‘Climate grief’ by McKenna Faulkner How are we supposed to dance together. I refuse to stomp my feet unless you’re around. I will only break my ribs laughing if you laugh, too. How can I kiss another mouth if nothing is being sung. I will cry only if you do, too. I will slash my tires to be with you. I will not learn to run unless to carry you. I will not learn to dance alone beneath the moonlight: the night will devour me. Without you, the gentle breeze poisons. Me, without you, still breathing, though I do not want to. Meet the Poet! McKenna Faulkner is an American-Dutch poet and writer currently studying Creative Writing at Oxford. She writes and publishes in both English and Dutch, featuring in magazines such as Absint and Tijdschrift Ei. Her work touches upon topics such as multilingualism, mental health, and ecology, almost always with a touch of fantasy. She is currently working on a debut novel and learning to play the violin. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Emily’s earth’ by Julia Biggs Moor-clutching fingerssoftly sink ‘neath seasof living heath-breath,blown into the livid hillside’s longing surge,high waves risingto a moss-bedded heaven,tide turningto a turfy breastof wide-sufficing rest,re-making her—daughter of the heather Meet the Poet! Julia Biggs is a freelance art historian and lecturer. She lives in Cambridge, UK. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Crow’s Quill Magazine, Versification, Words & Whispers, Not Deer Magazine and Hungry Ghost Magazine. Her current research explores haunting seascapes, the culinary uncanny and the delicious excesses of the Gothic mode. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
Four Poems by JW Summerisle v a r i o u s b o d i e s i n v a r i o u s b a t h s twelve fish openmouth and sinkshallow in the brook. it is the mouth of hell. he says so youidentify with the one who cut all her hair off? and i say nothing.i shan’t raise him up. my flock drinks thewater and theirfleeces all turn black. it is a collective act. at their meal of glass my sisters sup theblood of grapes. black fishburst and dirty. they smell sweet, however.shed their skin like snakes. f i f t i e s m e m o r a b i l i a a poltergeist is smashing plates.it smells like burning hair. decorative vintage edge meetsedge of kitchen wall. kitsch wall unit pours teacupsover me. recuperate this mug. sealit with something soft. like wool plucked fromyour own black beastly head. wouldst thou like to live deliciously? the devil intones sarcasmsmoking the bones above your feet. the disembodiedspirit screams obscenities about a dog. your body.your skin. her kith. your kin. a cracking sound summons upa sheep from out of hell. the cost is our collectivesanity. and a collection of vintage plates. c o a t f u l l o f p l a g u e local history says the plague was brought here last by acoat. a dead girl’s family sent it up as a gift for one girlhere. and she died. from the sickness in it. and i oftenthink of the plague pit apparently unmarked where the unmourned bodies ofmy brothers lie host to a hundred plague fedsheep. p a c k e t o f m a y f a i r bruise of smoking,my mothers head swells from thehands of the bryll cream man whose blue eyespresuppose a heaven that doesn’t care for usat all. Meet the Poet! JW Summerisle lives in the English East Midlands. Their chapbook, ‘kinfolk’, is available from Black Sunflowers Poetry Press (and can be ordered through Waterstones and Blackwell’s). They make and sell artwork, clothing and weird stuff online. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
Translation Tuesdays: ‘Three plus Two’ Each season we share a series of translated work from a particular country, as part of our mission to share voices you may not yet know! Building bridges, creating conversations across borders… making a whole with Fragmented Voices. Today, we are delighted to bring you some Polish poems, translated into English. Enjoy! Three poems by Ilona Witkowska Translated by Mircea Dan Duta no not wanting to sleep,not wanting to work building yourself chapelswhile something is still lurking me here there’s a free waybut just step on it equation without three knowns / the sun of May was burning my head (even if by reflex I use the form “us”,I was alone that time) (using by reflex the form “us”,who did I actually mean?) the best is where we just are,for it’s actually us and no one else / when I was a little girl, granny used to teach metrample earthworms and just don’t worry about the thing;she used to say: oh, yes! oh yes! Prose Poems by Barbara Klicka Translated by David Malcolm EASTER A start like a recipe for spring. I was going a long journey in a fast car. Everywhere there were clouds, I appreciated the value of the sun-roof. We passed some storks, so I said: look, storks. He said: you’re happy like a little kid. Stupid, I