Archives for posts with tag: poem

Process Press is dedicated to poetry, essays and short stories concerned with pressing social issues. We currently accept submissions on a rolling basis.


We consider:

Short poems, no longer than a single page in length.

Essays and short stories no longer than 1500 words.


To submit to Process Press fill out the form below. Do not put your entire work in the pitch section – simply tell us a little bit about the work and we will contact you via email with further instructions if we are interested in exploring the work further.



Latest poem up at Small Portions Journal

Source: Aja Beech :: Power Struggle

From my poem “Borders” featured poem of the week at The Five-Two: Poems on Crime

The yelling in the distance calmed to a voiceless hum

and then into silence.

All light was gone but for the stars
He peered into the darkness

and whispered “Mami, aqui.”
Check out the entire piece here:

This April marks the centennial of the Armenian Genocide.  I offer my poem, Alms to an Armenian woman, as a memoriam to those who lost their lives.

My poem, Snow Over Kabul, is the featured poem of the week at The 5-2 Poems on Crime.

What I wanna say is
did you cry as much as I did yesterday

but what I say instead is
and I blush
and smile
and look down.
We talk about babies
and we talk about birthdays
and we talk about living for our children
we talk about everything but
our shared pain

and i think- because of my color

you have every right to think

i could not understand

and that even my tears

could not be the same.

But instead it becomes

a momentary effort

to relieve our pain.

Today is Robert Louis Stevenson’s birthday.  Let us remember him with a poem.

Grown about by Fragrant Bushes


Grown about by fragrant bushes,

Sunken in a winding valley,

      Where the clear winds blow

      And the shadows come and go,

      And the cattle stand and low

And the sheep bells and the linnets

      Sing and tinkle musically.

Between the past and the future,

      Those two black infinities

      Between which our brief life

      Flashes a moment and goes out.



from “Elegy for the First Century”

Bells on our eyelashes

and the death throes of words,

and I among fields of speech,

a knight on a horse made of dirt.

My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,

and I, under the skin of words,

on the beaming banks of foam,

a poet who sang  and died

leaving this singed elegy

before the faces of poets,

for birds at the edge of sky.

Adonis, “Song” from Selected Poems, translated by Khaled Mattawa. Copyright © 2010 by  Adonis. Reprinted by permission of Yale University Press.

Source: Selected Poems (Yale University Press, 2010)

Portions of a mango tree the storm cut down,

a green blaze bent into mud

and they come to me, at dawn

three girls from Kanpur, far to the north admittedly

(we know this from national geography class,

the borders of states, the major cities).

They hung themselves from fans.

In the hot air they hung themselves

so that their father would not be forced to tender gold

he did not have, would not be forced

to work his fists to bone.

So that is how a portion of the story goes.

Slowly in the hot air they swung, three girls.

How old were they?

Of marriageable age certainly.

Sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen, something of that sort.

How do I feel about it?

What a question! I am one of three sisters,

most certainly I do not want father to proffer money

he does not have for my marriage.

Get a scooter, a refrigerator, a horde of utensils,

silks, and tiny glittering bits of gold

to hang about my ears and throat.

Gold is labor time accumulated . . . labor time defined.

Who said that? Yes, I am a schoolteacher, fifth standard

trained in Indian history and geography,

Kerala University, first class first.

The storm tree puts out its limbs and

I see three girls swinging. One of them is me.

Step back I tell myself.

Saumiya, step back. The whole history

of womankind is compacted here.

Open your umbrella, tuck your sari tight,

breathe into the strokes of catastrophe,

and let the school bus wait.

You will get to it soon enough and the small, hot faces.

See how the monsoon winds soar and shunt

tropic air into a house of souls,

a doorway stopped by clouds.

Set your feet into broken stones

and this red earth and pouring rain.

For us there is no exile.

Meena Alexander, “from Raw Meditations on Money, 1. She Speaks: A School Teacher from South India” from Quickly Changing River. Copyright © 2008 by Meena Alexander.  Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press.

Source: Quickly Changing River (Northwestern University Press, 2008)