary, Poetry.onl, and more. www.vincenteperez.com
To read “A Song for Anna Mae,” click HERE.
LaVonna Wright is a poet, educator, and artist from Augusta, Georgia. Receiving her MA in English from Georgia Southern University, LaVonna is devoted to a poetic and academic ethos that centers on innovation, equity, & truthtelling. She writes to venerate Black women’s narratives, personal and historical, often bearing witness to the ways in which they have navigated grief, unraveling, and silencing; through her work, LaVonna aims to reaffirm the tenderness that has not been offered to them. You can find her sharing writings in her newsletter, spending time in community, or cooking something slow.
PHILADELPHIA, PA (April 2024) – Philadelphia Stories is thrilled to announce LaVonna Wright of Lithonia, Georgia (left) as the winner of the 2024 National Poetry Contest. This year’s contest was judged by poet Kirwyn Sutherland whose work has been published in American Poetry Review, Cosmonauts Ave., Blueshift Journal, Voicemail Poems, APIARY Magazine, FOLDER, The Wanderer and elsewhere. Kirwyn has served as Editor of Lists/Book Reviewer for WusGood Magazine, poetry editor for APIARY Magazine, and is a Watering Hole fellow. Kirwyn has a chapbook, Jump Ship, on Thread Makes Blanket Press. LaVonna Wright will be awarded $1,000 for “A Song for Anna Mae.” Wright and the runners up, honorable mentions, and editor’s choices will be honored at a reception next month in Philadelphia.
LaVonna Wright is a poet, educator, and artist from Augusta, Georgia. Receiving her MA in English from Georgia Southern University, LaVonna is devoted to a poetic and academic ethos that centers on innovation, equity, & truthtelling. She writes to venerate Black women’s narratives, personal and historical, often bearing witness to the ways in which they have navigated grief, unraveling, and silencing; through her work, LaVonna aims to reaffirm the tenderness that has not been offered to them. You can find her sharing writings in her newsletter, spending time in community, or cooking something slow.
Of “A Song for Anna Mae,” Sutherland comments:
I grew out of that
I fell
Dreams told me a
These set of lines are delicately simple but effective in how much heft they carry especially against the backdrop of Tina Turner’s, as well as many other black women domestic violence survivors’, story. The space in this poem allows the reader to linger on these lines/phrases, a further immersion into multiple texts: Tina’s words, the constructed poem, and the silences of her/their story/ies. In my experience, poetry is at its finest when it is well-crafted as well as being functional to its’ intended audience.”
Our three runners up are “Make Her Dance” by Vincente Perez of Albany, California; “Control” by Tara Elliott of Salisbury, Maryland; and “Tía rebuilds her house as she snores” by Purvi Shah of Brooklyn, New York.
To continue our poetry celebration, our contest judge, Kirwyn Sutherland (right) will lead a masterclass webinar on Sunday, April 7th on the topic, “Rearranging Erasure.” Details on the webinar may be found at https://secure.givelively.org/event/philadelphia-stories-inc/masterclass-with-kirwyn-sutherland. In addition, we will honor the winning poets of the poetry contest in an afternoon reception on Saturday, April 20 at 3pm at the Kanbar Performance Space at Thomas Jefferson University’s East Falls campus, which will be free and open to the public.
