 Arlington Literary Journal an ejournal also known as ArLiJo, is located in Arlington, Virginia and is sponsored by Gival Press. The intent of ArLiJo is to feature a variety of authors/poets/artists from around the globe whose work provokes readers to contemplate issues, etc. The work chosen promotes understanding and sensitivity across borders, even if initially the work may cause one to take a double-take. Staff: Editor-in-Chief, Robert L. Giron Associate Editor, Sarah Fannon The Reading Period for ArLiJo will open from January 15 to April 15, 2019.  Any work published shall remain the property of the author/poet/artist and for any previously published work to appear the author/poet/artist must still retain the copyright of the work. Please note that ArLiJo is an ejournal. Payment for publication is a book from a selection of books published by Gival Press. Books Available to ArLiJo Contributors NONFICTION: Sexy Liberal! Of Me I Sing by Stephanie Miller FICTION: Dream of Another America by Tyler McMahon Ghost Horse by Thomas H. McNeely Mayhem: Three Lives of a Woman by Elizabeth Harris Show Up, Look Good by Mark Wisniewski That Demon Life by Lowell Mick White Twelve Rivers of the Body by Elizabeth Oness The Cannibal of Guadalajara by David Winner The Best of Gival Press Short Stories ed. by Robert L. Giron The Second Act by Tim Brown Barrow’s Point by Robert Schirmer POETRY: Poetic Voices Without Borders ed by Robert L. Giron On the Altar of Greece by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee Poetic Voices Without Borders 2 ed by Robert L. Giron Songs for the Spirit by Robert L. Giron On the Tongue by Jeff Mann Bones Washed With Wine by Jeff Mann The Great Canopy by Paula Goldman Sweet to Burn by Beverly Burch Protection by Gregg Shapiro Honey by Richard Carr 12 Sonnets for the Zodiac by John Gosslee Adamah: Poème by Celine Zins |
Kim Roberts Featured on ArLiJo.com American History Love makes us foolish. You gave it up for ten prime years, kept your own sad counsel. And I? I flitted about like a dog pent up in the house all day then let suddenly loose in the yard to sniff and piss, to run zigzags from one scent to the next. I pretended to have the memory of a dog, living only for the present, a new scent and I'm off again. Ben Franklin said a single man is the odd half of a pair of scissors. You went like that, ten years, hopping on one leg. And I? I discovered one half is still a blade, and even alone can make a nasty cut. First appeared in Dickinson Review. Copyright © 2005 by Kim Roberts. Golden In a break in the trees where the stream winds through, they slant in, too ethereal to be stripes, although there are two— no, three—distinct beams shimmering, suspended in a honey mist. I think of those religious paintings of the Virgin ascending, or the saints transformed by light at the exact moment of their worst trial. Those beams are always wrong: solid, sculptural, too heavy to hang on air, or a different sort of dangerous: like a crown of yellow knives. Not this porous curtain. It appears and disappears. Against the slant of light, the trees look gorgeous, greener, more themselves: the clarity of color, the distinct outlines of individual leaves. Although it’s not light we see after all, but bits of dust and dirt around which light coalesces. Portraits of saints are poor representations of the transfiguring moment. We only see what blocks the light—the suspended matter— the obstacles that glow with stubborn fire. First appeared in Minimus. Copyright © 2005 by Kim Roberts. Pierre I remember a hillock or white mound with a moat. Then it collapsed in the middle and turned clear and bubbled. That was the only time he was truly patient, holding the flame under the spoon, watching the powder turn liquid, from the edges in. Then he laid down the lighter, cradled the spoon in a dish towel and delicately clasped the syringe. He had a style to it, a technical expertise. Push the air out of the shaft, then slowly suck the liquid through the needle. Almost languid. The rest was rough: securing the plastic strip tightly with his left hand and his teeth, the slap that made his veins rise, bruised and pockmarked. And the way he pushed the needle home. I remember days his eyes sank inward like a well whose depth could not be measured. I remember everyone else in the kitchen talking, carrying on. I guess you can get used to anything. But I couldn’t help but stare. I was 18. He was no older, my boyfriend’s roommate. He could be intimate sometimes, sweet and boyish: like how he sniffed my hair fresh from a shower, or the time he told me that he could never return to Paris, now that he’d learned to eat ketchup on his potatoes, now that America had ruined him. Copyright © 2005 by Kim Roberts. Biography: Kim Roberts is the editor of Beltway Poetry Quarterly. The author of a book of poetry, The Wishbone Galaxy, individual poems of hers are also included in numerous print anthologies, such as American Poetry: The Next Generation (Carnegie Mellon University Press), Cabin Fever (The Word Works, Inc.), Hungry As We Are (Washington Writers Publishing House), Poetic Voices Without Borders (Gival Press) and The First Yes: Poems About Communicating (Dryad Press), as well as CDs such as 31 Arlington Poets (Paycock Press) and Poetry Alive at Iota (Minimus Productions). She has published widely in literary journals throughout the USA, as well as in Canada, Ireland, France, and Brazil. Roberts has been the recipient of grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the DC Commission for the Arts, and the Humanities Council of Washington, DC. She has been awarded writers' residencies at ten artist colonies: Hidden River Arts, The Artists' Enclave at I-Park, New York Mills Arts Retreat, The Millay Colony for the Arts, The Mesa Refuge, Ragdale Foundation, Ucross Foundation, Blue Mountain Center, the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation of New Mexico, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Visit this author's homepage at http://washingtonart.com/beltway/roberts.html
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