Sarah Miell
Mornings
I am downstairs in the kitchen,
my school clothes are cold on me.
l pull at a drawer, I open a cupboard.
I think you are asleep upstairs.
I set my bowl and spoon on the table.
I see the cereal in a pool of milk.
I move the sugar bowl and hear it scrape.
I think you are asleep upstairs.
I flatten the left side of my ribs
to the ribs of the radiator.
I tight-rope walk my soles along the pipe,
I picture you asleep upstairs.
I hold the metal spoon in my teeth.
I hold the silence like a wanted gift.
I have thirty minutes before me fat with breathing,
until the radio calls my name with your voice.
Sarah Miell lives in the UK and her hobbies are cuddling her cat and taking long baths
Read MoreL.B. Jørgensen
Up in the Air
Do you have any legroom up front,
what is the view like from your seat
and do you know the atmosphere;
can you tell cumulus from cirrus?
Have you heard of the supercooled drops
which at high altitudes, sub-zero temperatures
remain stubbornly liquid, perfectly balanced?
Sitting here, in seat 25A, I feel like one.
I watch the shade we drape across fields,
see a small cloud pass underneath us
and for one liminal instant
it agrees perfectly with the dark splash
of its shadow, and have you ever
met someone and felt like that
your odd, lumpy shapes
matching each other?
William Kemp
Manuel, The Unfortunate
after Paula Rego’s Last King of Portugal
Both sides of the story of your death
involve striped pyjamas, a maid and the deep rich red
of your bedroom wallpaper. Was your outpost
at Fullwell, Twickenham, private and secure enough
to keep at bay those Republican activists
who might by various means have poisoned you?
Or can we assume you over-exerted yourself
one too many times at tennis, and in so doing
activated some hereditary bronchial condition,
hitherto undetected, with fatal consequence?
None at Scotland Yard had strength or means
to piece together the evidence either way.
Good night, sweet prince.
Let acrylic, graphite and pastel on paper,
mounted on aluminium, be your epitaph.
William Kemp is a poet, broadcaster and arts professional from Plymouth, who works for the Dartington Hall Trust. He has written articles and reviews on a range of subjects, including jazz, folk and classical music, modern poetry and Shakespeare. He presents and produces a weekly arts show for Soundart Radio.
Read MoreJessica Sneddon
Notes on Architects
Gold lambs’ tails on hazel break the pause
anticipate the Equinox
dipper flies, a white spark over Rothay
lands at the curve, pilfers
a swatch of moss, returns
up-river. North
a pair of grey wagtails, dart
yellow switch of flight, hurdle
over wire fence, descend
onto chains of mole-prints
ferret the dark, rich earth
parcelled with worms
delivered
by anonymous, silhouettes of soil
tossed to the surface,
displaced from the tunnels
their bodies sculpt
below
shreds of utterings
from beneath
the axis of the ground
Jessica Sneddon is a Masters by Research student and emerging poet. Her work focuses on hidden narratives in the natural world and the connection between micro and macro species. She has been published in Tears in the Fence.
Read MoreSally Michaelson
Night Raider
Creeping down at night
to pillage the larder
I am my own ghost on the stairs
searching for Digestive biscuits,
pungent oranges, hard cheese
so I can sink in my teeth,
leave a trail of crumbs,
a waft of citrus.
Mum will find stigmata of me eating
but she will never see me eat.
Her cauldron of chicken soup
on the stone slab
makes me retch,
the skating-rink of fat
will take an hour to melt
when she heats it up
for Shabbos dinner
my skeleton as centerpiece.
Sally Michaelson is a recently retired Conference Interpreter living in Brussels. Her poems have been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Lighthouse, Algebra of Owls, The Bangor Literary Journal, Squawk Back, Amethyst, and The Lake.
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Arji Manuelpillai
an IKEA flat pack shelving unit
I am following you up the aisle along the checkout
beside you as you drive it’s in the back bubble wrapped
I’m tearing the box popping bags of nuts and bolts but
really i am admiring the neighbour’s washing line you
finger the instructions sort the wood by size I’m knee
bound looking for a screw below the fridge you’re building
I’m carrying things putting things down you’re building
till we argue I say ‘I don’t care anyway’ and storm off it
leans like a man about to jump to his death afterwards we
watch a film as the sex scene creeps in we fall to library
silence your eyes look anywhere but at me like I’m your
dog shitting we cannot find the position our fingers used
to fit so I compliment our IKEA shelving unit my eyes
skirt beyond the slanting base that night I dream we are
standing in the pouring rain pretending not to get wet
Arji Manuelpillai: I’m a poet and educator in London. Some people like my poems those people include Rialto, Prole, Lighthouse Journal and Cannon’s Mouth. I have also been shortlisted for Live Canon Prize and The Robert Graves Prize and finally i am a Jerwood Arvon mentee currently.
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