Cover image: “Fierce Wind Polishes a Landcape” by Bill Hanson
We’re pleased to announce The Closed Eye Open Issue V. This collection is devoted to the exploration of consciousness, and the pieces that are featured in it continue to impress us as we look over them again and again. Not only do these poems, stories, essays, and artworks connect with this publication’s main theme, but they do so with remarkable craft, nuance, and depth.
If you like what you see and would like to get e-mail updates, please e-mail us at theclosedeyeopen@gmail.com. Also, you may follow us on Instagram @theclosedeyeopen.
Below, we have featured a small selection of work from Issue V. The full issue is available for online viewing with the link above.
In addition, you may offer a “tip jar” contribution to our PayPal account.
If you like what you see in the issue, you may also want to check out our ongoing “Maya’s Micros” feature. As the name suggests, it will be curated by contributing editor Maya Highland and will exclusively feature micro-poetry and micro-fiction pieces.
If you are a writer or artist and want to be considered for upcoming issues, see our Submittable page for the current submissions that are available.
Issue V
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.”
― Herman Melville, in Moby Dick
Featured Selections
Catherine LeComte
Anna Hillary
House in the woods or one with the waves
Witches believe in the earth
They follow, wide-eyed, so do I
Am I a witch whose ears are the air, Then I am
also the stake, the fire, and the men who will burn me
I never wanted to swim in the waves
as cursing, current floods find me,
My light fights to fade,
Water me or I wither
All I wanted was the woods,
a prairie
Raspberries, leaves, trees,
cherries
Garden of purple, pink, and orange
Tracing the days of my eye,
The gaze of my sigh,
Watch me as I also rise
Stronger than the stilts
I hold the house with my heart
Mama’s girl right from the start
And now I’m a woman of the earth
GJ Gillespie
Melanie DuBose
Potter’s Field
Every few seconds
Words are not set in stone
A story is forgotten
No matter
The wolf is always at the door
There is always straw to spin
the secret word is forgotten
A witch is worried
Wishes are wasted
And a cage becomes too small
I am afraid
Still
I turn the page
Let me tell you a story …
These stories are markers
headstones knocked over
Plastic flowers and a pinwheel
In the kitchen
The chair is empty
I fill your glass
Let me tell about the time
the giant lizard …
a bright light …
a lost child …
a stray dog …
Michael Hower
Virginia Laurie
Tigress
Everything
I have ever seen of you
has made me love you more.
The spitting and scratching,
low waiting in tall grass,
poised to hurt.
None of it has jaded me
or could, [no amount of biting and hissing,
wild words and thoughts, train
crash laughs or crazy
would ever make me pull my hand
back.]
I trust you, okay?
My neck is out,
and the only way
you could hurt me
is by not noticing
the offering.
The only way
to hurt me
is to close
your eyes.
Miniature Malekpour
Jaime Seno
Song in Red
Have you ever hummed so much
It felt violent? I asked
He pulled out blocks of wood
And handfuls of gems
And pushed my hair behind my ears
And asked if I’d paint him
In the Red Sea
Or if I’d paint myself
I’d write a song
To fill with smells and oils and odes
You said you were moved and meant
You lose count after four and the anchor
Was lost and you were tricked and damned
And maybe obliged
When you hum
Do you take off your robe?
“I have washed my feet;
How can I defile them?”
(Song of Songs. 5:3)
You felt too much
Or lingered too long.
You need a deep dive
Into waters heavy with metals;
Decayed and listed,
With rust and leaves.
A lost language,
Waterlogged.
We won’t find meaning
In color.
Is there direction
Above the tide?