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This issue, we are thrilled to introduce an exciting new voice on the Southern Poetry scene. Augustus Gump's stark, plaintive verses have a heart-wrenching simplicity remeniscent of the young Rupert Hogwalloper. In a few
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exquisitely chosen words, Gump seizes the whole Human Condition and distills it to the size of a walnut, or perhaps a small marble. Or a little ball of silver paper, forgotten then suddenly rediscovered in your trouser pocket.
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WHY
- because i don't understand you -
a cab door slamming on my despairwhy?
my voice mingling with
streetlight bouncing off
moving glass
- because
when you speak you
pause in the weirdest of
places.
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THIS POEM
i wrote you this poem
in red ball point on
the back of a
walmart receipt
and it was
nothing
but look
printed
cool punctuation
now don't you see its
significant
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This issue's classic comes from that most celebrated of all poets, Anonymous.
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THE IRISH PIG
'Twas an evening in November,
As I very well remember,
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
But my knees were all aflutter,
So I landed in the gutter,
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.
Yes I lay there in the gutter
Thinking thoughts I could not utter,
When a colleen passing by did softly say,
"Ye can tell a man that boozes
By the company he chooses" -
At that the pig got up and walked away!
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