Page 1

the indulgent zine #1 summer’s end


Editor’s note Thank you; for looking up this zine, for giving kindness a chance, for giving yourself one. Summer’s end, what does it mean to you? Do you feel it in the shift of the breeze, in the sway of the trees, in the darkening skies, in the heat stealing rains? What does it mean for summer to end? Who knows? I would answer, yet I believe you will find a meaning in these poems. Will you make this meaning your own? I hope you do. Be kind to yourself, and look for the answers in others. You don’t have to figure it all by yourself. I hope these words will help you, fill you with a soft love that will carry you through winter days.


Index this time —

Quinn L.

Summer Lungs — Lau Bowcock in the garden —

Quinn L.

we are infinite — p.m.r.

10/17 — Elwing Ali Sultan bonfire

— Kanika Lawton

melt — i.nk

Summers and indulgences — Kavi Kshiraj

Cover credit: Bryan Minear on Unsplash.com 3

this time

this is one of the moodier season-shifts i remember. we sit outside in a grey day, me trying to taste the sky with its promised rain, you sitting sideways against the wind as it tosses your hair into unravelling waves. i feel a little less lost than usual today; i feel a little less lost looking at you. in this sunless september i want to say i would turn seeking you even if the day were cast in celestial gold (if i took a step backwards and you told me i’d walked into a world two months slow i would’ve believed you) & summer draws away from my hands like the end of a dream.


this time — Quinn L. Quinn L. is a student from southern Ontario who wishes they could live far closer to a big city’s heart. They have always been in love with words, stories, and the sky. You can find more of their poetry at abstractedfocus.tumblr.com.


Summer Lungs Summer never really ends here Baby fat is kissed into wrinkle dusted cheeks by the sun Even when cold rain soaks our thighs we bike the streets Blow down hills with the leftover monsoon season wind September sunk slow into October With still warm nights, birds calling me to sleep and to life on twining song strings If it weren’t for the calendar I would never know the days aren’t one long season Not an oppressive summer, the heat doesn’t hold me to the pavement Just brushes my arms and wraps my bloodstreams I’m trying to hate this time of year Panicking at sunrise glazed clouds and bodily timed routine Stress wedging itself above my eye, shaking my fingers into drawing deadlines Not to mention the passage of time I swim through Days sweep me into their currents and I don’t fight The melting plastic, just to come out on the other side of a surface of Refractions I’m creating for myself Instead I open a window And it’s ten at night The sun is down, I wish I fell with it Could be resting in the red nebula clouds It’s almost sad I cannot travel with the rise and fall of day’s gentle breath The peace of living in light streams Warm summer air sneaks in with the dark Singing a melody I thought I forgot When I was so afraid of my life.


Summer Lungs — Lau Bowcock Lau Bowcock lives in Florida where she looks for inspiration in her emotions. Her poetry has appeared across social media platforms and online zines, as well as her self published poetry books. Her and her works can be found @smallepics on tumblr or twitter.


in the garden

i. rosebud darling, that’s not a boy in my poem & it wasn’t so much that i thought you should know, more like i’m tired of how at the start of every summer i pray that i’ll bloom all season & instead i just watch petals falling through heat-smudged windows. ii. starling i will bring a bright offering to the crows in the garden, watch them float in circles like vultures. this is my heart neatly sectioned off; this is my heart scattered to the winds & whole as a shadow. it belongs to her. it will never go to her. iii. sunbeam here is the version of her that lives in my head, now: something soft & hazy. outside she is all diamond brilliance & it should hurt to look, it should hurt to touch, but perhaps she has already burned away any chance of that; i would not put it past her. iv. raindrop so i stand in mist like the blush of blooming light, wind soft as the glide of flower petals. i stand. i breathe. if i play my cards right, she will never know the truth. summer folds into autumn & maybe this year’s second equinox can be a second renewal.


in the garden — Quinn L. Quinn L. is a student from southern Ontario who wishes they could live far closer to a big city’s heart. They have always been in love with words, stories, and the sky. You can find more of their poetry at abstractedfocus.tumblr.com.


we are infinite

we had long ago wandered the gardens by the sea under arches decorated by sweet-smelling vines the swell of the river held back by the banks where you kissed me for the first time and girls perched in branches cheered loudly above but your hands were so soft around mine for so long i’ve shouldered the burden of life of the earth on my back, the stars in my eyes the weight of the world left me dragging my feet weary and walking for miles but each night i sleep now with you in my bed and each day i wake to your smile there’s more to the world than just us two, my love but i know you’re all that i need so kiss me two times when you leave home, my love and i’ll fit a lifetime between


we are infinite — p.m.r. p.m.r. is an aspiring poet and writer living a quiet suburban life of which she is both resentful and grateful. You can often find her spending time at local farmers markets, libraries, and coffee shops. Check out chrysoulis.tumblr.com for more of her work.


