It’s Still A F*cking Poem – by Mark Grist


Bishops’ Hearts – by Matthew Stewart


(El Convento de Santa Clara, Zafra)

Outside, people rustle and mutter
an order for biscuits through the mesh
and solid silence. Her fingers count

the Corazones de Obispo,
stroking their almond-encrusted shells.
A hatch revolves. The hearts have gone.




Matthew Stewart works in the Spanish wine trade and lives between West Sussex and Extremadura. His first full collection,The Knives of Villalejo (Eyewear Publishing, 2017), was preceded by two pamphlets with HappenStance Press. He blogs at Rogue Strands

fire seen from a distance – by J. C. Mari


there’s a
blue hand on the grass
like pieces of lion in the jaws
of a hungry savannah god

stupid, ruthless,
relentless eating slow.

there’s a
blue hand on the grass,

it stalked the moonlight red
and bled the night
’til spent
it pissed itself
into translucent yellow dawns.

there’s a
blue hand in the jaws
of a hungry god
relentless eating slow,

it roared murderous demarcations
in obscure intent and

nibbled away
we watch it disappear

we watch it
fade from the world.

not knowing why
something in us
grieves its passing.





J.C. Mari is a Floridian who ekes out his living in occupations unrelated to poesy or the arts. He is occasionally published here and there. Like everyone else he does his best to achieve/maintain some degree of functionality.

Instructions for My Husband When My World Comes Undone – by Michelle McMillan-Holifield


Let me dig in your jeans pocket for gas money.
Close in on me when I run.
Unstart the dark trek away from you. Undirty my feet.
Be my delete button: I press you, undocument me.
Give up for me. Don’t give in to me.
Play that song that talks about home.
Turn it up so it’s all I hear.
Let me dig in your jeans pocket for my hair pin.
Pin my hair back. Leave wispy tendrils.
Tell me what I want to hear. Then remind me that’s a lie.
Truth me. Put your language in my mouth.
Tell me hard things. Make me believe them.
Do that thing that makes me laugh. Yes, that. And that.





Michelle McMillan-Holifield is assistant editor for Edify Fiction and recently completed a writer’s residency at Wild Acres in North Carolina. Her work has been included in or is forthcoming in Boxcar Poetry Review, Jabberwock Review, Sky Island Journal, Stirring, The Collagist, Toasted Cheese, Whale Road Review and Windhover among others. She hopes you one day find her poetry tacked to a tree somewhere in the Alaskan Wild.

Hospital Night Wardress – by Natalie Scott


You want to repay the favour
in one of the only ways possible
and I’m in need of love.

Your fingertips, cold and tentative
raise gooseflesh over my chest
as you gently rub.

The balm melts to liquid on my skin
and you watch, noting my reaction
to each touch.

I see your lips steadily twist
into a smile when there is no more
left to spread.

My flesh is raw as a prime cut
seasoned with camphor. Its scent
clings to our skin,

ready for the tasting. Later I will
smell its earthy tang while you
lather it off your hands.

You redo my dress, carefully, carefully,
so the oils don’t stain. We resume our
roles. No one has seen.



Natalie Scott is a Teesside-based poet and educator with a PhD in Creative Writing. She has collections published by Indigo Dreams, Bradshaw Books and Mudfog, as well as many appearances in literary journals including Ambit, Agenda and Orbis. Her collection Berth – Voices of the Titanic was awarded runner-up for the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition, 2011. Her latest project Rare Birds – Voices of Holloway Prison was awarded funding from the Arts Council of England.

Editorial – Statistics

Since June 2016 we have published 466 poems on Algebra of Owls, written by 316 different poets. That is a wide spread, caused mainly by the fact that we have a strict policy of reviewing all of our submissions objectively, which has for the most part involved blind reading by the co-editors.

It is also partly influenced by the fact that some poets, once published by a journal, do not re-submit to it – which is obviously outside of our control. However, many would attest that an acceptance of a poem by us is no guarantee that future submissions will not be rejected because in the end, it is all just down to the poems. Nor do repeated rejections mean that an acceptance won’t suddenly be forthcoming. I have sometimes heard it said that once you have had a poem accepted by a journal, the likelihood of having another accepted by them increases. While there is some sense to this (because on some level an acceptance may demonstrate that the editors like your style of poetry) our experience is that this maxim does not hold that true. With us it’s always down to which specific poems have been submitted on the day.

Some journals have a policy of needing to limit people to certain elapse of time between submissions, to avoid any impression of a cliquey stable of regular contributors. We have never had to do that, and are happy for people to send us a submission every month if they wish.

I have quickly totted up some of the numbers and:

Poets with a single poem here – 201
Poets with two poems here – 91
Poets with three poems here – 14
Poets with four poems here – 9
Poets with five poems here – 1

In case you were wondering, the person with five poems published in AoO is Kathleen Strafford.


October – by Deborah Harvey


Somewhere I can hear a lark
a desultory bee out late in heather
mistaking the warmth of the sun for summer,
unaware the hour’s about to slip
febrile mornings flare then gutter
darkness close over our heads.

Like bumble bees that cannot fly
oaks can’t grow on this high ground
but no one’s told them.
Piles Copse digs in on its steep slope
looping roots around heaped rocks
its leaves rust flags against a dusk that seeps
from cemeteries of peat.

If I could
pour this honey light
store it in jars on cellar shelves
I’d dip my fingers in its gleam
until my skin grows green with moss
my tongue bleeds sap.


Dartmoor has three areas of high-altitude ancient oak woodland – Black-a-tor Copse, Piles Copse and Wistman’s Wood – where conditions are so harsh, it’s theoretically impossible for those trees to have grown there.



Deborah Harvey lives in Bristol. Her three poetry collections, Communion (2011), Map Reading for Beginners (2014), and Breadcrumbs (2016), are published by Indigo Dreams, while her historical novel, Dart, appeared under their Tamar Books imprint in 2013. Her fourth collection, The Shadow Factory, will be published in 2019. Deborah runs The Leaping Word poetry consultancy with Colin Brown (formerly of Poetry Can). Her poems have been widely published and broadcast on Radio 4’s Poetry Please.