Sunday, January 19, 2014



Yes, you may weep. The Ides of March Journal is now officially defunct. It now belongs to, well, history.

While The Ides is no longer a functioning journal of any kind, this page and all issues will stay up, so contributors may view their work.

It's been fun and exciting! Keep writing, and thanks for letting us at The Ides be a part of it!

Friday, August 16, 2013

Review: Sweet Aegis: Medusa Poems

     Melissa Dickson's brilliant Sweet Aegis: Medusa Poems is deceptively titled. Yes, this is a clutch of masterwork poems concerning Medusa and the other mythological denizens whose stories are interwoven with her. But these poems do not trumpet the long-hailed heroism of Perseus as he hacks off the Gorgon's head; nor do they decry Medusa's oft-presumed evil, serpentine nature. Not at all. The entire tired myth of Medusa is laid out on the morgue table, and, under Dickson's attentive tools, it is dissected down to the bones and remolded into new life. Sweet Aegis presents Medusa not as the familiar serpent-locked fiend of Greek mythology, but as a many-wronged girl, a young, vibrant beauty who was raped by a god, indifferently metamorphosed to wear her pain upon her face, and cruelly slain by a boy out looking for kicks on a Saturday night. Make no mistake. Dickson sets out to do no less than reevaluate the Medusa myth. The result is an astonishing blend of high-caliber poetic craft shot through with a sharp social commentary which challenges readers to ask themselves: "Who, exactly, is the monster?" 

     Dickson's wordsmith skills are beyond contestation, but the masterfully crafted wordplay also provides enthralling bedrock upon which she builds her interrogation of mythy figures closest to Medusa. No syllables of glorious heroic deeds sing from these pages; indeed, Perseus is here little more than a boastful boy, easily imagined as clutching a bucket of beer at the local pub as he prattles about his famous beheading. Disenfranchised, sorrow-spent figures haunt these poems--Medusa's grief-crazed father, her bereft sisters, an empty Andromeda, an agonized Atlas. Medusa herself is the alienated other, a presumed villain whose apparent evil actually begets good. Indeed, as Dickson writes in "The Medusa Effect": 

I bestow beauty: 
the coral reefs, amethyst, moonstone, onyx, 
the diamond ring with which you mark your wife 
--my gifts to you. 

     Additionally, in "Medusa Argues Her Virtues," Dickson shows Medusa granting more than usable, workable stone, but cold, beautiful immortality to those who look upon her: 

Only I can turn them 
into the best of themselves. 
Marble. Granite. Shale. 

     Just as intriguingly as Medusa is redeemed, Poseidon is found to be the advocate of rape-culture rhetoric, the collective ideas which, monstrously, objectify and blame victims of sexual violence. Indeed, in "Poseidon Testifies," he familiarly spouts: "She knew what she was up against." What's more, his divine sister, Athena, as the sight of the violated, weeping Medusa, indifferently states: "Please. I have my own problems." The stances of these divine siblings reflect a very real callousness present in our own society which, more often than not, gets swept under the rug. In both myth and reality, the victim becomes vilified to protect the powerful, and Dickson makes this point with painful clarity. 

     Melissa Dickson's Sweet Aegis: Medusa Poems is more than just an expertly-wrought postmodern perspective on one of the most enduring mythological figures. It is, in many ways, a powerful social and political critique. It is a challenge to forsake stereotypes and the dangers of otherness, to see the world through an untold point of view, and to ultimately realize that the monsters we know are the monsters we create.  

Copies of Sweet Aegis: Medusa Poems are available from Negative Capability Press

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Volume III, Issue II

August 15, 2013
The Ides of March Journal

August 15, 1971: 
Gold dollars are good, 
but paper dollars to gold? 
Now a no-can-do.

