S.E. Miell





I am downstairs in the kitchen,
my school clothes are cold on me.
l pull at a drawer, I open a cupboard.
I think you are asleep upstairs.

I set my bowl and spoon on the table.
I see the cereal in a pool of milk.
I move the sugar bowl and hear it scrape.
I think you are asleep upstairs.

I flatten the left side of my ribs
to the ribs of the radiator.
I tight-rope walk my soles along the pipe,
I picture you asleep upstairs.

I hold the metal spoon in my teeth.
I hold the silence like a wanted gift.
I have thirty minutes before me fat with breathing,
until the radio calls my name with your voice.



 S.E. Miell lives in the UK and her hobbies are cuddling her cat and taking long baths

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L.B. Jørgensen



Up in the Air

Do you have any legroom up front,
what is the view like from your seat
and do you know the atmosphere;
can you tell cumulus from cirrus?

Have you heard of the supercooled drops
which at high altitudes, sub-zero temperatures
remain stubbornly liquid, perfectly balanced?
Sitting here, in seat 25A, I feel like one.

I watch the shade we drape across fields,
see a small cloud pass underneath us
and for one liminal instant
it agrees perfectly with the dark splash

of its shadow, and have you ever
met someone and felt like that
your odd, lumpy shapes
matching each other?



L.B. Jørgensen lived in England for several years before returning to her native Denmark, where she works as a translator. She has had poems published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Under the Radar and The North.

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William Kemp




Manuel, The Unfortunate
after Paula Rego’s Last King of Portugal

Both sides of the story of your death
involve striped pyjamas, a maid and the deep rich red
of your bedroom wallpaper. Was your outpost
at Fullwell, Twickenham, private and secure enough
to keep at bay those Republican activists
who might by various means have poisoned you?
Or can we assume you over-exerted yourself
one too many times at tennis, and in so doing
activated some hereditary bronchial condition,
hitherto undetected, with fatal consequence?
None at Scotland Yard had strength or means
to piece together the evidence either way.
Good night, sweet prince.
Let acrylic, graphite and pastel on paper,
mounted on aluminium, be your epitaph.



William Kemp is a poet, broadcaster and arts professional from Plymouth, who works for the Dartington Hall Trust. He has written articles and reviews on a range of subjects, including jazz, folk and classical music, modern poetry and Shakespeare. He presents and produces a weekly arts show for Soundart Radio.

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Jessica Sneddon




Notes on Architects

Gold lambs’ tails on hazel    break the pause

anticipate the Equinox

dipper flies, a white spark over Rothay
lands at the curve, pilfers
a swatch of moss, returns
up-river. North

a pair of grey wagtails, dart
yellow switch of flight, hurdle
over wire fence, descend
onto chains of mole-prints
ferret the dark, rich earth
parcelled with worms

by anonymous, silhouettes of soil
tossed to the surface,
displaced from the tunnels
their bodies sculpt

shreds of utterings
from beneath
the axis of the ground



Jessica Sneddon is a Masters by Research student and emerging poet. Her work focuses on hidden narratives in the natural world and the connection between micro and macro species. She has been published in Tears in the Fence.

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Sally Michaelson





Night Raider

Creeping down at night
to pillage the larder
I am my own ghost on the stairs

searching  for Digestive biscuits,
pungent oranges, hard cheese

so I can sink in my teeth,
leave a trail of crumbs,
a waft of citrus.

Mum will find stigmata of me eating
but  she will never see me eat.

Her cauldron of chicken soup
on the stone slab
makes me retch,

the skating-rink of fat
will take an hour to melt

when she heats it up
for Shabbos dinner

my skeleton as centerpiece.




Sally Michaelson is a recently retired Conference Interpreter living in Brussels. Her poems have been published in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Lighthouse, Algebra of Owls, The Bangor Literary Journal, Squawk Back, Amethyst, and The Lake.


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Arji Manuelpillai




an IKEA flat pack shelving unit

I am following you   up the aisle   along the checkout
beside you as you drive    it’s in the back     bubble wrapped
I’m tearing the box     popping bags of nuts and bolts    but
really i am admiring the neighbour’s washing line      you
finger the instructions     sort the wood by size    I’m knee
bound looking for a screw below the fridge   you’re building
I’m carrying things    putting things down   you’re building
till we argue    I say ‘I don’t care anyway’ and storm off    it
leans like a man about to jump to his death      afterwards we
watch a film    as the sex scene creeps in     we fall to library
silence   your eyes look anywhere but at me   like I’m your
dog    shitting    we cannot find the position our fingers used
to fit    so I compliment our IKEA shelving unit    my eyes
skirt beyond the slanting base    that night I dream we are
standing in the pouring rain    pretending not to get wet


Arji Manuelpillai: I’m a poet and educator in London. Some people like my poems those people include Rialto, Prole,  Lighthouse Journal and Cannon’s Mouth. I have also been shortlisted for Live Canon Prize and The Robert Graves Prize and finally i am a Jerwood Arvon mentee currently.


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Sarah Barr





They are guilt-inducing like unwanted pets.
Not being completely heartless,
I water them every few months
over spring and summer.
Otherwise, I neglect and starve them.

They reduce to thin brown sticks.
I wait for them to find their own way out
onto the compost heap,
their pots into the recycling bin.

Nine months of near-death, and a few buds appear,
stems, more fat buds, which I ignore.
Their growth is persistent.
I transfer them to the kitchen window-sill.
A few drops of plant-food, that’s all.

Their waxy heads multiply, purple-veined
or white-rimmed, with pointed tongues,
dotty eyes, and lemon kitten faces.
They all nod down at me.

‘Don’t leave us,’ they whisper.
I learn there are more of them on earth
than birds, or fish or mammals.
I polish their succulent greenery,
stroke them, ask their permission to go.




Sarah Barr lives in Dorset and writes poetry and fiction. Her poems have been published in anthologies and magazines, including Bridport Prize, Templar Press, Emma Press and Poems in the Waiting Room. Some of her poems have won prizes in competitions for example in 2018: 2nd in the Poetry on the Lake, 1st in the National Memory Day competition, and shortlisted in the Charles Causley competition.

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