The Writing Life – by Alison Lock

I am listening, straining
to hear the ocean
between the rhythm
of the hush and the hush.

The shallow reach extends
with each incoming wave,
every new ripple,
a thought reaching out.

I leave a trail of words
in my wake; curled-up
letters unfurl, expanding
with each new lap.

Paragraphs are castles,
their turrets brittle
as shells gather
in questioning marks

– cockles, limpets, whelks
like consonants
decorate my path
as I move to the edge

along with all the other
fragile-legged creatures,
I am swept into the cool surf,
carried into the deep.

 

 

Alison Lock’s poetry and short stories have appeared in anthologies and journals in the UK and internationally. She has published a short story collection, two poetry collections, and a fantasy novella. She has an MA in Literature Studies and Creative Writing. She is a tutor for Transformative Life Writing courses.
 
Website: http://www.alisonlock.com/   Twitter:  @ali_lock_

I should drive away – by Emma Lee

 

My black car is my safe place. Like a crystal
hung in a window makes light dance around you
though its centre’s withdrawn, hidden from view.
I’m enclosed, I can move. I’m in control.
I’m in love with this. And the memory
of the precision of your fingers on my skin,
our bodies as sync’d as driver and engine.
My black car is my place of security.
It’s easier to let your ex stay. You cleave
to her. If you had a friend this miserable
with the arguments, this inhospitable
home, you tell me you’d tell him to leave.
My heart thinks of that crystal in your window.
My friend would tell me to slide from your view.

 

 

 

Emma Lee’s recent poetry collection is “Ghosts in the Desert” (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge” (Five Leaves, 2015) and “Welcome to Leicester” (Dahlia Publishing, 2016) and reviews for The High Window Journal, The Journal, London Grip and Sabotage Reviews and blogs here

Raptor – by Sharon Larkin

 

That pupil has seen things
too dark for daytime company.
It pierces social skin,
pinpoints indiscretions
long covered over,
targets acts you chose to hide
beneath layers of pitch.

Deeds at night
find affinity in the depths
of the dilating dot. Do not let
the bluish glow fool you.
It is trompe l’oeil.
There is no enlightenment
in the heart-shaped face.

There, loveless core meets beak,
poised to incise and slice.
That face has an eye

for an eye.

 

 

Sharon Larkin’s poems have appeared in anthologies (Cinnamon Press, Eyewear Publishing, Indigo Dreams Publications), in magazines (Prole, Obsessed with Pipework, Here Comes Everyone) and online (Ink, Sweat and Tears, Clear Poetry, The Stare’s Nest).  She regularly performs in Gloucestershire, is Chair of Cheltenham’s Arts Council and Poetry Society and has an MA in Creative and Critical Writing.  Website: here

Normanton is made of dying stars – by Jimmy Andrex

 

Brian Cox says
everything is falling
in curves,
forever in space-time.

always falling,
collapsing, expanding,
fusing
a 96 chemical everything.

Falling in curves
that look like orbits.
Einstein
worked it all out;

collapsing, like the bloke
on the steps of The Midland,
dropping
to his knees like James Brown;

everything slumping downwards,
with the exception of
his pint,
which stays steady as a gimbel,

even whilst falling
he still fights gravity,
struggling
to his feet for a fag.

Does anyone in The Midland
give a flying fuck about
Einstein
or his Special Theory?

A poet passing in a car
might see them instead,
falling
into a clichéd grave

and toss handfuls
of words onto the sinking
coffin.
But poets don’t know shit,

otherwise there’d be pubs full
of them, creating
meaning
from collapsing language,

words sucked inside out
by the massive force of
dying
brains, desperate to escape

the gravity of knowing
that even this
poem
is running out of time.

 

 

 

“Normanton” was written in response to driving through the eponymous quaint market town and seeing people frequently falling over, especially out of pubs.  Jimmy wondered if there were some immutable force responsible for this, as he had been watching “Wonders of the Universe.”  However, he thinks we all must resist the temptation to look down on anything or anybody as we’re all made of the same stuff.

Jimmy is on Soundcloud and on Facebook with Northern Beat Poets.

Alarm – by Finola Scott

 

4 am and he’s at it.
Yelling against pale day
he feels the weight of sun.
He’s all erect, throbbing red
comb trembling. He’s heavy
tailed, rapier beaked. Unsheathed
his spurs mean business. Crowing
his blood runs with boasts.
Burnished bronze feathers overlay
pitch. His strut marks him.
His eyes fierce as sunrise.

 

 

Finola Scott’s poems and short stories are widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Raum, Dactyl, The Lake, Poets’ Republic, Fat Damsel, and Snares Nest. She is pleased to be mentored this year on the Clydebuilt Scheme by Liz Lochhead. A performance poet, she is proud to be a slam-winning granny.

Epitaph – by W Luther Jett

 

You wrote my name in stone,
graved it in brass, called me
hero because
that day fire
dropt from the sky
to brand our city, I was
there and did
only what wanted doing.
No more.

And all your flags and flowers —
I never lived to see. Your songs,
those speeches,
the medals —
that morning I wasn’t looking
for any of that.
That day
I only wanted
to get through it.
I didn’t.
And I would give anything

not
to be
your hero.

 

 

 

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland, whose poetry has been published in numerous journals, including: The GW Review, Poetica, Syncopated City, Synæsthesia, ABRAXAS, Scribble, Beltway, Innisfree, Xanadu, Haiku Journal, Steam Ticket, Potomac Review, and Main Street Rag. His chapbook, “Not Quite” has recently been published by Finishing Line Press.

The Werewolf’s Tailor – by Neil Fulwood

 

The fabric smooth enough that tufts
of fur fall floor-wards with just
a casual downstroke of the paw.
By which I mean hand; human hand.

The lining crimson as a slashed throat.
I do apologise: a tasteless simile.
But still: the charcoal grey of the jacket
gusted back on an autumn street

and that flash of deep red – profound
red – well, sir, the effect will turn heads,
set the heart of the fashionista
beating faster, divert the dandy

to his tailor’s place of business,
a whole wardrobe of fine garments
ordered on account. Which is as
it should be. If I may take the liberty,

sir, clothes maketh the man –
manners manage a distant second.
The cut and the line, the fold
of the cloth. Thus are we set apart

from the beast. Temporarily, at least.
The craftsmanship is in the stitching,
how it withstands the stretch and strain
of muscle and skin in thrall to the change.

 

 

Neil Fulwood is the co-editor, with David Sillitoe, of the anthology More Raw Material: work inspired by Alan Sillitoe. His poetry has featured in The Morning Star, The Interpreter’s House, Prole, International Times and Ink, Sweat and Tears. His debut collection, No Avoiding It, is forthcoming from Shoestring Press in 2017.