Featured in this issue, culled from six possibilities:

Doug Polk: 
    ---"Wounded Knee" 
Joshua Rahms: 
    ---"Blackbeard's Head" 
Carly Willard: 
    ---"Almost a King"


"Wounded Knee" 
---Doug Polk 

The story, 
one of legend, 
Big Foot and his band, 
forced to walk to their deaths, 
in the freezing cold, 
sacrificed to the paranoia of the whites, 
the majority murdered, 
while others left to freeze, 
dying slowly in the falling snow, 
blanketing their bodies, 
covering the white men's shame.


"Blackbeard's Head" 
 ---Joshua Rahms

the most feared  
Teach; dark-hair leer 
a smug death-face 
aboard the wooden grace 
of Queen Anne's Revenge
but once removed, a skully portend 
high-flung, pole-plunked. All would see 
that decapitated pirate gazing out to sea!


"Almost a King" 
--Carly Willard 

Almost a king-- 
had he the mind for it, 
the Continental Army would have leapt 
from his wooden teeth, would have placed 
the riches of the New World at his feet.  
But he'd no mind for kingship--no, 
barely one for men-marshalling.  
General Washington--King Washington?  
One was almost 
the same 
as the other.


Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Volume III, Issue I

April 15, 2013
The Ides of March Journal

April 15, 1924: 
Roadway wanderlust 
gets a new direction: maps 
by Rand McNally.

Featured in this Issue, culled from 11 possible submissions: 

Zann Carter: 
    ---"Genevieve Habert Discovers Le Bateau is Hung Upside-Down"
Linda Crate: 
Jeanne DeLarm-Neri: 
    ---"Athena and Theseus May Have Met" 
Liz Hartnett:
    ---"Pulling the Wool"
Doug Polk 
    ---"A Mob in Egypt" 
    ---"Van Gogh"  


"Genevieve Habert Discovers Le Bateau is Hung Upside-Down" 
---By Zann Carter 

For 47 days in 1961 in the museum of Modern Art, 
Le Bateau, a 1953 paper-cut by the elderly Henri Matisse hung 

upside down. 

Genevieve Habert, a New York stockbroker originally 
from France, visited the exhibit three times 

and became convinced of it. 

'Because," she said, "Matisse would never 
put the main, more complex motif on the bottom 

and the lesser motif on top." 

She informed a guard who said all the experts 
were home for the weekend and didn't bother 

to take a message. 

But Genevieve, a more complex motif, contacted the New York Times 
who contacted MOMA's art director who ordered 

a proper rehanging.


---Linda Crate

He broke into my house, my only 
solace; rained down in gold and 
took the form of my husband-- 
for this they took me and threw 
me to the sea; they only remember 
my son Perseus, the hero, but they 
forget me; let my memories yellow 
like my bones lost to the sea-- 
I know they call it adultery, but 
how could I be blamed for what the 
king of the gods decided to do to me?  
I cannot help but think that this is 
unfair judgement, something that 
ought not have been brought forth 
upon me, in a dance of autumn leaves. 


 "Athena and Theseus May Have Met"
---Jeanne DeLarm-Neri

Thank the curating gods, 
the title plaque names them, 
their heads missing from cracked 
frozen fragmented frieze. 
We modern docents wondered. 

Athena's tough marble garlands 
drape her square hollowed waist: 
the site of ancient hardware. 
Bon Voyage to Theseus' torso 
wedged to the wall with one killer bicep. 

They extend what's left of limbs, 
reach to tap nubs, 
exchange an airy message. 
The code erodes, 
atom by unrequited atom.


"Pulling the Wool" 
---Liz Hartnett 

Irish raiders flew across the waves 
in curraghs of animal hides; 
Keen eyes in the keening gale, 
claiming the offspring of Britain, 
bearing away thousands, 
including Patrick, who tended sheep 
and pondered divinity 
on the lonely slopes of Antrim, 
perhaps arriving at faith through 
lack of any alternative hope.
Extremity requires monolithic allies, 
or at least a less temporal master 
with a different sort of sheep. 


"A Mob in Egypt" 
--Doug Polk 

Our turn, 
the mobs say, 
America dying, 
Europe dead, 
get out of the way, 
our time in the sun, 
has only begun, 
the faith is ours, 
as is strength of will, 
let us walk in the sun, 
as the storm clouds build, 
and the Egyptian army plans. 


