Suzanne Iuppa

 

 

 

Raking, in a Pyrenean Garden      

There is a quiet gap in the constant sheets of rain.
Let’s go out, first you, then I,
into the small, soaking green and brown back—

the rising smell of roast meat and
wood smoke hypnotises our limbs,
siskins trill within our hearing

as we work together to separate dead leaves
from waking grasses.

Who would have thought this young fruit tree

would shed so much?

Enough to clog these tines and soak our clothes,
many baskets of good detritus

to a pile fit for burning
although I am sad at the thought of it—
like the ancient nest of grass and baling twine

you hand me, sacrificed for a rose’s pruning,
undoing the perfect knot in the convex cup
adding another layer

to the peat core of seasons beneath us
some perfectly intact with defined edges,
some a murky smear best forgotten

and both our backs bowed with the same labour,
the same tenderness in our movements
spanning whole stepped degrees in scale:

the doe-eyed primrose discovered blooming, at our feet
and the obstinate snow and black mountain, above.

 

 

Suzanne Iuppa is a poet, community worker and filmmaker based in North Wales. She has published poetry and short fiction in a variety of British and American literary magazines, and her poetry series On Track: Poems from Welsh Pilgrimage was published by Alyn Books in 2013.

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Nadia Kingsley

 

 

 

Train

 

You’d have thought

that my journeying

 

from Telford to London

would be enough time

 

to read these poems

to darn a jumper

 

to stare out the window; but

between the announcements

 

the ticket inspection

the dark-light of tunnels

 

the loud conversations

the fast-moving humans

 

our slowing at stations;

all I have managed

 

is a few short emails, and to watch a man with thick black moustache:

A luggage-rack reflection, he eases off a tinfoilcover, spoons,

 

with love, the cherry yoghurt, to his lips,

avoiding drips on to suit,

 

pale pink shirt and, instead of a tie, a thing

whose name escapes me but it hangs like a ribbon, holding his identity.

 

Once scraped clean, pot put away in Tupperware, tangerine untouched.

It strikes me, later, at a party, where a man is talking lanyards; that

 

perhaps too, I was watched – with tilted head, and upturned eyes; and

how the train had wrapped us all, like segments in an unpeeled orange.

 

 

Nadia Kingsley is a poet and publisher. She is currently collaborating on an Arts Council England funded performance : e-x-p-a-n-d-i-n-g THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE IN 45 MINUTES, in a mobile planetarium dome. http://www.fairacrepress.co.uk/

 

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Pijush Kanti Deb

 

Three Haiku

 

Diplomats can have
a mango or a sorrel
never a jack-fruit.

*

A flower gets
its beauty and fragrance
from a blissful heart.

*

Two pockets transact
hidden export and import
under a table.

 

 

 

Pijush Kanti Deb is an Associate Professor in Economics and has had more than 120 poems and haiku  accepted or published by Indian and international publishers since June 2013.  Publications include Tajmahal review, Camel Saloon Blog Spot, E-pao.Net, Dead Snake Blog, Spot, Down in the Dirt, Poetic Monthly Magazine, Poems and Poetry Blog, Gean Tree Haiku Journal,
The Voice Project ,Calvary Cross, Pennine Ink and The Artistic Muse.

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Jayne Stanton

 

 

 

My Cat is Sad

because the late September sun she tracks
across the duvet’s hollow fibre tundra
marks a downturn into winter weight.

because the moon lies drowning
in her water bowl; stars she can’t unpin
refuse to sparkle on her bigger coat.

because she’s lost her sweeter side;
that paintbrush tail runs ever-widening circles
round her whiskers’ under-estimation –

last month’s escape routes hold her back
a little longer with each foiled attempt
to slip a tightening collar.

because she doesn’t know she’s lost
herself: the changeling in a slanted past,
the stranger in tomorrow’s photographs.

 

 

Jayne Stanton is a teacher and tutor from Leicestershire.  Her poems appear in various online and print magazines. Her debut pamphlet is forthcoming from Soundswrite Press in autumn 2014.  She blogs at http://jaynestantonpoetry.wordpress.com/ and tweets from @stantonjayne

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Sue Spiers

 

 

 

Call from Hadassah

How was the Safari?
It was amazing,
giraffe and zebra
and those jumpy things
we couldn’t identify
so called them gazantelope.

What’s your hotel like?
It’s like a prison
with bars on the window
but alright really –
cold in the morning and evening,
hot at midday.
The loo is in the shower.

Are you taking the Malaria pills?
Yes! I have a few bites
but no sunburn.
To be frank, I’m not using
the sun-cream or repellent.
It’s winter here,
the kids are wearing jumpers.

How are the kids?
Really friendly and possessive –
not about things,
they’re happy playing with tyres,
about wanting to be with mzungu.
They cling to us.
I’m teaching them about sharing.

 

 

 

Sue Spiers lives and writes in Hampshire, her poetry exists on line at http://www3.hants.gov.uk/writing-hampshire and coming soon in The New Writer,  Limerick Nation (Iron Press) and Dawntreaderhttp://www.indigodreams.co.uk The occasional tweet can be found at @spiropoetry.

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James Roome

 

 

 

from THE POETRY OF ERIC B. ESCHELAS

The Book

“Come, wet book, dearest receiver
of little gifts.
I didn’t believe her
when she said you would lift
the world a little closer.

“I carried you to the sky
on wings, sprouted
from my cyclops eye.
Together, we scouted
hills and valleys, alive

“with muttering
trees.” Book became
autumn leaves.

The Clear

In this dream
I am several – a wren
smuggled in the plumes of an eagle –
the calling of men
through morning’s dull.

We rise, clear
over land and sea,
over veils cast, sheer,
suspended by cities,
over the lull

of Stratosphere,
exosphere,
of sleep.

The Cyclops

I slew Gogmagog with an endless sword
of rain.

I vaulted the ocean’s deepest rifts, clothed only
in weeds.

I reached beneath the meadow of stars, withdrew
a shining gift –

a stone, red in evening, cool as a pillow
by an open window.

And now I reach for the hand, limp in sleep, buried
in the hair of time,

its fingers curled, as if beckoning
my circle eye.

 

 

James Roome is a poet and teacher from Manchester. He believes in grass, trees, sky, hair, and Belgium. Further than that, he can’t say

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Pauline Sewards

 

 

 

Grand-Great

Born old
as fairytale, I believed,
villages lived
in the broken throated burr
of your voice

Seamstress
I heard the tall tale of the needle,
carelessly dropped,
that made a decade long journey
through your shin

You lived in a tin house
in a  field.
you fetched water each day
from the mile away
spring

You lived in a thatched house
with pigeons under the eaves
a smell of paraffin
in the only room
you could afford to heat

You lived in grandmother’s house
where sugardrunk in my under-table den
I watched  your daughter lift you,
with her nurse’s arms
A kite of rags.

 

 

Pauline Sewards lives in Bristol and works in health care. She has been published in anthologies and magazines including Loose Muse, South Bank Poetry, Domestic Cherry, Ariadne’s Thread and online at :
http://greatbritishbardoff.blogspot.co.uk.

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