Sunday Showcase

No. 05 - Madeleine Chill

Madeleine Chill

Our Sunday showcase this week is writer and translator Madeleine Chill, whose striking poetic voice pushes readers from the edge of experience into the surreal. Read her poems slowly, carefully, and let yourself sink all the way in.

About the writer:
Madeleine Chill is a translator and writer who lives in central Israel. She is currently completing her MA in English Literature and Literary Translation at Bar-Ilan University, where her thesis focuses on translating Puerto Rican narratives of the Spanish-American War. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Connecticut with a BA in Spanish. Her work has previously been published in Narrative Magazine and Caesura.

Alongside the magazine, Sunday Showcase provides additional opportunities for emerging artists and writers to share their work and gain exposure. There are no themes or deadlines, simply email us your best work for a chance to get featured across all of our channels. We accept writing of any genre and visual art of all mediums.

HOW TO SUBMIT

Send submissions to writehausmagazine@gmail.com. Be sure to include:

  • “Sunday Showcase” in the subject line
  • Your name
  • Your writing or artwork
  • A short bio
  • A headshot
  • Links to your instagram or website

THISBE

By Madeleine Chill

                    . . . the inner word you want, that fugitive, unfaithful
                    word wed now to silence.
                    —Margaret Gibson, “Forgetting”

Every night I come to see
if the orchid blossom’s opened.

Night when I don’t
or can’t move any farther;

or when what by day I measure
in space as movement

becomes by night
more measurable in stillness;

or when what by day I measure forward
must by night be measured

back. Tonight my body says
you’re just beyond the wall.

I search and search for the chink
though I’ve heard the old story:

the lion, the mulberry tree.
Remember, in June:

                    I point to a tree, saying
                    
these are mulberries.
                    You tug a branch close for me;
                    unripe pink nubs
                    cascade over your hair. . .

Tonight the orchid’s unfurled
just one petal.

Backward through my body comes
the story, less story now

than mourning song.
I sing it,

ripe as blood,
certainly torn apart.

GRIEVING THE THING THAT’S STILL HERE

By Madeleine Chill

Screaming all night at the tormentor.
In the morning, white calcium appears,
the buck velvet eaten away.
You are just a body.

In the street, rocks fall.
Cascade of sound like the river
after the hurricane.
I lived on that river. You
are just a body.

Without a finger, though,
you held me down. Without
a finger, you instructed me
in violence.
Now I reach to strike,
my hand slides through you
like water.
Screaming turns
to gagging.

It is not like the snake
shedding its skin.
The velvet was the living
part.

It’s fall.
I still need everything.

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