By Annie Newcomer:
"Poetry is so important because it helps us understand and appreciate the world around us. Poetry’s strength lies in its ability to shed a “sideways” light on the world, so the truth sneaks up on you. No question about it. Poetry teaches us how to live. Poetry is like the Windex on a grubby car window—it bares open the vulnerabilities of human beings so we can all relate to each other a little better." — Alice Osborn, "Why Is Poetry Important to Our World Today?"
The poems selected to represent Flapper Press as 2024 Pushcart Prize nominees do, indeed, "shed a 'sideways' light on the world" in a tender yet powerful way.
Michael Harty, with his exquisite poem "Taking Him to the Shower" "bares open the vulnerabilities of human beings" as he recounts moments from his last visit with his aging parent and in only a few stanzas bares witness to the life of an exceptional and caring father.
There is no doubt Dana Henry Martin's poem "Fawns Discovered Inside a Dead Doe" not only "teaches us how to live" but also manifests the reverence for how to treat and examine death for lives lost even before their journey begins.
Charles Templeton's satirical poem "Shootout at the Clark County SPCA" captures a "moment" in time during the 2024 presidential election cycle that is significant, much like how a talented musician writes lyrics for a beautiful piece of music to underlie a political statement that serves as an important reminder to continue to debate long after the election is over.
Thank you to these poets and to all the poets who submitted to Flapper Press this year. What an honor to offer your high-quality work to our readers. By presenting your poetry, you have helped us continue our mission statement to expand poetry in the world.
"The Pushcart Prize is an American literary prize published by Pushcart Press that honors the best 'poetry, short fiction, essays or literary whatnot' published in the small presses over the previous year." — The Poetry Box
Meet the Flapper Press nominees for the 2024 Pushcart Prize for poetry!
Michael Harty
Taking Him to the Shower
After the second attack, the heart
already in tatters, still he stands
in the steamy cubicle, wields the washcloth,
suds sliding down his diminished legs.
I steady the IV pole, standing by
in case he loses his balance, hating
to see him so small.
Not much, really,
to wash away, no dirt from the garden
or charcoal dust from the grill,
no fish slime or quail blood, not even
the hair tonic he no longer needs
or the unfiltered Camels he’s had to give up.
Only the stale sweat of hospital days
and nights, sterile stink of antiseptic,
dried flecks of adhesive. Soon he’s ready
for the thick towel we’ve brought from home,
a fresh gown and drawstring pajamas.
I wheel him exhausted down the glossy hall
to where a bed is waiting. But before
he closes his eyes he has to ask
if everybody got their dinner,
and whether his doctors have been paid,
and are all his children safely home.
For many years Michael Harty’s attention, and his writing, were focused on his career as a psychologist and psychoanalyst. Then, as he approached retirement age, he got more serious about his life-long interest in poetry writing. Since then he has published poems in a number of periodicals, including New Letters, Kansas City Voices, I-70 Review, Journal of the American Medical Association, and others, as well as in three chapbooks, Real Country, Twenty Stories, and The Statue Game. He lives and works near Kansas City.
To read more of Michael Harty's poetry and our full interview, click here.
Dana Henry Martin
Fawns Discovered Inside a Dead Doe
You lived inside your mother’s womb, its water
and salt. You were two, twins. Each a mirror
for and of the other. One of you laid with hooves
tucked beneath your torso, your neck arched
so your head could rest next to your own body.
The other laid along the first, a drape,
not an inch of space parting this fur from that,
this muscle from that, this bone from that.
Eight ankles, eight legs, four ears, four eyes—
everything lovely about a deer, doubled.
The taxidermist who rolled your mother over
that evening by the highway was not the man
who struck her but the one who arrived after
and tried to help. He found you too late,
fully formed but drowned before you lived.
He gathered you in a blanket, brought you home
and preserved the uterine form of your bodies—
the way you nestled one another through death,
thin skins pulled like tarps over spines and hips,
your two faces facing each other, your mouths
that nearly touch but don’t. Now, in your vitrine,
you pass breathless secrets back and forth without
end. Secret of death. Secret of suffering. Secret
of two slipping in and out of this dark world as one.
“Fawns Discovered Inside a Dead Doe” first appeared in MadHat Annual.
Dana Henry Martin, a poet, weaver, musician and birder who lives in Utah, is from Oklahoma and longs for Kansas. Martin’s work has appeared in Barrow Street, Chiron Review, Cider Press Review, FRiGG, Muzzle, New Letters, Stirring, Willow Springs, and other journals under the names Dana Guthrie Martin and M Ross Henry. Her collections include Toward What Is Awful (YesYes Books), In the Space Where I Was (Hyacinth Girl Press), and The Spare Room (Blood Pudding Press).
To read more of Dana Henry Martin's poetry and our interview with her, click here.
Charles Templeton
Shootout at the Clark County SPCA
Ms Ruth was half-watching Judge Judy
When he burst
The door
Tattoo on his deltoid
of Jesus on a Harley
With a crown of thorns
And carrying
The bespoke signature cross
He was waving
A silver plated
Forty-five caliber pistol
Like a magic wand
Hollering
“Where’s them Haitians?”
Zeke a small black man
A man so calm, he could out-mellow
Bob Marley
Steps in with his mop and bucket
After a chihuahua party
Mr. Harley
Swings the forty-five
In Zeke’s general direction
“You Haitian, boy?”
“No, mon, I’m from Jamaica.”
Harley man squints,
“Do eat the animals?”
Zeke grins,
“Nah, mon, I’m vegetarian.”
“Well, I think you’re lying,”
And commenced firing
He hit Zeke’s
Bucket twice
Door to the shelter three times
Zeke? Had disappeared
Ninja style
Ms Ruth
Who hasn’t fired a weapon
Since the Crimean War
Pulls out her Glock
Closes her eyes
And begins firing
She hits
The floor
The ceiling, takes one for the team
And the kennel door?
Seen better days
Mr Harley bolts
To the parking lot
Ms Ruth hot on his heels
Sirens wailing steadily louder
The first police cruiser
Skids in
Goes full Tokyo Drift
Knocking over an old Harley
Oops.
The cop jumps out
Levels his weapon at the perpetrator
Mr Harley raises both hands
Ms Ruth opens both eyes
“Joe Bob, is that you?”
The officer asks
“Sure is”
“Are you working undercover now?”
“No, I was just looking for them pet eatin’ Haitians.
Could you give me a ride to the station? I’m on duty in an hour.”
After a career of coaching and teaching in Texas, Charles Templeton retired to timeless Eureka Springs, Arkansas, with his beautiful wife, Sandra. You can find him in the evenings with his wife and a glass of wine hidden away in some dimly lit bar binging on words or just fartin’ around. No longer singing at the Metropolitan Opera, he is currently the editor/publisher at eMerge, an avant-garde online literary magazine.
To read more of Charles Templeton's poetry and our interview with him, click here.
The Flapper Press Poetry Café
We welcome submissions from poets for the Flapper Press Poetry Café Poetry Spotlight series. We are always looking for compelling poetry and look forward to publishing and supporting your creative endeavors.
Submissions may also be considered for the Pushcart Prize. Please review our guidelines before submitting. By submitting your work to Flapper Press, you agree to allow us permission to publish. Please note that we receive numerous submissions throughout the year and endeavor to publish as soon as our calendar allows.
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