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The Gallery is an art gallery of great writing from a variety of writers in prose, poetry, essay, and experimental work. We diplay the best work that has been submitted to us openly, like a gallery, rather than a journal, magazine, or review. Come in off the street, read a bit, take its impressions away with you. The menu to the left is arranged by latest published edition, and all authors and featured pieces organized accordingly. Check back monthly for each new edition the first Friday of every month. Thank you, enjoy reading!
If you are interested in submitting work to appear on The Gallery we would love to have you. Send submissions by email to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it , and please, please, please read our Submissions Guidelines, all the good stuff’s in there.
David Belczyk is an attorney and an engineer that has published two volumes of poetry. He is also the author of a third poetry collection (forthcoming) and the debut story collection Elynia and Other Stories. He resides in Pittsburgh, PA. For more information about his work, or to purchase his books, please visit davidbelczyk.com.
Two Poems, "Nineteen" and "Twenty Nine"
(taken from the collection Sometimes Form/Sometimes Vessel;
Culturatti Ink, 2009)
The wind
Leans upon a ship under sail
Imaging desire
It causes disaster
But I was only trying to rustle the leaves of a tree
A thousand miles away
I have an origin
I know to make it a gift
Even in the sad exhibition of consequence
Does a sounding chime control the wind
Or a slamming door
The stagnant air inside is heavy
Quick
Reopen the door and let the wind breathe
Slam
The door shuts again
Chime and door
Do not assume to beckon me
Because you move in me
I am the wind that makes you sing out
My origin is beyond the origins I give
But my mind
It seems
Is full of slamming doors.
Twenty Nine
Telegram
I fell asleep stop
And dreamt of the harvest of language stop
The slick shimmer on the quaking stalks stop
Reveals the overnight rain stop
That cleansed the dirty food for shut mouths stop
The thrashers snip budding expression stop
Extricate the potency we have reared stop
It is cunning steel that one wields stop
I felt my name at the razor’s edge stop
A whole stolen field turned to bales stop
Now we must grow again stop
A selfmade sapling stop
That knows not what its history produced stop
I feel so far from my home stop
Stop stop
Stop.
