What was siphoned off the sun
could just as easily be this tree
and each branch carried out
struggling with moss and faraway
– who can tell it’s not this tree’s
last chance to sort the light
as if going somewhere was still possible
that love too is possible – all this wood
even in winter arriving to gather you up
as leaves, shining, smelling from dew
already beginning to blossom, impatient
for arms and shoulders and the fire.
Simon’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.
Her father looms towards her.
Brandy breath engulfs her face
as he prises the soda can
from her fingers –
wraps them round a glass:
raspberry gin –
it’s sweet, like fruit gums.
She watches the open bottle tilt
in his hand. Acid slides
to the back of her tongue.
Jinny Fisher is a member of Wells Fountain Poets. Magazines include The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar, Tears in the Fence, Prole, Strange Poetry, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. Commended and placed in national competitions, she is committed to pushing her outreach ‘Poetry Pram’ around festivals for random readings: https://www.facebook.com/PoetryPram/
I was six when
the corner hardware store caught fire.
We were chased from our apartment
by smoke and heat
and the staccato pop of flammables bursting.
I remember the sudden burn
of winter and my mom’s blue lips,
as my dad, muttering and cursing,
tried to coax
the old Packard Eight to life.
The world outside
was ice and ash.
Sirens bawled and
yellow jacketed men
wielded axes like arms
and strained against hoses
struggling to break free.
Mom told me years later
that she had wrapped me in an old fur.
She said it was the coldest night
of the year and only the heat
from the car kept us from frostbite.
Try as I might
I can’t remember that.
I remember I shared the back seat
with my brother –
thirteen and the source of all knowledge –
and that he’d found a cigarette lighter that week
and showed me how to make a fire
of rags and paper,
and that his terrified face
flickered all night in the flamelight.
Steve Deutsch lives in State College, PA. His recent publications have or will appear in The Blue Nib, Thimble Magazine, The Muddy River Poetry Review, Ghost City Review, Borfski Press, Streetlight Press, Gravel, Literary Heist, Nixes Mate Review, Third Wednesday, Misfit Magazine, Word Fountain, Eclectica Magazine, The Drabble, and The Ekphrastic Review. In 2017, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His Chapbook, “Perhaps You Can,” will be published next year by Kelsay Press.
Wearing plastic jelly shoes, stroking grey underbellies of young trout to stupefy
scooping the silvery fish up with cupped hands, dropping them plop into jam jars.
We sit on the sandy river bank, watching our catch glint in the sun
as we eat peanut butter and jam butties curling at the edges,
a bottle of Barr’s lemonade cooling in the stream.
When the sun begins to fade, we put the trout back,
half-submerging the jam-jar in the stream, the sound of glass chiming
against river stone, our feet unsteady balancing on loose pebbles,
watching the trout hesitate, uncertain, circling the mouth of the jar,
before swimming away, beyond Esh Winning, Rag Path Woods, the river beck.
Rachel Burns poems have appeared in SOUTHLIGHT, HeadStuff, Marble Poetry, Arfur, HCE, The Fenland Reed, Crannog and Poetry Salzburg Review. She was commended in HeadStuff poetry competition 2018 and shortlisted for Primers Volume Four.
The driver whistles, sluices his teeth with birdsong,
hefts the bus around the corner,
briefly mounts the pavement
by the Clinic for Cranial Osteopathy.
The woman with a cochlea implant laughs nervously;
a cackling hen, her mouth opening and closing
like a hatchling.
Kenny who calls me my lady, can’t remember names,
is drunk, talks about his job in the steelworks;
a fairy tale a long, long time ago,
a house built of girders, his broken jaw.
I try to sit outside myself, see who I am.
A man gets on with a hat like a nipple.
He has the face of a wart hog, tough grey beard,
long teeth. He sits next to the beautiful boy
who has a streak of lightning tattooed
on his cheek like an angry tear.
The bus races its schedule, tilts on the adverse camber
by the cemetery. Someone squeaks with alarm,
the beautiful boy touches his tattoo as if it’s a talisman.
Kenny announces that his phlegm is the size of hailstones.
They’ve rationed his fags, ordered tests; his booze-edged
breath travels like an oil slick down the gangway.
Getting off the bus is a bare-knuckle ride.
We play chicken with the driver’s sudden application
of brakes. He’s still whistling with the persistence
of a skylark.
The guillotine is quick. Shutter down. A cut with clean blade.
An historical terror. Spills little of her blood.
The bullet – it whizzes past him. Sprints to plot a hole in her flesh
and before he blinks she is done in.
He prefers the fencing sword – known as Flynn’s épée –
to slash air, have artistry when expertly thrust at her heart.
Not the noose – rope choker – too rough. Almost banal it tightens,
winches her up with a jolt. Asphyxiation without restoration.
And being burnt at the stake is no better an end –
heated smoke and liquid flame – reduces her to ash and fat.
Then there’s the coward that is poison,
hiding in disguise as something too palatable, even for her.
But she knows
it will happen another way –
by nature, by ripple, by suction, by weed-clogging,
by swallowing a tide of water to her lungs.
The missing premonition –
the skin of the witches’ fable,
water stretched over the pond,
is this daughter’s death reflected in its mirror.
Jane R Rogers has been writing poetry for seven years. Jane is a member of the Greenwich Poetry Workshop and was a member of the Magma Poetry magazine team where she co-edited Magma 65. Jane’s poems have appeared in Atrium, Prole, Ink Sweat & Tears, Long Exposure Magazine, Obsessed with Pipework, in Greenwich Poetry Workshop’s anthologies and in the Tate Gallery Website poetry anthology 2012. Jane lives in London but misses the West Country.
the strangely folded woman in the woods. She was under a polished white rock. We took her home and opened her out very carefully, dried her by the fire. She had eyes like a surprised crow. She told us tales with a language that sounded like black wings circling winter trees. When she fell asleep, we pressed her flat again and took her back to the forest, pinning her down beneath the same stone. It was then we noticed the elaborately carved sign. It said ‘Do not -’. The final words had been scratched out.
When we got back home we found her stories sitting in our chairs, warming their huge boots by the fire.
Andrew Turner has been published online and in print. He lives in Staffordshire.