Somewhere Called Echo Lake

A poem
by Natalie Crick
Somewhere Called Echo Lake – Part 1
A man shoots with a gun.
On a mission from God
Starting his own religion.
He could do anything now.
At Echo Lake
The flowers bled and died
Where she first stumbled, fell down
And cried.
Dizzy in the darkness,
Where he led her into a grove of trees.
And gunfire rang out
Like a terrible death bell.
There were no lights on the road.
Moonlight shone onto Echo Lake
Like something else.
A place from where no one else has ever come back.
Somewhere Called Echo Lake – Part 2
He drove like a thing without mind.
Vacant, disorientated.
The moon shone down full of pain.
He shot her till it hurt like hell.
He dragged her into the disused factory
Where he lived off the land, all those years ago,
In the old farm buildings
And the sun set blood red on the horizon.
There was no one down there at all
During summer months
And his soul turned
Black as funeral song.
Rain fell down
At somewhere called Echo Lake.
One shining star is falling.
Her ghost is calling.
Back on the beach that day,
An old ship lay broken and charred
As a lightening fork,
The waves hungry and grey,
Roaring in thick fog and wet winds.
I need to speak with you about something.
And all at once,
He was ravaged by racking sobs.
Before, before, before.
A place, a time that had gone forever.
The last thing he remembered was
The stink of her blood
And the moon reflected in her eyes at
Somewhere called Echo Lake.
Natalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women’s poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne’s Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.

Poet Interview #55: Natalie Crick

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? At what age did you start writing? Have you always written poetry? Who/what first inspired you to start writing? Who are your favorite poets?
I live in Newcastle, UK, and, age 26, have been writing poetry for around ten years now. Last month my poem, ‘Sunday School’, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. I tend to prefer writing poetry over other forms of writing. I first became inspired to start writing as a teenager when I read and researched Sylvia Plath’s life and works. I particularly enjoyed Plath’s collection ‘Ariel’, and was fascinated with the dark and intense language and imagery at play in Sylvia Plath’s poetry. My interest in Plath led to the discovery of my other favorite poets, Louise Gluck, Sharon Olds and Anne Sexton. My own poetry began to mirror the melancholic, confessional tone of such works.
How did you first start writing a poem? Does it come to you out of the blue, or do you have a set time where you meet with your Muse each day and let the words just…come? Has your idea of what poetry is changed since you began writing poetry?
I began to write poetry whilst studying in the sixth form of my school in the UK. The first poem I wrote was called ‘Love Me’, first published in Cannons Mouth journal. As I embarked upon further education I studied poetry-based modules and was soon writing more and more and creating my own collections. Today I tend to write most days and hope to gain further insight into creating poetry by enrolling upon an MA in Writing Poetry this year. My style of writing has changed dramatically over the years. Currently I am very inspired by connections between spirituality and the natural world and love to write about the nature all around us: Autumnal days, Poppies, winter leaves…
Are you on Facebook or Twitter or any other social media? Does that fit into your writing life, and if so, how?
I do not tend to follow social media, but this could change in the future.
Do you have a writing group or community of writers you share your work with? Who are they? What are you reading right now?
I currently attend a creative writing group and find it a very rewarding experience to share my work with others. I am currently reading Louise Gluck’s collection ‘First Born’ and the fiction book ‘The Little Friend’ by Donna Tartt – I love all of Tartt’s books, particularly ‘The Secret History’.
What words of encouragement can you offer other poets who are trying to get their work noticed?
Write boldly and write about things you truly love and enjoy – enthusiasm will shine through in the poem.

Siren Song

A poem
by John Grey
Someday, in a room maybe,
on a beach, you will see
the absolutely right woman for you.
Recognition will leap from the heart
to the head and back again.
You will promise yourself,
“There is my beloved,
my companion for the rest of my days.”
I’m only telling you this
because I know, from experience,
that woman will be gone from your life
before you even get to exchange a smile,
let alone a word.
Someone, for whom she’s maybe
third or fourth best choice,
will marry and settle down with her.
Dreams are a first rate cover
for a second rate reality.
Their fires are ashes elsewhere.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Thirsting for Gods in the Eye of Nature

Two poems
by Peter Magliocco
The Alien Menu
Out of the clearing, out of the bulrush
There’s something coming like havoc
To stamp its face on the faceless
Everyday losers in suburbs bland.
Taking its cue from a lousy biopic
“Chronicle of a Hungering Man,”
He’ll return to life in order
To save food chains from salmonella
(Or just plain gross consumption).
The monster’s in us all, dear consumer,
Just our metaphysical double
In unrecognizable drag disguise;
He kisses the underwear of saints
Waiting patiently in supermarkets
To redeem coupons before the famine
& collect corrupt fat from gluttons.
It’s written in the wind like a message
Left long ago by ancient aliens
Returning to feed starving minds
A diet of lies for ambrosia’s moonshine.
Faith or Beauty
Thirsting for gods in the eye
of nature, something
always goes wrong
to throw me off course;
the all-seeing eye
is invisible
& beyond visualization,
like something truly divine.
Yearning for time in a watch
hammered into disrepair
reminds me that Man
sometimes breaks
what really isn’t fixable:
beauty inherent in life
perhaps, or simple goodness
in a human being un-
sullied by inhuman events.
To paraphrase Hemingway,
there is still strength
at the broken places,
but there blind faith
is crushed by the eye
of a greater hurricane.
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he’s been active for several years as both small press editor and poetry scribe. His latest poetry book is Poetry for the Downtrodden Millennium, from The Medulla Review Publishing. With numerous chapbooks and a few Pushcart nominations to his credit, he also publishes the indie literary arts ‘zine, ART:MAG, and has recent poetry in places like THE BEATNIK COWBOY, PYROKINECTION, THE NEGLECTED RATIO, IN BETWEEN HANGOVERS, and elsewhere …