June, 2011

A Journal for Linking Poets  





David Jalajel

they shrug off your bid for that past-perfect erection
of your low-flying forecasts; this week’s no exception

to the receding aloofness of misshapen tool sheds
well-stocked with a soot-soaked but frothy reception

these exorcised ghost towns untame your arithmetic
with the vulgar fertility of a finite regression

that narrows right down to some prenatal whole,
dim streetlamps diffusing a well-earned ejection


David Jalajel

travesty comes too easy: we who had our leisurely pant around
these weeds now get flattened under love’s upholstered wheels

it’s no surprise we forgot this old courtyard, the manicured path,
the fountain so long abandoned its country varnish flakes & peels

here’s where light diffuses to inundating & innerving glass –
none dare tread on our old bones strewn across these fields

fragile as that old husk of a cat curled on our homestead porch,
etched into the floorboard knots under its masters’ happy heels


Edward Baranosky
          And if I claim to be a wise man,
          it surely means that I don’t know.
In a wind-carved flute
Dueling with distant thunder,
In the floating foam distilling
The endless shapes of time
Drawing out an organic cycle
Emptying a returning fantasy,
The sapphire backwash recedes
From the mist-chilled slate
Freezing events’ anomalies
In the tide’s pulsing surges
Wakes chopped by the salted wind
In this dream of sea and snow
Driftwood relics separate moments
Of memory from anticipation





tell me, who are you,
full of ships and moons,
crushed by the wind.
    Pablo Neruda*

For days there had been a strong northeast wind blowing between the Faeroe Islands and the Lofoten. The sea was rough and the air pressure kept falling faster and faster. Late in the afternoon the exercise was terminated and the ships were released for shelter in the Norwegian harbours.

Several hundred miles off the coast he navigated the frigate towards the east into the beginning night. The gale had increased steadily and reached velocities of hurricanes at its peaks. The air was full of foam and spray.

The ship groaned in her structures, and the sea pushed the steely hull like a punching ball, letting her roll and yaw badly through the sea. Finally she reached banking angles close to the point of capsizing.

November gale .
the sea opens its throat deep
to the banks of shells

Everything was lashed tightly and so the crew crowded on the floors of their wardrooms and living decks. A few able seamen climbed up to the rocking bridge and accompanied the rolling of the ship with brawling.

Right then it seemed he was the only one knowing about the potential disaster for ship and crew.
Clinging tightly to his commander's seat he kept a close eye on the dimmed instruments. The boiling sea shimmered in a white diffuse light.

Slowly the hours passed. From time to time he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the moonless night. The glowing end followed the ship's movements, dancing wildly up and down, to and fro until it finally died down .

black moon –
creeping deeper into the
hands of God

* From the Poem "Meeresnacht": Pablo Neruda Dichtungen 1919-1965:
Volume 1, page 409: published and translated by Erich Arndt, 1967 Luchterhand Verlag
Neuwied und Berlin. Translated by the author into English.



Chen-ou Liu

Mount Yangming at dawn
the scent of plum blossoms
across our path

I was three years old the first time my family brought me to tour
Mount Yangming. While they were immersed in the scenic view of lush greenery, I focused my attention on a little stone by the side road. “Oh, look ! This pretty pebble!” I exclaimed or I had been told that I said so. My mother repeated this story to me in varied versions on many occasions, particularly when she wished to make a point about how easily amused I was, or to remark on my ability to find joy in small things.

When I try to think back on this incident, I cannot remember any of it. There are no photographs or home videos recording that moment. I have no means of verifying whether or not this story is factually true, except through my faith in the eyewitness account of my mother.

I have heard this story so many times that the experience has become an inseparable chapter of my personal history, which experts refer to as “autobiographical” memory. To me, it is no longer important what actually happened, what the details of that moment were, or if my actions were misconstrued or reinterpreted through years of hindsight and recurrent recollection. My sense of self incorporates this story as if it were true.

Pacific shore…
I skip a pebble
across the water

Mt. Yangming is situated in the north of Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. It’s internationally known for its natural mountain streams, hot springs, waterfalls and forest parks. It is the first place Taipei residents would think to go when stressed out or longing for relaxation.



