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TheWeary Blues

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T h e w e a r y b l u e s

A b o u t t h e J o u r n A l

The Weary Blues is about facilitating the free dissemination of literary

and artistic culture. Production costs present significant barriers to

publication, particularly when it comes to those disciplines represented

in this journal. New and established authors and artists are finding

it increasingly difficult to spread their work to a wide audience. It is

hoped that The Weary Blues will contribute to the alleviation of this

pressing issue.

Submissions are welcome at thewearyblues.org

The Weary Blues is published in Cork city by New Binary Press

ISSN: 2009-521X

New Binary Press wishes to acknowledge its Advisory Board

Graham Allen

Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

Dave Lordan

Medbh McGuckian

Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Billy Ramsell

Noel King

Anne Fitzgerald

John Keating

Sandy Baldwin

Michael J. Maguire

Órla Murphy

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e d i t o r i A l

Editor, Visual Art & PhotographyNo r a Du g g a N

Perceptions of time and place inform the predominantly site specific nature of Nora Duggan's art practice.

Using digital still and moving images, she frequently makes reference to the 19th century development

of their analogue equivalents, and the potential they promised as quintessential agents for the representation of place and time. Her work can be described as digital

interventions, seeking to infiltrate the narrative structure of a photograph or film, particularly in relation to the

construction of memory.

Nora is currently a PhD student at The Huston School of Film and Digital Media, NUI Galway. She holds an MA

in Fine Art (Art in the Digital World) NCAD, Dublin (2011), and a BA in Fine Art, DIT (2009).

Editor, PoetryCa l Doy l e

Cal Doyle was born in 1983. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Southword,

The Burning Bush II, and The Galway Review. His short story “Marcus” appeared in the anthology 30 under 30, an Irish Times ‘Book of the Year’. He has read as part of

Poetry Ireland's Introductions Series and at poetry events and literary festivals around the country. He is working separately on a first collection and a debut chapbook of

poems. He lives in Cork.

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Founding EditorJa m e s o’su l l i va N

James O'Sullivan founded The Weary Blues in September 2011 in an effort to increase the dissemination of creative

literature and art. He writes a bit himself, though not very well. Further information on James’ work can be found at

http://josullivan.org

Cop y-editor and Proof-readerle N o r a mu r p h y

Lenora is currently completing an MA in Texts and Contexts: Medieval to Renaissance, in UCC. She

also holds a HDip in English and a BSc (Hons) in Chemistry with Forensic Science.

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P o e t r y

A n t o n y o w e n

ANTONY OWEN is from Coventry. His first collection of poetry My Father’s Eyes Were Blue was published in May 2009 by

Heaventree Press.

Candy Cane

The things they did at number twelvewere shrink wrapped in palletsand sold in the flea market.

They pixelate womanhood,download her pseudonym,groping bodies with a cursor.

Dreams boil in baked spoons,beaks of her arms opened,slumped in alleyways of pierced veins.

Gannets of needles resurfaced,from blue skin to spume,wave after wave crashed a spent shell.

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d A n i e l r y A n

DANIEL RYAN was born in London to Irish parents and grew up in Tipperary. After publishing poems in a number of journals

and magazines, both in print and online, he is at work on a debut collection.

Blue

I wanted to make a mosaic of the soulout of the glints of your smile,so that something would fuse tightlyand stick me together for once.

Out of the glints of your smile,I would construct a whole yardsaleof religious icons and much loved family heirlooms that we'd keep.

I would construct a whole yardsale,where we'd sell shiny bits of wholeness and exotic fruitto passers-by who'd look in

At where we'd sell shiny bitsof the garden of childhood, they'd marvelat the prettiness of Joni Mitchell's Blue,wellness, suntan, Vitamin C.

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The garden of childhood and marvel,I'm ripening with new meaning,sitting on a balcony overlookingfruit trees and open ground.

I'm ripening with new meaning,inside or out or any way round,whether it's apple pips in the stomachor reflective surfaces in the sun.

Inside or out or any way round,the metaphysical blue glowis not to be denied as I pretendto look at razors in the chemist aisle.

The metaphysical blue glowis a pregnancy test you hold.I'll accept a grown-up life of 33,I wanted to make a mosaic of the soul.

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G r A h A m A l l e n

Graham Allen is the author of the autobiographical digital poem holesbygrahamallen.org published by New Binary Press in 2012.

