Barbara O’Donnell






Stacks of National Geographics

filled the wardrobe to my waist.

The dust inviting sneezes.

Misaligned yellow spines.

Careless visitors would toss

them back any old way.


My fingers would itch

to restore their rightful order.

Oh the itch, manifest many ways.

Persistent chafe of rashes,

result of childhood curiosities.

The itch where my wings should be.



Barbara O’Donnell was born in West Cork in 1975, and currently resides in London.  She works at a major London teaching hospital and writes in her spare time. Her blog can be found here:

Read More

Josep Chanzà






The night he was taken

my father’s fingers danced

like icy spiders:

dab-dab-dab at

his hospital gown.

He talked to his drip

obliged to welcome every drop

to the coven of wild spirits

digging their heels on his skin.

The white sheets

dressed him

with elegant urgency,

trembling robes

for a lord of the gin.


Is this life? I asked

Death, nearby, suggested

answers on a postcard

and dad dictated me many

sat at the tavern of his mind.

I couldn’t keep up.

The ancient matron

cut a smile

when she saw

us holding hands.

She joined in,

holding dad’s heart.


I don’t think often of that night

I fear if I do

all those short-legged words

will burst out of some cocoon

and stick to me

like glue.



Josep Chanzà writes poetry in English and Catalan. He reads his work regularly at The Blind Poet in Edinburgh, where he lives. He keeps a blog ( ) where he writes the imagined lives of some the city’s inhabitants.




Read More

Chrissie Cuthbertson




For the last time


With a mother’s practised care

I grasp your greenstick frame

and hoist you to your unsure feet

though you would be easy to hurt.


A time will come that will be the last

I perform this simple service

and neither one of us will know

to nod at its passing.




Chrissie Cuthbertson lives in Oxfordshire and is a lecturer/researcher in the social sciences. She is completing a creative writing diploma at University of Oxford. Well-published in her academic role, her first poem was published in South Bank Poetry.

Read More

David Ishaya Osu






the whole


was traveling


in a big boat

that couldn’t carry

a star

nor a grain

of sugar. the whole



couldn’t reach its room

before the piano

girl’s voice

by midnight

as of this morning

when the whole


needed a praise

to raise

it up

from its cold




David Ishaya Osu (b. 1991) is a Nigerian poet. His works have appeared in publications such as: Birmingham Arts Journal, Atlas Poetica: A Journal of World Tanka, Watershed Review, Ann Arbor Review, among numerous others. David is a board member of Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation. He is obsessed about anything poetry, pictures, and plays; he is currently polishing his debut poetry books.

Read More

Josephine Corcoran




Old Girls


In the library, we lost ourselves

gazing out at traffic, yearning

for stories of  adventure and flight.


Now, every night, we fly and hum,

our bodies carrying

the pollen of our lives:

dust from cinema seats,

grains of instant soup,

flakes of lubricating jelly.


Our headlamp eyes

unanchor rooms, turn

houses into ocean liners.

I’ve heard that children born near motorways

can’t sleep without the lullaby

of rolling tyres.



Josephine Corcoran‘s pamphlet, The Misplaced House, was published by tall-lighthouse in November 2014.  She lives in Wiltshire where she is involved in community literature projects and is editor at And Other Poems, an online poetry site.   @And_OtherPoems


Note: Old Girls appears in The Misplaced House



Read More

Gill McEvoy






A white moon waits

for the sun to get to bed.


Inside her room a woman waits

till footsteps cease along the corridors,


until the house is still,

all breathing slow.


Moon creeps up the sky.

She whispers to his door.


Midnight paints buy isotretinoin for acne their tangled legs

with gold.




Gill McEvoy is a Hawthornden Fellow. Her second Cinnamon Press collection is  Rise  ( 2013.) Gill runs many poetry events in Chester where she lives.




Read More