a poetry e-zine










Lana Bella

nature not thoughts that stir her,
most times conscious, sometimes defiant,
it is strange to think of language,
space and time as threefold immersions of who she is
underneath her curiosity:
the quiet hours teeming on the changing seasons,
the waterlogged hyphens and halfway question marks,
the discharge of music through her fingertips
is a scattered shot of shavings
flapping wings and flying away--

she used to believe she could climb up straight
over the spine of her hiding place,
where thoughts flare in rings of dim violets,
and lullabies kneed the marsh of her sinews into sleep,
but instead,
when her brain begins to fret,
she creeps around the curves and sere troughs,
her hands move with hunched fingers
clutching the wisps of decades gone,
her feet:
fixed in carbon and clay,
lurch forward like a beetle on its graphite trail,
tracking veins of sediments as coarse-grained and indelicate
as a girl’s leaving--


the last of winter, idling its white
and charcoal at the edge of the
universe, there, she stands alone,
sensing abstract things weigh in
concrete, like a Monarch butterfly
bereft of wings--

maybe she has been wrong, but is
it possible that her ego is a ghost?
humming verses of perceiving, she
imagines her dual selves lay atop
one another, the outer half is the
eyepiece for its focal twin--

now she touches curiously the fragile
skin of her mouth, chasing the air
into a darker plane where calm pools
of speech stir edgewise, here, she
knows her voice has already slipped
away like lost songs of a nightingale--

Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and fiction anthologized, published and forthcoming with over one hundred journals, including a chapbook with Crisis Chronicles Press (spring 2016), Aurorean Poetry, Chiron Review, QLRS (Singapore), Poetry Salzburg Review, elsewhere, and Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine, among others. Lana divides her time between the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a wife of a novelist, and a mom of two frolicsome imps.

Copyright 2015  Chantarelle's Notebook