Veronica Von Pegg
Veronica Von Pegg is a mixed media artist, a photographer and writer, who expresses a past life through images and words. She collects second hand items, and is a firm believer in reincarnation
Read MoreWord & Image from C Albert
Flora the Poet
In Roundling time when
days were young and she
grew younger –
Flora
who dressed in blossoms
of the seasons:
poinsettia, pansy, honeydew and rose,
whose dewy topiary hair was adorned
with watermelon-colored dumplings and her face
painted mountain ochre, berry purple,
aster magenta –
Flora
whose divided selves protected
between layers of bark
the hider, the open eye-
der who saw beyond
what be –
Flora
whose magic ears recorded Roundling
stories, once upon another layers
of relations, loves echoed, baby round
to aged circles with no owners,
all sharing terra –
Flora
who etched day
long hoopy orbs, upside down orations, oval
invocations and endless ooooo’s –
The last of her poems was discovered
inside a mulberry tree dying
in a deserted Tibetan valley.
It was penned in ink onto an Oho tablet:
wndrus think sef wink pink pieces
togeth heven languae
through it all fallen
inta noon gloon
we wheeled way from grids
ta live’n leaf branch’n limb
sleep unda ta wings
de katydid hid neath sleep lids
beams o dusta bendi
gras trunks o
wiz’n branc yond
wisper criks’n
dawners bentwigs
thimpin jus twing
lukin beyon beehind
otherness liftid
ta farness
C Albert is based in Seattle, Washington. She is our resident artist and can be contacted through her blog Runaway Moon.
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Rob Stuart
Rob Stuart is a college lecturer, screenwriter and poet from London. His credits include Lighten Up Online, Magma and Snakeskin.
Read MoreChris Guidon
Chris Guidon is a confessional artist and poet from Kidderminster. Like a snake he needs sunshine to live.
Read MoreWord & Image from Helen Pletts & Romit Berger
An afternoon with the Fates
After they cut the thread,
I just lay there;
each small spine-bone supine,
searching the hard floor beneath me.
There are no maps for moments like this.
If only my bag could open its puckered mouth
and give up an oyster secret.
My heart holds on to a feather that can defy gravity.
My bones partner unwilling hardness.
Split feet introduce the curve of my belly.
I cannot even begin to imagine where my head is.
Words by Helen Pletts whose two collections, Bottle bank and For the chiding dove, are both published by YWO/Legend Press (supported by The Arts Council) and available on Amazon. ‘Bottle bank’ was longlisted for The Bridport Poetry Prize 2006, under Helen’s maiden name of Bannister. Helen is a finalist in the Brit Awards 2012 Scriptwriting and Screenplay category with her full-length feature film script, a period drama entitled ‘The False Bride’.
Image by Romit Berger who says “I am a graphic designer and artist, living in Prague for the past ten years. In 2008 I joined a writing group – English is not my native language but I graduated from an international school, so it is a part of my life ever since. I feel that the dual process of finding words to describe mind images and illustrating written words, opens a new exciting dimension of creativity for me. My work can be seen on www.romitcom.com
You are welcome to browse Helen and Romit’s greetings cards at http://www.helenpletts.com and visit http://www.stem-of-quietly-disarrayed-fertility.com/
Read MoreS. D. Stewart
S. D. Stewart reads and writes in a cramped city, even while his mind roams open spaces. Whenever possible he walks in the woods and watches birds. Visit him at www.thoughtworm.com
Macleod, Fiona. A Little Book of Nature Thoughts [Selected by Mrs. William Sharp and Roselle Lathrop Shields]. Thomas B. Mosher, Portland, Maine, c1908.
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Chris Sakellaridis
Cryogenic Steam
First I fell from a window and thought
I’d never reach the ground.
A door opened in the fog.
Once inside I closed my eyes and tried to imagine
what it feels like to be dead.
Somehow when I found myself walking the steppe
it wasn’t like opening my eyes. More that
I was slowly woken from the frost
by heavy blinking.
This is when the wind started speaking.
The sky hung like the giant keyhole of a vacant door . I remember
a violet canopy above, an alien shade, a tincture. I remember
women in hospital beds, and coughing. I remember
clicks of antiseptic dispensers, a bedside view over a fuming city.
It’s possible that I remember so that
I don’t lose the language of the dead.
Chris Sakellaridis is an Anglo-Greek poet and teacher of English. His poems have appeared in Fuselit, Cyphers and The Delinquent. He is currently working on a debut collection entitled Ξένον/Xenon, an exploration of hybridity, chemistry and foreignness
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