Tuesday, 26 January 2016

A poem by Anna Wigley


When she undressed for the bath,
the scar on her spine still fresh,
I was taken aback by the creamy satin
of her belly and breasts,
rich curves like ripe pears,
the narrow span of her shoulders,
collar bone sloped and delicate,
the gleaming hillocks of her knees
as she sat soaping herself.
I saw the woman she had been,
not mother but lover,
not frame, but picture.

About Anna
I am a writer living in Cardiff, and I have had three poetry collections, as well as a book of
short stories, published by Gomer Press.

Tuesday, 19 January 2016

A poem by Karen Dennison


This chart isn't mine,
planets in their houses
aligned. Its Rising Sign

assumes a gypsy mask
more like the face it hides.
It must have passed through

the multiverse
where every choice
spawns a new self.

This horoscope has travelled
alien constellations, fallen
down a wormhole to cross

the border to another life.
It belongs to the one who stayed
with you, who still believes

in tarot, magic, love.

A poet and artist, Karen Dennison's poems have been published in magazines such as The Interpreter's House and South Bank Poetry and in several anthologies including From the City to the Saltings (Essex Poetry Festival Anthology 2013). Karen's collection Counting Rain was published by Indigo Dreams in 2011. She is editor, designer and publisher of the pamphlets Book of Sand and Blueshift and her digital images/photos appear on the cover and inside Abegail Morley's pamphlet The Memory of Water (Indigo Dreams, 2015).

Tuesday, 5 January 2016

A poem by Jessica Mookherjee


There is photographic evidence
of the exact time she shifted her gaze,
when her eyes went out of focus.
The pictures show me growing bigger,
in pigtails, often alone,
a snap of a girl with her hand on her mother's
shoulder, like a Victorian husband.
I passed on my birthright to all those unborn
boys, soothed her worried forehead,
cut out coupons in newspapers for amulets,
put them in father's hand - so he could keep
us safe. Stood behind my mother as she prayed
at the front door, led her to the kitchen,
made sure she looked at the babies
there is evidence of her holding them,
keeping them close,
there is no photograph of me climbing stairs
two at a time, no evidence that I tried not
to slip and break my neck.

Jess is a poet from Kent and has been published recently in Prole, Antiphon, Poetry Shed, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Agenda, Interpreter's House and the Journal.