Haiga by Emily Romano


Terri L. French

Dad's emphysema does not tolerate the thick, humid air of Mobile, Alabama well. He sits on the hard pew without complaint, sucking in deep breaths. It took 18 hours to drive from Detroit to Mobile to watch their oldest grandson receive his high school diploma.

dew point rising
our commencement programs
become fans

My father is not a demonstrative man. He was a provider, perhaps not of affection, but of
life's necessities – ­shoes on our feet, food in our stomachs, a roof over our heads. He had a formidable presence.  Today, he appears shrunken, as he cranes his neck to watch his grandson graduate with honors.

scanning the stage
of blue caps –
grandpa spots him first

At one point in the ceremony we are asked to stand.  Dad remains seated, the long walk from the parking lot to the auditorium has weakened his legs. In the middle of the prayer I feel something graze the hem of my skirt and turn around to see what it is. My father whispers, “You had something on your skirt.” I smile down at him. His grandson's name is called and a tear rolls down my cheek.

graduation photo
a grandson wears
his grandfather's smile



For Gennie
Gerard John Conforti

When I’m alone, I think of you. The walls which surround me are no comfort without you. Even the ceiling displays no stars, nor moon – nothing.
It is so quiet, I can hear my own breathing, and sometimes it sounds like the winds blowing outside, blowing in the trees.
Without you here with me, I feel your pain, your solitude, and your sorrow. There is no joy with you in my life, and every day is the same as the last one.

the morning sun wakes me to solitude



Ruth Holzer

 A long day’s drive east as I try to reach the Atlantic coast.  The villages slip away, churches and cafes holding their secrets  as I pass.  With the ocean finally in sight, I turn south toward the national park where I’m swallowed up in the gloomy wilderness.
By late afternoon, I reach a town celebrating its annual festival.

summer flea market—
in every stall
Christmas ornaments


Steven Carter

Bynum is a tiny town located in northwest Montana, mid-way between the town of Choteau due south and the even smaller town of Pendroy due north. Its considerable claim to fame is a dinosaur museum, founded by the family of Marion Brandvold, whose discovery of Jurassic fossils on nearby Egg Mountain sparked a revolution in dinosaur research.
             Not long ago, Bynum’s only bar was Katie’s Wildlife Sanctuary, pretty rugged even by Montana standards (shootings were rare but they occurred). Montana born and bred, Katie was a “tough old bird,” as one local called her. One cool afternoon, dressed in her usual outfit of Levi’s, sweatshirt, and a red-and-white “Katie’s Wildlife Sanctuary” ball cap, she was paring an apple with a Bowie knife when she heard the roar of Harleys; a moment later two salty bikers came in.

             “MGD,” they said in unison, eyeing the Bowie knife.

             “That’s a big knife for a little lady,” one said as  Katie set the beers on the bar.

             “Yeah, be careful or your hitchhiking days are over,” said the other.

             Draining the beers and ordering two more, they went on  like this until banter became rudeness. Katie slowly pared the apple.  Then she said,

             “You’re right, boys. This Arkansas toothpick’s  pretty sharp.” She looked up. “Care to see how sharp it really  is?”
             Something in her tone wiped the grins off their faces;  they took long pulls on their Miller Genuine Drafts, keeping their  eyes on Katie.

             Swinging her leg up on the beer cooler, she said,  “Watch this,” and--WHOK!--buried the Bowie knife about three  quarters of an inch through the Levi’s into her calf. Through  clenched teeth: “How do you like that, boys?”

             One biker’s eyes rolled back in his head as he slid off  the barstool in a dead faint. The other spun around, ducked his head,  and puked beer on his leathers. When he was finished, he picked up  his half-conscious partner and half-dragged him out of the bar,
 looking wide-eyed over his shoulder at Katie.  They fired up their hogs and headed up U.S. 89 toward Pendroy.

             When they were gone, Katie wiggled the Bowie knife free  from her wooden leg and went on paring.

                            distant thunder
                                 the bar cat


Shirl Cahayom

                      there comes a time when a house needs new paint. there comes a time when the roads have to be totally destroyed before they can be made concrete. there comes a time when there are destructions and there are annihilations before change can
 take place. there should be balance in the universe before the phoenix rises.

                                           autumn monotony
                                           her smile reminds me
                                           of a thousand lanterns



Victor Maddalena

Unannounced, in the middle of the afternoon, we were plunged into twilight. The birds stopped singing, the wind died down and the waves on the lake went flat. We, too, fell silent, standing in the lake motionless, shivering.

