Flair 1 The frescoes of springScatter their radianceAnd spill a festival of pinkPetals on the mottled green 2 Your tongueA wet stem of languageUnfurlsIn my mouthO the fizzAnd frothOf brilliantCherryBlossomO the thrilling stippleOf Pinks A searOfRouge weatherPuckersThe streetsLeafy frontageAnd shadowOrchardsRipenIn theBlurOf VoluptuousStreets 3 It is not the bush burning With imperishable fireThat I search for, […]
Flair by Paul Gallagher Read More »
In Praise of a Woman An old uncoupled crow flies lowacross the tarmac, where Lucy runsto blue double doors with friends.My hand still longing for her handin mine at the school’s iron gates.And there’s no looking back, as ifshe fears turning into a pillar of salt.Does she know Lot’s wife’s story? A friend whispers in
In Praise of a Woman by Olive M Ritch Read More »
Does My Father Cry? Does my father cryin the deep night,when the house is silentand he stretches out in bed,unsure if the creakingcomes from the mattressor from himself? Does he cryleaning on the railingas the sky breaks awake,the light spilling into the street,and he’s still so tired? Does my father crywith the slow coming sunrise,as
Does My Father Cry? by Nazaret Ranea Read More »
Days of Wine and Roses Late summer listening to jazz; the windows,open, tempt in a piece of the night,a coptering whir, burr of dusty wings,a flick-book rainbow, all the colours of music; but stopped, hid in some unlit niche. Next morning, moving chairs, there’sa dull dart beneath the sill. Don’t tryto pare apart the rigid
Days of Wine and Roses by Chris Athorne Read More »
Lisa Pike Night numbers, New Orleans, the occult, the spectre of Catholicism: all come together in “Arithmancy”, one of the final poems of the well-known Canadian poet and writer Len Gasparini. Composed sometime in 2021, “Arithmancy” is the title poem for what would have been his next collection. Arithmancy Arithmancy – an uncannily fancydivination by
Len Gasparini: Knowing His Night Numbers Read More »
Imanol Gómez Martín A poet and critic (with books on Sylvia Plath, Christina Rossetti and Emily Dickinson) as well as a painter, Marnie Pomeroy was born in the countryside near Millbrook, New York, in 1932, and has lived for more than 50 years in Canada. It may be paradoxical to begin an article on her
Speck and Flame in the Lunar Poetry of Marnie Pomeroy Read More »
The Carousel Jardin du Luxembourg A roof, a shadow, round and round it spinsfor a little while, this brightly coloured bandof horses from a hesitating landthat’s going, gone. Some do have more than reins,a cart or carriage, but they manage to presentbrave faces, as they must, while at their sidea furious crimson lion keeps its
The Carousel (Rilke) by John Greening Read More »
Digging a Cesspit After a week the Elsan was at high tide,thick bluish fluid lapping with foul flotsam.My sister’s new boyfriend arrived on cue.Dad marked out a square metre, the bladeof the trenching spade knifing throughlank grass, handed the spade to the youthand said he would fetch the pickaxe:there were bound to be rocks. In
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The Mountain How many years since I scaled the mountainAnd felt as if I was king of the word? My thoughts went awry in the rarefied air,So they straitjacketed, stretchered me down. After years stumbling amid the foothills,Shielding my eyes from that difficult peak, I’m ready now to retrace the climb,This time retaining my reason
The Mountain by Iain MacDonald Read More »
let the air in Let the air in,It got so awfully stuffy and damp in my room.Are you here? Say something nice then.I’m giving you my best self, I’m all smiles and jokes, red lips, white shirt, tart perfume.Look at me navigating it all so well,Am I not a good student? Aren’t you proud of
let the air in by Angela Yausheva Read More »
