© 2003-2010  |  all rights reserved | Saturn images courtesy of nasaimages.org

about us  |  xml feed  |  Contrary ® is a registered trademark of Contrary Magazine  |  donate $1  | contact us

Congratulations Contrarians

REBECCA LEHMANN
THE FACTORY
2010 Best New Poets

SHERMAN ALEXIE
2010 PEN/Faulkner Award

MEREDITH MARTINEZ
WHEN I SAY LOVE
2010 Best  of the Web Award



REVIEWS

NON-FICTION

On Whitman
by C.K. Williams
Reviewed by David M. Smith

Green Fields
by Bob Cowser, Jr.
Reviewed by Thomas Larson

 POETRY    

Taste of Cherry
by Kara Candito
Reviewed by Shaindel Beers

Rootling, New & Selected Poems
by Katie Donovan
Reviewed by Grace Wells

FICTION

The Wilding
by Benjamin Percy
Reviewed by Frances Badgett

Stiltsville
by Susanna Daniel
Reviewed by Cynthia Newberry Martin

Travelling Light
by Tove Jansson
Reviewed by Pauline Masurelhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Factory.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Factory.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Factory.htmlSherman_Alexie_Census.htmlSherman_Alexie_Census.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Love.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Love.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Love.htmlReviews.htmlCK_Williams_On_Whitman.htmlCK_Williams_On_Whitman.htmlCK_Williams_On_Whitman.htmlBob_Cowser_Jr_Green_Fields.htmlBob_Cowser_Jr_Green_Fields.htmlBob_Cowser_Jr_Green_Fields.htmlKara_Candito_Taste_of_Cherry.htmlKara_Candito_Taste_of_Cherry.htmlKara_Candito_Taste_of_Cherry.htmlKara_Candito_Taste_of_Cherry.htmlKatie_Donovan_Rootling.htmlKatie_Donovan_Rootling.htmlKatie_Donovan_Rootling.htmlKatie_Donovan_Rootling.htmlBenjamin_Percy_The_Wilding.htmlBenjamin_Percy_The_Wilding.htmlBenjamin_Percy_The_Wilding.htmlSusanna_Daniel_Stiltsville.htmlSusanna_Daniel_Stiltsville.htmlSusanna_Daniel_Stiltsville.htmlSusanna_Daniel_Stiltsville.htmlTove_Jansson_Travelling_Light.htmlTove_Jansson_Travelling_Light.htmlTove_Jansson_Travelling_Light.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0shapeimage_2_link_1shapeimage_2_link_2shapeimage_2_link_3shapeimage_2_link_4shapeimage_2_link_5shapeimage_2_link_6shapeimage_2_link_7shapeimage_2_link_8shapeimage_2_link_9shapeimage_2_link_10shapeimage_2_link_11shapeimage_2_link_12shapeimage_2_link_13shapeimage_2_link_14shapeimage_2_link_15shapeimage_2_link_16shapeimage_2_link_17shapeimage_2_link_18shapeimage_2_link_19shapeimage_2_link_20shapeimage_2_link_21shapeimage_2_link_22shapeimage_2_link_23shapeimage_2_link_24shapeimage_2_link_25shapeimage_2_link_26shapeimage_2_link_27shapeimage_2_link_28shapeimage_2_link_29shapeimage_2_link_30shapeimage_2_link_31shapeimage_2_link_32
COMMENTARY | POETRY | FICTION | CHICAGO         ARCHIVES  | ABOUT  | SUBMISSIONS  | BOOKSHOP  | DONATE  | CONTACT  | SHAREArchives.htmlContrary.htmlSubmissions.htmlBookshop.htmlWritersFund.htmlContact.htmlhttp://www.addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=152&winname=addthis&pub=contrary&source=men-152&lng=en-us&s=undefined&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.contrarymagazine.com%2F&title=Contrary%20Magazine&logo=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.contrarymagazine.com%2Fcontramazon.jpg&logobg=F5F4F4&logocolor=&ate=AT-contrary/-/-/4b3771ea6b8ea1a5/1/4b329e0c06baac67&uid=4b329e0c06baac67&CXNID=2000001.5215456080540439074NXC&pre=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.contrarymagazine.com%2FContrary%2FAutumn-2009.html&tt=0shapeimage_3_link_0shapeimage_3_link_1shapeimage_3_link_2shapeimage_3_link_3shapeimage_3_link_4shapeimage_3_link_5shapeimage_3_link_6
http://www.contrarymagazine.com/
DAYDREAMING IN MY LOVER’S ARMS AFTERWARD
A POEM BY DAMON McLAUGHLINDamon_McLaughlin_Daydreaming.htmlDamon_McLaughlin_Daydreaming.htmlDamon_McLaughlin_Daydreaming.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0shapeimage_5_link_1shapeimage_5_link_2
THE POOL
DAVID MOHAN