His poetry has been published in numerous journals, including Cultural Politics, Revival,Cyphers, Theory & Event, Irish Poetry

Review, Southword, The Shop, Other Poetry, The Rialto, The Stinging Fly. He was the winner of The Listowel Single Poem

Prize 2010 and has been short-listed in The Crashaw Poetry Prize 2013. Graham is a Professor of English Literature at University College Cork. Among his academic publications are influential

books on Mary Shelley, and Intertextuality. His debut volume of poems The One that Got Away was published by New Binary

Press earlier this year.

The Purpose of Love Poetry in Twenty-First Century Ireland

In the driveway of the 357th houseon the 599th abandoned ghost estate,where no car has ever drivenand no human eye will ever say goodbye,where no photographs will ever be snappedor surprise birthday party spill outside,where no birds sit on drying hydrangeasand no postmen anticipate waiting dogs,where no meter readings will ever be takenor quick illicit kisses ever be snatched,where rain splashes thick on unwashed concreteand urban wolves search in vain for food,

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where rats scurry out from mud clogged drainsand hungry crows peck between drab-coloured slabs,where snails inch out from sodden guttersand nothing disturbs the keening of the wind

the welcoming shade of the Japanese knotweed.

No Name in a Junior Disco

Bright lustrous eyesstraight white teetha recognizable style of haircutremarkably tall and craningclothes from somewhere upward of Nextshy enough in the scrumand yet popularas if all the girls already knowone wants to say scentand could almost say sensethat there is something not quite rightsomething taboosomething vaguely dangerousByronesque one might venturevampyre romantic one might addsublime if even not just take him home gorgeousand all of the boyswell they are more than eager

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tripping over their own shadowsand their own coolto shake a leg backat his more than nimble shoesand his more than subtle smileand his more than graceful movesand his presence of somewhere elseand thoughts in another brighter headand home in a truer country sceneas if the creature came out of a lakeand could speak of fresher worldshaving heard much better newshaving seen much better peopleknowing exactly and without reservewhat's coming around the cornerthe new terminator toythe new heat seeking missilethe new kid on the blockthe new boy in this old towncutting a dash a dash for his namegrinning away like a pent up tiger.

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J o h n w. S e x t o n

John W. Sexton’s fifth full collection of poetry, The Offspring of the Moon, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2013. Under the ironic pseudonym of Sex W. Johnston he has recorded an album

with legendary Stranglers frontman, Hugh Cornwell, entitled Sons Of Shiva, which has been released on Track Records. He is also

the blog poet Jack Brae Curtingstall. He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem The Green Owl won the

Listowel Poetry Prize 2007. Also in 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.

Transcending the Mortal Universe: Scifaiku as Compressed Signal

About seven years ago I began experimenting with scifaiku, a verse-form that was widely considered to be no more than a poetic ghetto. This supposed ghetto was disdained, vilified, shunned by many self-respecting haiku poets; and I entered it for that very reason. It was, in short, the perfect place for experimentation and development; potentially anything could be done with scifaiku because it was considered something of a verse rodent; a vermin glimpsed scurrying in the literary shadows. It was the perfect lab rat; very few loved it, cared for it or even cared about it. If poems die in the ghetto, nobody mourns them; if they are maimed, no one is particularly bothered. Here was a verse-form ripe for hybridisation, suitable for any mutations a poet might wish to impose. No one was overseeing any imposition of responsibility upon scifaiku, and responsibility is the enemy of literary experimentation; in the assumed ghetto of

F e A t u r e d P o e t

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scifaiku I was free to be irresponsible; I was at liberty to be wild.Scifaiku interests me because it has all the prophetic and satirical elements inherent in science fiction. It is also a perfect seed-bed for metaphor. As my minimalist influences I looked beyond traditional haiku: two important voices from the past were both from the Central and South Americas; one a poet and one a fictioneer. The poet was the Mexican metaphoricist haiku poet José Juan Tablada (1871-1945), and the fictioneer was the Guatemalan Augusto Monterroso (1921-2003). Tablada was the first poet to introduce the haiku into Spanish poetry, but his own verse was fluid in the freedom of its imagery:

Pavo real, largo fulgor, Peacock, long glare,por el gallinero demócrata you pass through the democraticpasas como una Procesión … chicken-coop like a procession