“Look at the Sun!” someone called out. We saw the brilliant solar surface obscured from view.  Like a primitive people we were, for a moment, awestruck.

in the distance
a cock crows



Haiga by Emily Romano


Victor Maddalena

On the horizon, the clouds are dark and full. As the storm draws near I sit, unknown to the world, under the weeping willow, listening to the deepening silence.

Flash of lightning.  I whisper, “one, two, three…” A clap of thunder shakes the ground.  The rain, gentle at first, taps each leaf into motion. The ground, parched from an
endless dry summer is quenched.

an ant
floats by
on a leaf



Victor Maddalena

The dawn sky is streaked with pink and orange.

I start a fire in the stone pit in the garden and put a pot of packed snow on the grate to boil water for tea. I spend my morning watching and listening to the pulse of the winter woods. The wind in the trees. The sky and clouds. I share my biscuit with curious chickadees. Together we await the coming storm.

autumn leaves
frozen in ice



Jane Reichhold

Hey how about building our nest here?
In a dog house? You expect me to live in a dog’s house?
No, of course not. Look at the birdhouse.
I don’t know. It looks kind of crazy. Besides I have never lived in clay house.
No, not that one in the bushes. You are right. It is really weird. I think it is only decorative anyway. No, I mean that one on the garage wall.
Well, it does look more professional. I like the little roof over the porch.
There is that cat on the patio. He looks rather fat and old. I doubt he could climb as high as the house.
Well, you go sit on the porch awhile and report back. I see some of those small lime green bugs with black spots they have here near Gualala that I have not tasted since last autumn.

as they fly in an egg

Well, how was it?
You will be glad to know someone cleaned out last year’s nest. From the leftover aroma I would guess it was barn swallows that lived there. Otherwise the place looks fairly clean.
And the neighborhood?
Well, there is the singing.
No, the one human makes loud noises that I think are called singing.
Is it dangerous?
Only to one’s nerves! At least her singing acts as an early warning system to let you know she is in that one room.
Anything else you found scary?
I saw both of the humans pull on a big white panel that swings back and forth and then the whole room vibrates.
Silly. That is a refrigerator! You just saw the door opening and closing. That is not dangerous. They only eat stuff they find in there. We are not in their food chain.
So you think this would be a good place to build a nest?

heaven on earth
the full moon sinks
into small clouds


County Galway, Ireland

Adelaide B. Shaw

Scarcely populated, an area of lakes and rivers, of melancholy and wonder.  A place of mist and fog with rain nearly every day. Lushly green with wet, hummocky ground that never dries up.

peat bogs–
meeting in a pool
runnels of rain

Black-faced sheep with curved horns, the “killer sheep” of Connemara, their rumps and sides splashed with red or blue paint, or both, to identify ownership.

craggy hills
my slow mincing steps
behind the flock

No trees, but an abundance of plants and shrubs which grow to amazing heights:  fuchsia, woodbine, hawthorn, rhododendron, ferns, and several varieties of thorny plants.

floating fog
the narrow road edged
with clipped shrubs

Short and sturdy Connemara ponies, donkeys, and burros work the fields and pull the wagons.

carrots ready
the gray mare and black colt
cease nuzzling

Rising above Lough Pollacappul in the heart of Connemara is Kylemore Abbey, an 1867 castle, now home to the Benedictine order of nuns. Extensive gardens cover six acres, in marked contrast to the wild landscape surrounding them.

flower beds
along a brick path
the rolling mist

peat smoke
from the gardener’s cottage–
turning back




Jenny Ward Angyal

the cap
of the acorn
empty of seed
the bowl of the hills
where the doe lies down

two hands cupped
for a trickle of water
the face of rain –
hollowed granite

the orioles’ nest
vessel of eggs
the rachis of feathers
the hollow of bone

his sermon
the spathe
of the arum
empty of words

of nautilus
caverns at sea
auricle ventricle
salt pools of the heart

the house of the skull
its cellars of memory
the eye
in its orbit
this chalice of light


Margaret Dornaus
 in the loud silence
 of wind and birdsong, I sow
 forget-me-not seeds
 from a small paper packet
 filled with our love's story
 too wet and cold
 to play out in my garden . . .
 only yesterday
 I built a grotto to hide
 from the sun I crave now
 double-digging dirt
 I find the old pear's root
 still sprouting leaves . . .
 how hard it seems to give up
 on a life with such purpose


Claire Everett, UK

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul...
                                                Emily Dickinson

the palette knife gleams –
how to suggest a sunrise?
flecks of crimson
from the Old Master...
robin song

spring is here
and summer will be gone
too soon
this moment's heartbeat
a chaffinch in the willow

out of a dark mood
a memory of summer
you and I
the patch of blue
on a jay's wing

perched above the stream
this is my halcyon
for a flash
of electric blue

her slippers wet with snow...
your last song
combed with light
is a feather

still warm
this breast that pulsed with song
and shaped a nest...
my fingers close the fan
of an outstretched wing

trailing the flock
the cry of a lone goose
through spring rain
the pattern of your life
always last to spread your wings

water from a mountain stream
you fill my cupped hands...
who will be there to hold me
and give me back to the stars?



