Update on fiction and poetry submission guidelines

To further distinguish our site from other literary ventures, Logos will no longer be accepting works of prose and verse that have been previously published, whether online, in print, or both, and, from now on, will only accept original, unpublished manuscripts of prose and verse. Excerpts from a novella, novel or poetry collection slated to be published, however, may still be accepted.

Kindling

Upstay the course, the wood is vast,

beasts there chitter, in dark amass;

fabrefaction—blade from bone,

amarulence to the thorny throne.

Ramiferous lanes, newly cleaved,

swift through, gather fallen leaves.

And in the clearing, xylem stacked,

by sanguine tongues, the ochre wracked.

Tawny char there howls ablation;

the raze but kindling, for creation.

My Forecast

by John Grey

Snow falls on snow. 

And, in between, 

I trudge. 

 

Yes it’s beautiful 

but it chills my bones. 

It decorates. 

It beautifies. 

But my fingers freeze 

despite my gloves. 

 

I am on my way 

to a place  

that will offer me 

radiance and discomfort 

in equal abundance. 

 

The weather forecaster  

got it right. 

Now it’s down to  

the people forecaster. 

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

The Small World

by John Grey

It’s blanched white tunnels

that tube-worms dig,

swirling around in complex patterns

like the trail of a child’s finger in cake frosting.

Or the emerald gleam of glowworms.

Or tiny scarlet and blue-jeweled crabs.

The world offers small

as much as it does large.

A lizard stares up at me from beneath a rock.

Its eyes are two black pinheads.

 

There’s a drowsy buzz

where dragonflies feed.

And blenny darters skirt

the limits of a pool,

feasting on midges.

Even the leaves for grass are in on the miniature.

A cricket pivots on one.

A second is free but blustered.

 

I am on my knees,

immersed in a world.

strong in detail

but thin on drama.

But then a bobolink

claims an unwitting fly.

I spoke too soon.

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

In My New England Home

By John Grey

Damn. I’d have to really hate myself

to believe she’s never coming back to me.

Look in the mirror and throw up.

Smash in my skull with a hammer.

But I’m merely waiting here,

as stoic as Zeno of Citium.

 

So she left without a word.

And I find nothing to console myself

in the sun-burnt reds, the crepe-like yellows,

of Autumn. In fact, I long to shake

every tree in the yard, the neighborhood,

the forest, so their leaves come down

ahead of time. Stark trunks and

gutted branches – that’s my motto.

But she’ll return. It’s too lovely out

not to.

*

John Grey is an Australian author, published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty, currently residing in the US.

Circular 2/15/20

PROSE

From Fictive Dream: Pickers by D.S. Levy. A garage sale brings back old memories for a woman unusually devoid of sentimentality.

Right, Colleen thought, just like the cow would match the purple moon hanging over their house.

§

From Jokes Review: …In Space! A new issue of the satirical magazine.

Will there be milk on your spacecraft? I hope so. I’m bringing some Ring Dings for a snack because I figure the tin foil wrapping will protect them from any cosmic rays we may encounter. (Message to Zargofarse The Third…)

§

From Okay Donkey: Ladybird, Ladybird by DeMisty Bellinger. A surreal story about a woman contemplating her life while eating a talking bird (maybe).

I imaging taking one of my chopsticks and turning it away from the deep-fried tofu and towards him. I see myself forcing its dull tip into his chest, breaking beyond errant bones and stringent skin, plunging through to his heart.

§

From The Drabble: Perfect Match by Amanda Quinn. The (very) short tale of a romance too good to be true.

Things moved fast, but never at yours.

§

From Write Ahead / The Future Looms: Handiwork by V.F. Thompson. Of hypercode constructs and domestic tensions.

Barley went quiet, staring at the galaxy that whirled beneath the missing tile.

§

VERSE

From The Cheesesellers Wife: The Letter. A tribute to the author’s Great Grandfather, husband and soldier in the Boer War.

tells of the fury and terror of local thunderstorms
talks of photos and chocolate received

§

ESSAYS

From Momus News: Technobabble Versus Technical Description by E. A. Wicklund. An insightful article for novice fiction writers.

Any topic, from rockets to magic to basket-weaving can have their technical aspects, using terms and concepts most people have never heard of. That doesn’t mean describing them is therefore technobabbling.

 

To Sculpt The Stars

The barren plane, hushed and vast

The arrow flies and must be passed

The stage of contest, endless night

The dark undone in curtains flight

Threads of thought, like gold out-spun

Threads of thought, to braid the sun

To sculpt the stars, like wetted clay

To hold the seasons, one must pay

Coinage flowing—slick and red

Mintage of the psyche bled

Algid silence, from the tomb

Pulsing notes, as from a womb

Ruptured by the plenum’s ire

Thrumming fierce as serpent’s fire

It to be expunged—consumed

Reforged amidst the death of doom