Augusto Monterroso worked mainly in short fiction and was recognised for bringing innovation into the form; one of his more famous, and possibly notorious, contributions, was his use of the single-sentence short story. It was my idea with scifaiku to utilize Tablada’s fluidity of image; to let metaphor infect everything. To my mind, the themes and subject matter of scifaiku should be all those elements common to the literature of science fantasy; from alternate history to alternate worlds, to future visions, to sociological satire, all of them encompassing the general impingement of the fantastic into the logical universe. It is also my contention that a single scifaiku should contain a discernible narrative or fantastic “situation”. No less than its cousin, the fictional story, its scientific concept or premise should be encapsulated in a compressed “plot”. The aim here should be to approximate what Augusto Monterroso was attempting in his celebrated minimalist fictions.

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Soul of a Thrush

her invisible friendreveals the noose-door ...Heaven through the ceiling

everything at once ...Keats-a-Gone enters the Nothing

a novel in solidblack ink ... Finnegan's Ache still on my fingers

Disdain from the mainstream notwithstanding, scifaiku is undoubtedly a rarefied Muse. In five years of scifaiku composition the form has somewhat melded my poetic perception. Scifaiku is ultimately like a compressed message from another universe; is spastic through Space and Time. It is the voice of the oracle; the crossword puzzle clue of the Ouija Board. It does not need to be surrounded by white space as haiku usually demands; it is best left in the vicinity of chaos, vying closely with more of its kind, so that many scifaiku together can thus operate as a form of cryptic, seeping dream from the dense, garbled universe of the subconscious. Individual scifaiku move at velocity; they should thus be relentlessly hurled at the reader, one after the other in sequences like chemical code. Scifaiku is the Dark Matter of Poetry; penetrating everything, passing through all other Matter and Mind. It is the ultimate license for the poet, granting the liberty to be unstable.

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pines dense under starlight ... the concept of weight

x-ray vision ... he sees the tumours hespawns with a look

a pearl at the centreof the moonpointlessly invaluable

the soul of a thrushtrapped in the rosewood desk... the poet's room is grey

lottery picketa cough arrivesfrom the future

... A Sense of No

afterglow from the lampshade ...a stairway opensdeep in the wardrobe

crystal meth ...the moon presses its foreheaddeep into mine

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blackbirds ateher every thought ... a sense of no in the meadow

the silk folkdrift through us …invasion a sighing

weaving a thought-gatethe spiders spin moonlight ...Tao unburdens Tao

leached auras from the newly dead ... London a tower of compressed shadow

shiny red liar-engines ...they douse the black spoton the pontiff ’s tongue

without a weaponor even a thought ... grass takes back the world

stepping from the rathher fungal suitblossoms blue

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The Jellyfish Lens

forest enclosure ...he folds origami stairsfrom sunlight

Pa Radox'scunning inside-out-boxspills what it keeps

is-not of is ...he rides upon the space left by his stolen horse

a love like star clusters ...everything further apart than it seems

krill big as whalesthe sea looks rightin the jellyfish lens

tipped ...the chair falls to a state of perfect balance

an itch for the goddess ...cuckoo intones itselfin the hawthorn cleft

can-opener ...turning anti-clockwiseMiss Gnole severs a can't

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Tea Time is O

porcelain rocket ship …ladies, prepare to pressthe shatter button

travelled by shuttlecockto another Dimension... returned forthwith

horses without skingallop their guts loose …how pure the burnished sky

holes in his pocketsmoney was nothingto the nillionaire

nightshade muffinstea time is over in no time

let's eat the navigator ...no singing and dancingin Angri-La

at the Tree of Knowledge... there was an old womanwho swallowed a why

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peruse the professor'scollection of shouts?he wouldn't hear of it!

in memory ofour invisible friends ... when childhood diedthey died

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r A c h e l wA r r i n e r

RACHEL WARRINER lives in Cork with her young family. She is completing a PhD in the School of Art History, UCC. Her most recent book Fine Lament was published by Critical Documents. Rachel is a founding editor at RunAmok press and organises the

Soundeye and Avant festivals in Cork.

My own private snide-a-ho

wellwishing our monstersmountains of clothesthose noises immense and sinister we made the baby for modernism, now he's all grids and planes banished downstairslouder but defeatedthinpatience exposure come play our super-deluxe-flagship game ****MISOGYNIST OR SNOB??**** time for smiles and snarksyour gurglesadvocating gussets

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their concerns: formal; ours: political (do we win?)children named for poets and poemsbut what a meeting

filial boresmy godstand up you ranters'this doesn't stop anywhere'

male certitude?destroy your rectitude?am I here?duckrabbitwhitewhineprofessor without portfolio up tripping through mirrorsour scrapingat hallmarkswe're standingin relationbut Ican't forthe life of mework outwhy.