Claire Everett

"We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel,
  and looked at each other for the last time."
Jack Kerouac, On the Road

camping out with you
under a woodsmoke moon
where stars
are the weight of dewfall
on the canvas of the night

rising at dawn
feather brushstrokes of fern
and pine tree hills...
the stone still warm
where she was sitting

from heather in-breaths
to exhalations of mist
we drift with larks
through the endless dreams
of mountains

grape-coloured sky
we tread the remains
of the day...
come, drink a glass of summer
from my lips

a steady pace
until we turn
to face the fire
between life and time
love is a duel

that lost bliss
that once bloomed in water
tell me
it will be found
in a winding sheet of dreams

who remembers
they who are long gone?..
at moonrise, the lake
is a salver of stillness
shimmering with moths' wings



Haiga by Emily Romano


Don Ammons

so tired    but the past
crowds sleep    memories refuse
to slumber    I see
lovers of old approaching    ears tingle
to the breath of past whispers


often when I wake
in the city dark    for an
instant I linger in a
fading dream    smell meadow grass
hear the running of a stream


when I laugh in my
sleep and wake with a start
the joke is never
remembered    trying to bring
it back keeps me awake for hours


my cat often sleeps
with me    when I wake and feel
her curled against my
back I do not shoo her away
reach back and stroke    accepting



Deirdre Grimes

That childish night
a lake full of stars
swimming in darkness
thick with endings and stars
pushing them aside with our hands.

The radio on the shore
played the Cranberries '21'
as love rose like steam
from your body
and clung around the stars.

Months later
you pushed me against a wall,
love still thick around you
that night
still clung to you

a night so long ago
when I lay next to you
on that shore
pillowed by your desire
and slept.


Elizabeth Howard

dawn tugs at my sleeve
spider silk
on the pink dahlias
cardinals whistling
in the sweet gum

wildflower prairie
a mushroom cloud of swifts
a s warm exploding
like the hornet nest
in the hollow oak

red-tailed hawk
a muscle-charged missile
shoots into the meadow –
a wee beastie
munching clover unaware

a wren’s nest
in a begonia basket
all at once she’s gone
one punctured egg
in the cold straw



Ruth Holzer

in the flood
the old woman clung
to a tree trunk
watching her daughter float
far off on a straw mat
o for when I ran
along the sheer white cliffs
skirting the sea –
sure-footed and fated
to flee all danger
angry crows
pursue a vulture
at first light
this world ablaze
with refuse and carrion
a strong man
he came and he's leaving
a weakling:
the vagabond lover
who stayed too long
death's gloves
already fit
her hands
sliding easily over
the faint blue threads

Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

morning fog
over the meadow

zen garden –
mist on the stone buddha

beads of dew
on the snail shell

Poetry Month –
Puget Sound seaweed

slick magazine –
the celebrity milk-mustache

hay bales
under the autumn moon

the puddle
that once was a snowman


L. Costa

the silent splendor
of barren pagodas

a single wasp
the whole wine cup

prairie asters
the early night
reflecting colors

petals and butterflies
the same brushstrokes

the shy sensuality
of classic ballet
showy primrose

soul and wind
hide and seeking
lemon mints


L. Costa

silver teapot
the tiny apple orchard
downstream the lake

oil can
the bottled breadth
of old past times

a lacquer mirror
the forever longing
of bygone faces

slowly fading
tender fingerprints
a perfume flask

hearing horn
Beethoven's ninth
grand finale

pocket watch
the magnifying glass
of long waits

magnifying glass
a clockmaker watches
as time goes faster



Chen-ou Liu

sunlight in the scent
of cherry

summer breeze
the shadow of an eagle
circles me

the attic...
framed in the window
the autumn sun

Christmas Eve
three grains of rice still left
in my bowl


For Roland Barthes (12 November 1915 – 25 March 1980)
Chen-ou Liu

after opening
the envelop stuffed with my poems
I take out
my heart, wash it clean
and start writing again

by a swarm of buzzing words
I squash them
in the rhythm
of short, long, short, long, long