said, I’m happy like a little kid, because you’re speaking to me like to a woman in April, be my friend, I want to be aglow from that. Then I called the witnesses on the spot, e-mails, ballets. All in pretty big quantities, because nothing stubbornly would do for me. Doesn’t matter, because the calendar resurrection’s on the way for this I’ll bring the world a cheesecake. Let them all love me, since you can’t. TRUST TERRITORY A dream of seven nails in the skull. I hesitate – for none of the possibilities is ready for sense. My father says: think, you don’t cry out. I say to my father: cry out, don’t think. I live free as the wind, she feeds me. And now look – I’ve picked up seven nails for my dance; seven guys from the Albatros and one dead girl. I lived over brow, over tit, over the wise stream, but the time came when they threw me out and led me to the field. And in the field the harness goes on. Hi hi, the harness goes on in the field. Long live want and barren sand! May the grains fall to the depths of the seas, may the ponds go down in algae and black duckweed! Here the earth’s only good for covering things up. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Almond Blossom’ by Peter J Donnelly Your favourite work of art, you say,but not whether you’ve done the jigsaw. It isn’t mentioned in your personal history, which is not, you stressed, a memoir. Maybe when you’ve written that it will be.I’m not sure what you’d say about the picture, other than that Van Gogh was joyful with his use of colour. It’s hard to imagine it a work in progressphotographed by your husband, with the blue bits arranged on sheets of paper, the white bits in one tin, the green ones in another, for what would that achieve? Perhaps like me you’d have pairs of pieces dottedbetween the edges like marks on a mirror. Meet the Poet! Peter J Donnelly lives in York where he works as a hospital secretary. He has a degree in English Literature and a MA in Creative Writing from the University of Wales Lampeter. His poetry has been published in various magazines and anthologies including Obsessed with Pipework, Black Nore Review, High Window, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Poet’s Republic and he is soon to feature in Atrium. He won second prize in the Ripon Poetry Festival competition in 2021 and was a joint runner up in the Buzzwords open poetry competition in 2022. His first chapbook ‘The Second of August ‘ has recently been published by Alien Buddha Press. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
A Poem by Sophia Isabella Murray I am slowly learning that I am worthy of love but I’m not for everyone & the jackdaws built a nest in our chimney, unforgiving of our forgetfulness to steer them away with the warning wire blocking exits; the wasp stings regardless of a victim’s etiquette casually pollinating unintentionally as if their stripes weren’t enough of a fuck you to the bees; the birdsong of the cuckoo changes tune as the sun grows but she still lays her eggs in the nest of the ones who raised her; the anemones grow red where blood was spilled but the winds still blow them open to the weakest light; the piano in our kitchen never stays in tune but you still play it because she understands the way you move; the pebbles of doubt I wilfully store in my pockets to weigh me down, you take out one by one. Meet the Poet! Sophia Isabella Murray is 10% witch, 10% poet, 10% hermit and 100% mother. She is also not very good at Mathematics so tries to use her words instead. She lives with her husband, children and her familiar – assuming the form of a small, angry terrier – in a house on the ley lines surrounded by the stormy Northumberland hills. Her first collection, The Alchemist’s Daughter, was released by Time is an Ocean Press and her first chapbook, Reasons Why We’re Angry, will be available from Querencia Press in 2023. You can view her work online at Instagram: @sim_poetry Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Postcard’ by Phil Wood upon her stone a thrush rehearsesa stormcock bird the tempest bursts all bones glean in soil song, that pulseof water rite the goodbye rust grotesques gurn their mocking faceswhere is the letterbox for graves? this writing’s damp with mushroom stampsgargoyles spout the gutters gush I write the card in pouring rainthe speakable sky of wet not dry Meet the Poet! Phil Wood was born in Wales. His interests include painting, chess and (of course) poetry. His recently published work is a collaboration with Belfast photographer John Winder and can be found at Abergavenny Small Press. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Daisy’s Knot’ by Ben Banyard She comes to my desk,clutches a mangled clump.My necklace is all muddled up.Can you fix it, Daddy? I can tell that something went wrongwhen she tried to unravel it herself,only to make it much worse. I keep it on my desk,fiddle with it in idle momentsworry away to loosen it. Eventually I untie the last clump,admire the simple clean line,a silver acorn on a fine chain. I fasten it around her neck,hope to always resolve her tangles,no matter how tight the knot. Meet the Poet! Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, on the Severn Estuary just outside Bristol, UK. His third collection, Hi-Viz, was published by Yaffle Press in 2021 and is available via his website: https://benbanyard.wordpress.com. Ben also edits Black Nore Review: https://blacknorereview.wordpress.com. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