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contort this angle girl go casting 'dose of prunes'bird storma cappella rubbish for vestigeour separationwe'll run withbar[r]e[n]nessin codecolonised my cellsmy sells hive exceptionwebswarming that touch-strength-stability crackle at sea that glimmerpale & palergumsmile

slumped strength failstrive empty

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remaking our homesin prettywitty patternsverve revelationthose shiny buttonsand bootshineboutiques splatter blood on the walls (40s style)doodlebug chicjust lovely holding you for gravity

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r i c h A r d h A w t r e e

RICHARD HAWTREE completed a doctorate on Anglo-Saxon poetic manuscripts at UCC in 2009. He now lives in Hindhead,

Surrey where he writes articles concerning early medieval texts. Translations from German and Icelandic have appeared in

The Penny Dreadful. His poem Matinée Idol was shortlisted in the 2013/14 inaugural Ó Bhéal International Five Words

Competition.

Three Cork Haiku

Repositioned Fireplace, 1597

Down North Main Street, highAbove us a fireplace floats –Excavated hearth.

Inverted Ship’s Cannon, 1800

On the Grand ParadeA cannon sinks its muzzleDeep into lost streams.

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Modern Sheela-na-Gig, No Date

Way up Lavitt’s quayHer swift parting of stone thighsStuns the passing feet.

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S h o r t F i c t i o n

d A v e l o r d A n

She decided to stop washing herself. She decided to stop grooming herself in any way whatsoever. I don’t know if she continued wiping herself after going to the toilet. I don’t know how she dealt with menstruation, or if she avoided it altogether by taking the pill. If she made any exceptions to her filth regime, they were not obvious.The stink was obvious. It was dense, and complex. It had tones and layers and unexpected interactions; sweat, dirt, feces, urine - fresh, maturing, fully matured - all mingling, all churning one into the other. Whether the stink came at you intermittently in waves, or whether it settled unbudgingly around you, there was no getting used to it. It was best not to eat or drink anything for a few hours before you went to visit her. When somebody retched, or fled out of her presence to go vomit somewhere, she just clicked her tongue and continued to smoke. Everyone

Dark Madonna

Dave Lordan is the first writer to win Ireland’s three national prizes for young

poets. He is a former holder of the Ireland Chair of Poetry Bursary Award, the

Kavanagh Award, and the Strong Award. He is a renowned performer of his own

work, which the Irish Times called ‘as brilliant on the page as is in performance’,

and has read his work by invitation at festivals and venues across Europe and

North America. www.davelordanwriter.com.

@vadenadrol

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who visited her brought something to smoke - it just about covered up enough of the stink to make being there bearable.

At first some of her concerned and anxious friends tried to talk her out of her decision, but there was no talking her out of it. Her laid-back friends just said let her at it, she’s stubborn and contrary and that is why we like her, that is why we started hanging out with her in the first place. Rebels forever, remember? In a month or so her filthy condition became both familiar and unmentionable, like a mother-in-law’s alcoholism.

She grew an actual beard.

Many Irish people believe, or say they believe, that you can drink yourself sober. Similarly, some who heard about her in the pubs and groves rumoured that she counted on achieving a perfect, edenic cleanliness through letting nature take its course all over her, from head to toe, from foot-sole to follicle. She was convinced her body would learn, or remember, how to clean itself using it’s own natural, gaia-like, self-regulating processes, which had been smothered under the relentlessly promoted chemical treatments of industrial modernity, especially those treatments aimed at modifying the female body in a romantic way. She could have easily picked up such a notion, they said, during one of her penniless hitches around lesser-crossed europe, perhaps from the crusties she reputedly lived among in a settlement of tepees and treehouses somewhere in the foothills of the Slovak Tatras.

On her return to Ireland - when the only immediate sign of what was to come were matted dreadlocks and unseemly feet inside rotting old clogs - she had ended up in an emergency hostel sharing crowded space with alcies and junkies, who never leave off moaning and scrounging and rowing, not for one minute of the day or night. The real reason she turned herself into a ball of stink and dirt, into a germ hive, into a bearded lady, was because it stopped her undead ‘housemates’ from hassling her all the time. The way she was, the way she had made herself, the addicts wouldn’t go near her.