WINNER OF THE 2024 NATIONAL POETRY CONTEST
“A Song for Anna Mae,” LaVonna Wright (Lithonia, GA)
RUNNERS UP
“Make Her Dance” by Vincente Perez (Albany, CA)
“Control,” Tara Elliott (Salisbury, MD)
“Tía rebuilds her house as she snores,” Purvi Shah (Brooklyn, NY)
HONORABLE MENTIONS
“Flight,” Khalil Elayan (Tunnel Hill, GA)
“If the Elevator Tries to Bring You Down, Go Crazy,” Von Wise (Philadelphia, PA)
EDITOR’S CHOICES
“Oshouo,” Shin Watanabe (Binghamton, NY)
“Painting the Heart,” Alison Hicks (Havertown, PA)
“Underground Parking in Tehran, 1984,” Shakiba Hashemi (Aliso Viejo, CA)
“Yellow Throat,” Alison Lubar (Cherry Hill, NJ)
“the body remembers everything it has ever been,” Elliott batTzedek (Philadelphia, PA)
FINALISTS
“Sestina for Mothers on Fire,” Amanda Quaid (New York, NY)
“Dogma,” Mary Paulson (Naples, FL)
“An Ode to Bullshit,” Christian Hooper (Ann Arbor, MI)
“I’ve Always Struggled Learning Languages,” Jay Shifman (Philadelphia, PA)
“Like the Atmosphere,” Keren Veisblatt Toledano (Philadelphia, PA)
“Cain Stumbles on Step Eight,” R.G. Evans (Elmer, NJ)
“reporting from the colony on the inside of the empire,” Jay Julio (New York, NY)
“Vespers,” Eleanor Stafford (Narberth, PA)
“despídete (poem from a hospital room),” Julia Rivera (Philadelphia, PA)
“Monday, the First Bright Day,” Terra Oliveira (Lagunitas, CA)
“Extraction,” Jonathan Greenhause (Jersey City, NJ)
“Trampoline,” Sheleen McElhinney (Langhorne, PA)
“Apology Poem for Sleeping with Men,” Sara Fetherolf (Long Beach, CA)
“Breadwinner,” Ginger Ayla (Trinidad, CO)
“Rice Poem,” Maya Angelique (Philadelphia, PA)
“grief is a stone in the throat,” Alison Lubar (Cherry Hill, NJ)
“To enter into the body of god,” Elliott batTzedek (Philadelphia, PA)
“Long Emancipation Proclamation,” Vincente Perez (Albany, CA)
Review by Amy Small McKinney
In Nicole Greaves’ book, Having Witnesses The Illusion, the first poem, “Prelude” from Section I. Another Country invites us into her world of deep imagery and lyricism joined with storytelling. Though you know nothing about this world and the person she is addressing yet, you learn quickly that the search for others, connection in the midst of disconnection, and the desire to be both part of and out of this world is a central theme. In this introductory poem, Greaves begins with a girl’s love of horses:
There was a year when you thought of nothing
but horses, from wild mustangs to thoroughbreds,
And then, the first mention of language, how it is both “arrow” and forgiveness:
For a year you felt too massive to stay,
too wounded to move forward. You listened for bells,
for the precision in a sentence that held the shape of an arrow,
one that knew how to find the heart
Until finally, the possibility of connection:
It was then you began to realize that there might be others
who thought they could become horses too, and you called to them (1).
Throughout this book, Greaves also alludes to dark and light, hidden and revealed. In “Conventicle,” there is “Moonlight, the crack of stone / inside a hidden doorway” and “no men // for miles, only us, here / in this country between countries, // in this light of refuge” (2).
In “Sacks of Scarabs, Greaves continues this theme of dark and light, foreign and hopeful belonging as she and her mother held hands through the museum:
The museum’s glass box was hidden from light
in between the hopeful columns, the scarabs swarming in a pool
of fabric. Somehow they made the presence of my mother’s body
more familiar, in the way her shadow made it more foreign (3).
This sense of foreignness linked arm and arm with togetherness continues throughout the book
in many disguises, including and especially, the power of language. For example, in the poem, “Mine,” Greaves writes, “Through the keyhole of my ear / where I was locked in / to what my mother and tía / were saying, the disagreement / of their silhouettes / in their first language, / language of sails and conquest, / where azul is closer / to the blue in fire, / hija closer / to the thread in daughter, / and mía closer to mine” (4).
