Cover image: “Searching” by Jenifer Fox

Below, we have featured a small selection of work from Issue VIII. 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. All support is appreciated, as it helps keep this project spiraling out into the unknown.

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, including an entry for the cover and artist feature of our next issue.

E-mail us at theclosedeyeopen@gmail.com. Follow us on Instagram @theclosedeyeopen.

“Whereas numbers are signs, words are symbols, and therefore by their very nature equivocal; their ambiguity can be reduced but never eliminated. This bars them from the needle’s eye of absolute precision, but the loose ends that prevent them from piercing that eye endow them with a texture that numbers cannot match. Multivalent, irreducibly equivocal in intimation and nuance where not actually ambiguous in dictionary definition, words reach out like a banyan root system, as tangled and in as many directions. Folding and refolding in adumbration and allusion, they weave, veer, and seek out subliminal soil. No wonder logicians flee their meanderings in favor of fixed and adamantine glyphs. The despair of logicians is the humanist’s glory. From the adversity of verbal ambiguity, opportunity opens. The multivalence of language enables it to mesh with the multidimensionality of the human spirit, depicting its higher reaches as numbers never can.”

Huston Smith, in Forgotten Truth

Featured Selections

Julie Lloyd

Untitled

Jai-Michelle Louissen

No Words

the flavour of rain
bears your face
I inhale

river sheared
trembling
from the black bough

I coil in, osmotic

emblematic rock
pleas for jeweler’s hammer
pine scented

I anoint my cheeks with ash

Martha Nance

Delicate

Lynn Gilbert

Newcastle

One spring day a weak sun
pierced the perpetual chill
of our rented flat in the north of England
and a beam fell onto the bedroom’s
moss green rug. On impulse
I bravely pulled the sock from one foot
and stepped into the narrow warmth.

The foot looked like a tree root
I’d wounded with a spade,
so naked-white and strange to me
my body seemed
near the end of the char-dark
winter I’d spent mostly crouched
close to an open coal fire,
toasted on one side, cold on the other
and damp all over, or,
any time I crept outdoors, choked
by the rancor of acid rain in my throat.

Vian Borchert

Surf

Ann Christine Tabaka

Expectations

not remembering yesterday       not knowing tomorrow
               we stumble on today

wide-eyed and curious
we trip over our own futures

towering expectations      line the path we trod

backwards cartwheels — spin out of sync
confusion rules the day

we try to collect all reason      try to manage truth
               reality – a dream that does not sleep

one line says it all — we are lost

there is no answer      no conclusion
               we wander in dense fog

counting pennies for a dime      the cost is far too dear
               the toll taker calls our name

yesterdays have vanished — tomorrows never come
               we must live for the now

I can no longer find my way

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