We met in a swimming pool – the one between the Chinese Takeaway and the supermarket just off Main Street. It seems a strange place to meet someone, I admit, but I couldn’t help but notice you doing lengths. Strange to think the first time I saw you, you had shining blue skin. We spoke afterwards in the dressing room, we kissed that evening, we dated the next day, we moved in the following week. Then two months later you died, end of story, except I kept going to our swimming pool every Thursday night, just the same as usual... MOREDavid_Mohan_The_Pool.htmlDavid_Mohan_The_Pool.htmlDavid_Mohan_The_Pool.htmlshapeimage_6_link_0shapeimage_6_link_1shapeimage_6_link_2
INSECT EFFECT
ANNIE BELLET

The week was warm. Little bodies broke right out of their spun shells, sticky wings dried, and the air became beautiful.  Damn birds always wake me up, but that week, in the beginning, it was a hush that woke me. Like when snow first falls and the world takes a deep breath. Birds must have been too full of bugs to sing those mornings ‘cause the air was silent and full of falling, flying colors.  I saw in a movie once that a butterfly flapping wings could cause a whole hurricane on the other side of the world.  That is just one butterfly. We had hundreds, maybe thousands.... MOREAnnie_Bellet_Insect_Effect.htmlAnnie_Bellet_Insect_Effect.htmlAnnie_Bellet_Insect_Effect.htmlshapeimage_7_link_0shapeimage_7_link_1shapeimage_7_link_2
THE THING ABOUT DEPARTURES | TASHA COTTERTasha_Cotter_Departures.htmlshapeimage_8_link_0

She first felt something might be wrong on an airport’s breezeway in the Midwest. It was there she began to realize what she would miss. She was already missing everything, but was too busy closing a part of herself off very tightly. Everything was a sign of weakness. It was at this point she changed the song and

changed her focus so that she was no longer looking at a couple poised for paradise, but an older woman, seated apart from everyone else, staring deeply into her empty lap. A discarded bottle of water lay at her feet. Someone working the counter said her row was boarding. After several years pass she realizes she

got on the plane simply because a stranger told her it was time to board the plane. 



The woman and the plane have a shared mission: they each want to reach a destination without crashing..... MORE

THREE PROSE POEMS

CLAUDIA SEREA


Bigeye could see the grain of dust in the wind and the flame in coal. He could see the fish in the sea. He could see the child inside his mother’s womb, the tulip inside the bulb, the sap beneath the bark of trees, the grubs underground. He could see buried seeds and bones, the grass roots penetrating the graves.... MORE

THREE PROSE POEMS

KRISTINE ONG MUSLIM


From now on, there will never be any flat land, just water. All words will be derivatives of fixed names denoting the ocean surface bearing the image of the moon. Everyone is still entitled to his own secrets: that misanthrope with the chubby face, that tightrope junkie, that minimalist rearranging his arms to fit a slinky dress.... MORE

FINGERS
A POEM BY MICHELLE MILLERMichelle_Miller_fingers.htmlMichelle_Miller_fingers.htmlshapeimage_9_link_0shapeimage_9_link_1