<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<rss version="2.0"
	xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"
	xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/"
	xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/"
	xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"
	xmlns:sy="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/syndication/"
	xmlns:slash="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/slash/"
	>

<channel>
	<title>Fickle Muses</title>
	<atom:link href="http://ficklemuses.com/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
	<link>http://ficklemuses.com</link>
	<description>an online journal of myth and legend</description>
	<lastBuildDate>Tue, 18 Jun 2013 01:13:31 +0000</lastBuildDate>
	<language>en-US</language>
	<sy:updatePeriod>hourly</sy:updatePeriod>
	<sy:updateFrequency>1</sy:updateFrequency>
	<generator>http://wordpress.org/?v=3.5.1</generator>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, June 17</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/editors-note-june-17/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/editors-note-june-17/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 18 Jun 2013 00:21:45 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=912</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I know, I know, we&#8217;re running a little late. But sometimes when you&#8217;ve got something good, you have to stretch the already taut wire of anticipation. And we&#8217;ve got something good. Two somethings, to be exact. First, I&#8217;m excited to introduce you to our new fiction editor, Annie Olson! Your humble editor tricked Ms. Olson into doing this job because I fancy myself as wily and evil like Loki. It had to happen because Annie is super talented and a perfect fit for the magazine. But don&#8217;t let me convince you. We put together a little five-question interview to let you all see for yourselves how awesome she is. I mean, she can&#8217;t even be mean to your ridiculous editor when handed the opportunity. FM: We&#8217;ll start easy. Pudding or Jell-O? AO: Pudding FM: What&#8217;s the one myth that has always stuck in your mind and stayed with you no matter how hard you&#8217;ve tried to shake it?  AO: Icarus gets his more than his fair share of mentions in pop culture; however, I remember hearing the Icarus story in 3rd grade and it stuck with me. FM: If you woke up in the body of a god or goddess [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/editors-note-june-17/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Vessel for a Day Club</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/the-vessel-for-a-day-club/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/the-vessel-for-a-day-club/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 18 Jun 2013 00:05:41 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=902</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[By Orlaith O&#8217;Sullivan &#160; I moved out to the shore in March. Jostled along a narrow road, trying to decipher a map scrawled in The Stag&#8217;s Head the night before, scrounging for table space amid wet rings of beer. “Sure, the place is empty till June,” my mate had said. “You’ve nothing to feel bad about. You made no promises to her.” Another clapped me on the back. “It was a bit of fun! Let her go and leave the husband if she wants. And raise two kids alone, and now with another on the way? No way she’ll budge. Sitting pretty she is.” He sat back, raised his pint to his mouth. “Blackmailing you with talk of a baby. Sure, it’s nonsense!” “She’d have you changing nappies and mixing formula, world without end,” said my mate. “Listen, man. Mi casa es su casa &#8211; put her from your mind and go write that book of yours!” &#8216;That book of yours&#8217; had been part of our talk since college days in the Department of Classics. It had begun life as a deconstructionist take on Ovid and morphed from there. The latest incarnation was an urban thriller, gritty with months of research on the effect of violent crime on the female [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/17/the-vessel-for-a-day-club/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Alba</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/alba/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/alba/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 09 Jun 2013 14:00:53 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=868</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Paul Nelson &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;“-lead him &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.up close to the garden, give him what outweighs the &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.heaviness &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.of the nights-&#8221; &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.- Rilke, The Third Elegy She is waking somewhere toward dawn. Her breath quickens. Beside her I have not yet risen from the underworld, or returned from vast high seas, prolonged hunkering on desert, dharmic rocks along the via negativa …from staring at coruscating snow limning the Hindu Cush &#160; when she thinks to touch me, over all that distance, sheets of ice, glaciers, waves of sand in the pink, dreamy dawn skidding this way. &#160; After all we’ve been through, how could she? Children all over the world murder each other in the bony mountains, dog-shagged streets, in loud cafeterias, at the malls, in my sleep. Thinking and language turn to methane. &#160; Then pleasure, a neap tide lapping, seeps like the Nile rising into my cranial wildlife reserve drowning the movie about rodents and potatoes, yesteryear, a woman brushing dirt from foetal heads, or was she burying a dog? Where everything depended upon the Garden Way cart heaped with yanked, weedy tresses from the head of La Belle Dame. &#160; Her hand, rough with grief and soil works my [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/alba/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, June 9</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/editors-note-june-9/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/editors-note-june-9/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 09 Jun 2013 