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 JULY WESTHALE is an accomplished literary arts archivist and revered digital media publicist    Creative Writing Curator and Co-Founding Editor of a distinguished Magazine, pulp_pit. WESTHALE is a globally featured poet, essayist and literary arts activist with a host of her writings published on several digital and print spaces home and abroad.  Her poetry is deep and her verses are rimmed with lyrical dexterity and her mastery of the language in both form and content is beyond any measure. MAESTRO……….. TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC is grateful and humbled to feature JULY WESTHALE, a gifted poet and a literary maestro of immeasurable caliber. The poems featured here  are in her  forthcoming book, “Via Negativa” – Aluta Continua- (blurb by Mbizo CHIRASHA).






Every 28 days, the small sacks

of strung pearls drop like hushed

riches in a silk change purse,

and we are scared silly:

that you will hear, measure

what’s left by how fitfully they fall,

by how brown or not-brown

the chalk line on the clean cotton.


Guess: she’s over it.

Guess: wherein lies the uterus.

Guess: how and where it last expelled,

that U-shaped superintendent

come calling. Guess: eggs remaining,

like marbles. The prize for being right.






exhausted, utterly wan

ruddy call girl made of petals,

being the opportune speaker

of her mother

tongue summons a storm to quench


little cry of man     come again


ruddy call girl made of petals

stomped, damned, now a languid

and unintelligent monastery

summons a storm to quench


little cry of man    come again


exquisite Bible figurines with upturned

palms, with prostrate sinews

and smiles and psalms,

a vow of silence but a throat of song,


little cry of man    come again


she tries learning

practicing pure exterior, a shell


whimpering gasps, groveling

in passed alms, a mass

of figurines in shards, split

American Gothic asps

and into storms    come again


she tries learning

practicing purity, partaking


mewling sounds     o god


bodies bathing, baptized    come again


mewling sounds    o god


practicing purity, partaking

all manners of nunnery    come again


Holy fool figurine

year(n) after year(n)

in a sealed habit

losing the ghost, giving it—


little cry of man, struggling the storm


little lapping tongues

little speaking tongues


year after year, sealed, ruddy

call girl made of petals

struggles with sorcery, with storms


there are many ways to be a nun

to un-acknowledge a self in spades

glint and flint stripped away

until she reckons    come again


little hail mary

little steeple people

little ave maria, singing    come again


o god o loose end o abbreviation

and those pregnant clouds, storm coming and coming




Tubbs Fire, 2017


And now the horses are as omnipresent

as the news.

Fleeing thickets, an invisible hand

parting red smoke for them.  We are in

wine country. Ranchers keep extravagant breeds:

vineyard palominos, dappled darlings on purple-tongued hills.


Headlines click like loafers down linoleum: Containment 0%!


And the starving ground eating it up, eating it up. Saving

nothing for later. I start taking

notes: containment      something in a container     fire Tupperware.



We were just

in the Smokies, late

fog necking with foothills.


I could have. I could have broken

into blossom, turning the curve to a bright


many-stemmed bouquet of wild horses, thunder

thighs thudding before a slinky, silky sky.


Running because it felt good.

Blowing in the wind as if their roots were still attached.





for Joey


“the silver lamp,–the ravishment, –the wonder–the darkness,–loneliness, the fearful thunder” John Keats


There’s a billboard with the route 66’s version of June Cleaver, holding a pie underneath block letters HO-MADE PIES, which is how dry towns get their jollies, I guess.


We buy coffee in cups so thin the joe becomes us and we never regain our human shapes, and I say to you I wonder where they keep the half-bull man and you shotgun back I’ve spent my life asking that like the sharp shooter you are.


Who wouldn’t want to be the son of a bull and a damned woman

we are all sons of bull and damn


you’ve gone West to find everything or me


and look at girls the way I look at girls who are bad for me. Like a desert

through slatternly windows. This is America: the big-pricked statues statuary in their old-growth knowing:

in the end–spoiler alert–we’re both after the wrong bandit, the bank gets robbed, the two women who should be lovers but aren’t arc their Caddie like a rainbow into the lavish vaginal canyon at the last moment, the whale gets away, Faulkner’s pretend mother doesn’t get the burial she deserves, we have to choose between Liz Taylor in a kerchief or James Dean with his shirt stuttered open, and we can’t—





The night before I was executed

by firing squad, I had a sex dream–


a baptismal chimera just like a romp

in the hay. It was stupendous,


and when I woke soused in self,

I didn’t even mind the cold shoulder


of Winchesters designed for my heart.

The barrel lumens like brainless eyes,


gazing upon me with ardor,

and how like love it was, to beam


back at them, divining which suitor held the blank.


 JULY WESTHALE  is an essayist, translator, and the award-winning author of five collections of poetry, including Trailer Trash, Occasionally Accurate Science, The Cavalcade, Quantifiable Data, and Via Negativa. Her most recent work can be found in McSweeney’s, The National Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, CALYX, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and The Huffington Post, among others. When she’s not teaching, she works as a co-founding editor of PULP Magazine.



                       TIME OF THE POET  REPUBLIC eDitor


 Freedom of Speech Fellow to PEN- Zentrum  Deutschland,Germany. 2019 African Fellow  of the International Human Rights  Arts Festival in NewYork, USA.Literary Arts Activism Diplomatie.  Globally Certified  Arts Mediums Curator and Influencer. Internationally Published Page and Spoken Word Poet. Writer in Residence.  Arts for Human Rights Catalyst.  Core Team Member of the Bezine Arts and Humanities Project. His illustrious poetry , hybrid writings , political commentary ,short fiction , book reviews  and Arts Features are published in more  than 400 spaces notably the Monk  Arts and Soul in  Magazine  in United Kingdom. Atunis in Belgium. Demer press poetry series in Netherlands. World Poetry Almanac in Mongolia.Poesia journal in Slovenia. Bezine Arts and Humanities Webzine in USA. The Poet a Day in Brooklyn ,USA. Litnet Writers Journal in South Africa. African Crayons in Nigeria. Poetry Bulawayo in Zimbabwe. Pulp-pit USA.the FictionalCafe international Journal , Texas USA. Best New African Poetry series in Zimbabwe, Zimbolicious Poetry Collections in Zimbabwe. Co-edited Street Voices International Publications with Andreas Weiland  in Germany.Co-Edited  Silent Voices Anthology, a Tribute to Chinua Achebe.


                                TIME OF THE POET  REPUBLIC-An Internet based Poetry Center,  Archiving Theme based Digital Poetry Anthologies and  Profiling Iconic Poets and Writers

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