eunoiareview
Eunoia Review
Eunoia Review is an online literary journal committed to sharing the fruits of ‘beautiful thinking’. Each day, we publish two new pieces of writing for your reading pleasure. We believe that Eunoia Review can and should be a home for all sorts of writing, and we welcome submissions from writers of all ages and backgrounds.
8650 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
hugecarls
awesome sauce
shaperaverse-brainrot
Totally 100% accurate shaperaverse
overcastkid
zolu posting
crackr-j4ck
🌊Cracker-Island⛱️
tapfineart-blog
TAPart
Text
Merrymaking
We can elect to merry make
or implore the quiet needles
to withdraw from seams
they tighten
with coarse silk thread, expose
the parting wounds. You can let them
bleed their carnal soliloquy.
Or you can layer roses
over Wedgwood blue stationery
written on a hundred times
miss you I miss you I—
as if cursive alone
or angels frozen in papier-mâché
dangling on glints of silver wire
could quell your…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Widower's Lament
[“Love never ends.”—1 Corinthians 13:8a]
I braved
the palming of
your granite slab,
your new metes
& bounds, and bled
a tear.
Then paid
a visit to our creek
clotted with detritus—
fruit-flesh, pits—
dropped last winter
from the cherry tree
we planted for
our paper anniversary.
Stuck to the dry
mantle of frost,
the last crisp…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
A Brief Intermission of Solidity
when cloying pain of desk work pangs
at the base of my neck
& dogs the hour of my waking
when intercepted by infertile window:
four or five or six fragmented
locks of willows
when stiffness yokes
small interstices in my body
a head levitating
a lifetime of this
always dissipating
no
disappointing night sky
the embattled pane
resists…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Causing a Body
After Peter Gizzi
To explain suffering is to console it; therefore it must not be explained.
– Simone Weil
a starved wisp
of oxygen
lisps string of syllables
this is where
the poem ends
the deformed section
of a body
“this is how i am wan…”
the impoverishment…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Baffled Skylight
termites eat
would anyone care
to explain this
experience which burrows deep
into the empty page
i keel
entering only
to live there
for as long as i consume it
that memoryless moment standing
in the carrefour crossroads fork
in abandoned dream
direction of stalling here not forever
but for a moment of…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Looking Out Of
my faint windows into milk
-blue streetlights, denuded
sky caught on film: time
-eaten apple
-colored old wound
the ideal world
on film,
ideal…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
The Walk
do i need a lot
the walk
failed as language
birdsong
bugsong
cello’s voice
utterance from a leg
i am tired
of walking
left the cane
like a dream
in…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Drawn to the Light
This small town perched precariously on a promontory has been good to her. It has been her constant stage, equanimous and utterly nonplussed by the fact that she has never acted.
In her incorrigibly youthful days, she worked above a barber’s shop and ate her lunch underneath a sycamore tree that yawned its shade. She didn’t notice she wasn’t alone that day until a tall shadow lacerated her dark…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Fallen Friend
The sun was out but it felt like the Dark Ages, the anniversary of lost. More than a dozen crows sat high on the wires cawing together, a warning, a cry. We looked for predators. My friend had once seen crows alarming for an owl, I for a hawk. We scanned the trees and sky but found no owl, no hawk. Where were the birds looking? Their beaks pointed down. Following the line, we saw the black…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Thanks for Asking
Normally, you would get a tattoo with a friend to mark an event, or so she had heard, but that friend was gone, oh, fifteen years now? She wondered, for exactly one second, about getting the tattoo since she’d just dreamed about it, but decided against it. She had no tattoos and didn’t want to start because she knew she had an addictive personality, and she’d seen what had happened to other…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Home, More or Less
I put on dark glasses over my real eyes. I tug my jacket over my wings. I pull heavy boots over my claws. I gargle and spit. Now I am ready for your torrent of words: your sighs and your signs. Now I am ready for my life in the city.
Alisa Golden reads a paper newspaper at breakfast, walks her inner dog daily, and edits Star 82 Review while watching birds in Albany, CA. Her art and writing have…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
The Berries
A station wagon drove up and blocked my entrance as I approached the General Store on foot. A woman jumped out and buzzed toward me. “Please buy,” she said. She waved her arms at the back of the car. “Cheaper than in there.” Behind the rear windows were flats of strawberries, or maybe raspberries, some red fruit in baskets. She looked distraught and angry as I turned my back. I entered the store,…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Nothing Less
Mom juggles gently a wooden spool through her fingertips. Those fingers can break the thread they now pet; I’ve seen it myself.
You’re left to gawk in the aftershock of the snap, knowing fingers shouldn’t carry the strength for which men need kitchen shears.
Perhaps thread never really breaks, its fibers left grasping for the dearly departed segment. Left to mend or to sew or maybe just to make a…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
a message to the self-conscious (undiagnosed) youth
run your hands across every soothing surface, a quick jig banged out
by those clumsy fingers. smile. or don’t, and put those thoughts of how
unpracticed your lips are in the art of curving just the right amount upwards at
the corners of your mouth, aside. never mind – smile. a good trick is to keep your
gaze at the centre of the eyebrows. do not find yourself fascinated by the tiny
hairs or…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
birdhouse of anguish
I keep my head shaved
so the starlings of sorrow
can’t nest in my hair, yet
if I press my hand
to my chest I can feel
the flapping of anguished
wings within the aviary
the sparrows of regret
have created from the
hollow remains of my heart.
Karl Koweski is a displaced Chicagoan now living on top of a mountain in rural Alabama. His poems and stories have been published throughout the small press…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Sunday Morning Cooking
soles of my salmon feet whisper to zebra tiled floors. the hiss
of the rice cooker plays my mother a ballet melody as she presses
her fingertips on our moon counters, every drum from her nails
showering the room in island rain. I am reminded of jeweled fish
glittering in a mineral sea. the women whose curved backs carry
generations of secret stories. the ancestors whose splintered hands…
View On WordPress
0 notes
Text
Watcombe Bay
The sea is like satin –
a great expanse of the finest fabric,
measured by the nautical mile, and cut
out at the horizon
by some gigantic, prehistoric tailor
with scissors made of land and sky.
The sea has many colours without names:
not white, not blue,
not green, not black, not brown;
but…
View On WordPress
0 notes