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.
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 @stantonjayneRead More
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 Dawntreader – http://www.indigodreams.co.uk The occasional tweet can be found at @spiropoetry.Read More
from THE POETRY OF ERIC B. ESCHELAS
“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
trees.” Book became
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
I slew Gogmagog with an endless sword
I vaulted the ocean’s deepest rifts, clothed only
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 sayRead More
as fairytale, I believed,
in the broken throated burr
of your voice
I heard the tall tale of the needle,
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
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 :
For assuming that I am the most important person in the human race, the gods have announced demotion of my I to lower case.
i have not been told when this will take place, but by stating that, i realise now there is no need. i have begun my sentence in the previous sentence.
The gods and Descartes in Nirvana have decreed i think (only of myself), therefore i am (no longer denoted by a capital i).
i cannot hear the difference, but i can see the gods have made me half the i i used to be.
i, Claudius. Damn! The gods are not fooled by an alias.
How vain must e.e. cummings have been, to pay so dearly for his crime?
The gods have informed me i will be allowed an exclamation mark for good behaviour while i am serving out my time.
An i followed by an exclamation mark is almost a capital i, just once removed.
As soon as my application to be the most important person in the human race has been approved, i’ll demand back my capital i complete with exclamation mark as compensation, so everyone can clearly see the gods at last are pleased with me.
Thomas McColl has recently been published by Bare Fiction, Smoke, the Belleville Park Pages, the Next Review and Geeked, and also came 2nd in 4’33 Magazine’s 60 second story contest. He has a twitter account: @ThomasMcColl2Read More
the garden of gethsemane
i can taste
the first of a few scotches
i think two weeks away from a job
a man can get too used to freedom
but one day back can strip it all away
and leave his dignity hanging by the noose
and then she comes in
she looks like the nun
who taught me all the way back in eighth grade
this old hen who used to torment me
with declarations of hell
because i never bought into the bullshit
never accepted that sad imp jesus
as my one and only savior
so i take an instant dislike to this woman
i don’t appreciate her smile
it has a reverent smugness to it
safe in the knowledge that she’s always right
always stuck talking to assholes like me
and, oh, how i can taste that first scotch
one little, two little, three little scotches
she asks me for help
schedules, tax forms, reading recommendations
for genres that i don’t give a shit about
and there is under five minutes left in this work day
when i look at my watch
she asks me if i have somewhere else to be
i tell her yes, it’s called my life
i tell her the sun has gone down on my benevolence
and now it’s time for the real me to rise again
she says but isn’t the customer always right
not in my tree, i say
and then i go to shut off the lights in the building
so i can spend the night forgetting myself
letting my liver make love to a bottle of clan macgregor
four little, five little, six little scotches
she just stands there
that smile still plastered across the face
like that old nun before she’d tip over my desk
or kick me out of her classroom for a week
i give her one last look and think fuck it
i let my river of alcoholic bliss take me away
as a final salutation this woman calls me lazy
and storms out of the building
then i pop the first switch
i let each light click off slowly
until the whole space is dark and silent
devoid of nearly all flesh but my own
after all of the hours that it tangled
with my mortal coil
and made a sacrifice of my soul.
John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out (Six Gallery Press 2008), Glass City (Low Ghost Press, 2010), In The Year of Everything Dying (Camel Saloon, 2012), the novel, The Librarian (Six Gallery Press 2013), and the forthcoming collection of poetry, Starting with the Last Name Grochalski (Coleridge Street, 2014). Grochalski currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he constantly worries about the high cost of everything.Read More