Jennie Ensor




Thirteen Ways Of Looking At Orange

After Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens



With longing

And sharp nails

I consider the orange.



Five oranges perch in their little tree

Exuding banal sweetness.



Lust for orange

Can send a woman

Into a splendour of madness.



Peel, moonlit on forest floor

Thin white curls discarded

For idiots to follow.



You can’t look away

From her dusky shimmer

Those slow-opening Hot Tropic lips

Accompanied by swish

Of falling skirt – orange, of course.



A man, a woman and an orange

Three objects

Eternally irreconcilable.



They climb into orange sky

Where steely towers grow

And men yearn for absent gods.



Bring me oranges

And I will be your slave forever.



When darkness comes

Orange is a fleeting dream

Beyond your grasp.



She cannot conceal her orange-flecked teeth

As her fingers grope towards

Another globe of pleasure.


Marmalade gloats on thin white crisp.



We will gather a billion billion billion oranges.

They will fill the deepest black hole

Shine brighter than the sun.



Air chokes its toxic warning.

Orange insect

Blunders into human.



The last sunset

Will be orange on steroids

Will be laden with metaphor

Will be remembered

Until the last human bleats

Echo through barren plains.


Somewhere, in another world

An orange eye blinks.





Jennie Ensor is an author living in north London. (Blind Side, her debut novel, was published by Unbound in 2016 under her pen name Jennie Ensor). Jennie has a BSc in Physics with Astrophysics and a Masters in Journalism. Her poems have appeared in publications including Agenda Poetry, SOUTH, Orbis Quarterly International Literary Journal (latest March 2015), London Grip (2014), Ink Sweat & Tears (2014), Dreamcatcher (2014) and Poetry Salzburg Review (Spring 2015).

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Matt Bayliss




chopped liver & love notes.


he stood inside the garage for most of September.


the mooring ropes had been cut loose

and it was all being scraped out of him

like lobster meat from a shell.

hours would go by,

things would be moved from place to place.

he might sit in the car

or hang his tools on the wall.

staring is an involuntary place to live.

entire worlds can be created and crushed in minutes.

he wondered whether he’d been staring for most of his life.


he packed up and headed south on the morning of the 12th.

kissed them all goodbye while she sat in the bedroom.

the ceilings started to drip and the carpet started to burn.


in the bathtubs of all his mornings,

grow lily pads that bed crowns.

there are no more flowers left pick

no more notes left to write.

no more gates to jump.

just chopped liver,

chopped liver and sundown.



Matt Bayliss is 31. Grown in Cornwall, lives in London.  Is better at poems than bios.




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Craig Dobson




The Art of Tipping


The Eastern European concierge

can’t hide his billionaire-stare’s

disappointment as the revolving

doors deliver me: small change

at the ready should my cheap case

require his studied servility.


A dance of mauled politesse

gets us into the lift’s awkwardness –

Freed from its stifling proximity,

we’re ignored by chambermaids lugging

sheets along the featureless corridors

of lower floors, far beneath the suites.


He wheels my case in, hands me

the key with patronizing expectancy.

Yes, thank you, yes… I mumble,

my hand extended too soon,

something more than insubstantial

in its clammy, proffered pound.




Craig Dobson’s had poems in The London Magazine, North, Rialto, Agenda, Stand, New Welsh Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Under the Radar, Orbis, Butcher’s Dog, Interpreter’s House, Poetry Salzburg Review, Frogmore Papers, Boscombe Revolution and Bad Kid Catullus pamphlets and Poetry Daily website.

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Daryl Muranaka



Politics and Other Distractions


wildflowers in the yard

waiting to be mowed


in the forest

no tree grows

too fast or too high


the earth moves

on the floor

the baby sleeps


black mulch

thrown on new snow

as if that helps


in the dark

the roosters crow at threats,

real and imagined





Daryl Muranaka lives in Boston with his family. In his spare time, he enjoys aikido and taijiquan and exploring his children’s dual heritages. His first book, Hanami, was released by Aldrich Press in April 2015.



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Kitty Coles




When I Heard The Trees Speak


I turned to see your face

and it was still.

So, to be certain, I took

your hand and whispered,

‘Do you hear that?’

Blankly, you answered, ‘What?’,

finding in the daily sounds of these woods –

the wind among high branches,

crushed leaves beneath our feet –

nothing worth noticing or speaking of.

I stood there, silent,

and my heart leapt hard

under my ribs, rushing my blood about.

I touched my fingers to the closest bark

and felt, below the crust,

the tendons shift, the tongue

rising and falling with the words.





Kitty Coles‘ poems have been widely published in magazines and anthologies.  She was one of the two winners of the Indigo Dreams Pamphlet Prize 2016 and her debut pamphlet, Seal Wife, was published in 2017.

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Susan Taylor




Whipped In


When you walk idyllic countryside,

spare a thought for the hunted ones;

red hairs on a barbed wire fence

caught where Madam Fox bombed through.


The chase so hard her body fluids boiled

as she collapsed in a patch of undergrowth.

Master-of-Hounds watched his Whipper-In

with blood specks on his white horse.





Susan Taylor, one time shepherd, is now working on a poetry show about the benefit of wolves. She has seven published collections and a new pamphlet, The Weather House, written in collaboration with Simon Williams and published by Indigo Dreams.


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Susan Richardson





The call to bright lights is a whisper,

tempting souls into the clutches of

dreams that hang on a celluloid precipice.

Los Angeles turns us into letches

who lurk under the wings of angels,

covered in soot from generations

of sweeping up discarded morals.

Decrepit men, slathered in wealth,

chase the skirts of simpering women

with molded cheek bones and noses

they weren’t born with.

Carbon copy blondes trample

over the backs of comrades, and reach

through barbed wire for a glimmer of fame.

They come in droves and shed their skins,

willing to do unthinkable things for

just a drop of starlight on their tongues.





Susan Richardson is living, writing and going blind in Los Angeles. She shares a home with an Irishman, 2 pugs and 2 cats. She was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa in 2002, and in addition to poetry, she writes a blog called Stories from the Edge of Blindness. Her work has been published in: Stepping Stones Magazine, Wildflower Muse, The Furious Gazelle, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Foxglove Journal, Literary Juice, Sick Lit Magazine, Amaryllis, and The Anapest Journal, with pieces forthcoming in Eunoia Review.  She was also awarded the Sheila-Na-Gig Winter Poetry Prize and will be featured in the Literary Juice 2018 Q&A Series.

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