MAYDAY

MAYDAY Magazine: Issue 5 Spring 2012

Contributed By: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

FEATURED
ARTIST
Sheng Qi
NONFICTION
Helen DeWitt
Alan Heathcock Never Not a Writer an interview with Alan Heathcock conducted by Okla Elliott
Amy Holwerda
FICTION
WinLo333
Gerard Marconi
How the Dead Are Buried
Deena Metzger
Feral
Suzanne Richardson Moon Garden
Scott Tucker
My Life as an Eastern European Art Film
POETRY
 Alyse Bensel
Butterfly Balloon
Neil Carpathios The Future of America
Helen Degen Cohen The End of Snow
Thom Dawkins One Theory of Hell (Albrecht Dürer’s Harrowing)
Richard Fein
Letters and Spirit
Andrew Galan Wrong Side of the Road (An Autumn Poem)
Brandi George

Love Poem to the Light before Sleep
Liam Hysjulien

On Learning of My Father’s Illness [November 22nd, 2011]
Dana Kroos

How to Drink Tea in the Colonies

Sarah Marshall

As the Crow Flies
Alejandro Méndez

Gift for Languages
     translated by Laura Chalar

Under the Linden Trees
translated by Laura Chalar
Christopher Munde Nymph: Stage I
Mark Neely

Katherine: Opening Argument

Aleksey Porvin

Untitled #1
translated by Peter Golub

Untitled #2
translated by Peter Golub
Liz Robbins

Who’s Driving
William B. Robison
Clean Hands
Lauren Schmidt

Elimination Half Life

Gridlock

The Men Who Grow from Curbs
Shelby Stephenson
Nin’s Poem: A Bipolar Memoir
John Sibley Williams

The Language of Shadows

What Is Light?
Michael T. Young

Study for Infatuation

The Voice of Water

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

Filed Under: Issues

Further Reading

Jeans! Jeans! Jeans!
by Christina Olson

In the photo on Facebook, Janine’s dead mom  is wearing a t-shirt that says jeans! jeans! jeans! Her mom has been dead for eleven years,  two years longer than I have known Janine.    We tend to horrify polite company  with our banter, her saying my dead mom  and me saying, Oh, is your mom […]

The Tulip by Ghalib
(Translated from Urdu by Tony Barnstone and Bilal Shaw)

In the inner workings of the tulip, a red scar burns hot. The farmer’s blood sears him; he’s relieved when lightning burns the crop. Here’s the thing: until the bud blooms it feels secure. Despite its collected heart, the flower’s dream is torn apart. I’m too weak to bear this impatient grief —a straw in […]

Remembering Ophelia (1852)
by Anna Leahy

I made a pretty painting, secured a reputation with Ophelia. The secret is laudanum—the floaty-floaty feeling— and the shiver-chill when the fire went out under the tub and left my teeth to clatter; that’s what created my pallor, gave the brush its worthy goal. I held my quiet pose, always anxious for verbal intercourse, though not […]

Skip to content