Although currently we have no archives of The Cornfield Review Online, this is where they will appear in the future.

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Errata

The poem "Snow Angels" by Tammy Blair appears in the 2006 issue of the print version with some irregularities. We regret the error, and reprint the poem here.

Snow, so white and pure
as if washed by angels
covering earth like a blanket
like ivory dust falling from sky.

As if washed by angels
We use bare hands to fashion snowballs
like ivory dust falling from sky
we stick out our tongues to taste.

We use bare hands to fashion snowballs
and build people with coal and buttons
we stick out our tongues to taste
we give them our hats and scarves.

We build people with coal and buttons
smiles light up their white faces
we give them our hats and scarves
seems silly, we don’t want them to be warm

Smiles light up their white faces
their stick arms like wiry hangers
seems silly we don’t want them to be warm
we want them to come to life.

Their arms wiry as metal hangers
we like to name them for fun
we want them to come to life
we hope to dance and laugh and play.

We like to name them for fun
Frosty, Crystal, Fluffy or Bob
we hope to dance, and laugh and play
we elaborate about our day with them.

Frosty, Crystal, Fluffy or Bob
It’s so sad that you have to go
we’ll elaborate about our time with you
We’ll miss you until the next snow.

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Errata

A portion of the poem "Two-Time" by Daniel McNulty was inadvertently omitted in the 2006 issue of the print version. We regret the error, and post it here in its entirety:

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I have been taken
Hoodwinked, bamboozled
By a traveling salesman
Who would take no refusal

The goods delivered
Seemed so appealing
Though now their flaws have come forth
And proved his double dealing

He’s fled with my funds
But won’t get away
With a lifetime of savings
By his deceit from one day

I chase like a hound
On his last known course
He has a head start on me
So I bear down on my horse

I ride through the sands
But I’ve seen no sign
And I thirst for my revenge
As I yearn for what is mine

I come to a town
And I inquire
If they have seen this huckster
Wretched conman, this liar

They say that they have
That he’s robbed them too
And ridden off to the south
They call with, "Good luck to you"

As I ride renewed
For twenty more leagues
I ride till I’m exhausted
Until my horse is fatigued

Then, miles ahead
I see his wagon
And I urge my steed onward
But he’s weary and lagging

I jump off and run
My vengeance in sight
Now I catch a second wind
And my footsteps become light

When I reach his cart
He lies on the ground
The wind whipping about us
Its cold howl the only sound

The paint on his wagon
Peeled from sand on the wind
The words barely readable,
Eros, Traveling Salesman.