Dee Rivaz














Woman Cursing the Moon

(After Miroslav Holub: Man Cursing the Sea)



just climbed to the top of the hill

and started cursing the moon:


stupid moon, stupid fat-faced moon,

fatuous copy of a pregnant belly;

beachcomber mauling the tideline;

creeping ghost of a snail

obscuring the stars with its slimy trail;

anorexic cheese,

starving itself almost to death;

 satellitic sychophant,

trying so hard to be pale and interesting;

trailing around after the sun, sucking in its stomach;

fiddling with the sea, interrogating caves

month after month;

insomniac, playing with itself;


moon, you barren dusty rock of a womb -


So for a while she cursed the moon,

which stroked her head

like an anxious mother.



Then she came down and threw

nettles, oat straw,  skullcap, hips

into the moony pond.


There you are, moon, she said

and went on her way.



Dee Rivaz is a Community Artist in North Wales working from the premise that ‘there is nothing new under the sun’. She uses wild, found and recycled materials to create narratives and poetry in mixed media.

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Thomas Clark




A Hero’s Deith


Still he shidders, an staunds wi his swuird, an threitens,

kiverin wi breuken shield his kist’s remains,

nou, his een are plowt intae infineet shaidae,

spirin frae lips that lin thair hero’s sang.

Faur awa, twa seelent raens watch

The warriour arise wi shaidae weengs.

In the nicht o thae weengs, his een, bricht as day,

as flicht unnertaken, intae the lip o sky.




The Craws


Ower the hime o battle,

An the jargle o warriours,

Passes a slaw beat o weengs;

An oorie craik is haurd

As the twa craws come,

Messengers daurk an divine,

And laund on the shooders o God,

An speak tae his ear.



In Valhalla


A reid hime rings. Shields an spears a-dundert

intae a lang, uncannie rair.

Fae gapin mooths, the bluidy wounds sproot

purpie rivers.

An smuirichs, an lauchter,

An a mort-heid fou

o mead, for whilk

burnin wi fiver, deid warriours thirst.



Thomas Clark is a Glaswegian poet, writer and filmmaker whose work has most recently been featured in Lallans, Southlight, The Eildon Tree, New Voices Press and Dream Catcher amongst others. He can be found at


Note: These poems are free translations into Scots dialect of originals by the Bolivian poet Ricardo Jaimes Freyre.


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Helen Birtwell




They’d found him as usual up Pendle Hill,

and as usual the police car stopped at number 26.


Here we are Mrs Higginbottom, safe and sound.

The young policeman spoke gently as he guided his passenger.


Josh was wearing his choir suit and stiff butterfly collar -

proper Sunday attire for these last sixty years.


He’d a fine bass, had been choirmaster

at Carr Road Baptists, practically all his life.


Tricking Florrie with the pills had been easy,

as was setting out for Sabden, his birthplace.


He sang All Things Bright and Beautiful

as he made for the purple headed mountain.


She tenderly helped him inside.

Anything you’d like Josh – mean and potato pie?


Aren’t thee Florrie Lindley?

and don’t thee think it’s time we were wed?



Helen Birtwell has scribbled to not much account all her life. After gaining a English Lit as a mature student of 55 and a Creative Writing Course organised by U.E.A.,she developed an an interest  in writing poetry and is stll doing so

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David Marshall



The Hunters in the Snow


After Pieter Breughel the Elder


I love the perspective, the trees all straight,

Four horizontal lines, dark, receding.


The sense of cold creeping out of the frame,

Frozen; a picture in time and place.


A child watching the fire in the foreground,

Two stokers, a man lifting a table.


Poor pickings for hunters in winter,

Even the dogs follow dejectedly.


On the horizon by jagged mountains,

A bird dips, caught between sky and the snow.




David Marshall is a UK based poet and teacher. His poetry is influenced strongly by art, music and the things around him, usually people he meets on the London underground or his cats. He has been published by the e-zines Mardibooks, Whisker and The Crocodile and New Cartography, as well as in print with Miracle Magazine. This is his website.



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Dick Jones


The Sheds


Sheds: haunches nestled into

banked earth.  Cow parsley, ragwort,

bedding high sides.  Blunt faces

nose-ringed with hanging padlocks.


Inside, a stook of exhausted

spades, a knackered

wheelbarrow, face-down,

a crippled bike, kept for spares.


Here, where the sheds are,

clocks run slow.  One man,

slouched in a doorway,

hand-rolls a cigarette.


Another taps out a briar

onto a windowsill

and then repacks the bowl.

Rapt, he stares across the match flame.


Kids roll and scatter,

break like high-tide

at the allotment’s edge.

They watch, uncomprehending,


the semaphore of sweet-peas,

rocking, bean-rows, carrot-tops;

the closed and secret faces

of the sheds.


The sun goes down

behind the recreation ground,

Breaking ranks, shadow-wrapped,

the houses sidle in.





Dick Jones has been published in a number of magazines, print and online, including Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Ireland Review, Qarrtsiluni, Westwords, Mipoesias, Three Candles, Other Poetry, Rattlesnake and Ouroboros Review. In 2010 he received a Pushcart nomination for his poem Sea Of Stars and his first collection, Ancient Lights, is published by Phoenicia Publishing


This poem first appeared in Other Poetry anthology Miracles and Clockwork 2005

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Daniel Roy Connelly




Songstress on Primetime Italian TV


Songstress what songstress

I see svelte teenage girls

in bikinis gyrating

while men watch

& women clap hands

in time to the band who

are all men

no they’re definitely lip-synching

in fact not even


damn                                    adverts


next up there are svelte teenage girls

in bikinis suspended

from meat hooks

while men in butchers’ hats

slap price tags on their arses

well not really from meat hooks but

you certainly get an idea of something




Daniel Roy Connelly was born in England but has spent much of his adult life being educated in Italy, India, Bangladesh, The USA and Scotland. Formerly a British diplomat, he has been an academic since 1999. He is currently an assistant professor of English Literature and Theatre at John Cabot University and The American University of Rome.


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James Naiden for National Poetry Month in the US and Canada



In Memory of Brian Donovan




Always – perhaps not always – you were genial

In imitation of now-gone personalities, perhaps

Drunk – that described person – and yourself, so

Much that it hurt to laugh, although strong beer

Gives a hint of perfection, jollity while standing

At the bar, not sitting – that would be passive


So that when recounting a quiver of passivity,

It was “up” the humor, quick as booze, standing

Or sitting, the wit had a lure of more than beer,

But whipping humor brought forth dexterously, so

Ironic, sharp, pointed as a stiletto, perhaps

Gone in the past, your New York roots genial


But observant as a professor of the past in a genial

Mood bought through alcohol, not always, perhaps

Not as mirthless as a desert or stone, so

Rampant is the need for lightness, froth through beer

If only in the brain, distorted pose while standing,

Drinking, elbows of the raconteur, not passive.


The opposite of vocative is not always passive,

Nor are the cymbals of talk had through standing

Alone, but with company. There, Brian, beer or no beer,

You were without peer, as if learnedness, a Ph.D. so

Unambitious could get you loved, possibly, perhaps,

But you said: “I’m not marriageable.” Still genial,


As if an aura of bachelor knighthood was your genial

Flag, no misogyny intended, you remained perhaps

The embodiment of time concealed, not yet forty, so

Unconcerned with time passing, not a reader, the beer

Of career goals – you were indifferent, as if standing

At the bar, reconciling the past could remake the passive,


The instance, now that your dissertation left passive,

Undecided, “an open question” – sitting or standing,

With a bloody mary or hops distilled as expensive beer,

The wraparound of years when I first knew you, so

Elemental in manner, undisturbed, I thought, perhaps

Keeping close to one’s home was more congenial.


Two weeks ago, was it, perhaps three, the genus of time

So forgotten, beer or wine, sitting, standing, hardly passive –

& then your heart expired in hospital, Wednesday evening last.



James Naiden’s third novel, The Chafings of Mortalswas published in 2011. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota and is a regular reviewer for IS&T.

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