Thursday, 30 November 2017

A poem by Amy Kinsman

production credits


while we fucked, your favourite music producer
watched and shiva turned his eyes away,
threatening to peel himself off the wall.

when i asked, you said i like the guy, he’s chill,
told me you believed in reincarnation,
tickled by the notion of the prime minister
returning, second son of a sow.
there on your sofa, naked next to
coffee table chaos, we spoke of the shrines
that our mothers built beside our fathers -
sanctified, desecrated, packed up,
prayers and rituals moved and reassembled:

things in the bottom of my jewellry box;
how you used to wear your hair;
all the aramaic i’ve ever known;
your sacred spliff-smoke;
where these gods have been all our lives;
their blow-out tours of cathedrals and temples
and us, the bastard children fathered on groupies,
homilies and hymns tinnitus in our ears.

listen to how they remix every song on our playlists.












Amy Kinsman is a genderfluid poet and playwright from Manchester, England. As well as being the founding editor of Riggwelter Press and associate editor of Three Drops From A Cauldron, they are also the host of the regular, Sheffield open mic, Gorilla Poetry. Their work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in many journals including Clear Poetry, Prole, Picaroon Poetry, Rat's Ass Review and Valley Press.

Monday, 27 November 2017

2 poems by Ceinwen Haydon

Turned Inside Out


I frisk the suit of your absence.
Can I sniff traces of you?

Will an old note fall from a pocket?
Will I find your watch – still ticking.

You were a conundrum
and often spoke in riddles.

That last day, did I hear the sun
drying out your damp heart?

and when I asked, you said,
like always, it’s nothing, nothing at all.

If that was nothing,
then what is this silence?

You were a private puzzle
and intended to remain so.

I’ve turned all your clothes
inside out since you left.







Ceinwen has worked as a Probation Officer, a Mental Health Social Worker and Practice Educator. She lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published on web magazines and in print anthologies. These include Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Alliterati, Stepaway, Poets Speak (whilst they still can), Three Drops from the Cauldron, Obsessed with Pipework, Picaroon, Amaryllis, Algebra of Owls, Write to be Counted, The Lake and Riggwelter. She completed her MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University in August 2107 and will graduate in December 2017.




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First Published 22/06/17

My Daughter


It’s a strange thing,
I’d die for you
yet I can’t find the words
to tell you what flawed place
I came from.
And you don’t have the patience
to listen to my reasons
for being less than the mother
you wanted back then: less
than the mother I wanted to be,
wanted to be so badly
I thought I’d die of love.





Thursday, 23 November 2017

A poem by Ion Corcos

Wild Tiger


You found a tiger roaming the streets,
its rust-orange hair rough against your thigh;
you didn’t see the eels squirming in a bucket,
grasshoppers burning in a wok, their scent
a waft over still water in the gutter. You lost yourself
after that, roamed the streets till they found you;
you put on weight, talked about the past
as if that was all there ever was.
But when I heard you get excited
about the tomb of Philip of Macedon, I knew you
were inside the future then;
a waxing moon, a snowmelt stream;
and even if it was too far to travel,
if you came on that long, long journey,
I would go with you, take you there;
show you the palace ruins, the sanctuary of Cybele.
It’s not like that anymore; you got caught
by a wild tiger, tore your mind out. Now, I wait.
I do not know if you will make it.


An extract of Wild Tiger was first published in Strix







Ion Corcos has been published in Grey Sparrow Journal, Clear Poetry, Communion, The High Window and other journals. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion’s website is www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com and he tweets at @IonCorcos

Monday, 20 November 2017

2 poems by Nancy Iannucci

Target Rock, 1983 


We belly-flopped to the ground,
rolling over stabbing crabgrass
in fits of summer laughter
one eye open with caution for
the coiled ones,
the crooked ones

but we gazed up
at wild blackberry vines
crawling along railroad ties
Mother picked those blackberries
one by one
warming her tongue
with bursts of sweet seeds;
it was easy to forget
when we gazed up

& when she smiled,
toiling soil, whistling
at the clouds staging coups,
inhaling the noon air-

forgetting ourselves,
forgetting the dark
ground creatures
collecting our particles
on their tongues,
flicking reminders
like snapping fingers,
we looked down
weeds dropping
to the hot ground

Father descended
like St. Patrick
to cast them out
across the field
down a sandy sump

running with a lump
in our throats,
we knew then
our little hands
were next in line
to take up the rake
& push those demons out
beyond Target Rock.








Nancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. Her work is published/forthcoming in numerous publications including Bop Dead City, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Star 82 Review (*82), Gargoyle, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, Poetry Breakfast, Rose Red Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Picaroon Poetry, Yellow Chair Review, Dying Dahlia Review to name a few.


-------
First published 14/07/16

Vicious Cycle


When our eyes met for the first time,
I heaved a sigh that I thought you heard.
You knew a simple hello and goodbye would never
do, so I dropped my weighty anchor into your palm
and you rubbed it seven times like a horseshoe.
                                                       
When our eyes met for the second time,
I picked your words like berries while catching
chords that fell from your guitar strings; my arms
were open like a basket eager to carry your
lyrics as if they were meant for me.

When our eyes met for the third time,
it was in a delirious dream of whirling desert sand.
Yellow & tan, tan & yellow scenes of grit crusting
my sight, distorting your fair face like an omen; you
were a dark creature choking in a harmonica neck hold.

When our eyes met for the fourth time,
Alex Forrest gazed back at me on the edge
of psychosis sinking in paranoia quicksand
with arms flailing, gasping for air,
suffocating in your circle of games.

When our eyes met for the fifth time,
I willingly closed them; hoisted my anchor from
your palm and walked into the woods like an
emancipated slave where Anath took me in;
she placed a bow and sickle in my hand so

when our eyes meet for the sixth time,
I will have the skills and weapons to resist you;
And it will be you who will heave a sigh that will
go unheard at the sight of me- strong and dauntless.
But the day will come when you will hum

another song that will break me and the vicious cycle
between us will resuscitate, rendering us helpless- gyrating
like a red and yellow mane on a stallion horse. 


Thursday, 16 November 2017

A poem by Olivia Tuck

Things Only Borderlines Know


That whatever you are, you need to destroy it.

That going for your cookie-dough skin with a razor stings
more than acting against it with fiercer tools, but
it doesn’t matter: abandonment is what truly cuts.

That driving a dear weather-beaten psychiatrist
to earlier-than-planned retirement is easier than it sounds.

That you might see a rainbow when you wake up
at dusk; wonder if God won’t flood the Earth again. Of course,
by three a.m. you could be up to your neck in ocean; playing
Charybdis, hauling angry sailors down with you.

That when you end up in casualty of a Saturday night,
nobody will materialise with cards or Tesco carnations.
(However, if you’re a tad more experienced, at least
you’ll have learnt where to find a phone signal,
about the range of gourmet packed sandwiches on offer,
which nurse will smooth your hair, and which will scrawl
across your chart in biro blood: Manipulative.)

That other People Like You are the only sweet friends who know
how to defend the jagged splinters of a child-
woman. We are the covalent bonds in a fucked-up diamond:
dazzlingly inseparable as we carry on falling.

That you can love others without loving yourself.
That you want to be loved as much as you can feel.

Solar flares. Wild nights. Broken bottles. Hailstorms. Hollow,
chocolate girl for Easter; eyes dead, smile warped.

It burns to come close enough to breathe
your smoke. That as much as you can feel is too much
to ask, but perhaps you could settle for the love of someone
who would tattoo their initials over Ribena-dark scars, feed you
Turkish Delight promises, with steadfastness that echoes
through space and leaves marks that heal, and do not
ruin. A moon you can keep on a string round your wrist,
to linger. Although…face it. You are the satellite.

That shadows gain weight when you are alone. No power
supply. You reach out to touch what it means to be ash.

That if you try to leave, they’ve got thread. Water. Charcoal.
When you hear your screams, you want to disappear, yet
you keep this secret safe. In case you change your mind.









Olivia lives in Wiltshire with her parents, her sisters, her Cocker Spaniel – and her issues! She won her first writing competition when she was six and hasn’t stopped scribbling since, creating short fiction and poetry. She was a 2014 ‘Wicked’ Young Writers’ Award finalist, has had pieces published in Three Drops from a Cauldron and on Amaryllis, and has recently had a story shortlisted for the 2017 Hysteria Writing Competition. Olivia was thrilled to be a guest poet at this year's Swindon Poetry Festival, and she owes everything to her friends at Poetry Swindon and the Richard Jefferies Museum.

