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Experimental & Form Poetry with Anthony Watkins

Running water N poems


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|1家left right庭 |2理red heart想 |3 love了莎feeling  |N AbCd


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Whether need 修诗妆歌: don't, everybody has water(水)language, drown poem


Whether need ++++++ : add running water coin, do not add,do not publish your poem


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Running water N poems


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Fang Dayu was born in 1998 in China and now studies at Shanghai University of International Business and Economics. He creates Chinese and English experimental poems mixing many elements. His poems have appeared in 中国《华文文学》,《延河》, 《散文诗世界》,

《小说与诗》, 美国《新大陆》and more.



Being at the

bottom of a

Mile Deep


will not

help you

make good art.





I can’t blame you

For not knowing

But oh,

How I want to.



Samuel Berrettini is an undergraduate liberal arts student at St. John’s College, and his work has appeared previously in that college’s arts publication, Energeia.

Around in My Head


dream in kaleidoscopic bits,

so hot, unfurls into something I know


what you want, man-child, wolf

almost burning--rip me up, make me know

clutched in its beak, I


love for fractions of seconds, wrap me in sick sweat, wolf

folded wolf


soft flesh beside me,

baby bird above me, wolf

touch the white skeleton man, push it up, I know


this creature, put it in my head, through my head,

take this burning I.



Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections include A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), and Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing).

Before, her “Single Fish”


Dined with a merchant. Just a logbook of fines

But curious our comfort in a fire-lit story.

Behind the lush mountain and down the water


They loop the smoother cormorants.

Don’t tell me you don’t see yourself as a kite

Soaring well until it tenses.


Collars are collars, starched or brass or not.

We delight in lanterns and ripples,

How raw. And by the tug of it


You’re pretty / sure

I’ve had enough cloud for much night.



Dennis Andrew S. Aguinaldo works at the Department of Humanities of the University of the Philippines Los Baños.



Orpheus wakes pensive cigarettes

burning holes in his bedsheets.

Might as well be dead whispers

his landlord when he sees Orpheus

leave for work each morning but then

again who’d feed his dog? Orpheus

has a black dog named Nestor never barks

too much. When the train rolls by Orpheus’s

apartment rattles his old (Calls them useless)


fucking                                     fingers trace Her

             useless                        fingers all askew

old guitars can't                     like poppystalks bend to

tune them to anything          the sun Always checks

    anymore                               his shoulder for her.



JP Mayer is a senior at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. He is on track to receive a BA in Classics and Literary Arts next year, and he intends to pursue an MFA after graduation.

End to Beginning


Where is the lane?


where her arm cut water

jet streams of bubbles

pump the salt in her veins

propel through a turn

flip time with each kick


Where is the lane?


maze of school fish

circle her body




heart crumbles away

toward the Deep


Where is the lane?


a kick off the sand, muck

rays of filtered light

shimmer of sun through

olive water and gasping

arms flailing

towards a shore

a lane

a house

a wind-worn door



Joanna Friedman works as a psychologist in the San Francisco area, and lives with her husband, twins, and pug. Follow her at @j_grabarek. Read her other publications and work at


6.22 a.m.

65 degrees


Porcupine sedge along the shore reminds me

of cucumber or sea urchin, its delicate spikes like

nettles or needles are actually soft and supple,

dipping a little when the warm, wet breeze consumes them.




7.49 a.m.

56 degrees


Perception sharpened the closer I get to the pond; does this great blue

overhear my breathing, some subtle change in the behavior of the birds?

Nonchalantly as a stiff wind, I round the bend to see him, eye on me,

driving upwards in a slow-motion kind of pumping all angles and rachets.




5.58 a.m.

56 degrees


Pinkweed at the shoreline, and June grass, and the stillness

ought to serve as a reminder to slow our own hurried gait, and

notch another experience in our belts, this one the still and

docile surface of the pond, a reflection of the air this quiet morning.



John L. Stanizzi is author of eight books. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, American Life in Poetry, The New York Quarterly, Blue Mountain Review, Paterson Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, and many others.

The night

sky overflows.

I hold my hands open.

Whatever I can catch, I'll keep.

I fill.


JB Mulligan has had more than 1000 poems and stories published over the past 40 years and has had two chapbooks published: The Stations of the Cross, and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS, as well as two e-books.

Raindrops on Window

Better than Starbucks began wholly as a creation in my mind. Now the wonderful collaboration of dedicated editors is creating a magazine that I could have only dreamed about when I was starting out as a one person organization.


Having said that, there are no direct connections between U Penn, Al Filreis, KWH (Kelly Writers House,) ModPo (Modern & Contemporary American Poetry,) or any of the actual affiliated programs to ModPo and this magazine, other than I have been a part of ModPo for several years now. There is, however, a strong spiritual and intellectual connection between BTS and ModPo.


If I had not gotten involved in the larger community of ModPo, I don’t think I would have restarted a literary publication. I am certain I would not have added a Formal & Rhyming Page, and probably not a Translations page. I have a pretty narrow preference for poetry, but the course and the people at ModPo have expanded my view of poetry to the point that I decided if I could find good people to help me do it, we would make BTS as broad of a source of styles and genres as possible.

Thus, it seems fitting that we dedicate a page to my fellow students at ModPo, and/or anyone who wants to share experimental poems. The thing about experiments is, they often fail, but as the point is to learn, not to create perfection, even failed experiments in the lab or on this page, will offer something for us, if we will find it. and when the experiment doesn't fail . . . well, you will see! - Anthony Watkins

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