Greaves often weaves Spanish into English, including when her beloved mother tries out idioms in English, saying: “Don’t look a dark horse in the mouth”(5). As a child, a teacher scolded Greaves for rolling her r’s too much, an allusion to her mother tongue. Greaves uses language to highlight lack of language, words like “stutter” and “the anticipation of sound.” And she returns to the horse frequently, whether in lines from “Caning”: “When he tightened the strands he leaned // back as if pulling on reins, the horse / the night before him when silence / magnifies the anticipation of sound” (13). And to the sense of being different—an outsider listening in, an outsider wondering: Will I always be the sum / of my poverty? (11)
Section II. The Waiting Room, confronts other ruptures, the loss of the beloved dying mother as well as the author’s own miscarriage where, after watching a child and father at a playground, she says during her own winter, “this is the sugar the body craves.” (41)
In this section focused on grief, the title poem, “Having Witnessed The Illusion” is written in tercets, emblematic of mother, daughter, and death waiting in the wings, and returns us to the same sense of struggling to see inside, through a peephole or listening from outside a door: “to reveal just enough to say there was more // in the way a knitted sweater is a series of portholes, / and the body, the ocean, the thing contained / in its projection, a ship in a bottle, a cancer in its cell, // or the waiting room itself. (29)
In “Moments In The Trees,” Greaves continues:
when the mind is years ago
in the village that no longer is
a village, thinking of that boy who no longer is
a boy. Her brow furls like someone
blowing into a reed
to push music through, tightening
the pitch into its eye, sharpening
until the voice is gone. (45)
Greaves finds her way back to her mother, through her mother’s words that become her own in Section III Reclaimed. In “Awakening To My Mother’s Voice From Beyond:” Maybe, hija, you should go to the / planetarium today and watch the universe / expanding (55).
Greaves moves her readers away from the peephole, away from the porthole, away from the small openings between herself and the world, including the mother’s world before America, and into something larger. Now there are doors and windows into the world, a house painted “cerulean blue / like the house in my mother’s story, // the one in her village, made of water,” and then: “In this house, my mother said, // there are no masculine or feminine words, / the spoons were always joyous // and women always safe.” (“Mi Casa” 57)
And in “Sorting Through My Inheritance,” Greaves admits: “Sometimes there’s no translation. / A word so much a word that you can’t speak it. More taste. Filament.” and how “All through adolescence, I was always both awake and asleep. / You would ask me:¿Entiendes?/ Then quickly remembered English: Do you understand?/ “Entiendo, Mamá.” And finally, “After you are dead, I’m happiest becoming you.” (73)
And as a mother to her own children, Greaves, in “Epilogue,” while painting wooden boxes, tells her readers, “Then we went to the fields / to be with the horses, but we could only hear them. // The smallest muñeca said to me, / You can’t tell if they’re coming or going.” She answers: “No, my lovely little nut, I said, / they are one and the same.” (75)
By the end of the book, Greaves has brought us full circle, moving us from the experience of being different, to loss, and to finally finding what she has gained and who she has become. In struggling to understand her single mother’s immigrant experience, and her own shuttling between languages and profound sense of feeling like, and being viewed by others, as an outsider, we journey with Greaves as she, daughter, teacher, mother, and writer, moves closer to belonging. “In the last bench in Meeting I am / all the other women” (“Faith And Practice” 63).
Nicole Greaves’s poetry has appeared in numerous literary reviews––including SWWIM, Cleaver Magazine, Matter Poetry, American Poetry Review; Philly Edition, Radar Poetry––and was awarded prizes by The Academy of American Poets and the Leeway Foundation of Philadelphia. She was a finalist for the 2020 Frontier Digital Chapbook Contest and a 2015 finalist for the Coniston Prize of Radar Poetry, who also nominated her for The Best of the Net. She was selected by Gregory Orr as the 2003 Poet Laureate of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania.
Reviewer: Amy Small McKinney: Amy Small-McKinney is a Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate Emeritus (2011). Her second full-length book of poems, Walking Toward Cranes, won the Kithara Book Prize 2016 (Glass Lyre Press). Her chapbook, One Day I Am A Field, was written during COVID 2020 and her husband’s death (Glass Lyre Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in numerous journals, for example, American Poetry Review, The Indianapolis Review, The Inflectionist Review, Baltimore Review, Pedestal Magazine, SWWIM, Persimmon Tree, ONE ART, and The Banyan Review, and she has contributed to several anthologies, including Rumors, Secrets, & Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion, & Choice (Anhinga Press, 2022) and Stained: An anthology of writing about menstruation (Querencia Press, 2023), among others. Her poems have also been translated into Romanian and Korean. Her book reviews have appeared in journals, such as Prairie Schooner and Matter. She has an MFA in Poetry from Drew University and currently resides in Philadelphia.
