"Printed twice a year (in July and December) and distributed internationally with subscribers in over twenty countries, each issue includes 32 shorter poems."
Open:
Yes
Vibe: Top-tier stuff. Not Paris Review, but ok
Response time:
3 months
Payment:
$25/poem
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
No
Submission fee:
$3
Expedited submissions:
No
Available in print:
Yes
Examples online:
Yes

Important stuff

Active on social media
Pays!
Available in print
Submission fee

Genres

👌

Poetry

Max lines: 32Max pieces: 5
👌

Review

No specific limitations

Masthead

George David Clark

Editor-in-Chief

Elisabeth Clark

Managing Editor

David Eye

Associate Editor

J.P. Grasser

Associate Editor

Christopher Kondrich

Associate Editor

Cate Lycurgus

Associate Editor

Examples

'Elegy for Recycled Encyclopedias' by Jared Harél

(excerpt)
In the end, every detail in the world couldn’t save you. Not a thorough summation of medieval plumbing systems, nor the range and migration patterns of a Eurasian Bullfinch. Not Bach, cuckoo clocks, or even Piaget’s theory of object permanence did the trick. Amid the dim, dusty heft of entry after entry—each smoke- stained century, treaty, and canal—there was the hard data of your being redundant— a poor use of space.
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'Kampa's Guide to Flowers' by Stephen Kampa

(excerpt)
If it looks like a child drew it, it is probably a tulip unless it is obviously a daisy. If it looks like a cartoonist drew it, it is definitely a daffodil, often wrongly called a buttercup. If it looks like an impressionist painted it, it could be a dahlia, hydrangea, chrysanthemum, or common thistle— something extravagantly vague and ornate. If it looks like an apology, it better be a rose, and if it is not a rose but is given as an apology, it looks like trouble.
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'Antique Sound' by Cindy Hunter Morgan

(excerpt)
There was an age when you played records made from shellac, and later there was another of vinyl, but these days I play topo maps cut into twelve-inch discs, glued together to form two sides. I’ve been playing one map of an old orchard over and over, listening to the music of blossoms and the sound of the eastern ridge where the orchard ended. When I flip the map I can hear the crinkle of frost crystallizing below that ridge, the sound of the river beyond the orchard.
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'The Etiquette of Grief' by D.S. Waldman

(excerpt)
Children sometimes cover their eyes to become invisible—to remain, for a bit longer, children. To remain invisible, the wide-eyed dead refuse to blink, becoming the wide, dead whites of their eyes. How, through the same window, both sunlight and darkness might enter a room. Sunlight, then darkness —is that what dying is like?
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