Putting out the prayer flags
Can’t pray any more, and so
I let the wind do the praying for me.
I have done with asking God
for favours I have not earned,
promising to be good hereafter.
God will listen to the wind.
I don’t expect the wind to ask for miracles,
only an easy passage for you,
my old ship
creaking out of harbour.
And the flags:
yellow, green, purple, red,
like a sailor’s pennant:
England expects every man.
Farewell, welcome home.
Ann Alexander has published three collections of poetry, Facing Demons and Nasty, British & Short from Peterloo and Too Close from Ward Wood. She lives in Cornwall.Read More
the barrel is so smooth
and it speaks to me
I clean the inside with care
I massage it with fine oil
nothing else makes me feel this secure
my gun goes everywhere with me
I spend many hours each day thinking about it
I know where it is at all times
I panic if I cannot locate it instantly
I brag to others about my gun
I have great pride in my gun
when I have a bad day, I handle my gun
I practice shooting it
the barrel gets so hot
I’ll take it apart and get it clean
I have pictures of it on my page
I have a pet name for my gun
no one will ever take away my gun
David Schmidt is a poet, writer and artist and has had many poems published in online magazines such as IS&T. David is an atheist since no gods have ever been found over the span of history, they all have been proven to have been created by men who are seeking power. Belief, he says, is antithesis to reality.Read More
Dawn chorus: anxiolytic
Swaddling phat breakmove sunstamp
Ineluctable electrum lacklastruelack
Walworth Road glistering alonzapine
Panic’ed pharmacopic picnic
Stopwatch timemosh pitted foe
UKIP PWITS unshod bricolage shop
Fuddled frenzies unmitigated unsedated
Strands of sense fraying swaying inter
Active hyper needle soothing sudden
Laggard chords and Moog nostalgias calming
Easy quantitative captured measure
Debted now freighted also later
Dermic in the brightness that is ours.
Daniel Andersson likes the lyrical end of innovation. He teaches at Oxford University, and has been published widely, if spasmodically, in poetry magazines (including Orbis, 10th Muse, Bordercrossing Berlin, the Journal, and many others he cannot quite remember now….).Read More
The Night Train
Conductor, send my love on the Night Train.
The fast train.
The sleek black bullet flying straight as a shot train.
I want it sent first-class, post-haste
no missed connections, signal failures
no leaves on the line, and not a flake of the wrong kind of snow
because I’m sending my love on the Night Train.
I considered freight, but it seemed too impersonal
asked a courier, but he didn’t handle it properly
tried mail, but the postman didn’t understand
tried smoke signals, carrier pigeon, message in a bottle
even the internet
but in the end I decided on the Night Train
because the rocking of the carriage is gentle
and railway tracks are so much longer than arms.
You see, I can’t always reach the people that matter
and if I did I wouldn’t know what to say
so I’m sending my love on the Night Train
stopping at London, Peterborough, York, Newcastle, Edinburgh
Belfast, Stockholm, Bergen, Vilnius-
-I’m sorry conductor, you’re just going to have to find a way.
And I hope you speak English, Welsh, Swedish, Norwegian, Lithuanian, two kinds of Elvish and the Black Speech of Mordor
because I don’t.
That would be ridiculous.
I will admit
there is a lot that could go wrong.
I’m sending my love
but it has such a long way to go.
It gets exhausted sometimes
it inexcusably can’t be bothered sometimes
in fact, it may lose its railcard
forget its luggage
misplace its tickets
-yes I know it would have been cheaper
had I booked sooner-
it might fall asleep
miss its stop
might even get on the wrong train entirely,
so be careful with it.
Stoke the boilers
fire the engines
blow the whistle
and send my love
on the Night Train.
Lewis Brown is a young writer and performance poet, based in the North East of England and Edinburgh. Find out more at fallingpiano.wordpress.comRead More
living here is
rain without sky
grey shadows on grey land
I make paper boats
out of poems , send
them down riverstreet
my place to yours
Reuben Woolley teaches English in Spain. He has had poems published in IS&T, Blood Orchard Poetry and The Screech Owl. A collection, the king is dead is forthcoming with Oneiros Books. This is his blog: rustybrother.blogspot.comRead More
You made me the sea-
trapped behind two toilet rolls
encaged in a deconstructed Cornflake’s box
smothered with pink face paint and smattered with
When I peered inside I was
transported to Mullaghmore.
Swarming waves smashed up against the rocks
like tortured bees forgoing all;
protecting their queen.
Consumed by the warmth of your heart
the nimbleness of your fingers,
I almost forgot to look under the bed-
where your store bought gift lay-
open and abandoned.
Therein lay the disappointment.
Now, the cat scratches at your cardboard when he needs to go outside.
You made me the sea,
But I’m not that strong.
Orla McArt is and English and history teacher on the west coast of Ireland. She is passionate about poetry, creative fiction and photography.Read More
To the Souls of the Inert
after John Cowper Powys (The Inmates)
damn your souls
those who remain indifferent
to broken plates
chipped cups and saucers
or shattered mirrors
while talking-up federations for the world
until the lost
and the fractured
who one has invested time and love in
no point even in talking about
enjoying a nice cup of aromatic Assam tea
in one’s favourite Royal Worcester cup
Geoffrey Winch’s poems have, amongst other journals, recently been published in the Agenda Online Supplement; Poetry Salzburg Review; The Journal, and Atlas Poetica. His fourth collection, Alchemy of Vision is due from Indigo Dreams in late 2014.Read More