I keep
stacking blocks of stanza
the poem collapses in silence
I am buried alive

under the gaze
of Calliope's love
my next poem
is about to take flight
but Heaven's window is shut

I skip
a stone of words
across the lake
of another time
another place



Chen-ou Liu

my neighbors
camp out all day to ring in
the new year...
under the winter sky
I wonder if there's anything new

light up the midnight sky
one sheep, two sheep...

first dawn
standing before the mirror
it's me, and yet ...

the Preacher claims
there is nothing new...
under the sun
I see a flitting cloud
fight against its solitude


Jeanne Lupton

One October night
Mother tells me on the phone
she has a year to live
my mother, dying?
I say, see you tomorrow
her house quiet
but for the ticking clock
Mother's tears
she almost never cries
her quiet breaking open
she has morphine now
says she forgives me
You forgive me, I think
but old resentments
begin to ease
taking down
Christmas decorations
Mother has changed
she hugs me
says she loves me
support group
too sad for her
all the others
will survive
she bounds out of bed
strong at seventy-four
except for lung cancer
her hair grows back
fine and soft
after chemo
cancer grows back too
so much to do, and nothing
the oaks
are green again
in silence
we have tea
and chicken soup
warmth of sand
Mother gazes at the ocean
for the last time
glory of her body
glory of this world
she feels ill
all I can do
is get my hands
in the cool earth
replant the irises
leaning on me
in the summer dusk
she picks up twigs
from the yard
says this dying takes too long
midsummer breezes
she breathes through a tube
the daily newspaper
shows me where her will is
I find her
her face full of panic
her oxygen tube
on the night stand
lost in plain sight
clover in the lawn
leaves of the old dogwood
two to four months
she says don't sue the doctor
who said it was arthritis
with many friends
champagne and cake
in her hospice room
in tiara and mauve silk
Mother turns seventy-five
my mother
tucked in for the night
the eyes of a child
when I say
see you tomorrow

between  worlds
Mother hunches her shoulders
lifts her arms
sits up again and again
preparing to fly
in the small hours
angels lay her away
bird of paradise
in her garden
funeral director
hands me Mother's urn
brushes off his sleeves
crickets droning
on and on
in a dream
Mother calls as always 
It's me! she says 
so happy she can still 
reach me by phone


Scissors Paper Glue: Collage
Giselle Maya    

above the river
icicles drift in space
he kayaks below
and disappears in silver
letters of mist
for no obvious reason
it’s Saturday and swallows
fly in figure eights
I discover a bottle
of vin de noix
made years ago,  flavor
of walnuts and cinnamon
the way of solitude
take off
and soar to lime cliffs –
the amber eye of an eagle
giant jar
glazed and solid
still holds
olives resembling
the tiger cat’s eyes
salads made of flowers
not one pistil wasted
tossed with roasted seeds
I rise
blink a nap away
in summer shade
a linen sheet spread out
scent of rose petals drying
I don’t want
to go there, not there either
contemplate the cat
and swim in rainbow water
torn from sleep
I rise and shine
and charm
clients come far to see
sage and lichen mandala
these demoiselles
all the way from Avignon
to see my art work
they admire and look long
and buy not a darned thing         
the brain like marmalade
her words
haphazardly chosen
from among puzzles
I wait
till the silt has settled
to see the fish
the possibilities of paper
elements fall in place
favorite green
magenta words and silver
the touch
of the cat’s head
the stickiness of glue
high and low
I search for a word
a paper surface
snow white like the peony
within a cradle greener still          


 Pat Prime

I’m surprised
by the sudden beauty
of simple things,
rain caught on branches,
drops on a spider’s web

passing me
on the footpath
a Chinese woman
collar bow like a giant moth
at the pale light of her throat

on an empty road
in the countryside
a Buddhist monk
his sandals and robes
stark as a leaf set in snow

I write to say
the weight of future and past
is lost –
the size of trouble halved
light as the heft of paper

between narrow slats
of the grey wooden fence
scores of leaves
from my neighbour’s hedge
wag their thick and thorny tongues

in the café
a woman sits at a table
her fingers
plucking an unfolded napkin
in silent accompaniment

the wax eye
on a parking meter
sings the same note
over and over again
echoing my call hello

this is the park bench
that waits, always faithful
for my return
where I sit and contemplate
the river’s changing moods

