Issue 12.4

Welcome to, the online iteration of Forge.

Nunc lego qui nunc scribunt – I read now those who write now

-Robert of Cricklade

Welcome to the October issue of Forge!

If you want a copy of this issue for your very own, check back here soon for details on how to order. Meanwhile, enjoy!

~Melissa Venables

Uber-editor, Forge 12.1


Forge is an independent endeavor. We do not receive money from any institutional patrons – we are completely reader supported. If you enjoy what you find here, consider buying a hard copy of a journal issue, or submitting a donation by clicking on the button below. Thanks!

Drop on by!




Bring a friend!






See what’s new!






Fred McGavran: The Landfill

Sarah A. Odishoo: Training

Rosalia Scalia: Static Electricity


Simon Perchik: Selected Poems—Fall 2018

Edward Butscher (New book preview!): Astrology | Caravaggio | Chaos | Déjà Vu | Dementia | Echoes | Heart | La Petite Morte | Paranoia | Seasonal | Zero

boxofchalk Books

The Osiris Poems by Simon Perchik (2017)

Local Lexicon by Edward Butscher (2018)

Guilty Pleasure(s) by Eric Greinke (forthcoming 2019)

Local Lexicon by Edward Butscher

“A poet whose inner life is a torrent of imagery sweeping the reader into a maelstrom on the page—frightening to experience but one continues to read, adjusting, recognizing yet another form of speech to be understood…and finally to enjoy with admiration for the skill with which such ferocity finds itself on a page with consistent style and force.”—David Ignatow

“Poetry is a sullen art, and Edward Butscher knows the etymology of the word and the true root of all art…His poems are a source of strength…Butscher is out for blood. His is a no-nonsense poetry, filled with our primordial origins.”—Simon Perchik

About the Author: Poet, critic, and literary biographer, Edward Butscher resides with his wife, Paula Trachtman, in Greenport, Long Island. His poetry and essays have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies since 1976. Collections of his poetry include Poems About SilenceAmagansett Cycle, and Child in the House. His biography Sylvia Path: Method and Madness, was the first of that poet, and Conrad Aiken: Poet of White Horse Vale won the Melville Kane Award from the Poetry Society of America.

Issue 11.4

Welcome to, the online iteration of Forge.

Nunc lego qui nunc scribunt – I read now those who write now

-Robert of Cricklade

Come celebrate Spring by enjoying the perennial goodness of our poets and writers and artists in the latest issue!

If you prefer paper to pixels, we will have a hard copy available soon.

~Leif Milliken

Uber-editor, Forge 11.4

Forge is an independent endeavor. We do not receive money from any institutional patrons – we are completely reader supported. If you enjoy what you find here, consider buying a hard copy of a journal issue, or submitting a donation by clicking on the button below. Thanks!

Drop on by!

Bring a friend!

See what’s new!



Michael Andreoni – My Rembrandt

Lenny Levine – Damning with Faint Praise

Jim Ray Daniels – Underwater

Arthur Davis – The Voyeur

Dee Redfearn – Who Was Gregorio Cortez


Simon Perchik – 12 Selected Poems

Jeanine Stevens – Caught Summer / Firestorm in the House of Birds / Ornate Persona / Winter Coat Tinged Platinum / Within a Frame

John Grey – Paul’s First Kill


Jessy Randall – 3 Comics

The Approach

By Don Swartzentruber


Don Swartzentruber started his studies with Disney animator Milt Neil, and concluded with a master of visual arts degree from Vermont College of Norwich University. He has instructed thousands of secondary and college students in courses from printmaking to visual storytelling. Don, wife and two sons reside in the Midwest. Several years ago, he took a sabbatical from painting to create sequential art. He is currently sponsored by the Indiana Arts Commission to connect his illustrated narratives with a readership.

Issue 11.1

Welcome to, the online iteration of Forge.

Nunc lego qui nunc scribunt – I read now those who write now

-Robert of Cricklade

The first issue of Forge volume 11 is here for your reading enjoyment.

The hard copy can be purchased online here.

~Melissa Venables

Uber-editor, Forge 11.1

Forge is an independent endeavor. We do not receive money from any institutional patrons – we are completely reader supported. If you enjoy what you find here, consider buying a hard copy of a journal issue, or submitting a donation by clicking on the button below. Thanks!


Drop on by!

Bring a friend!

See what’s new!