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She disgusted them and they were afraid of her. They thought she was some kind of witch who could curse them to death if she wished*. She was a dark Madonna I suppose, a Madonna of the worms, the beetles, and the bugs.

Eventually, her HSE assigned social worker, who had long taken to wearing a mask and surrounding herself with a cloud of air freshener while visiting her, found her a place to live and she moved in to it. She started washing herself again shortly afterwards. She shaved off her beard. If you were to meet her now you would never in a million years guess what went on with her before. She looks amazing and smells of rosy soap, lemon balm and mild perfumes, subtle intoxicants evoking airy formal gardens and gently raining summer days.

*Irish street addicts are by and large informal syncretists, holding passionate admixtures of christian and paranormal beliefs.

The Book

She longed for the book to escape her; an ecstatic ringing out in several languages at once that would be going on for days, after which she'd be surrounded by a glowing nimbus of never-before-scented perfumes. Surely the perfumes would survive her for a while and might even be enjoyed in distant and unprophesied times by creatures with unknown minds and purposes. The book would be made of secrets she had held inside for decades. These secrets were from her childhood and her teenage years. They concerned certain unforgettable, almost unspeakable things she had witnessed or overheard, which she had done or which had been done to her. At first the secrets had been unruly and nomadic. They mingled and meandered in her brain and her blood, crying and shouting and racing around dangerously like a mob of toddlers in a playground. They had no proper order or tellable pattern of motion. Occasionally one would bubble

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up from her throat unpredictably and she would bite down hard to swallow it, whether or not she was in company. As of yet, she wasn’t ready to give voice to any of the secrets and she felt sure that they were not ready to be given voice to either. The kind of secrets she had needed at least twenty years of cooling down and losing radioactivity, losing viciousness and virulence before being let out into the world. They must be released at the optimum time and only for the right reasons.

Her lover said she spoke nonsense while she slept, so she set up her laptop with an audio programme that could record her sleeping all night. For a couple of weeks she exhausted herself by spending most of the day listening back to the noises she made in her sleep. There were many, all of which were of interest in some way, but none related to her secrets. She concluded that her secrets kept the same hours as she did and slept when she slept. This made her feel happy, confident, and exonerated.

As the years went by the secrets quietened down a little even during the day, yet continued circulating energetically inside her, interbreeding with her organs, her dreams, her impressions, her lusts. The secrets made her inner life unpredictable and vivid, a rambunctious carnival as opposed to the passionless stage-play of her outside existence. Even so, no behaviour of hers did not somehow bear the trace of one or other of the secrets.

In her forties her aging secrets and their no longer youthful offspring gave up their separate lives and, dying off, congealed into a book. She felt the book's hard, pressurizing mass fill out her stomach, her bowels, eventually her lungs and her throat, her pancreas. She did not have the time (children, husband, parents, work, illness), nor perhaps anymore the drive or the intelligence (she was smarter, more driven when young and under-burdened), to figure how to release it. It was not solely a question of method or orifice, of finding the right coach or right oils to ease passage. It was a matter of hunting, relentlessly, the key question, the inevitable riddle in response to which the book would spin out of her and appear before

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her in material form as the only possible solution. Over the long and then suddenly vanishing years, she asked herself endless questions relating to the book. Unfortunately, although the process was at times educational and engaging, the book itself was the answer to none of these probings and interrogations. Slowly, mercilessly, the book turned from solid to gas, heated up, and expanded. Everything solid and not solid inside her was in turn dissolved into the encroaching gas of the book, which knew no limits and trespassed into everything without concern.

Time dripped on and on until the day she was nothing but an inflatable with a barely working tongue. The book evacuated her simultaneusly through all her pores and exits; a long, agonising exorcism that went on for weeks, punctuated by screams and ululations, after which she had been absorbed by a fog of her own unoriginal stink. Briefly, the stinkmist floated around and above closest friends and relatives. Soon it had completely dissipated, and will eventually participate, along with all the rest of her, and all the other written/unwritten books, in the heat-death of the universe.

