A City on the Edge

St. John's is
gnawing on my bones.
You can't take it in
with tiny sips; you have
to choke it back, you have
to swig it down. You have
to wheeze about and stagger.

In St. John's,
the houses tumble uphill
if such a thing is possible
and the entire place-
the streets, the squares, the alleyways-
seems to have been laid out
without the aid of a ruler
(and possibly while
under the influence of screech).
From Hill O'Chips to Mile Zero,
from Water Street to the colourful homes
lined up on Jellybean Row:
the city is full of angles that
don't
quite
add
up.

St. John's is, as the Irish say,
"a great place to get lost in."
Wander around long enough,
though, and you will
eventually end up
at the harbour
as surely as water flows downhill.

Great ships lie tethered, bleeding
rust into the bay,
and rising and falling
on s l o w exhalations
of water. From the pier,
the bay looks like a landlocked lake,
the Narrows sealed off by
perspective and distance.
The very air
tastes of
salt.

I am homesick for St. John's,
and it isn't even my home.
I miss the city and I think of it often,
the way one wonders about
a boozy uncle who comes crashing
into your life every couple of years
and then charges off,
leaving a trail of tall tales
and laughter in his wake.

It is a good city, this fishing village
on the eastern edge of
North America.

It gnaws on you.



From The City on a Rock, Will Ferguson, Macleans.ca, 21 July 2003. Submitted by Megan.

You Latinist

You Latinist?
I doubt it.
Nah lad.
You alive?
Year man, hope so.
I�ve survived on ice cream.

It�s all good in the hood
thank you
prick.
I�m gonna get cained and wash-up
In the bath. Ahhh

The new terms will take effect from
7:30 pm
with balls and like a man.
Start your year helping someone else �
Just destroy the toilet and leave non alive.




Lines picked at random from recent text messages received by class members of the year 2 Music Practice Degree at UCLAN (Preston University). Submitted by Winston Plowes with contributions (in order) from DF, TF, AL, BE, JH, KM, JH, MG, SO, LG, JL, CE, NW, CH and MM.

Iambic pentameter by Patricia Sykes

I watch myself how I use my voice how
much I give away rebellion weighs
against obedience prayer against fantasy
rote against the thrill of words that lately arrive

It was hearing a girl recite Ode to a Cabbage
that made me want to write verse myself
I hide my poems like hoarded love
the taste of secrecy is delicious (Nun-

the-Big-Irish gives the girl curry
when she catches her

Tiferet Writing Contest

Enter the 2014 Tiferet Writing Contest and submit to possibly win $400 for best poem, story or essay. $1,200 will be awarded in prizes.

This year's judges are Alfred Corn for Poetry, Jacqueline Sheehan for Fiction, and Charles Euchner for Nonfiction.

Tiferet editors will select ten finalists to be sent to the judges. One winner and three honorable mentions will be selected by the judges in each category. Results will be announced this coming fall.

All submissions are considered for publication in the journal and your $15 contest entry fee brings you digital copies of a full year's subscription to Tiferet (a $24.95 value).

They are accepting submissions until June 1, 2014

Submit your entry here

Controlled Burn 1

We bite
When people have something to say

Every second counts

Wires
In tune
Like a record player
Screaming at a wall

Die, die my darling
Wayfarer

Die alone
Wide awake on Lake Street
Black heart broken

Sunbelt scars
Where are they now

Red Sky
Navigation point

Where we�re going we don�t need roads

Atlanta
Doormat

You�re all welcome



The first 20 songs shuffled by my iTunes in the Punk genre. Submitted by Ryan Falls.

Mysterious ways

I needed a new car
as my old one was so unreliable
it kept breaking down.
I couldn�t see any way
that I could afford to get one.
After I prayed the way you said,
I not only got a better car
but it was bright red.



A testimonial on the website More Than Life, retrieved 4 February 2014. Submitted by Howie Good.

Uncoupling by Jac Jenkins

Ice
clasps its thorny cloak with filigreed

brittle
lace against my breast

bone.
The pin sticks my skin when I inhale.

I
stay close to his mouth;

his
heat breathes an early thaw

as
Winter opens its teeth on my throat.



Spring
stitches my scabs to scars, my scars

to
silver. I am bare beneath bridal lace

and
veil. When I inhale, his hands

clasp
me like whalebone; I stay close

to
the