damselfly press is accepting submissions for its thirty-second issue through June 15.  Now in its ninth year of publication, the quarterly journal continues to be “intrigued by the everyday seen through sundry lenses” and looks for bold female voices and writing that “soars beyond common perceptions.”

Eligible fiction and nonfiction submissions may be comprised of up to two fictional stories or nonfiction pieces such as memoir or personal essay, must be previously unpublished, and not exceed ten pages and seven pages, respectively.  Poetry submissions may include up to three previously unpublished poems.  All submissions must be in a Word document or .RTF attachment.  A brief biography of no more than fifty words should accompany all submissions.

For more information and to submit online, visit the website at http://damselflypress.net.



From Blossoms

From blossoms comes

this brown paper bag of peaches

we bought from the boy

at the bend in the road where we turned toward

signs painted Peaches.


From laden boughs, from hands,

from sweet fellowship in the bins,

comes nectar at the roadside, succulent

peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,

comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.


O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into

the round jubilance of peach.


There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.


                             ~ Li-Young Lee


"Peach Blossoms" by Winslow Homer, 1878

“Peach Blossoms” by Winslow Homer, 1878

I looked up from my writing,

   And gave a start to see,

As if rapt in my inditing,

   The moon’s full gaze on me.


Her meditative misty head

   Was spectral in its air,

And I involuntarily said,

   ‘What are you doing there?’


‘Oh, I’ve been scanning pond and hole

   And waterway hereabout

For the body of one with a sunken soul

   Who has put his life-light out.


‘Did you hear his frenzied tattle?

   It was sorrow for his son

Who is slain in brutish battle,

   Though he has injured none.


‘And now I am curious to look

   Into the blinkered mind

Of one who wants to write a book

   In a world of such a kind.’


Her temper overwrought me,

   And I edged to shun her view,

For I felt assured she thought me

   One who should drown him too.


~ Thomas Hardy


A. L. Leroy, 1827

A. L. Leroy, 1827

Tin House is currently reading for its non-themed Winter 2015 issue and themed Spring 2016 issue on faith.  For this issue, the journal is seeking fiction, poetry, interviews, essays, and memoirs that deal with not only religious faith but also faith in knowledge, math, science, people, animals, places, institutions – anything that could possibly be a receptacle for one’s faith.  The online submission deadline for both issues is May 31.

Prose submissions should not exceed 10,000 words, and poetry submissions should not exceed five poems.  Multiple submissions are not accepted.  Simultaneous submissions are permitted; however, only previously unpublished work will be considered for publication.  Since its creation in 1999, Tin House has been committed to showcasing the work of an undiscovered author or poet in every issue.

For more information and to submit online, visit the website at http://www.tinhouse.com/magazine/submission-guidelines.html.



The Spring

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost

Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth

To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.

The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array

Welcome the coming of the long’d-for May.

Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;

Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power

To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold

Her heart congeal’d, and makes her pity cold.

The ox, which lately did for shelter fly

Into the stall, doth now securely lie

In open fields; and love no more is made

By the fireside, but in the cooler shade

Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep

Under a sycamore, and all things keep

Time with the season; only she doth carry

June in her eyes, in her heart January.


                       ~ Thomas Carew


Chloris from Boticelli's Primavera

Chloris from Boticelli’s Primavera

April Midnight

Side by side through the streets at midnight,

Roaming together,

Through the tumultuous night of London,

In the miraculous April weather.


Roaming together under the gaslight,

Day’s work over,

How the Spring calls to us, here in the city,

Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!


Cool the wind blows, fresh in our faces,

Cleansing, entrancing,

After the heat and the fumes and the footlights,

Where you dance and I watch your dancing.


Good it is to be here together,

Good to be roaming,

Even in London, even at midnight,

Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.


You the dancer and I the dreamer,

Children together,

Wandering lost in the night of London,

In the miraculous April weather.


                        ~ Arthur Symons


"Trafalgar Square by Moonlight" by Henry Pether, circa 1865

“Trafalgar Square by Moonlight” by Henry Pether, circa 1865

After the Winter

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves

   And against the morning’s white

The shivering birds beneath the eaves

   Have sheltered for the night,

We’ll turn our faces southward, love,

   Toward the summer isle

Where bamboos spire the shafted grove

   And wide-mouthed orchids smile.


And we will seek the quiet hill

   Where towers the cotton tree,

And leaps the laughing crystal rill,

   And works the droning bee.

And we will build a cottage there

   Beside an open glade,

With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,

   And ferns that never fade.


                   ~ Claude McKay


"The Flower Garden" by John Falconer Slater, 1899

“The Flower Garden” by John Falconer Slater, 1899


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