The Human Core Explore the hidden landscape of the human experience. "The Human Core" uncovers the buried truths of love, fear, ego, and memory that shape our inner lives.

The Human Core
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Autumn by Nur Turkmani We stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen. Everything yellow. The trees, the music you chose. We laughed. We peeled garlic and baked potatoes. Some afternoons are soft this way. We miss them as …

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Blue Topography by Judith H. Montgomery Once a seamless landscape—dorsum, sweet-skinned reverse to my creased and callused palm. No more. Late sun lights, heightens the bulge of blue-starved roads as they rise above the frail map of my s…

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The Teacher- I
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Tomatoes
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Relics by Rachel Hertzberg Sebastian, you are with me again, lodging in the cool warrens of my mind. I heard your voice in the mouth of a classmate who leaned over and whispered, Do you see them? Three deer, sapling legs fli…

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The Teacher- I
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Rebel by Janet Blair this poem doesn’t want to teach you a lesson it doesn’t want to mimic Mary Oliver and the way she captured slivers of nature like a photographer catches light it doesn’t want to fossilize a m…

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Dad's Villanelle
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Walking, Woman by Ananya Dutta Gupta When I’m walking, I am an automobile! Free To mark and measure The pace and pressure Of my gaze and gait, My toes and heels. As free as a Thoreau walking To Walden Pond From his log cabin. Yet when…

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Sailing from France: Henrietta’s Romance in 1698 by Clare Crossman A Spanish sailor told us it would be safer to travel at night. He wore gold earrings that glimmered like the moon. We closed the house: Two pairs of shoes, a coat, a dress. The oars swept the black…

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Iron Lily by Stephen Bone A barrow boy’s spit from The Savoy, I found her on Carting Lane. A tall lean Victorian, last high priestess of Cloacina, Iron Lily she is named. Beneath her the vast tunnelled temple she serves, fi…

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What the March Wind Saw blossoms and clouds blowing whiteagainst a blue-washed skyaureoles of daffodilsabove the winter stubble forsythia miming sunlightbeneath the leafless treesbudded boughs cascadingfrom early greening…

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Thoughts Unspoken by Jean-Sebastien Surena The voices… they’re a little quiet these days You’d think I’d be happy they’ve given me some leeway but I see the real truth I see what’s at play They’ve given me space so that they may see the res…

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The Mermaid’s Lament by Corey Niles what more could I have done for you I brought you to my home showered you with presents seated you upon a coral throne as my king when you slouched I remained proudly beside you I made sure you sat…

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No Skin is Too Thick by Fadrian Bartley Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers and massages their temper before we misunderstand, let us have them submit to our attention and call that moment the vibes…

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Blue Heron Fall by Frank Babcock A blue heron lands, four-toed stilts trailing, wings outstretched, feathers spread like fingers catching the right amount of air, letting some pass for a light landing. In very few steps it settles…

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The Dead Write No Poems by Steve Klepetar Or if they do, only in the language of crows. All night they gather in hills where nightshade grows. I have watched them hefting brown bottles, shadowy hands full of turf. They never sleep, and the…

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Ghee by Kavya Janani. U (after Elizabeth Alexander’s ‘Butter’) One of my favourite smells is melting ghee wafting from the kitchen in strong gusts. Growing up, we have come undone in the company of fresh ghee, regaling ta…

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Spot the Fool! by Susan Jarvis Bryant —for April Fools’ Day, 2025 I. Today’s the day to fox and fool. Today’s the day to flick some fuel On laughter with a cuckoo joke, A wicked lark, a wacko poke So sick Old Nick will think it cool. T…

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March Wind The wind comes downwith a rush and a roarlike a locomotive going all out,chugging to a 6/8 beat,trailing cyclonic clouds of smoke,coupling rods flailing,whistle a deranged shriek.Why does spring ha…

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Red Writing Hood by Lesh Karan The sky is moon, pushes and pulls the sea within. Eclipsed by something like desire, she slips into her red identity, a basket tucked beneath. She weave-walks, parts the brambled path towards the f…

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Sixth Bell by Frances Horne He washes up upon the shore, that blue man, waxen in the printer’s trowel of harbour light. A wedding pumps on the waterfront, a limo driver smokes and blows his rings at bats, and he who looks so …

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The Armenian Language Is the Home of the Armenian by Moushegh Ishkhan The Armenian language is the home and haven where the wanderer can own roof and wall and nourishment. He can enter to find love and pride, locking the hyena and the storm outside. For centuries its…

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Blouse by Nithy Kasa Mother had a blouse. It was mauve with puff-sleeves. Roped shoulders with pads under. The collar Peter Pan. The style of the forties. They stitched Devil’s Ivies on the breasts like purple hearts. …

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A Toast by Eric Weil I learned a man who’d persecuted me Is dead. The crime, once old and stowed away, Returned so fresh, it’s all that I can see: His grinning face and bullet eyes, all day. He was my boss, of course; …

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