Rachel Burns
Distracted
I am distracted by the bang, bang, bang
shotguns ringing out across the fields.
November and the grouse hunt is in full swing,
Boris and Bean, both fat both mean
with their combat trousers and hardened stare
beating the grouse out of woods and fields.
I avoid the area this time of year, sticking to the public
paths, the railway lines, curbing my need to trespass.
I once asked the men, what they intended to shoot?
‘Nothing good,’ came the reply.
My computer makes white noise
a steady hum and cackle. I think of false information
travelling at speed down coloured ribbons of centrifugal wires.
And who do we believe? The vampire war mongers
craving bloodshed? Or the mothers
screaming for their dead?
Rachel Burns is a poet and playwright living in Durham City, England. She is currently an Arvon/Jerwood mentee in playwriting. Poems published in UK literary magazines. Shortlisted in competitions Mslexia, Writers’ & Artists Yearbook and The Keats- Shelley Poetry Prize 2017. Twitter: @RachelLBurnsme https://rachelburnssite.wordpress.com/
Read More
William Harper
Fisher’s Folly
What was it that brought us to Jasper’s,
We both asked of each other
Late that evening.
I paused, long and hard
And thought of
The lines
My need to keep
To clasp her.
The party looked up and stared
Straight at the fasten
Between us, the current
Now visible and
Each arm inter-locked
And in turn
Witnessed by that
Woman in the corner
That I once worked with
Some time ago.
Drunk on love and oblivious
To the unfolding folly
Of a lunar lined
Liverpool Street,
We marvelled at the series of coincidences.
Synchronicity—I called it
Descending into bed:
If we had not had that fight on Primrose Hill,
If you had not changed your mind,
If I had not phoned my mother,
You would have missed me by minutes
And would have gone to Providence
Without my
Cargo of best wishes.
You bought that Neruda book with the Spanish
And English translations.
We took turns
Side by side
In our languages
You chiding me if I missed the title.
I will shelter there for certain
In a future that is not.
I will live there
As if I could afford to.
And the bedlam neighbours
Will keep me up
As they always have
And always will.
To the sleeping lips at her side,
To drink, as I drank there,
Oblivion…
William Harper is a writer from Maryhill, Glasgow, living in London. He has published short stories in The Galway Review, Swimmers Club at Dostoyevsky Wannabe independent press, and poetry in Amyrillis.
Read MoreGrant Guy
The Waitress Brought Him the Menu
his wife threw him out
told him he was not handsome
told him he was not romantic
told him he did not earn enough
told him he was a bore in bed
pulling the pickup out of the driveway
like a thunder clap over the Prairies
loneliness wrapped him up in a sad embrace
embraced what little remained human in him
he drove numb
he pulled his vintage ford v8 into a truck stop lot
he sat at the counter 3 stools b/w him three burly truckers
they reeked of cigarettes & diesel & sweat
the waitress brought him a menu
her eyes sd welcome her heart was somewhere else
coffee she asked yes he sd
he paused his eyes lingered on the midnight angel
more than he should have he turned to the menu
the truckers returned to their rigs
a purolator driver sat at a booth by a window
jane a coffee & hot beef sandwich he sd with a wave
she returned to him asked are you ready to order
he tripped over his tongue uhhhh & blurted out blt
his eyes followed her she moved like a dancer
when she brought him his blt his fingers graced hers good gracious
he was in love for at least the next 30 minutes
he ate finished the last of his coffee with one gulp paid the bill
before he stepped outside into the cloudless night
he turned to look at her one last time
she was too busy to look up at him he thought a hapless hope
she handed a menu to the 16 year old trying to sober up
he stepped into the black night
loneliness kissed him on the lips
I love you it sd
Grant Guy is a Canadian poet, writer and playwright. He has over one hundred poems and short stories published in internationally and five books . His plays include an adaptation of Paradise Lost and the Grand Inquisitor. He is the recipient of many grants and awards.
Read MoreS.A. Leavesley
Rachel Bower
How to Speak of Grief
I break it to her gently. He was old, I say,
he had a good life, he was ready.
She stares back at me, waiting for more.
He won’t wake up again.
She drops her sandwich and howls.
Wracked with sobs, her body crumples,
small hands cling round my neck
as if I too might disappear,
wet face buried in my coat.
But I don’t want him to sleep forever.
I know, I weep, stroking her hair, I know.
Passing shoppers glance at the bench
where we cry for the city farm, for the field
that now stands empty, our apples left to rot.
Rachel Bower is the author of Moon Milk (Valley Press, 2018) and Epistolarity and World Literature (Palgrave
Maryam Gatawa
…And tell the stars
Then tell the stars
To take their leave too
For within our breasts
Shines the inward light
To sail us through
These fields of darkness
Why wait for the gardens to
Bear you sweet roses
Or rent the cloaks of your hope
To greedy mighty whales
Go forth with your hoe
And till the fertile land
Plant upon its face
Sweet corns and grapes
And when the winter knocks in
Tell her to stay
You have enough grains in your home.
Maryam Gatawa is a poet from northern Nigeria. Her works of poetry have been published in reputable journals inside Africa and overseas. She can be reached through facebook at ‘Maryam Gatawa’ and twitter @meegat12.
