Why would you write in English when it’s not your mother tongue? ‘You could always just translate your poems to Dutch?’ my mother soothingly advised me a while ago in response to my rant about my difficulties in finding doors … Continue reading Cecile Bol article
The Autistic Line It is difficultto get the news from poemsyet men die miserably every dayfor lackof what is found there When quoting this well-known extract from the long poem Asphodel, That Greeny Flower by William Carlos Williams, I didn’t have to … Continue reading Caron Freeborn article
a two-hander taking place on a university campus. It gives the serious topic of rape dramatic life by reversing the expected roles. The play was shortlisted last year for the Billy Roche Short Play Award 2018, and will be performed as part of ‘Short + Sweet, Dublin’ later this year, Cast Danny (20s) – a final year Arts student Emer (20s) – his ex, an Engineering student Set A table in a university canteen. Brief Synopsis Danny, a final year Arts student, hasn’t seen his old flame Emer in months, that is until his friend Debbie accuses Emer’s little brother, … Continue reading HE SAID / SHE SAID by David Butler
We feel that open mic/performance poetry should be celebrated in our iconic magazine along with more traditional poetry written for the page. In fact there is often a lot of overlap, so we are happy to see the printed versions … Continue reading open mic
Tased and Amused “I swear honey, if I had known you existed, I would have raised you myself.” I seemed to be getting a lot of sentiments like that since I arrived here. Here being the back woods of Virginia. It all seemed just a little too weird for me. I think Uncle Ray could see the uneasiness in my face because he invited me out to his favorite hangout spot- the garage! As we exited the kitchen and into the man cave, the atmosphere changed! The garage was decorated with walls of tools and Benjamin Moore paint … Continue reading Jennifer Fytelson O’Brien
The temperature of blue I They told us, at school, the colour blue was cold. We loaded up our big poster-paint brushes with Prussian blue and painted sea, wondering what Prussia had to do with it, and where was … Continue reading Mandy Macdonald
Gordon Meade writes heartfelt material using repetition which echoes the endless pacing of captive animals. “We Animals Media recognizes the invisibility of animals in our world and seeks to give their lives and stories a place in the public conscience. … Continue reading Gordon Meade
High Five!Pen PaperCup of teaSit WaitListen! Look!Here she isThis wild, silky othernessQuick!Write it down. written for my first Stanza meeting! Haiku her baby asleep a new mother hugs the silence ———- sleepless forming the words I didn’t say ———- an old sixpence 1955 11-plus and a chipped bone ———- laughter rolling gently down the hill ———- deep in the temple a seated Buddha scent of jasmine ———– cigarette lit a painted statue sits down Marilyn Speak is a 75 year-old Grandma, who has written occasional verse over the years, and has now fallen in love with the … Continue reading Marilyn Speak
Crossing the Divide She walks, as if from a dream, into your life, ribboned hair unraveling, brown eyes like cups of tea, come to whisper a secret into your trembling ear. You try hard not to listen, clinging to your calendar, your achievements, your loneliness, until the silver ache of it all spreads through your limbs and she holds out her hand across the ravine, and you see how the chasm is not empty, but filled with a rushing river, and you can swim until you become fish and flow, until you are the ancient stream emerging from stone, until … Continue reading Christine Valters Paintner
Burning the Directories On a pyre, kindled from general rubbish, I am burning old phone books. The Thompson goes on first, a little local conflagration, a hundred burning names, five hundred. Five white ones go on next, opened flat, middle pages crumpled so the flames catch. The names blacken and curl, a thousand names, a hundred thousand. Seven yellow ones go on next, burning stars float up on the smoke, pages flick over in the firestorm. I watch the names vanish, the baker, the hotelier, the musician, the shoe seller. Seven tribes of names, a thousand thousand names, seven … Continue reading Teresa Mclean
impspired 