Raking, in a Pyrenean Garden
There is a quiet gap in the constant sheets of rain.
Let’s go out, first you, then I,
into the small, soaking green and brown back—
the rising smell of roast meat and
wood smoke hypnotises our limbs,
siskins trill within our hearing
as we work together to separate dead leaves
from waking grasses.
Who would have thought this young fruit tree
would shed so much?
Enough to clog these tines and soak our clothes,
many baskets of good detritus
to a pile fit for burning
although I am sad at the thought of it—
like the ancient nest of grass and baling twine
you hand me, sacrificed for a rose’s pruning,
undoing the perfect knot in the convex cup
adding another layer
to the peat core of seasons beneath us
some perfectly intact with defined edges,
some a murky smear best forgotten
and both our backs bowed with the same labour,
the same tenderness in our movements
spanning whole stepped degrees in scale:
the doe-eyed primrose discovered blooming, at our feet
and the obstinate snow and black mountain, above.
Suzanne Iuppa is a poet, community worker and filmmaker based in North Wales. She has published poetry and short fiction in a variety of British and American literary magazines, and her poetry series On Track: Poems from Welsh Pilgrimage was published by Alyn Books in 2013.Read More
You’d have thought
that my journeying
from Telford to London
would be enough time
to read these poems
to darn a jumper
to stare out the window; but
between the announcements
the ticket inspection
the dark-light of tunnels
the loud conversations
the fast-moving humans
our slowing at stations;
all I have managed
is a few short emails, and to watch a man with thick black moustache:
A luggage-rack reflection, he eases off a tinfoilcover, spoons,
with love, the cherry yoghurt, to his lips,
avoiding drips on to suit,
pale pink shirt and, instead of a tie, a thing
whose name escapes me but it hangs like a ribbon, holding his identity.
Once scraped clean, pot put away in Tupperware, tangerine untouched.
It strikes me, later, at a party, where a man is talking lanyards; that
perhaps too, I was watched – with tilted head, and upturned eyes; and
how the train had wrapped us all, like segments in an unpeeled orange.
Nadia Kingsley is a poet and publisher. She is currently collaborating on an Arts Council England funded performance : e-x-p-a-n-d-i-n-g THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE IN 45 MINUTES, in a mobile planetarium dome. http://www.fairacrepress.co.uk/
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