14:00:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=880</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#160; So much goings on lately! You all may have noticed that we have once again opened up fiction submissions due to our brand-spanking new fiction editor, Annie Olson. We&#8217;ll learn more about her next week when we put out her first fiction edition. So send us your fiction, your poetry and your art. We look forward to reading all your wonderful work! This week, we are back to poetry and what a treasure we have to offer. Paul Nelson gives us a superb poem full of fervor, deliberations and mythical journeys. I don&#8217;t even normally like long poems (short attention span? love of conciseness? who knows) but I just fell into this one and couldn&#8217;t drag my eyes away from it. You will have to read it more than once because he gives us so much and upon each reading, you&#8217;ll happily peel away the layers to reveal something new and fascinating. So enjoy and we&#8217;ll see you next week! &#160; Angela Maria Williams Editor Fickle Muses &#160; Contributer&#8217;s Notes: Paul Nelson, Downeaster, writes now from the North Shore of O’ahu …like deep-sea trolling. Seven books, including an AWP winner. Burning the Furniture will come with Guernica Editions in early 2014. He [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/06/09/editors-note-june-9/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Ikons, No Halos: An Interlude</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/ikons-no-halos-an-interlude/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/ikons-no-halos-an-interlude/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 26 May 2013 14:00:55 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=857</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Reed Stirling &#160; Fay Devine and Tina Martin were on a six-month romp around the Mediterranean or, as I heard frequently in the Pan Pub &#38; Bacchus Bar where I met them, for as long as the money lasted. Both were nurses, and both could drink, one better than the other perhaps and both wore glasses, one light, one dark, but all the better to see you with, to borrow a phrase from the wolf. &#8220;I&#8217;ve come to Greece to learn about deities,&#8221; Tina declared and looked at me with bright eyes full of challenge, owl-like behind large, round, wire-rimmed lenses. I knew she would have a learning experience in Greece, especially around the Old Port of Chania where many contemporary Greek gods in tight jeans and leather jackets hung out in dense bar and discotheque scenes, each with a tale of the miraculous to unfold to her. She knew about kamaki men, for she understood completely the effects of her well-contained charms, she in her busty little mauve suede vest. Her moves were efficient, designed for effect, and she measured her words knowingly. Typical was &#8220;fabulous” or &#8220;bull&#8221; or &#8220;he was an arrogant prick.&#8221; Tina projected a no-nonsense [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/ikons-no-halos-an-interlude/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, May 27</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/editors-note-may-27/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/editors-note-may-27/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 26 May 2013 14:00:35 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=860</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[You might find yourself looking in shock at your screen but yes, that is indeed a short story we&#8217;re featuring this week. To all those who have missed the fiction know that we are still doing some staff changes but we&#8217;ve definitely decided to continue publishing fiction pieces. We are still a little backlogged so fiction submissions will remain closed for the nonce. For now, kick back and enjoy Reed Stirling&#8217;s delightful romp through Greece with his mysterious Fay Devine, who may not actually be a mythic character but she certainly holds her own in that sphere. The piece is from Mr. Stirling&#8217;s larger work, Shades of Persephone. I can&#8217;t think of a better way to welcome back fiction to the site than with this lovely story. Have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend! &#160; Angela Maria Williams Editor Fickle Muses &#160; Contributer&#8217;s Notes: Reed Stirling lives in Cowichan Bay, B.C, and writes when not painting landscapes or traveling or taking coffee at Bo’s, a local café where metaphor and metaphysics clash daily. Recent work has appeared in a variety of publications including The Nashwaak Review, The Valley Voice, Senior Living, Island Writer, Maple Tree Literary Supplement and Out Of The Warm Land II [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/26/editors-note-may-27/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Last of the Lily Maids</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-last-of-the-lily-maids/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-last-of-the-lily-maids/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 19 May 2013 14:00:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=828</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Larissa Nash &#160; The ocean spills from my conch shell ears. I hear only my own sighing, as though I am still half-submerged—the last of the lily maids, too destitute for a barge and bound by whispered words, the syllables popping like sea foam. A fisherman has pulled me from the rocks. He knows I serve the scorned. Once summoned, it is my nature— my curse—to ruin any man I encounter. I should cast him into the sea, but he is gentle, with eyes like tarnished armor. He listens when I say I am sick of the water— of white dresses and swimmer&#8217;s ear— of scaly skin and rotten blooms— of faraway fires and the demand for ghost girls. “I have seen the fires. You are warm. You are more than offering and incantation— more than curse. Come inside. It is cold. You are free.” When the moon bobs above his crumbling cottage, I will return to the sea— alone—and break the curse, my heart popping like sea foam. &#160;]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-last-of-the-lily-maids/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Caw of Crows</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-caw-of-crows/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-caw-of-crows/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 19 May 2013 14:00:34 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=830</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Larissa Nash &#160; I hear the hum of hallucinated neon in the hospital; the caw of crows in my vampire-ear. &#160; Sympathy: the static rub on my bare shoulder; the warm hands; the cluck of tongues that do not speak my language. &#160; The live oak in Florida—tall, strange, gray-black against thunderheads. The time-traveling bird-voice in my ear, in the tree: &#8220;Watch out for what has happened!