10/17 How we laughed and twirled! How we danced and whooped! How we sang and frolicked! Flowers in our hair, Smiles on our lips, Sun in our eyes, All around that campfire, All around that glittering lake, All around this circle. They say, It’s time to close your windows. It’s time to close our jackets. It’s time to close his ice cream stand. Summer is over. It’s written in the papers. It’s written in the calendar. It’s written in the leaves. And yet, The bright sun is filtering in, The warm sun is slithering in, The harsh sun is piercing in; Making the spiders crawl and hide, Making the flowers blooms and wilt, Making the birds leave and return. Summer is over, 12

He’s dead, Dead, Gone. Summer is over, Time to rest Rest, Bones. Summer is over, May he be blessed, Blessed, Alone. The heat never ceases, The light never dies The flies never flee. Isn’t summer over? Oh there I can see it! The squirrel twirling from the tree, The squirrel scampering through the forest, The squirrel hiding its treasures. Deep, Deep Into the hollow bark, Where the spiders crawl, Where the fungus grow, Where the leaves sputter. How quiet, deep at night… 13

And the walnuts crash through the silence And the branches crack through the silence And the foliage wafts through the silence; So much life in death… The forest is Closing her shutters, Barring her door, Lighting her fires, For the winter. Don’t call her, Don’t text her, Don’t tweet her. She will be back in spring. Like the trees baring their heads Like the earth frosting her body Like the bulbs nestling into their womb She will rest. Not a word Not a thought Not a sigh Just rest, Until the blackbird calls her Until the rain trickles into her Until the green shoots grow from her womb And she will stretch out, Each and every limb 14

Each and every cell Each and every thought For the next year For the next strife For the next battle.

10/17 — Elwing Ali Sultan Some say Elwing Ali Sultan is a poet and writer from Switzerland but she in fact one of the legendary magical creatures that live in a far off planet, in a lost galaxy. She is currently working on her first novel.



for Sammantha and Chitvan we sat on the sands of Dockweiler State Beach around our flickering bonfire, tried to burn the soles of our feet on something like warmth, choked back that bottle of wine like it was comfort and listen, i didn’t cry but my tears know the curve of my cheeks more than i will ever know my own face and happiness always turns girls into water and as i watched the two of you rush to the ocean’s edge as the night sky began to swirl around us, wrapping our blankets across my bare legs and cursing the fact that i wore my best shoes, i couldn’t help but think of all the times i autopsied my own heart to you both, how i bled myself dry and still you took me by my hand, and maybe this poem is nothing more than a way to say thank you for everything you’ve done, and maybe the best thing that happened to me that summer was spending it with you, but as the bonfire began to die and we frantically tried to roast marshmallows over the kindling, all this warmth turned into burning and it didn’t hurt anymore. it didn’t hurt. 16

bonfire — Kanika Lawton Kanika Lawton is a Vancouver-based writer, poet, and editor. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of L’Éphémère Review, Visual Arts Editor for Venus Magazine, and Community Manager of The Murmur House. Her work has appeared in Rambutan Literary, Ricepaper Magazine, PUBLIC POOL, and The Ellis Review, among others. Find her on Twitter @honeyveined and Tumblr at honeyveined.tumblr.com.



monday breaks & doesn’t reform until friday night the world is fever heavy, half static clinging to the words you want to say the world breaks & doesn’t reform until summer with heady heat pressing you into the mattress until you remember what it felt like, to look at the sky through a lens & find it anything but gray there’s a lesson in this & you try to swallow it down remember what it was like when the world wasn’t bleached bone & dead nerves remember what you were like when the world spilled down your throat like honey, gold shot through & lighter than life might be you won’t be like that again but the sun still sinks into you like a friend & honeycombs hide in the corner of your lips to melt your words sweet might be the world won’t be like it was but the breaks have turned into spiderline cracks & there’s green growing in places the moonlight touches there’s a lesson in this & next winter you’ll hold it close to keep you warm


melt — i.nk ink, lover of all that is sweet & caffeinated, is a poet from the us. you can find their work on tumblr at softspeaker. they leave you with their favorite animal fact: a group of bunnies is called a fluffle!


summers and indulgences

‘indulgence’ always falls off your lips like a caress, like dripping honey and heavy eyelashes. like hot and humid summers and kohl-streaked eyes and you like eyes— like the curves of their shapes, the softness of her eyelids shuddering under your thumb dragging over them and the brush of long, delicate lashes, you like clear seaglass green of open eyes. and summer’s come around with its gold and green, and left with its lazy saunter by now, but it’s your favorite. it’s always your favorite. splay yourself out and coil around the heat of sunlight leaking over you. so summer’s wandered away to the chill of autumn, but you still curl your tongue around ‘indulgence’ like molten bites of dark chocolate, and the spill of red juice staining fingertips with bites of cherries.


summers and indulgences — Kavi Kshiraj Kavi Kshiraj is an aspiring poet who’s wildly infatuated with the English language while simultaneously hating it for justifiable reasons. He enjoys writing of all forms and can usually be found hunched over a laptop, frantically typing. His tumblr, where you can find other works of his, is @moltengoldichor.


Profile for The Indulgent Zine

The indulgent zine #1 summer's end  

The Indulgent Zine is a bi-monthly poetry zine built upon the idea that love and care can mend our brokenness.

The indulgent zine #1 summer's end  

The Indulgent Zine is a bi-monthly poetry zine built upon the idea that love and care can mend our brokenness.