John Ballantine: A Kitchen Full
Joe Baumann: Bury Your Children, Bury Your Bones
Nancy Gerber: Eva’s Gift
Kate McCorkle: J.P.M.
Hali Morell: My Month Alone: When the Cat Won’t Help and the Inner Critic Won’t Shut Up


Gwendolyn Jensen: Singularities
Simon Perchik: Ten Poems—Summer 2017

Submissions for boxofchalk


The Osiris Poems by Simon Perchik

boxofchalk press is proud to announce our premier publication: Simon Perchik’s The Osiris Poems, 1993 – 2016.

At 93, Simon Perchik is one of America’s living treasures; solving the problem of subject and rejecting narrative, while retaining his vernacular, sound, and beat, he invents a truly original verse, both abstract and deeply personal: these are poems that reach our inner-mind and draw us back again and yet again.

“Simon Perchik’s extraordinary lyric talent is one of the best kept secrets in contemporary American poetry… surreal leaps orchestrate very personal material into archetypal configurations that approach transcendence.” —Edward Butscher, Confrontation 

“Perchik is the most widely published unknown poet in America… Often dense, often difficult, Perchik’s poems nevertheless lead to strange, unanticipated conclusions that usually reward the pursuit.” —Library Journal 

“Let others jockey for position. Perchik’s poems are obdurant and honest and will reach those who need them most.” —James Tate

First Craft Interview with Simon Perchik

Second Craft Interview with Simon Perchik

Meditations on dear Petrov

by Susan Tepper


(Set in nineteenth-century Russia during a time of war)




All night the guns echo off the mountain.  I am your partner and your slave in this collusion.  The sound seems so near.  As if it were you come stomping up my path.  Unexpected.  Unexplained.  Banging the filth of war from your boots.  Blood of untold secrets clamped between your teeth.  How many days and nights, dear Petrov.  Is it a matter of a lifetime spent.  Used up. Folded like your tent when your regiment moves on.  My body has gone to powder.  Entombed like the mummies.  Long ago on a pleasant day you spoke of Egypt.  We strolled. The sage bright in its purple glory.  Yet again death ruled our conversation.  But not our death that day.  Ours is a cold death.  The snows have covered many houses.  Does your tent collapse and die under the snows.  Then what is to be.  You must die with it.  Along with your comrades.  Surviving the guns to be buried under the Russian winter.  A cruel irony.  Born in such a place.  I lie on the straw mattress under my eiderdown saying the prayers.  My horse with me in this room.  His heat the only heat.  Neighing and my prayers that mingle.  Sound.  The only other living being.


Cast from molten steel a girl named after a male saint.  I never gave it any thought.  Salt being salt.  I slept on the river bank during clement weather.  My father didn’t come searching.  Encased in his misery.  Grieving my mother ‘til his own death.  Preposterous name some people claimed as I grew into a young woman.  I didn’t understand.  My mother chose this name. In the manner of all things fine.  Yet I never hear it whispered from your lips.  Even spat in an accursed way when a thing annoys you.  I hear nothing, dear Petrov.  Melting back in shadows cast by the stairs.  Darkly dancing.  Spinning.  Climbing toward what was forbidden.  War has decoded that mystery.  Women such as I.  Admired. Welcomed. Showered with gifts and perfumes.  Gowns folded in silken boxes.  Bouquets.  Flamboyant hats feathers high as the low branches.  And waltzes. I have heard stories of these wonderments.  Candle lit rooms where music transforms.  No longer beasts.  Opulence.  I would prefer to hear my name.  Spoken softly.  Across the breadth of my body.  Lips.  Tongue.  Saying my name.  My skin the flesh of peaches you once remarked.  Any which way.


The room faces onto a sea.  Promenade to stroll.  Floral bouquets bursting out of large stone pots.  Roman style.  I’ve seen them in books.  Now moldering in this house.  Once vital. Orange and yellow and pink blooms.  Flowers that don’t flourish in a harsh climate.  And walkways.  To contemplate the sea.  One entire wall of windows in this room.  Odd magic. The sea beyond is a blue-gray.  Flat as a piano key.  Soundless.  Strange to see no birds swooping for fish.  A room of glass here in this cold.  Land of war and death.  What is the logic, dear Petrov.  Only one bed in the room.  Spare of other furnishings.  Bed pushed in a corner.  Already occupied.  I wonder where I will sleep tonight.  A man and woman on the bed in the throes of love.  Mindless of me standing close by.  They are fully clothed.  I notice she isn’t especially pretty.  Would this woman appeal to your tastes.  Their eyes seem to follow me.  I notice a tall door in a wall next to the glass.  Similar to a barn door.  Smaller.  But clean and white and shiny.  Leading out.  My heart leaps forward with my step.  Pushing it open I emerge into misty wet warmth. Flowers in big pots filling my nostrils.  Dampening my skin.  So unlike this cold place.  When I reach to shut the door behind me there is no way back.


