Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Disaster ~ Sally Barrett



Forget it
I said
Difficult
To, said
He and I
Cried and
Wept and said
Fuck you
Then I don't
Care any
More but I
Did in
Honesty
You should leave
He said
I don't want
To said
I and he
Grew cold
And frosty.
Shaken,
He said please
I can't
Cope tonight
No I
Won't I said
Let's sort it
Out I
Said. I can't
He said
I don't trust
You. And
I shouted
Please I
Love you so
Much but
He looked far
Away
And said no.
I walked out
The door,
The door that
He paint
Ed and I
Didn't
Slam it, I
Shut it
Carefully
Wishing
I'd taken
More care
With the love.
I went to
The pub
I hadn't
Drank for
Years and I
Knew it
Wouldn't help
So I
Turned and walked
To the
Park. It was
Dark and
So lonely
I sat on
The swing
and swung for
A while
And I was
Scared but
Not because
Of the
Dark in the
Park but
Because I
Had lost the
True love
Fuck I said
Fuck it's
Bad now this
Time and
The tears rolled
Like salt
water and
I thought
What should I
Do now
So I phoned
My friend
And said help
Ok she
Said come
Round and stay
Here if
You've got
No where
To go. Thanks
I said
But fuck I
Said. She
Said I know
Loser
Idiot
But she cared
Even though
I hated
Myself and
My life
And my fuck
Up world
And I knew
It was
My own fault
Which made
It all a
Lot worse
He sat in
The room
Head in his
Hands and
Thought what did
I do
Wrong. Oh god
He said
I can't take
Her back
That's the end




Water Horse ~ Sally Barrett


Beautiful light brown
beer water with
white froth
racing down stone stairs
like a waterfall



Running water,
where have you been,
And what's the rush?
I'm sure you'll get there
You're not like
wild horses at all
More like liquid poured
From a giant drip tray

Sometimes, I wish
I knew more
about physics.

But physics
cant tell me
why ghosts
might be
time glitches.
Not yet anyway

So, water,
run if you like,
but there's no hiding
only dispersal,
And that process
I can't remember
the name of from GCSE.



Sally Barrett lives in Manchester though is from Leeds originally. She is currently working on a sequence of poems about the experience of voice hearing. She enjoys reading female poetry, classic literature,THE NEWS and Facebook. 



Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Five poems ~ Andrew Taylor



Receipt ink fades the porter’s chilled correctly though served in a pint glass ponytailed jogger uses the canal bank 6.23 p.m. not fully dark

 

Red chief 4016 take an apple from the breakfast table wrap in a napkin save it footpath near the station echoes yellow line burst of photos

 

Daffodil scent tyre dust in alloy grime drip tap drop gutter clouds roll west to east insect highway luminosity border flowers rail clang

 

Scared to jump sparrow aire de la Baie de Somme 10.56 am short sleep sky trails cross further south quieter roads colours change sun warms

 

aire Des Haras refuel automation exit route we visited 8 months ago new species on the wing where we sat with early morning breakfast tea




Two poems ~ Sarah Bernstein



Love,
    a graph
We don't begin at the beginning
But somewhere in the middle
And that is,
I mean that is not,
Zero point
    Zero



 

Drifter,
you must speak
ill of the dead.
Slice
the comfort zone
of no voice.
This is a partial
guide.





SARAH BERNSTEIN is a New York-based violinist, composer and poet whose work incorporates
improvisation, vocals, electronics and original text. She is known for her fiery multidisciplinary
performances, and has garnered international acclaim for her distinctive recordings. Nominated "Rising Star" in the 2015 and 2016 DownBeat Critics Poll, she is a recognized innovator in forward-thinking

Monday, March 20, 2017

Open for submissions

Delighted to announce that we will be open for submissions again as of April 1, 2017 until December 1, 2017. We look forward to seeing your work

Monday, October 3, 2016

High Tide ~ Steve Smythe



Draw a line in the sand:
one side scribe those things you
love about me, down the other
those you don’t.    

Take care the once-blank column,   
which now goes on and on,
is closest to the breaking waves,
and what remains from our heyday

is not washed away
after I have gone.






Steve Smythe started work as a reporter on local newspapers, before earning a living in local authority public relations and communications for twenty five years. He started writing poetry two years ago and is a founder member of the Manchester (City Centre) Stanza poetry group, as well as performing regularly on the burgeoning Manchester spoken word scene. Steve now works with young people who are in care, and is writing a novel. He lives in Stretford. 



Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Noose ~ Amy Huffman



around my neck is feathered
white.  As night
descends, it hackles high,
glows.  This
                    nameless devil
in a church of despair  -- mine
signals its desire to the moon.
I am the loon who will pay
for a stray bullet’s
ace.
        King,           three,
                   ten,              all
spades.  I am playing
gin with the gods.  I know
I can’t win.
                    For starters they have
no [but all] hands and eyes
that see through stone.
            I intone a meditative
chant, an attempt to count
er this prolonged night.  Minutes
tick like years (or vice versa), as steel-
eyed still awake, the corner of dawn
                                                            cracks
a smile, offers
no hope

              of/or reprieve.







A.J. Huffman has published thirteen full-length poetry collections, fourteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses.  Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

 

I Am Blue ~ Amy Huffman


light, a special
kind of cold.
Numbing indifference
has turned my nerves
to veins.  They read
aquatic—
                 dark
                 & uncharted.
I am a universe
of waves and wonder, full
of creatures.  (They bite.)
So do I.
              I take
strength and sense of direction.
To navigate means to give up
the ability to breathe.



Sunday, April 17, 2016

6 poems ~ Howie Good


Politics as Usual
An apparition of the Virgin Mary appears on the window of an otherwise ordinary house in Jersey City. Angry white men pretend that it’s only frost. Faceless angels dressed in tinsel wander through the neighborhood, a way for them to ensure that they don’t miss out on the war. Women begin to sob when the TV news comes on. “Donald Trump won’t leave us alone,” one says with a tearful shake of her head. Saints and martyrs ride a shaft of starlight down to ground zero. And those not burned up by death rays become their slaves.



 Life After 60
The black tulips were open for only a day when a big wind bowled most of them over.  I gathered up those with broken stems and put them in a clear glass vase and put the vase on the table. This is what life is like after 60, the wind, wet and moaning, sprouting strange new black feathers. None of us remember how, or there wouldn’t be an interrogator pushing the old man headfirst into the wall or a pool of blood on the floor moving as if it were alive. 



The Small Hours
This is what I saw when I got home, monstrous miserable flesh-tints. Anything can happen in the land of childhood obesity. Prostitutes and clowns insist that I pay attention to them, yapping and whining and pushing against my legs. The small hours of the night are the worst. It’s nearly impossible to silence them. I ignore all pleas to proclaim the necessity of burning the museums. For the time being, nothing somehow becomes something, the terrified faces of passengers on a hijacked flight.


 
Black Threads
It snowed up here today. Dogs became capable of filling their own bowls. You sprawled on a divan with your bare back to the viewer.  Every time you shook your hair more poems fell out. You don’t know who I am, but somehow you have been affected by things I did. Asked what the light was like, you describe a carnival of shadows broadcast in HD, just as I would. We invent the world in the instance of seeing it. The country where my family was changed into threads of black smoke doesn’t exist anymore. Bruno Schulz lived, there, too, trying to cross a crocodile-infested street with a loaf of bread under one arm.



The Theater of Eternal Music
Cigar-smoking angels who shoot pink waves of peace from their fingertips are full of complicated feelings. The grumpy cat has too much coffee, which has a psychedelic effect on its appearance. Some villagers worship a giant machine that dispenses eyeballs. Franz Kafka, struggling to write the first sentence of “The Metamorphosis,” finds himself constantly interrupted by loud neighbors and strange door-to-door salesmen. Flowers rise up against their oppressors. Beings made from string unravel in a railroad car. Kafka’s self-doubt pokes through his facade of positivity. A middle-aged man takes the fact that his son doesn’t want to play the flute surprisingly hard.



 A Cooking Show for Cannibals
A simple change of a light bulb has far-reaching effects. I don’t understand why this should be so. Murderous puppet typewriters misbehave with deadly results. A shirtless tomato farmer sings a hypnotic ode to his favorite crop. In a drab city, the sale and purchase of emotions are strictly regulated, but not everyone follows the rules and a gangster has himself gilded in gold. Fishing is a metaphor for Alzheimer’s disease. An elderly man thinks he’s related to a cow. As far as I can tell, there’s no reason to despise the monkey with a helium-filled balloon for a head or the preteen girl playing a sax solo in front of a deer carcass.




Monday, April 11, 2016

Funeral ~ Ibrahim Honjo


Before you die
Find the time
And do something about that

First
Consult a manual about execution of wills
Find out what obligations are entailed in the will
Don't die before that

Second
You should choose someone
To represent you
Don't make a big mistake
To appoint somebody inexperienced

Third
If you have somebody
Get in touch with him

Fourth
If you have nobody
Don't die
Or choose someone who can carry out
Financial affairs
Leave time for consultations about responsibility

Being an executor of a will is not an easy job
But if he dies first you are in big trouble
If you have no money
You are in trouble
Without these two prerequisites
It's better that you never die
Never die