Your moniker was “the love of my life” Because in my mind you and I would go our separate ways Then find each other again at fifty-five When you’d open your eyes and shut the blinds Because we’d have everything we need here, inside Where we’d drink our wine and spend the rest of time…
Rose Tattoo The old man has a tattoo of a rose on his left cheek (of a rose) and his eyes have seen the horrors of this world (perhaps he cannot speak) and he stands outside in silence, smokes his endless cigarette, watches the pavement in its refusal to move. I don’t expect a…
take any exit that leads beyond the line of trees that guards this highway like occupation soldiers past construction zones and horn blast hysteria speed trap surveillance and brake light surprise toward the low-lying sun that marks the horizon like a lidless eye or better still – fly for the sake of…
I won’t deny it: I’m a sucker for love poems. Sad love. Happy love. Unsure-if-this-is-love love. Familial love. Big love. Small love. Heartbreaking love. Everyday love. And when it comes down to it, what in life doesn’t really come back to love, in any of its shapes and forms? Now, this is not to say…
Walking Through a Garden on a Sunny Day Stone bench by slow rill adrift in sunlight, shadows weaving limply through. Thoughts of home, past and future, and the promise of bamboo. Bamboo bends softly like the curve of an elbow, gracefully resting. Catch glimpses of your face be- tween the click of closing…
self-portrait as pickpocket now, i am an old woman in a window staring through, i mean, at your pants. and when we embrace, believe me, it is then your eyes dart like minnows close to the wand of my net. our images are caught in a voicelessness, and that’s what we admire on the metro,…
The Memorial At the memorial I saw my favorite cousin, the only one I’d ever really been close to, and the look of grief on her face, the slide show before us of Sara’s last days, the color of my cousin’s eyes, a flat grey light, once blue as a robin’s eggs, wishing I…
Moscow I was born in a city Built like its Russian nesting dolls, Increasing ten-fold in complexity, Every layer, at its core – Perplexity is the hallmark Of someone who breathes the Motherland. I was born with chai-laced blood And hair like borscht brewed fresh From babushka’s garden, Build sturdy like Taiga birch, Where forests…
Charlotte Begg is a poet and artist from the beautiful and archaic Isle of Wight, UK. When not creating she juggles her time between motherhood, drinking tea, and trying to keep her last house plant alive.
I Haunt Nature Hard white oak perfect for burning Thick branch snaps like a thigh Arrange the kindling just so Flames dull in the sunlight They won’t find me. The ground is alive out here Finger trap squiggling worm Feel him slide down throat A man should eat when he can Especially when…
Welcome to our collection of FORTH-curated verse. You may not realize it, but you've encountered poetry every day of your life. You read it in college, you hear it on the radio, you see it scrawled in alleyways, you feel it in the eyes of loved ones. FORTH is one of few online poetry magazines for the contemporary, future-wise poet. We’re not simply a poetry journal or blog, but rather one of the best poetry magazines online, featuring beautiful, diverse poems from all over the globe and curated right here in Los Angeles. At FORTH we also cover local poetry events, bringing you inside looks and interviews with today's burgeoning and established poets. Unlike many poetry journals, FORTH is open to verse of all styles and all themes. The one thing that all of our online poetry magazine submissions have in common, however, is a contemporary voice that strikes the modern reader. You can torture yourself through a classical anthology or lose your mind on Twitter; or, you can look to FORTH for poetry that remixes classic themes for the 21st Century poetry fiend. If you've got the verse, we've got the platform. Submit to poetry@forthmagazine.com.