&#8221; &#160; I heard more than I saw—even the hum of neon seemed more clear to my gray-black eyes. &#160; (The banshee in the next bed could not take me; somehow, I lost control and lived.)]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/the-caw-of-crows/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editors Note, May 19</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/editors-note-may-19/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/editors-note-may-19/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 19 May 2013 14:00:30 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=832</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#160; There&#8217;s a feral dreaminess to Larissa Nash&#8217;s poetry. And myth is nothing if not feral and dreamy, which is why I&#8217;m so very pleased to feature Ms. Nash in this week&#8217;s Fickle Muses. She takes us from the ocean rocks and the weariness of a dangerous creature in &#8220;The Last of the Lily Maids&#8221; to a surreal hospital where a banshee awaits in &#8220;The Caw of Crows,&#8221; giving readers just enough to draw us down and under, as if we were the prey. The danger of touching something we should not is inherent in most myths and legends. If you frolic with the elves in the summer land, you may never make it home again. They teach us that when the irresistible reaches out a hand and the warning blows a dust storm in our minds, we must pay heed. That&#8217;s what lives in these poems. Take heed, my friends, for you may lose yourself and never find your way back. Or perhaps that&#8217;s the best way to go. &#160; Angela Maria Williams Editor Fickle Muses &#160; Contributer&#8217;s Notes: Larissa Nash, an alumna of Loyola University New Orleans, is in pursuit of an M.F.A. in Poetry from Pacific University. Larissa [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/19/editors-note-may-19/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, May 12</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/editors-note-may-12/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/editors-note-may-12/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 13 May 2013 04:28:56 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=790</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#160; We here at Fickle Muses are not as fickle as one might think. The poem need not be a persona of an actual god or a modern reinterpretation of a particular myth to satisfy our craving. I do love a poem where literary figures intertwine with biblical figures. And even mere statues of said gods may appear and thrill me.  And I do tend to go a bit crazy over vivid imagery. Therefore, I&#8217;m excited to give you two poems by Joe Eldridge. His work is perhaps a little different from what we normally publish but I believe in throwing a curve ball every now and then. He takes on Faust&#8217;s author, as well as Nebuchadnezzar, in a very bold, playful and adventurous way. It is, in a word, delightful. Enjoy! &#160; Angela Maria Williams Editor Fickle Muses &#160; Contributer&#8217;s Notes: Joe Eldridge earned his MFA in Poetry at Columbia College Chicago where he is currently an adjunct professor teaching in the poetry, literature, &#38; speech departments.  He has published poetry in Court Green, Clementine, Velvet Mafia, The Gay &#38; Lesbian Review, Citizens for Decent Literature, Moonshot, St. Sebastian Review, Up the Staircase, Zygote in my Coffee, Vine Leaves, The Apocalypse, Columbia Poetry [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/editors-note-may-12/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Newton without Nebuchadnezzar</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/newton-without-nebuchadnezzar/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/newton-without-nebuchadnezzar/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 13 May 2013 04:00:38 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=792</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Joe Eldridge &#160; That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care. -William Blake &#160; &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.is Kubla without Khan, Tintern without Abbey, Ozy without mandias, me without you—so to speak; &#160; &#38; I could truly embrace the Flower Children loving Blake in this color print pairing— &#160; [the hallucinogenic; the fire in The Doors; “Proud Mary’s gone wild.”] &#160; —if only the latter hadn’t been “on loan to Liverpool,” said the docent in clipped vowels (bored out of his wispy skull). &#160; Yet here we are again—as if in an 18th century clusterfuck of things to come. &#160; I’m the top one (not by choice) of this coupling: Newton washed in Michelangelo marble, muscles inflated after free-weight reps, cloak shoulder-slung like a wet towel in the locker room, &#38; bare-ass naked (always bare-ass naked it seems) on igneous rock, compass &#38; triangle in hand—that’s me—trying to science it out; &#160; &#38; you, the bottom, the Nebuchadnezzar of the two prints, are more sinew of the sort seen on grandfatherly types at clothing optional resorts; palms &#38; knees to the floor, crawling back as always, grazing to engorgement; &#160; &#38; whenever I look at the [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/newton-without-nebuchadnezzar/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Goethe Memorial</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/goethe-memorial/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/goethe-memorial/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 13 May 2013 03:53:49 