don’t forget about us // mariah carey // late nights playing in the dark, and waking up inside your arms
love // keyshia cole // never knew what i was missing
bleeding love // leona lewis // once or twice was enough and it was all in vain
big girls don’t cry // fergie // i’ll be your best friend and you’ll be my valentine
thank you thank you thank you
hmm i don’t really read specific poets, i read literary journals, so i’ll give you a list of online journals that i love and that i think you should check out (for some reason most of my faves are all caps??? idk y)
- B O D Y (new fave omg)
- PANK (old fave omg)
- SOFTBLOW (some of their stuff is not my cup of tea but for the most part they’re killer)
- ILK (love love love)
- DIAGRAM (mostly their prose, their poetry is not rly my style)
- The Collagist (fave fave fave magazine for prose)
- Hobart (some of their stuff is soooo trippy but in a good way. i like them loads and loads)
- BIRDFEAST (so so so good)
read them!!! they’re all v v good journals who have v v good work. :]
Winter Tangerine Review is easily my favorite thing in the world. Besides my mom. And brother. And chocolate croissants. And air conditioning in August. Well, one of my favorite things. We’ve had so many ups and downs in the past year and a half (woah, my baby is almost a toddler!) and it’s been such a pleasure going through all your work. Really. Thank you so much for believing in WTR’s mission, and in our staff, and in me. WTR went from an idea to an actual journal with a staff and a submissions platform and a website in about two weeks, and that is all because of those who have backed us from the very start, and we appreciate you so much more than you know.
As some of you may know, I’m doing a two-year gap program in South Africa starting in a few weeks (woah!) and this, among many other reasons, is why we have decided to temporarily go out of print. WTR was founded on four bases, one of which would be that we would try our very, very best to keep print alive, however we can. And we have not given up this dream. In the next year, we plan on (finally!) bring the Winter Tangerine awards to life, a blindly-read competition that will recognize the most electric poetry, prose and visual art, and will not only give a cash prize, but will also provide winners and finalists with mentors in their genre. We also plan on holding a print chapbook competition in early 2015 (more information on this soon!)! But what about the journal itself, you ask? We’re moving online, but not in a traditional sense - we’ll continue making manuscripts of WTR, but we’ll publish them as eBooks, available for purchase exclusively on our website. When we move back to print, we’ll continue publishing volumes online as well, so that those who live outside of the USA can experience WTR without breaking the bank for shipping.
As seen with WTR’s newest online feature, IMAGINARY HOMELANDS, guest-edited by the lovely Rosebud Ben-Oni (which is still accepting submissions so get to it, poets!), WTR will also move to publish an online feature once every four months that will range from the process of drafting to translations to poems about the color red. We are also going to hold a year-long open call for proposals, so anyone can curate a feature of work about what is important to them.
We are also opening submissions for our Short Film category and our Dramatic Writing category on September 1st. In the future, we do plan on putting on the Dramatic Writing submissions with actors and sets and a director’s chair in NYC, and our Short Films wil be played at the WTR Readings, Art Exhibitions, and Films Screenings. Speaking of…
What about the WTR readings?! Those are so fun! And great! And there’s hummus and guacamole! Don’t fret, loves. Those will continue to go on, thanks to the WTR NYC team!
So the fact that we’re taking a short break from print is really just dwarfed by all the other cool stuff we have going on, anyway. (Volume Three and Four will be our first eBook volumes! Ayyyyy! Go, the internet!). We’re really excited for the next couple months.
Get ready, folks! Keep writing and painting and sculpting and filming! We can’t wait for this fire to spark.
Winter Tangerine Review
someone’s world seem to twist in their shaky hands.
I didn’t realize how it sounded until after
you called the therapist. There’s a clinical term,
it feels more like the signs across your chest
read WELCOME TO, WELCOME TO,
never WELCOME HOME, never WELCOME
HOME. You tell me you don’t understand.
Divide. Separate. Consume. I am to the top,
shaking full of light. Swallow. Moonrock skull,
fingers like coffee filters, tongue swimming
with Tylenol, clear. I go weeks just letting the phone
ring, burying the bottles like translucent
orange explosives. Rise. Wash clean.
Stomach acid full of hornets, the finite of the body
above the resolve of concrete. Every word
sounds like a death threat. Open. Close. I pen out
letters to my insides but can’t speak
the language that hisses and spits. Boil. Simmer.
Burn. From far enough away, no one
can see the tremors in your throat. You ask me
how this feels. I could show you,
but the mind is a prism. It hurts invisibly.
Iron. Align. Refract. You do not understand
why my eyes well up on certain sidewalks, why
my skin crawls at my own name. Control.
Perform. Conclude. You ask me how to see
my kind of sick, but I cannot show you a suffering
that always runs clear.
again: me and Jesus
pulling nails out of our feet
at the lip of the Mississippi
Delta. Somewhere, Coretta
is calling for Martin
to come down from a sycamore.
He’s just a boy, here, but
he weeps and the sky
is ripped at the belly.
sometimes one just need messages like this, something small and kickass and full of warmth. thank you, really.
Poem for boy with all his baby teeth in a ring box under his bed. Poem for boy with bee stingers in his palm, for broken neck birds, too many pink scars on his shoulders. Poem for boy nailing our scarecrow to the tree out back. Poem for boy, bloodless hands, dead father, weighed down branches, steady. Poem for riverbank eulogy, poem for the house on fire, for the empty bedrooms, for the baby teeth, for his scratched out face, for the wheat I pulled to make that scarecrow whole. Poem for boy, for husk, for knotted rope, and a white bird, all quiet, all burned.
theme by: heloísa teixeira