Category: Poetry

By Penelope Gathercole

think of us here in your head before– 

no! don’t think! 

floating 

neither in front nor behind 

of your eyeballs? and already 

gone, too slow. 

why do they always have to go like that? 

just like that. 

not to think but to write. 

there, 

they are there. 

more wiggly than expected but certain nevertheless. 

an urgency, it is 

a frantic urgency. 

like a bird 

pecking at the same piece of corn 

but the force of the beak 

coming down 

propels the corn away and 

the bird must run 

after it and try again. 

nothing more humiliating 

than running 

after a ping pong ball. 

waddling, 

like a small child, arms outstretched, 

as it rolls and bounces 

further from you. 

we are all watching 

and waiting. 

an untimely titter, 

your turn. 

you’re my favourite yet. 

you tit. 

Featured Image – Darya Sannikova

By Tillie-Rose Wallis

The orange of my nails meets the tan sand, grains falling, attaching to the damp

I pick the small shell in my fingers then place it in the palm of my hand The sound of it clicking against the others obtained from the same sands I straighten up, the wind brings smells of salt and perfume, its motion pushing

Later, I sit in front of the campfire

The laughter of my friends, the plucking of strings and the soothe tone it

emits

I think of the day, of the sea and its loot

I transport back, to a decade ago To different waves, to same action

I pick the small shell in my fingers then place it in the palm of my hand

The sound of it clicking against the others obtained from the same sands l open my grasp; they cascade into a plastic bed

Here, 1,369 miles from there, I am the same.

Featured Image- Saoirse Pira

By Theo Turner

Lilac cards lay strewn on the carpet.

A smattering of patterned backs and pruned plum pips

 Discarded from whatever 

Late night

Mystic revelries

You previously entertained.

You lounge above, on the sofa;

Book in one hand, coffee in another.

A singular chipped violet nail 

Taps each grape in turn, on the chipped mug

(Your mug).

The lamp is on,

You bought that shade

From the shop down the road

So it can throw heathered hues

On your favoured kitchen table spot.

I ask to borrow your perfume – 

I have a date later and he seems like a Poison Dior kinda guy. 

You smile your assent so I pad to your room.

There a rug fills the floor

Like a fresh bruise

Spreading on soft skin.

A thistle charm 

Hangs 

From your windows’ handle.

It reminds me of the amethyst earring you wear

And tug when too many people enter the room. 

Returning, I spot a lavender circle poking from your jumper;

I know you sleep in that top.

I’ve never seen those sleeves that brush your knuckles,

Brush your knuckles outside.

You claim it compliments your eyes.

I think they need no trouble with that

But let you have the excuse 

So I can spot the tannin soaked tell of your presence.

The juice stained thumb marks from your love.

You tell me you want to plant a wisteria

In the pot on our balcony.

This flat will be long gone by the time it first blooms.

Featured Image – Pinterest

By Robin Reinders

The morning has not yet decided to be morning –
A pale seam of light lying low along the hedgerow
Beyond the hangars –
Everything else ready-room charcoal and damp tin.
The trainers crouch along the tarmac, wings folded
Like birds waiting out a storm.

We sit on the narrow step of one of them –
Shoulder to shoulder because there is no other way to sit –
Soles knocking the aluminium skin.
The metal is cold enough
To steal heat through wool.
You swear softly from behind your teeth –
Shove your hands beneath your thighs.
‘Christ–
Colder than the Channel.’
Your breath ghosts between us,
Seeps into the nothing void of the sunless dark.

I strike a match.
The flare of it briefly paints your face gilt-gold –
Young still, soft along the jaw,
Eyes gentle
And half-lidded with sleep.
The cigarette takes to the flame –
Tobacco curls wonderfully into the air, bitter and sweet the way sweat is.
You pitch gracelessly forward to steal the first draw
Before I can lift it to my mouth,
Shoulder bumps mine –
‘Greedy bastard’, I mutter.
‘Pilot’s privilege’, you answer.
Cocksure. Irritating.
Your grin flickers quick and mean like the spark of the match –
Bright and licking up cruel and then gone.
Smoke leaks skywards from your mouth.
For a moment it hangs between us
Like breath on cold glass.

…

Inside the cockpit the instruments sit dark and patient,
Anticipating handling.
The seats absurdly close together –
A joke among all us flyboys –
Knees almost touching
Even before the parachutes and the harness
And everything else we carry into the kite with us.

You climb in first –
I tell you to –
The leather of your jacket creaks
Like saddle tack.
When I follow
There is the usual awkward instance –
Boots tangling with pedals,
Shoulders negotiating space
That will never be won between two grown boys
And their clumsy limbs.
We afford one another the same dignity
As bedfellows.

‘Give us the cigarette.’
You hold out your hand behind you
Without turning to face me.
I place it gingerly between your fingers.
Your glove brushes my wrist in hasty hungry hunt for the filter –
I feel as if some surface part of me has been permanently smeared by it.

The cockpit smells thickly of oil
And stale canvas.
Smoke threads through the cramped air
In thin blue ribbons.
You lean back in your seat impish and lazy,
So the cigarette hangs near my mouth.
I bend forward to take it –
A cat lapping milk from the dish and
Our helmets knock.
You laugh like you’re out of breath.
‘Careful –
We ain’t even wheels up yet.’

The ember pulses blood orange when I draw.
For a second the light of it
Paints the underside of your jaw all ruddy and raw.
Pink-skinned.
Your throat moves when you swallow.
Clicks.
(‘Why do all-a men got a Adam’s apple? Hell they do wi’ mine?’)
You notice I notice and know this is tolerable.