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Features]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=794</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Joe Eldridge &#160; The flowers at first I thought overabundant— marigolds heartily edging the plat like an infantry of Roman soldiers hunkered down in turtle formation, their bronze shields protecting the center prize (that’s you, Teutonic statue of Adonis) against an onslaught of arrows; &#38; at your base in bold letters for all onlookers to see: Goethe, Mastermind of the German People &#38; get this, of all possible dates—1913. &#160; In Rome, I strolled by your grave, Goethe, at the non-Catholic cemetery down past the Coliseum even further down past the Caracolla Baths where I’m sure if you had looked anything like this statue of Adonis, you would most certainly have been popular. Quite the glücksfall, it was, to find you when I was only looking for Keats &#38; Shelley. &#160; Now, here at Diversey Harbor, you are praised as a fleshy Aryan youth, all Byron spit curls, totally naked except for a cloak clinging to your buttocks discretely covering your schwanz in the front, which, by the way, is as sexless as G.I. Joe’s. But it is your chest that truly impresses, sculpted as a warrior’s breastplate, &#38; down on your meaty thigh angled out to best display [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/12/goethe-memorial/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Dionysus on the Death of Ariadne</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/dionysus-on-the-death-of-ariadne/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/dionysus-on-the-death-of-ariadne/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 May 2013 14:00:49 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=710</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Melissa Dickson &#160; I do not admire Perseus for killing one woman, in her bridal dress still breathing of love.  He shook in his hand the deadly face of Medousa, and turned armed Ariadne into stone.                                                            ~ Nonnus, from the Dionysiaca &#160; A nectared thread in the maze &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;and a cask of bees at the dread end of everything, &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;there was honey enough, and love enough, and enough –strange, vast word–enough. &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;But I tell you, that’s how it was, enough &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;of any one thing: immense fruitful fields, &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;vineyards, olives so heavy on the branch &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;..the limbs seemed to bow like actors halted &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;..on stage. It was always this way. We drank and we ate. We made love between courses. &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.If we thought of scarcity, it was another’s trouble, never our own. We had the grace &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;to wish them well, to offer a pear &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;for the journey, and the grace, too, to forget &#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;..them as soon as the road bent beyond our sight. &#8230;&#8230;We managed our joy, never questioned our right to it, &#8230;&#8230;never thought one half of everything was nothing at all.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/dionysus-on-the-death-of-ariadne/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>The Whole Vault of Heaven</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/the-whole-vault-of-heaven/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/the-whole-vault-of-heaven/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 May 2013 14:00:46 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=696</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Melissa Dickson &#160; Very well!’ he taunted, `If you rate my thanks so low, accept a gift!’ and turned his face away and on his left held out the loathsome head, Medusa’s head. Atlas, so huge, became a mountain; beard and hair were changed to forests, shoulders were cliffs, hands ridges; where his head had lately been, the soaring summit rose; his bones were turned to stone. Then each part grew beyond all measure (so the gods ordained) and on his shoulders rested the whole vault of heaven with all the innumerable stars. ~ Metamorphoses, Ovid   It wasn’t the weight of the world or anything like it. It was the weightless space between, the nothing, the void, the days of waiting and longing that bore down on him like so many burning stars. The planets wove their weary circles, the dust fell together and fluttered apart. He was a pillar without a monument, the Aegean emptied and yearning. He held his arms up in despair, his hands barren, his feet numb and aching and always the night fell between his outstretched fingers, dark and beyond touch.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/the-whole-vault-of-heaven/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>2</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Medusa Reads Hesiod&#8217;s Theogony at the Bullsboro Golden Corral</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/medusa-reads-hesiods-theogony-at-the-bullsboro-golden-corral/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/medusa-reads-hesiods-theogony-at-the-bullsboro-golden-corral/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 May 2013 14:00:45 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=702</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Melissa Dickson &#160; She thinks she will stay here all day, her book hidden under a nylon blend napkin. &#160; The vat of chicken livers is hourly restored; the iced tea mercifully unending. &#160; There is cake. There are coconut macaroons and a perpetual chocolate fountain. &#160; She thinks this is enough. Enough to still the fluttering &#160; at the base of her tongue. Enough to feed all Zeus’s hungry issue. &#160; In the kitchen, Prometheus robes the bones in glistening fat, and Midas surveys &#160; the squash casserole, the catfish crisp and banked in careful knolls, the yeast rolls &#160; soft as pillows and sweet as sleep.