Poem of the Month
Iconoclast

By Benjamin Hertwig

Published on April 30, 2018

the war is over
and we are still

…………here.

if the good
angel had told
Faustus to go fuck
himself,
the metaphysical
baggage of war
and peace,
heaven and hell
would have
spilled out on the
dark floor of
the study like
a bowl of
peanut shells.
but the angel spoke
of love and the
pitchforked devils
dragged him
down. the war
is over and we
are stil

…………here.

More Poetry

Group Therapy

Each of us, in turn, has to answer, in one word,
the question: What are you feeling?

In December no less, when it gets dark at four
and this classroom’s been double-booked.

Another band of politicized marginals
prowls restless in the corridor

The Story of Bones

The archaeologist’s daughter grew up in tombs. She spent her early childhood crawling through the volcanic ash, which preserved time. Her father dug tunnels in the ground, uncovered death masks, stumbled upon bones of winged beasts, while her baby hands clutched the cold earth.

Postscript(s)

The fall of ’47 I was 25 and still living in Viluta. What made me stay so long? What made me linger in that nothing place, that hamlet of ten houses?