Outside, ground crew voices drift through the dark.
Boots clink-clanking on metal ladder-rungs.
Someone slams a hangar door with
The same rough-handed tenderness you’d handle a horse.
A lark begins somewhere beyond the field –
Thin, tinny, delirious music climbing the sky
Like a dizzy soprano.

You reach forward to fiddle with the compass housing.
Your sleeve drags across my forearm.
Friction of wool
And leather.
It is ridiculous.
It all is.

‘–?’ you ask.
Your voice is easy –
And careless –
Like how you fly and handle girls.
I shake my head though I never register what it is that you said.

You hand the cigarette back –
The flighty little pulse beneath your skin
Jumping through the opening in the glove seam –
The ghost of it stays in my palm.
The last of the ash lengthens, trembles.
You reach to tap it out the window
And your bony elbow nudges my ribs.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sure?’
You grin like you’re going to survive this one too –
Allow me to get you back for it.

…

The eastern sky lightens
From jet-black to Bobby’s blue velvet.
The trainers along the runway begin
To show their shapes –
Long wings, blunt noses,
Frost dulling the metal.

You stretch one leg forward,
Moony and slow,
Your ankle
Bullying my shin out the way.
I go without much fight.
‘We’ll be home for breakfast’, you speak
Through the palm
Dragging down your weary face.
‘Powdered eggs and cold coffee’, my lippy retort.

You draw once more on the dying smoke-butt –
Deep enough to burn it to the stub –
Then hold your leftovers out to me –
As if there’s anything left.
As if I should thank you kindly.
The heat from your last drag warms the thin paper.
I feel as though a detonator is beneath my thumb.

Outside, someone laughs, sharp and awake –
You snatch the butt back,
Flick it out into the wet grass,
Dewy from the damp English dawn.
It lands –
And dies with a small hiss.

Featured Image: Australian War Memorial, William Dargie, 1945

By Emi Sharples

She, with her curls placed perfectly in an updo, divine,

a doll, pretty woman, head-turner – alluring, luring them.

Everyone’s eyes beheld her; she, the apple of them all,

her name in every song: she, her, she, oh she.

Uptown girl walked downtown, her pearls

gleaming, smiling, stunning. Dipped in

and out of cafés, travel agents’, department stores;

she laughed and gushed about her dream

destinations – Zanzibar, Vienna, New York –

the pianist’s eyes darting, pen scribbling on a notepad

as she strutted past.

She, the face you can’t forget.

Her pout hummed in the key of C#, mulling over

a melody, looking like a million bucks,

noticed by two square black frames. Watched her,

traced her expression with a blunt pencil,

tipped his fedora, left –

glass half empty on the bar.

Definitely legato; she mused,

bristling at the breeze coming from the open door.

She wanted more.

It was Moore who sang the blues; she fed him

lines of cobalt, navy,

cornflower, royal, her voice treacle,

sticky on the keys, fire,

searing in the buzz of the strings.

The brass played her in as he sang,

mourning her departure.

She was bold as love; little wing; foxey lady.

She blew the melodic gale that cried

Mary,

her breath coming short

but true.

Hammered on with his right, strummed with his left

as she confessed: take anything you want from me.

Her name lay used on the page, scrawled beneath the letter ‘F’.

A rainbow like you, he wrote,

the rose-coloured tinge hanging in the air,

dissipating, as their dinner lay

half-touched around him.

And she watched. And listened,

hearing her voice, her words, her mind.

But she watched still –

still,

pushing down thoughts of picking up a pen and

Featured Image: Edward Hopper – Nighthawks

By Daniel Ali

You readers trust written things too much,

honesty is not a poet’s obligation –

even unfiltered thoughts are pulsed through a poetic sieve.

Adulting is unclean–

mediocre and cynical,

like an untuned piano.

Who am I?

I’m a hoarder’s untouched basement,

artefacts of everybody I have ever met.

I occupy the space in my head too much,

resorting to memories

to find feelings.

This comes naturally to me,

divulging like this,

I wish I could talk to her so fluently.

Societies and times change

but people never do.

Stale progression, stagnant evolution.

Today’s snow is cold and

my dog will not settle.

I think my brother has the flu.

Featured Image: Toby Dossett

By Tashy Back

the moon and the stars
the sun and the earth
bound up together
brown string since birth

she is a whisper
stepping into the light
petals unfurling
Jupiter’s own might

he is desolate
far down in the earth
claimed by Saturn
the whisper goes unheard

there are two gravestones
not side by side
torn apart by the ages
Venus’s true love dies

a teardrop on Mars
anger starts our war
golden-amber-white
bodies furiously intertwined

mine is a soft sigh
breaks the silence of time
tastes like Mercury
poisonous message inside

the third and forgotten
Neptune in the deep
conquers monsters unknown
allows us to breathe

the gods and the planets
rulers of fate
Divine in their nature
for mankind they wait

Featured Image: Tashy Back

By May Thomson

The wind, making itself manifest,

Is possessing the vertical sheets of night—

Silver, chiffon.

Flour-fine and unbiting,

Glittering my arms with soft, pale vermillion,

The rain dresses me in a cool, satin shirt. 

‘I am dressed just like the wind,’ I think. 

And the wind, in its blouse, stays close at my back. 

I take a drag of soft, black evening 

And watch the motion of invisible things.

Featured Image – Toby Dossett