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FWR Monthly: September 2015


Meditation frequently asks its practitioners to ground themselves in their bodies through a series of structured “noticings.” You are gently urged to press yourself into your chair, press your feet into the floor…

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FWR Monthly: August 2015


The idea of voice has been hot on my mind lately. I think the ongoing work of folks like Amanda Johnston (one of the founders of Black Poets Speak Out)…

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FWR Monthly: July 2015


For this installment of our new monthly “mini-issues,” I wanted to present a small folio on a genre which seems to gain more and more attention, particularly among poets — the “photo-essay.”

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FWR Monthly: May 2015


Starting this spring, we’ll be sending our subscribers monthly “mini-issues,” each one edited by different members of our staff. We see these monthlies as a chance to showcase more great work, and explore…

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The Burning by Peace Adzo Medie


The potholes in the road were filled with muddy water because it had rained the night before. Some of the holes, jagged around the edges, were the size of mini craters and every time we reached one, we stomped our feet in it and sloshed the brown water on each other. We roared in excitement…

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Three Poems by Benjamin Miller



As this is not the land of ice packs
and regenerations, of spent glue guns

or antiseptic counters—since shy
reminders filter through the streets…

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Three Poems by Brian Komei Dempster



No turning back. Deep in the Utah desert now, having left one home
      to return to the temple of my grandfather. I press the pedal
            hard. Long behind me, civilization’s last sign—

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by Stephen Berg


When I think of it now I still see just how ugly and dirty the place was, what a bare unprotected monk-like life it was that year, living first in the old tire warehouse on the outskirts of town, no toilet or sink, no furniture, nothing except two ratty mattresses, fruit crates…

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Three Poems by Sam Sax



i watch him touch him self over a screen
and pretend it is with my hands

how you pull a quiver from an arrow.

he moans and i grow jealous of the satellites.

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Maps by Patrick Lawler


“Who was it who decided on where Tallahassee should be?” Toby asks questions, and we laugh a lot. Stupid things really. But it makes you think, and it helps to pass the time. He takes the money when people pump their gas, and I do most of the other things, like brake jobs, tires, and shocks. Mostly minor repairs, quick jobs that get a good price for the boss.

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Three Poems by Collier Nogues



I know forgetting myself is a good thing, the best loss.
The trees look soft in the fog’s distance, egg-colored light
all over them. Even the sheep,   
         The earth dries in ribs the rain has drawn on it.

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Story About a Woman I Used to Know by Jozefina Cutura


Milena always reminded me of a backdrop to a bleak landscape, a woman unlikely to arouse much conscious consideration, though she hovered around like an uncertain but inescapable future punishment. She popped in and out of our lives at random, insignificant moments. There was, for instance, that typically drab October afternoon in Frankfurt.

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