Translation Tuesday – ‘Two by Two’ Each season we share a series of translated work from a particular country, as part of our mission to share voices you may not yet know! Building bridges, creating conversations across borders… making a whole with Fragmented Voices. Today, we are delighted to bring you some Polish poems, translated into English. Enjoy! Two Poems by ENORMI STATIONIS (Bartosz Radomski) PROXIMA CENTAURI to the unaided eyeinvisible from the terrestrial worlda small red dwarf among the infinite number of starsshining in the universeis closest to the Sun but the order of the cosmosdoes not allow them to get close MAGNIFICAT In the morning I can still hear its sound.The music still reverberates in my head.The sun wakes up and lights up the sky.My world is just going to sleep. It is rocking.I am unable to read the notesFrom today’s stave of my life.I sing and play to my own tune. Two Poems by David Mateusz Education I saw a homeless guy on Dębnicki Bridge spread his armsout in the orans posture, waiting for whatis yet to come. I took walks along the boulevardand recognised the spot where the Vistula coughed up two dead swans. Once a year,I offered a sacrifice in the form of illness,usually in November, for the sake of peace. I heard a rook praying out by Planty Park, and the spring airing of townhouses accepted as proof of changes to come. I saw the march of inequality and bottles upon the headsof the Left. I saw the march of inequality and scarsupon the heads of the Right. You were all beautiful and drunk that night, and I ate up the hate both your hands served up, when I ran out in raptureright into the annunciation of some suspect ladies and among girls as sad as the Ruczaj district to eat up their fish with knife and fork, and the sky using fingers,running blind. You showed me how to love and betray, and so I knew how to love and betray. I inhaledsterile apartments and the stink of their bins. Carryingacross a river the carcass of an idea, I sawa homeless guy on Dębnicki Bridge spread his armsin the orans posture, waiting for whatis yet to come. And I’m still looking, as that same intense absence dictates the pulse – * translated by Marek Kazmierski Privets Since I’ve been living in water tower station,I step outside just to trim the privets. You’ll get a slap on the wrist, you nearly cut your finger off, my father says handling sheers sticky with resin, obedient and quiet like mother, looking a lot better in his hands. How many timesdid I get a slap on the wrist for touching or taking itupon myself or my lips? How many times did I have to return and apologize? Since I’ve been living in water tower station, our handsare full of resin. – How will you finish, put it back where it belongs– my mom cuts in. Thrice I asked about the name of the plant. * Translated by Lynn Suh Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...
‘Full Of Green’ by Julie Stevens In a grubby green cardigan, he shelters with coffeeoffers time to music, which is not to his taste.The garden inside is a better sound. A girl in apple-green stilettos staggers past.Paints a running whiff of coffeedown his shoes. Her apple turns sour. She barks at him. Mind out the bloody way!Wipes her own loss and slumps, as far awayas the café allows. Paintings line the wall, take my eyesto green topiary, green conifers, green buds −an escape to keep you alive. Your cardigan will keep the leaves growing,play your future, but steal my thoughts.A mind empty, but full of green. Stay in the warm old man. Green is safe here.Your dangling threads can curl from cuffsand soak up coffee. Catch the hour. Catch the years. Hold that conifer and let it lift you,walk those fields and charm the air. I’m here, you’re there and we are gathering green. Meet the Poet! Julie Stevens writes poems that cover many themes, but often engages with disability. She has two published pamphlets: Quicksand (Dreich 2020) and Balancing Act (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2021). Her next collection Step into the Dark will be published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press later this year. www.jumpingjulespoetry.com Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading...