From the Archives: “The Night Keeps” by Bryce Thornburg

Cool and leaves

Find like parts
To line the yard

Each tree rather

Unclung to
A departure

The fenced-in
Quality throws me


Spring 2014 Cover Contest

Euphony Journal is putting together its Spring 2014 issue, and we are on the search for a new cover. Send along your favorite photographs and visual arts projects for consideration!
Please email your images to by Friday, April 4th. You are welcome to submit multiple entries. Browse through our website to look through our past issues for inspiration.

We look forward to reviewing your submissions, and best of luck!

The Editors

From the Archives: “A Mom Reads Kipling” by Elizabeth Bastos

I am the many-armed
goddess of the market-going
and market-coming-back-from,
a sacred balloon tied to each child’s wrist. Death

of shrimp.

In the middle of the night, you better believe
I am the mongoose.

Beside me lies the lump of Man, unconscious,
who does not hear (and maybe could never hear)
the stirrings of Nag,

a sound so different from the heat.

Look at me, Darzee:
how viciously and how lovingly
I put the rinds of the melon onto the melon bed.

Originally published Spring 2010.

Winter 2014 Issue

It’s here! Click the image to download a PDF.

For those of you near the University of Chicago Campus on March 10th, stop by Cobb Hall to pick up a print copy and enter our raffle for a $25 Seminary Co-op Gift Card. For details, click here.


From the Archives: “Mirror” by Robin Kish

You can do it in a bathroom, curtains drawn, lights out. Any room where there’s a mirror. Some recommend the use of candles, but the best results can only be achieved in total darkness. Make sure the glass is clean. You don’t want to mistake dust or scratches for anything more than what they are. Say the name three times, five times, seven times: Bloody Mary, Mary Worth, Mary Jane. Variations of Mary and Bloody are best. Repeat the name. Tell the ghost in the mirror you believe in her. Tell her to Come out! Spin thirteen times. Stand perfectly still. Maybe she’ll appear. Maybe she’ll claw out your eyes. Maybe she’ll take you back into the mirror with her. Don’t stand to close. If your breath fogs the glass,you might fall victim to an illusion. This happened once to Laney-Jane and she came squealing from the girls’ second floor bathroom. Upon further investigation, we discovered that she’d been frightened by nothingmore than a patch of her own breath.

There were three of us then, the start of fourth grade: Sadie, Laney-Jane, and me, just Jane, but the others called me Kate, short for Katherine, which Sadie had baptized me in her parents’ kitchen sink. There could only be one Jane in the group. I’d wanted to be Medea or Athena or Daphne, something exotic and beautiful and straight from mythology. “They’re pagan,” Sadie explained, dunking my head into the lukewarm water, which tasted faintly of dish cleanser. “Why would you want to be a pagan? Saints live forever in the glory of heaven.” One counts, two counts, three counts, and I was Katherine, after the saint who was beheaded when the wheel couldn’t break her. Sadie was Catholic, and knew nothing about mythology: Only the name of a saint would do.

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