A poem from Scout Turkel. On eggs, seeds, and donuts.
Two poems about land, culture, and dis(place)ment written by Valerie Wu.
Sofia Rakic’s tragic poem takes us on a sealife trip.
A anthology of art from (young) women around the world. Check out Tunnel’s global reach!
The season of graduation is upon us…. Reflect with Jack Anderson’s poem.
Our gift to you: A review of Amir Mitchell-Townes’s “Blacne,” out this Tuesday.
Words and photos by Angel Fabre felix’s poem
the anger in one’s soul will soon prove to no longer have meaning the urge for violence will soon take over
and all that will be left is
the blood of the innocent and not so innocent soon the world will be faced with the world’s blood on the world’s hands
nobody’s sins will be forgiven
suppose we are all condemned?
monday until you are comfortable with being alone
you will never know if
you’re choosing someone
out of love or loneliness.
Like Ian Words by A.A. Reinecke It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood the shape of: Minnesota. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. It is noon now. That was breakfast. The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured glass. The windows spoke in tongues or through lust strained in milk. Q: Do you love me? A: I don’t know. Chai was sweet grain melted like the wetness of my mouth and your tongue tasted still like Ian and his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting prohibition. Q: The flask? A: No. My plastic cup membrane shed quartz like history nabbed from a headband. The 1920s. Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything? A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. Photo credit: Brandon Yung
Words by Kyla Jonas Photographs by Brandon Yung Benevolence I am trying to embroider all of my apologies onto the fleshy parts of my fingers. I am hungry for more kisses from angels on my cheeks and more soft lullabies sung to my stale elbows. I wish to feel less like the chair that the morning fog steps off of in an attempt to hang itself over me. I pray for days that won’t always end with me staring at the floor and whispering about the heavenly body of earth to the light behind my dead moss eyes. I have the outline of butterfly wings carved across the bare covering of my ribs. I am wrapping my heart in Irish wool to grow into a sweater with every beat and warm my antarctic essence. I will one day hold fondness and humility in my rough hands and bestow it upon myself. I will be covered in shadows of babies breath flowers whenever I am immersed in sunlight. I will absorb tenderness. Vacant Small Talk My mind is …
The thoughts had mulling over a cup of coffee, alone in the morning, or maybe staring out a train window. Poet Claire August shares her own moments, thoughts and words strung together in a seemingly cosmic benevolence. Here are three of her poems. poems by Claire August images and other words by Brandon Yung Listless What is there to do on a Morning so long awaited where there is no- thing in particular that anticipates & dreams move slowly like a heavy novel. I write poems: art of the listless. I open my mouth, breathe yellow plums. In The Future How does anyone find the time these days for optimism. The future is for the profound, the past beautifully barren. …