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Issue 1: Spring 2022

  1. Serena Solin
  2. Toby Altman  
  3. S. Brook Corfman
  4. Katana Smith
  5. Natalee Cruz
  6. Emma Wilson
  7. Ashley Colley
  8. Colin Criss 
  9. Jack Chelgren
  10. Stefania Gomez 

Issue 2: Summer 2022
  1. Matthew Klane
  2. Ryan Nhu
  3. TR Brady
  4. Alana Solin
  5. K. Iver
  6. Emily Barton Altman
  7. William Youngblood
  8. Alex Wells Shapiro  
  9. Sasha Wiseman
  10. Yunkyo Moon-Kim

Issue 3: Fall 2022
  1. Sun Yung Shin
  2. Rosie Stockton
  3. Adele Elise Williams & Henry Goldkamp
  4. Noa Micaela Fields
  5. Miriam Moore-Keish
  6. Fred Schmalz
  7. Katy Hargett-Hsu
  8. Alicia Mountain
  9. Austin Miles
  10. Carlota Gamboa

  Birthday Presents
       for William Blake

    Five Words for William Blake
        on His 265th Birthday
            (after Jack Spicer)

Issue 4: Winter 2023

  2. Daniel Borzutzky
  3. Alicia Wright
  4. Asha Futterman
  5. Ellen Boyette
  6. S Cearley
  7. Sebastián Páramo
  8. Abbey Frederick
  9. Caylin Capra-Thomas
  10. maryhope|whitehead|lee & Ryan Greene

Issue 5: Spring 2023

  1. Jose-Luis Moctezuma 
  2. Peter Leight
  3. Rachel Galvin
  4. Sophia Terazawa
  5. Katherine Gibbel
  6. Lloyd Wallace
  7. Timothy Ashley Leo
  8. Jessica Laser
  9. Kira Tucker
  10. Michael Martin Shea

Issue 6: Summer 2023

An Introduction to Tyger Quarterly’s The Neo-Surrealist Interview Series

1. Mary Jo Bang 
2. Marty Cain 
3. Dorothy Chan 
4. Aditi Machado 
5. Alicia Mountain
6. Serena Solin
7. Marty Riker 
8. Francesca Kritikos
9. Luther Hughes
10. Toby Altman

Bonus: William Blake Tells All

Issue 7: Fall 2023 

1. Dennis James Sweeney 
2. M. Cynthia Cheung
3. Nathaniel Rosenthalis
4. Reuben Gelley Newman
5. James Kelly Quigley 
6. Christine Kwon
7. Maxwell Rabb
8. Maura Pellettieri 
9. Patty Nash 
10. Alyssa Moore

Issue 8: Winter 2024
1. Julian Talamantez Brolaski
2. Elizabeth Marie Young
3. Michael Gardner 
4. Steffan Triplett 
5. Margaret Yapp
6. Chelsea Tadeyeske
7. June Wilson 
8. Dawn Angelicca Barcelona
9. Evan Williams 
10. Brendan Sherry 

Email: tyger quarterly @ gmail dot com 

©2022 TQ

                          Ellen Boyette


An asterisk was once a stigma, now
             a bright misnomer. Now,

a prayer alone reveals the two-tone desert.
             Glows green and goes.

Sand, sky. Sand, sky.

And then the two are one.

And then again they aren’t. What will

never not go down just so? I mean
               to sleep. I mean the click

of the craned lamp’s neck alone
                can turn the room on head and I 

return the bed through body as I never
                leave what cannot be stolen.

Now, an airstrike of dreaming. What
              viscera, these bombs from which

to take out     Well what was it
      nothing. This

is not a choreography
               of ‘the point’ in one’s mouth like a song.

In a compressed chest it
                  rises, goes up, a flashbulb,

when one wakes in stasis. I wake

in stasis, in weird
                serenity, a pullover partially

over my face, to baritone sustained
                drone, a portable fan over

which to mull  the asterisks
                return to name

blank failures
                                            Leave me

                with the sense

that I am slipping

              from something important

in all the idiot tasks

                                        that must be nursed

at the breast of my handling.

This is no rare curse.

Where is the landowner to my vision
                  of land? Where

to put my hand.
                In what pool. I am here

where the radio news is an arabesque
                of terminology, a plume

of carabiners
                hooking, to the splintered
                helm of my dreams, me. It takes,
                where my feet pretend

ascension, and strikes still mean nothing,

Could this light
be called lighting? How can you know

when you’re in that dream
where you go through half your life?


Could be a bull backing slowly into black—burnt back of a wet palm, nightstand checkpoint,

touched with dark. Could be zero-birthed--unprimed,

    not swimming

         -- swum. Dust.

        The idea of night

almost pornographic here. Touch it—backlight pool-- with your mind’s eye, there-- see

--it touches back. Caress, caress. Tete-a-tete. Economy of lust-- reciprocity of receipt

fraud-in-scrawl possibility.

                                                    Framed threat remains always a stake lower than what.

Cardiac prodding surges up the throat like a caged animal hurls itself against its bars. Fact: 


  Left to the skin,

       the skin reclaims itself

       from tissue,

the neurological non-matter like a sash to the breeze.

      Ash bull rides the beige frame

like a verb the sentence—nameless-- a halogenic

element in cartographic fade--cut

of appaloosa mane—interface

then translate: enter, face. It’s brow furl. It’s sartorial play. Cut teeth grinding, prehistoric calves

scavenging through thistle for whatever is not

hunger-- no

thistle now-- only thunder

in the heliotrope. Only papyrus lain over all but the doors you’ve already gone through.

Only rainless, only

strokeless, only

tactical—the left

-right reading of dust where one might first blink a slim percentage-- the quick and unobtrusive

gesture: graph. Graph: work is only the resistance of leisure. Graph: leisure is only the resistance

of the body. Oppose the brick, the horizon, oppose the frame, the finger’s edges, the font. Pose

between. Graph: one can only

trample a handful

of seconds before

line work merges, emerges as tusk. Quiet, now, dusk refuses canvas. False air, it’s a coat, a varnish

—but only if you comply,  are pliable, first without breath, then out with it. In our rogue  

tendons, we

close in, now,

are close cold

                      water coming

on with the stillness of a magnet. Pushing out from half state into doxologous form, or from it—a

pointillist river-- a handful of atoms opting solely for blur.


Biographical Statement

Ellen Boyette received her MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she was an Alberta Kelley Fellow and Teaching-Writing Fellow. Her first book of poems, BEDIEVAL, was a finalist for the Slope Editions 2019 Book Prize judged by Solmaz Sharif as well as the CSU 2021 Lighthouse Series Book Prize judged by Shane McCrae. Her work can be found at jubilat, Prelude, poets.org, The Columbia Review, Bennington Review, and elsewhere.