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A r t

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A r t

m A r k d o h e r t y Dublin, Ireland

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m A r k d o h e r t y

Artist Statement

"My work seeks to create alternate worlds in which to satirize our own, allowing us to look at our foibles exaggerated and thus challenge them by laughing at ourselves. Through this framework I build narratives which address such diverse issues as body image, our view of the ‘other’ in society, urban social isolation, mans conflicted relationship with nature, and society's newfound adoration of science, celebrity and material wealth, among other things..."

About this work

These images are selected from his series The Desired Realm (2012). The Desire Realm is one of the three realms (or worlds) in traditional Buddhist cosmology into which a being within the

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cycle of death and rebirth can be born. According to Indo-Tibetan Mahayana Buddhism, The desire realm is divided into six domains, sometimes also called the six paths of suffering, among other names. They are the Deva Realm, the Asura realm, the Human realm, the Animal realm, the Preta realm and the Naraka Realm.

Although each of the pieces in this series of images is named after one of the Desire Realms in Buddhism, they do not relate to Buddhism on a conceptual level. Rather, the names simply serve as an initial inspiration for the images.

To view more work by the artist, check out the following websites:

http://www.oliviercornetgallery.com/#/mark-doherty/4562132026

https://www.facebook.com/MarkDohertyArtist

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m i c h A e l h i G G i n S Dublin, Ireland

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m i c h A e l h i G G i n S

Michael Higgins is an experimental filmmaker/artist based in Dublin, Ireland. He has exhibited widely throughout Ireland and the US, most recently screening his short film Funnel Web Family at The Picture Show, Greenpoint, NY, USA. Michael’s 2013 feature film SMOLT won an Award of Merit at The Indie Fest, La Jolla, California, USA earlier this year.

Michael Higgins websitehttp://www.mgmh.me/

SMOLThttp://f6-preview.awardspace.net/mgmh.me/SMOLT/about.html

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r u b y wA l l i S Dublin, Ireland

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r u b y wA l l i S

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Ruby Wallis is a lens-based artist and PhD researcher at NCAD (Dublin) who is concerned with the multiple issues in representation of landscape, portrait and place. She has been developing a phenomenological approach to exploring space and the fragmentation of self through photography and the moving image, and the particular genre of ‘slow cinema’. She is currently working intensively to bring her practice to conclusion through image and text.

Ruby is presently on residency at CCAM Galway (2014).

http://www.rubywallis.com/

r u b y wA l l i S

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S u b m i S S i o n S

The Weary Blues welcomes submissions of poetry, short fiction, visual art and photography. Please follow all submission guidelines precisely as they are listed on this page – scroll down to ensure that you have read these in their entirety. Submissions that do not adhere to these guidelines will be rejected.

Poetry submissions should be sent to:[email protected]

All other submissions should be sent to:[email protected]

Submissions Guidelines

The Weary Blues does not accept simultaneous submissions. Please submit to only one category per edition.

Literary Submissions

All submissions of literature, poetry and short fiction are to be accompanied by a third-person biographical note, as well as a suitable colour profile photograph.

The work of literature, biographical note and profile photo are all to be contained in one single file ( .pdf, .doc, .docx or .rtf ), which should also include your full name, e-mail address and contact details at the beginning. Please ensure that the formatting of your work is print ready and will appear as intended across differing productivity suites.

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Name this file using the following convention:[Poetry/Short Fiction] – [Author] – [Title, Title]

Example:Poetry – Joe Bloggs – Title of Poem

Please submit no more than 5 poems, with a page break between each piece. Short fiction should be limited to approximately 3,000 words. Please submit no more than two stories.

Visual Art & Photography

Please submit no more than two images, and please ensure that these are named. In addition, include some brief biographical details, and some details on the origins of the submitted work (background, inspiration, influence, methods etc). If available, please also submit a suitable profile photograph. Please include your full name and e-mail address with your biographical details. Include all photos and details within one single file.

Name this file using the following convention:Art – [Author] – [Title, Title]

Example:Art – Joe Bloggs – Title of Artwork

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Response & Copyright

Please allow sufficient time for a response. The copyright for work that has been submitted remains with the author, though we would ask that you credit The Weary Blues and New Binary Press in any subsequent publications. All issues pertaining to existing copyright and licensing agreements are the responsibility of the individual making the submission. By submitting your work to The Weary Blues, you are giving permission for that work to be freely reproduced by the journal in any particular mode or form that they see fit. Your work will be offered freely online and via other means of distribution, to as wide an audience as possible.

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