" Van Gogh" 
--Doug Polk 

The soul arches on the canvas, 
blood red, 
or deep ocean blue, 
each and every brush stroke, 
a scab, 
scratched free, 
until nothing left, 


Sunday, December 23, 2012

Volume II, Issue IV

December 15, 2012 
The Ides of March Journal 

December 21, 2012.  
Midnight came and went. 
The ghosts of Cichen Itza 
still laugh at our fear. 

In this issue, culled from six eligible poems: 

Art Baker 
    ---"A Mayan Christmas"
Liz Hatrnett 
    ---"Not So Fast"
Phillip Larrea 
    ---"Taxing Times--The Legend of Lady Godiva"  


"A Mayan Christmas" 
---Art Baker 

My brother buys boxes of batteries. 
Candles, too. 
And he's got shelves full of dry food, 
enough for a zoo. 

He says the end is coming, 
and the Mayans won't take him. 
He's stocked his basement larder, 
and he's got guns to the brim.  

I asked him: "What if nothing happens?" 
"What if it's all just a bunch nonsense?" 
He said: "Then I'm already set 
for five years worth of Christmas presents."


"Not So Fast" 
---Liz Hartnett

How did you come to this? 
Your head on a stake, 
with years to ponder your predicament 
from the rooftop. 
Missing your cozy crypt in Westminster.  

Lord Protector of Great Britain, 
Star of the Puritan Elect, 
Oliver Cromwell, man of God. 
The part you played in the King's execution 
never sat well. 

You governed to the hilt: loyalists massacred, 
churches burned around the ears of poor Irish. 
A colorful rule, a peaceful death in bed.  
But after, 
their stubborn resentment could not let you rest. 


"Taxing Times--The Legend of Lady Godiva" 
---Phillip Larrea 

wearing naught 
but hirsute. 

net assets. 
Now its worse.

God I've a 
mind to ride. 
Horse repo'd.  


Wednesday, September 12, 2012

New Publication Months: April, August, and December only.

The beauty of running a small journal by myself is that I set my own deadlines, no one else drinks my coffee, and I create my own rules.

However, when "life" (as a graduate student, I possess no real life...just "life") comes into conflict with some of those rules, something has to give. And since I value my "life" over my rules, they're going to take a wee bit of a thrashing.

Not too much, though.

Effective immediately, The Ides of March will no longer be a monthly publication. To save my sanity as I work my way through other various projects and callings (that "life" thing again), The Ides will now only become a thrice-a-year publication. April, August, and December will be the only months to see new issues of The Ides; the other months get to relax and take it easy. 

Sorry for any inconvenience, frowny faces, or sub-breath grumbles. 

Next issue: December, 2012!

Friday, August 17, 2012

Volume II. Issue III.

August 16, 2012
The Ides of March
August 15, 1965: 
John, Paul, George, Ringo.  
Shea Stadium, Queens, New York. 

In this issue, culled from four eligible poems:

Liz Hartnett: 
    ---"American Gothic"
Jenna Kelly: 
    ---"Jack the Ripper


"American Gothic"
---Liz Hartnett

Conflict surely reigned in this skull.
Enslaved; wedged
between privilege and privation; a part of neither.
Grandison Harris spent 60 years
at Georgia's Medical College.
Kept them well supplied.
The Resurrection Man. Feared by the powerless,
sitting vigil over their dying and newly buried.
He drew specimens from their coffins
from a hole hacked in the lid,
replacing earth and flowers to leave no wound.
Stealing the last scrap of the thoroughly used,
in service of the users. Wink and look the other way,
it's only the colored cemetery, the potter's field.
For science. Rest in peace, Grandison.


"Jack the Ripper"
---Jenna Kelly

Click click on cobble stone
corset strings are tangled
Click click on cobble stone
now her body's mangled
Scratch of ink pen on a note
a riddle that the killer wrote
To leave the town in shallowed whisper
they never did catch Jack the Ripper.