I drink in the moon
its cool light a memory
of a glass of milk
poured after a nightmare
of childhood’s lesser dreams

on the shoreline
a man and woman
walk and deliberate
consciously making space
for one another

faint pencil lines
outline my gaze
as I choose between
the pleasures of a book
or recording the scene


 Pat Prime

summer holidays
the camp ground swells
with teenage parties

strapless party dress
her stick-on bra
keeps her in good shape

home from college
‘situations vacant’
marked in red pen

black sand
a board surfer rockets
down a tunnel

for an instant
the plane’s flight

red light . . .
she checks
her cell phone

first taste –
a strawberry plucked
from the child’s garden

waiting for a bus –
the busker plays
“Happy Birthday” for me

blowing his nose
after his solo –

shattering the glass –
not the singer
but the child’s foot

staff bonding session –
a quarrel erupts over
the tea break

full of coins
and sunshine
busker’s guitar case


Adelaide B. Shaw

an inch of soil
between cobblestones
red geranium

climbing uphill–
by ambling goats

bougainvillea blossoms
falling in the heat
of siesta

the hot wind–
a white stucco church
in the olive grove

after lunch
cats asleep in the shade –
the heavy stillness

lazy waves–
the same shade of blue
where sea meets sky

sun-tanned limbs
lying on the hot sand
another goddess

twisting streets
in and out of shadows
my shadow

flowered trellis–
with a cold beer






spring wind
black bird silhouettes
in formation
silver bicycles spin past
a breeze going downhill
                        Liz R. Moore


dragonfly pair
each insect beats four wings
then eight
a child wonders why they're stuck
you and I quiver as one
                        Liz R. Moore


evening rain
cicadas singing
spring music
                        Ryan Jessup


last night’s argument
fresh in my mind
the spade strikes a stone
                        Michael Morell


at my brother’s wake
       his long, elegant fingers
               bitten-down nails
                                    Hannah Mahoney


G.A. Scheinoha

Is she a hammer,
steel content to pound words
on the anvil of
tomorrow, naive where sparks
say lead us?











David Jalajel

David Jalajel

Edward Baranosky




Chen-ou Liu

Haiga by Emily Romano

Terri L. French

Gerard John Conforti

Ruth Holzer

Steven Carter

Shirl Cahayom

Victor Maddalena

Haiga by Emily Romano

Victor Maddalena

Victor Maddalena

Jane Reichhold

Adelaide B. Shaw



Jenny Ward Angyal

Margaret Dornaus

Claire Everett

Claire Everett

Haiga by Emily Romano

Don Ammons

Deirdre Grimes

Elizabeth Howard

Ruth Holzer

Karma Tenzing Wangchuk

L. Costa

L. Costa

Chen-ou Liu

Chen-ou Liu

Chen-ou Liu

Jeanne Lupton

Giselle Maya    

 Pat Prime

 Pat Prime

Adelaide B. Shaw



Liz R. Moore

Ryan Jessup

Michael Morell

Hannah Mahoney

G.A. Scheinoha


Back issues of Lynx:

XV:2 June, 2000
XV:3 October, 2000
XVI:1 Feb. 2001
XVI:2 June, 2001
XVI:3 October, 2001  
XVII:1 February, 2002
XVII:2 June, 2002
XVII:3 October, 2002
XVIII:1 February, 2003
XVIII:2 June, 2003
XVIII:3, October, 2003
XIX:1 February, 2004
XIX:2 June, 2004

XIX:3 October, 2004

XX:1,February, 2005

XX:2 June, 2005
XX:3 October, 2005
XXI:1February, 2006 
XXI:2, June, 2006

XXI:3,October, 2006

XXII:1 January, 2007
XXII:2 June, 2007
XXII:3 October, 2007

XXIII:1February, 2008
XXIII:2 June, 2008

XXIII:3, October, 2008
XXIV:1, February, 2009

XXIV:2, June, 2009
XXIV:3, October, 2009
XXV:1 January, 2010
XXV:2 June, 2010
XXV:3 October, 2010

XXVI:1 February, 2011


Submit your works to Lynx

Who We Are




Next Lynx is scheduled for October, 2011.

Deadline for submission of work is
September 1, 2011.