fabric girl

by Jillian Mukavetz

face figured masks. of disaster. of laughter
.
ordinary cloaks, roast grass.
seed blend weeds
and shy pleurisy.
.
weaves the wind, metal detectors and missing keys: fabric girl
.
love is sartorial.
sheared mascara
split time, wrists, and sealed plethora
.
puzzled palms
review only to view
pressed
meanings in syllabus.
.
smeared, trust, letters. a girl audition in moral expletives.
fabric girl
trusts cuts and mends, couth labels. fabric ends

jillian mukavetz asks: how you would like me to define. what i perceive. define decreation? my eyes will never mirror yours. image and language and sound and idea negotiate space. everyone owns free will and behavior. from this perspective, maybe “I” means i love animals. i love my friends. i love bees and horses. i believe in human justice and feminism. i play the fiddle. i record cinepoems. i have a personal blog and a blog that interviews 21st century women writers and their aesthetic diversity. i take pictures. i write poems and essays. i volunteer. i am getting my MFA in poetry at New England College. maybe this is “about me.” or maybe just cracked shards of a dream.

An Abridged History of Costume

by Stacy Gnall

II. Ancient Greek

To move as through a bloom:
the mode by which bodies are draped.


IX. Baroque

Look at this beribboned bird, his indoor richness.
See how slow he swaggers, his asymmetry casual.
You will have heard his myth:
Oh, oh! His thrust. And oh! His plume.
His ego. His garland halfway to Apollo.

X. Rococo

A fishing for rocks and shells
from the frothy shores of heads.


XII. French Revolution

Incroyable. The body
as propaganda. Fear
of the blade
worn on sleeves
as cockades. Lapels
propelling rebellion
from eve to garnet eve.


XVI. Gay Nineties (& 1920’s)

Your shoulders stood at attention before the century,
and your daughters in wait beneath your boning.
The size of pearls, like pearls. Waiting to be swung.

Bio: Stacy Gnall is from Cleveland, Ohio. She earned her BA at Sarah Lawrence College and her MFA at the University of Alabama. Her poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, The Florida Review, The Gettysburg Review, The Indiana Review, The Laurel Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, and Prairie Schooner. She is currently working on her PhD in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Southern California. She lives in Los Angeles, and her first book, Heart First into the Forest, is just out from Alice James Books.

Fashion and Writing Show

by Michelle Detorie

Click to enlarge:

headless women and a tiger in a shop window on melrose

weft

Bio: Michelle Detorie lives in Goleta, CA where she edits Hex Presse and Womb. Current work includes the Poetry Booth (a recurring public art installation) and “Women & Animals: Are they Real?” (a poetic research project).

What I Wore

by Catherine Daly




Grade School:

What I wore:
A tricorner hat, for the bicentennial, and France, and then after Marianne Moore.
A green, red, white, and black plaid uniform. In cold weather, we could only wear green pants underneath the uniform.
I wore a red sash around my waist, in homage to 1984.
Famolare shoes.

What I made:
A project about the planetary ages on a rollup window shade, so that as you pulled it down, you went back in time (to "darker" ages).
Science fair projects about solar energy, the eye, and Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
A song for the piano that sounded vaguely "Indian" to me.

High School:

What I wore:
From a closet full of blue and white clothes, most only vaguely "in uniform", my favorites were a pair of dark blue corduroy jodhpurs, a full length on me navy blue wrap skirt (borrowed from Mom, who is much taller), periwinkle blue high heel boots, and 60s-70s low slung metal belts.

What I made:
I designed my first dress, for senior prom.
Painted t-shirts with neon paint and fun fur.
A wall mural satirizing the Preppy Handbook for Geometry Class.

College:

What I made:
Earrings.

What I wrote:
Confessional poems.
The first of my "girl" poems.

Grad School:

What I wore:
Increasingly more acceptable business suits for my day job.

What I made:
Financial Services marketing materials and deal documents.
Lyric poems.



Bio: Catherine Daly is author of eight books, most recently VAUXHALL (Shearsman, 2008), which is in many ways the lyrical/sonic successor of her book Locket (Tupelo, 2005), from which these poems are translated. Catherine Daly lived in the same apartment building as Kris Petersen in New York, and they last worked together on The Last Canto (Duration Press, 1999), which originally included two translations into Italian as well as the translations from Italian.

Diana in the Bath

by Angie Kirby


The following is a found poem from a marvelous article online about Diana Vreeland's bathroom memos to Vogue staff.






Diana in the Bath

I do not hear from anyone
a suggestion of a face
or something that would be suitable.

We are on the verge of a drastic emergency.

I speak of this very often
and as soon as I stop speaking
the pearls disappear.

No one has taken
the slightest interest in freckles,
this delicious coquetry.

Don't forget the serpent, the serpent
should be on every finger and all
wrists and everywhere, we cannot
see enough of them.

This girl I know looks like another
generation, her limbs, her way
of using the body — no one has
fussed with her — her wrist, throat,
arms and brow are superb.
I suggest that she is refreshing.

She has always felt unwanted, she has
never learned to use her face.

The photographers are all looking for babies.
None of them are finding any.

We are on the verge of a drastic emergency.

Delicious serpent, teach her eyes to smile.
Nothing gives the luxury of pearls,
please keep them in mind.



Bio: Angie Kirby received her BA with honors in poetry from Duke University. She is currently a freelance copywriter and graphic designer. Her latest work is in a forthcoming anthology from Bull City Press.

What Can Poetry Teach?

by Cristián Flores García





What Can Poetry Teach?

It taught me to fashionably dress
down. Feel comfort in my own words,
even if on first impression I believe these
a size too small.
It’s a lie
if you believe an active verb
is exempt of attractiveness
predicaments or that a noun alone
can’t hang
as perfect pendant.
Also a lie, that adjectives aren’t a must-wear
accessory when, like lipstick or under wear,
the right shade and t e x t ure are
singled out.
Still, times call
out when it’s best to go bare. Poetry
taught me to avoid whatever I am not
finding fierce as a feather or luxurious
as a thorn
less rose crown.
I learned that kiss, kissed, and making
out are various sizes not easy to bliss
fully fulfill and not to be confused.
Poetry
clearly fit cunt,
count, and can’t as the same sound
in my ears when I was learning English
as my second weapon.
To search
and decipher cock
as in fowl, slur, or action after a misunderstood
metaphor was a bloated trying out phase.
One poem showed me to be a coward by not showing
what I meant,
instead
giving what I believed others expected from me.
One poet asked, Can I kiss you? If you need
to ask, although I instantly wore blushed cheeks
and wet lips,
then you shouldn’t,
I thought. YES! You can, I screamed instead.
A poem made me laughed and I cried
at the absurdity of its perfectly masqueraded
offensiveness.
Poetry did
teach me that women and snakes must shed
our outermost skin when outgrown. Through
poetry I could admit that although I carried the Un
documented title
for twenty years,
my curves had all along unabashedly sashayed
the American style. Through Poetry I know
I best accessorize when I meticulously choose
those best words
not to wear.





Bio: Cristián Flores García was born in México City. Her poems have appeared in PALABRA Magazine, Connotation Press, and Mosaic Arts & Literary Journal. She was the recipient of a Canto Undo Fellowship and a MacDowell Fellowship in 2010. She now lives in the Southern California desert where she is currently working on her first collection of poetry, Brick Eater.