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/medusa-reads-hesiods-theogony-at-the-bullsboro-golden-corral/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, May 5</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/editors-note-may-5/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/editors-note-may-5/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 May 2013 14:00:36 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=681</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[May 5, 2013 Oh, poetry editors. We have too many fears. There are days when even we forget all that connects us. The essential us. Humanity in all its fierce and fragile ways. How we can reach back in our collective consciousness and touch our shared history with firm fingers. It is not an elusive thing, either. It&#8217;s mythology. Each culture and civilization has one and yes, the Western mythologies tend to take up more intellectual space but that does not make them trite or overused. Poetry is where many of these myths live. When I open up a submission to discover a treasure of poems delving into the most essential questions of our mortality via Greek mythology, I am delighted. A non-poet friend asked me the other night what makes a good poem. I started to explain things like &#8220;imagery&#8221; and &#8220;the music of the line,&#8221; but realized how we get mired down in the details of our craft. Many people can&#8217;t connect to poetry when we do this. So I stopped myself and said that what I think makes a good poem is one that I wish I had written. Melissa Dickson writes poems I wish I had [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/05/05/editors-note-may-5/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Eve</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/eve/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/eve/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:00:59 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=674</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Angie Harrison &#160; I abide summers that twist amid your wild briar coverts, and immense evenings that blossom like a red bruise. &#160; As you shudder flesh into flesh in underbrush, a raven is loosed on the world. Feel my heart drum within. &#160; Children, cover yourselves with leaves and come into the garden whose moon ignites the skin with pale fire. &#160; Apple trees hiss words in starlight, our bones repeat what they say: dance together, sinuous in tall grass.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/eve/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Leto</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/leto/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/leto/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:00:54 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=669</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Angie Harrison &#160; On the face of the dark water, woman’s white form (curved as the first gull-wing would be curved and both foam-carved) moved in orbits, gravid with gods and starmilk searching welcoming shore. &#160; And here: where the land reached to catch her feet, these white tracks, three-petalled.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/leto/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Editor&#8217;s Note, April 28</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/editors-note-april-28/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/editors-note-april-28/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:00:35 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Announcements]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=665</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#160; Ah, the end of April. So little of spring left and I&#8217;m recovering from a vicious allergy attack from the crazy winds of New Mexico. But this week&#8217;s edition of Fickle Muses more than makes up for nature&#8217;s little foibles. Sometimes I crave a poem deliciously sinuous in language. Angie Harrison&#8217;s set, &#8220;Leto,&#8221; &#8220;Bloodsister&#8221; and &#8220;Eve&#8221; delivers that and more. I just want to eat her words slowly with a spoon, like honey. Her take on mothers in myth and religion is decadent despite its brevity. And in that, she also overcomes the risk of a subject too known and too written about. I say, savor the small triumphs. Enjoy and we&#8217;ll see you next week! &#160; Angela Maria Williams Editor Fickle Muses &#160; &#160; Contributor&#8217;s Notes: Angie Harrison works as a scholarship administrator in Baltimore when she&#8217;s not writing. She graduated from Washington College, where her poetry and prose were awarded the Sophie Kerr Prize. Her recent work has appeared in Big River Poetry Review, Curio, and Brevity Poetry Review. &#8221;"Eve,&#8221; appeared in the Washington College Review, volume XII, under Harrison&#8217;s maiden name. Underdeveloped though it may be at the moment, she&#8217;s working to make angesterdam.wordpress.com her online home.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/editors-note-april-28/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Bloodsister</title>
		<link>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/bloodsister/</link>
		<comments>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/bloodsister/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 28 Apr 2013 14:00:31 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Angela Williams</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://ficklemuses.com/?p=672</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[by Angie Harrison &#160; At full moon, fat and pale as a pearl, I enter the hut. &#160; Drums beat a slow throb beneath my belly, dark circles the drains &#160; of my eyes. I’m stuffed full of sickness, hidden from trees; the eaves house &#160; a raven’s croak, the smell of blood. The moon magnetizes, twists my back— &#160; I am her puppet, laid flat. We bed down together. The sun should burn &#160; me to ash, barren as she. For five days I hang between earth and sky, &#160; feeding on gravity alone. The crops keep their roots.]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://ficklemuses.com/2013/04/28/bloodsister/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
	</channel>
</rss>