Monday, 13 November 2017

A poem by M. Stone

Renewal (Shadorma Poem)


I shed men—
a delicate act
like peeling
sunburned flesh
to reveal raw pink layers
unsullied by want.









M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes fiction and poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poetry will appear in the September 2017 issue of SOFTBLOW. She can be reached at writermstone.wordpress.com.

Thursday, 9 November 2017

A poem by Paul Waring

On Bedsits


three flights up
threadbare arthritic stairs
in damp stale air
a vase-less jumble
of nicotined furniture
sepia-tinted peeling walls
and clogged lungs of carpet

ill-fitting dentures
of sash windows rattle
as shivering lips of curtain
beg warmth from
a one-bar electric fire
that eats fifty pence pieces.

cracked elbows of pvc sofa
sprout corn-coloured foam,
tangerine acrylic of seats
singed and stained by careless
ciggies and TV dinners.

on a stripped bed a sagging
mattress reads like a dna history
of real and imagined sex.

'Tomorrow's World' on a grainy
black and white TV peddles
dreams of futures
in a language we've yet to learn.








Paul Waring, a retired clinical psychologist lives in Wirral, UK. He once designed menswear and, in the 1980's, was a singer/songwriter in several Liverpool bands. His work has been published in Reach Poetry and will feature in forthcoming issues of Eunoia Review and Northampton Poetry Review. https://waringwords.wordpress.com

Monday, 6 November 2017

A poem by Jude Cowan Montague

The Salt Escape


'Where are you going?' I shouted.
‘You know you can’t find him again!’
She walked out onto the sodium flats
where sour ghosts scour the plain.

I followed her onto the ground
where she’d slipped herself inside a crack.
I wrapped my emotion around and around
and buried my eyes down her back.

The snow-lace wind whipped to shivers
our flesh through the forest of fur.
I dreamed death was wading the rivers.
I knew he was looking for her.

I had forgotten my orders.
Nothing was left but the night
We shook from the thunder of runaway horses
shuddering into the light.








Jude Cowan Montague is an artist and broadcaster who produces the hybrid creative journalist show 'The News Agents' for Resonance FM. She worked as an archivist for ten years on the Reuters television archive and has created work in response to that experience. Her most recent book is 'The Originals' on Hesterglock Press.

Thursday, 2 November 2017

3 poems by Gareth Writer-Davies

Goats


go on
and on eating, anything

devouring
loaves of bread, baskets of fish, the washing upon the line

there is much in nature
abstruse
and wonderful

but by God, the goat's hunger
is
unreasonable

as if
punished for theological blunder
the goat
must eat and eat, the long buffet of salvation (un-tiring)

stamping
his cloven-hoof (MORE, MORE, MORE)







Gareth Writer-Davies; Commended in the Prole Laureate Competition, the Welsh Poetry Competition and Commended in the Sherborne Open Poetry Competition (2015)

Shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize (2014)

His pamphlet "Bodies", was published in 2015 by Indigo Dreams and his next pamphlet "Cry Baby" will come out in 2017.

He is the Prole Laureate for 2017. 



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First published 22/09/16

It Was a Big Decision to Paint the Cupboards


I like white
but imagine what it would be like, to paint the cupboards yellow.

It would have to be a subtle shade (not daffodil or lemon)
something, Austro-Hungarian perhaps, as you see in Vienna or Budapest.

This will be a departure, catholic even, for my room is modest
and having taken the walls back, to lath and plaster, colour (seems) unnecessary.

Maybe a tone (like the sun on a snowy day) could be painted on the cupboards.
A yellow which goes with white.




-----

This poem was first published on Amaryllis 24/11/2015

IOIO


the tafarn is cosy
warm-ish to
the English who pass through

hogiau bitch
the ffwclyd
shit Seisnig

but Iolo is friendly
and happy
to chinwag with anyone

a pint of Red Dragon
in his hand
the overt vowels of Welsh

playing upon his lips
the bi-fold
brand of economics

the reason he is sat
here watching
the English beat themselves

but that is how it is
the two tongues
in the one thirsty throat

the twofold
melody
of the mouth

the grating chord of one
country hard
up against another                                     



Previously published in The Journal #46