The river will take anyone.  No payment required.  Its banks are welcoming shoals.  Step in step in.  Shoes filled with sand then the soft slip under.  Solitary.  Last few seconds.  Do they try and breathe.  I ponder this while floating on my back.  Cold river water.  Summer arrived late.  The drowsing at windows.  Flies buzzing food.  So little time before the huff of winter returns.  I feel the water holding me high and dream of rapture.  Hands.  Silk and satin.  Fur muff and hat with impossibly bright feathers.  Everything perfumed.  Stalking.  The earth to the sun.  Furious.  Flowers poised on long mushy stems wearing tall vases.  The beginning and the end.  I think of that night we walked the meadow.  Animals braying.  A hawk that screamed.  You tensed, dear Petrov.  Every muscle grinding.  Such a pity.  But then you are always at the ready.  What a pressure to carry on the chest.  So thick it can lead to pleurisy.  In battle an illness can bring out the end.  You manage to dodge the shells and cannon fire.  One germ.  Can bring you crashing to your knees.





What is spare can be taught to be plentiful.  I have seen bounty in bunches of wild strawberries caught in the tangle of their own vine.  On my belly in the summer eating those fruits.  Juices dripping down my face and onto my dress bib.  Dirt grinding inside my shoes despite the many button hooks.  Bites from tiniest unseen insects.  It is a time of great abandonment.  Alone in the field with my horse hovering.  His steady breathing.  Tail swishing at the flies.  Would you know of such delights, dear Petrov.  Though I doubt it would occur to you.  Needing all sorts of things to surround your day.  Drink.  A hamper of meats and cheese.  Loaves of roughly textured bread.  Can you not relinquish.  Adapt to what is abundantly here.  I like my bread soft as the berries I stuff in my cheeks.  Fat red pockets with soft textured hides.  It almost makes life bearable.  Use honey, you say, whenever I pour the tea.  I try explaining that honey is a cloying thing.  It jots at the mind as your teeth stick together.  I would once like to see you here, dear Petrov.  Prone in the field.  Wild strawberries stuffed in your face and pockets as if it were the end of the world.


Susan Tepper is a fiction writer, poet, interviewer and essayist.  Her seventh book, a novella, will be published in the fall by Rain Mountain Press, NYC.  Tepper is the recipient of many awards and nominations, including ten for the Pushcart, NPR’s Selected Shorts, 7th place winner in the Zoetrope Novel Contest (2006), Second Place Winner in storySouth Million Writers Award (2014), a Pulitzer Nomination for her novel What May Have Been (Cervena Barva Press, 2010) and more.

Hand of the Hilt of His Short Sword

by Jeanine Stevens


~circa 1590 AD

London swept over me.

The street was filled with people

carrying huge bundles,

selling pastries and pamphlets.

Carts clattered

over the cobbles, splashed up muck;

flies buzzed everywhere.

The whole street smelled bad;

so did the people.

I scurried past delights

and horrors. A dog

with no ears or tail snapped at me

beside a bank of glorious roses.

I caught a glimpse

of the flat brown River Thames.

We crossed over;

the street was the bridge.

Above the roofs, on the farthest pole

grinned a white skull.

I stopped abruptly

and heaved my breakfast

into the reeking ditch.


(Found poem from King of Shadows,” Susan Cooper, 1999, p.38-30)


Jeanine Stevens’ second poetry collection, Inheritor, was released by Future Cycle Press, 2016. Her most recent chapbook, Needle in the Sea, was published by Tiger’s Eye Press. Her next chapbook, Brief Immensity, winner Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Award will be published in 2017. Jeanine has other awards from the MacGuffin Poet Hunt, the Ekphrasis Prize, the Stockton Arts Commission and WOMR Cape Cod Community Radio. Her poems have appeared in Stoneboat, Arsenic Lobster, Rosebud, Camas, Evansville Review, The Connecticut River Review, and Sentinel and Dragonheart (UK). Jeanine recently received her fourth Pushcart nomination. She studied poetry at UC Davis and California State University and has graduate degrees in Anthropology and Education. Professor at American River College. She was raised in Indiana and now divides her time between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe.