A tree in the forest
Below Sredna Gora
the bus stops at a garage.
Families without faces,
without names, take out
sandwiches and sit
on the grass. The mountains
have done nothing:
they’re waiting for their moment.
Only here distance collapses
and we can see, as clear
as the lines across our palms,
how the trees are convincing
themselves to stay put.
Below Sredna Gora,
in the vicinity of disputes
born of other stories,
it’s enough to spend
a little time at the roadside
and to stare until you can see
every branch and every leaf.
Marina Shiderova is a painter, illustrator and designer based in Sofia in Bulgaria. Tom Phillips is a poet and playwright based in Bristol, UK. For the last 18 months, they have been working together on the collaborative online project Colourful Star (msvstp.blogspot.co.uk) and produced two illustrated/animated children’s stories, Nicholas – The Stolen Reinder and The Adventures of Patch (x-ovation, Bulgaria).Read More
The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here.
Italo Calvino. ‘Invisible Cities’.
The proof is in the text.
He manipulates keys.
They hold plastic close, electronic skipping.
- Message me sometime.
She said thanks and left the rest to his imagination.
He was in the ether, didn’t really exist at all.
- I didn’t get it.
- I sent it.
- You can’t read it?
- Are you sure?
It is written or is it?
Few words come down the line.
- I imagine you languishing.
- How could you?
She slaps down her receiver, breaks into tears.
Everything happens including…
The text is another message. Meaning in the touch.
- I’ve known you for how long
- 3,250 seconds to be exact
She sent pictures of herself. They are stimulating.
The world is stimulating. The world is pornographic.
Paint it black, he says to girls in coloured clothes.
She says, come unto me or was it onto me?
You’ll be surprised to know this is fiction.
She reads his text, smiles, holds her head in her hands.
Spying, he’d call it spying.
She says she’s keeping abreast of current trends.
There will be change. I know what I know, can’t hide. She came down the line like a spider.
Networking, she called it, work-grouping.
This is a party line. Hold on for connection.
Your party is busy.
- Ring me on my work phone but whisper.
He’s making it up. She makes up with one hand on the wheel and free.
Dart about like a moth. Death will soon come.
And he came quick as a genie offering sad wishes.
Have to keep it brief. No one has time.
Single-minded love to be loved.
She looks in many directions but there’s no diamond on the horizon.
Metal days, steely and iron-filled.
Gold feeds her fever.
She sends messages of empty expectation
like a heart scavenger.
Death comes all over her like a youthful lover.
Colin Campbell Robinson is an Australian artist currently living and working in the Celtic extremity of West Penwith. He has had his work performed and published in a variety of venues both in
Australia and Europe.
Beth Phillips is an emerging writer who dabbles in documentary, illustration, poetry and short prose. Keen to expose her work to a hungry audience she explores and examines themes of older age, decay and the beauty within these.
Twitter: Beth Phillips@bethclaudiapRead More
A Concrete Cinematography Primer
Rob Stuart is a media studies lecturer, filmmaker and light verse enthusiast living in Surrey. In addition to Ink, Sweat and Tears he has contributed poems to Light (USA), Lighten Up Online, Magma, New Statesman, The Oldie, The Spectator and SnakeskinRead More
Daniel Lehan: Former paperboy, choirboy, shop assistant, ice cream seller, chip shop manager, petrol pump attendant, pub caterer, post office worker, theatre usher, cleaner, leaflet distributor, front of house manager, t-shirt designer,screen printer, children’s book author and illustrator, gardener, teacher. http://eachdayadrawing.blogspot.ca/
The winter-night-song of a Fenland home
The chimney takes the note of sorrow
Down a brick gullet,
Tied at the neck in knots,
Unable to swallow straight
The journeying wind
That sings in the crevices
That might be a white quaver
Tipped from the feathered back of a Bewicks’ swan
Crossing the fen to Welney, or
The agent of metronome
Driven from the back of a Boeing out of Stansted
Levelling the turbulence with folds of metal
That split into brakes and cleave thermal tongues in two.
Silence all singing air tonight. Hold your breath,
Your synergy; the over-ramblings of the strained earth-voice
Contained in this, my chimney.
Words by Helen Pletts (www.helenpletts.com ) 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. Working collaboratively on Word and Image with Romit Berger, illustrator, since 2012. Word and Image Cards now on sale in The Over Gallery .
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.
Scales of glass,
a crest of frilled iron,
tucked deep in shrubbery
could stagger up
on stiff metal limbs
steam oil sweat
on its green breath,
mouth a cave.
this sunken factory
She has to keep the statues
her and her bad legs.
Dot Cobley has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, including Smiths Knoll. Rialto and The SHOp. Having collaborated with artists on various projects, she has decided to try combining her own artwork and poetry…
Note: The poem The Fernery was first published in Seam.