2024

 

 

AUGUST

 

 

Jude Brigley, Douglas Cole, Bhaswati Ghosh, Jenny Hockey, Norton Hodges,

Rustin Larson, Al Maginnes, Beth McDonough, Estill Pollock, Joshua St. Claire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

JUDE BRIGLEY

 

Winter Walking

 

I am told that Glacier Ridge is a beauty spot

loved by urbanites wanting to return to the land.

 

But, standing in the bleak wind which, despite the sun,

cuts to the bone like a surgical incisor, I can only

 

think of bodies dumped in the long reeds, clandestine

meetings held on its cheerless metal tower,

 

as conspirators look out over the flatlands,

to where traffic buzzes along the freeway

 

without a glance at the park’s featureless yellow.

Traffic is speeding to someplace else and is unperturbed

 

by meetings of adulterers, drug peddlers, plotters

who would find a comfort in its anonymity.

 

Maybe in summer, the piping of childrens’ laughter,

the fetishistic paraphernalia of bird watchers

 

or the steady beat of hikers’ boots on the boardwalks

would displace this silent tension of frozen water,

 

cracking open. But, today in the winter sunshine

the red barn stands like a blister, and the iced reeds

look like they could swallow you up, unidentified.

 

Glimpses

 

Scientists report that we are renewed

in our lifetimes septennially, and that

we have no cells left from that round headed

 

baby. In photographs we recognise ourselves

by eyes, face, smile, while photographic detectives

use deaf images of ears to identify if it is Billy the kid

 

or some other denimed drifter caught

 in the frame and frozen for their scrutiny.

Are there random pictures that will emerge

 

from silent drawers of those we know so well,

caught passing on the street or turning

away to see a view, quiet players in another’s

 

incidental moment, snapped but forever

reticent and unidentified? -  Close-mouthed strangers

buttoned up against the cold of a wordless past.

 

Jude Brigley is Welsh. She has been a teacher, an editor and a performance poet. She now writes more for the page and has been published in a wide range of magazines including The Lake, Blue Nib, Door=Jar and Sylvia. “Winter Walking” was first published in Affinity, 2018

 

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DOUGLAS COLE

Incarnate

 

In another age he would have been

a riverboat gambler or a high school teacher

instead of an interstellar body-smuggler.

You can see the line of connection.

In one story he’s waiting for a call from his mother.

You can feel the tragedy of his life

like low-grade radiation

as part of him wanders off to zero gravity.

You’ve never seen someone weep so much for a dog.

 

If you could reach into your pocket

and pay off your debts

with drops from your liquid gold soul

just before that kid tags your camper with a pi sign—

I’m talking to you because you’re the only one

who listens,

though you open the door for a disembodied

out-on-spring-break speaker in tongues,

hidden under the surface of I give up.

 

And that is a beautiful moment

when he maneuvers the body into the hold

and you fly from the eye,

all that ballast thrown off, all that open space

to expand and want nothing with,

your mind in the abyss and your imagination

folding a paper boat to sail off in—

I say the world is your oyster, my shadowy companion,

and I’ll stake your next venture

if you’re up for chasing after

a lucky strike.

 

Douglas Cole has published six poetry collections and the novel The White Field, winner of the American Fiction Award. His work has appeared in journals such as Beloit Poetry, Fiction International, Valpariaso, The Gallway Review and Two Hawks Quarterly; as well anthologies such as Bully Anthology (Hopewell), Coming Off The Line (Main Street Rag Publishing), the Bindweed Anthology, and Work (Unleash Press). He contributes a regular column, “Trading Fours,” to the magazine, Jerry Jazz Musician. He also edits the American writers’ section of Read Carpet, a journal of international writing produced in Columbia. His website is https://douglastcole.com.

 

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BHASWATI GHOSH

 

Family Room

 

Gaganendranath, the lord of the skies, frames the room 

in sky and earth colours. On the right wall, by a small 

bookcase, all of three shelves tall holding love poetry,

 

experimental novels, memoirs, cookbooks and a stern 

dictionary stands the painter's Christ in the Church, 

a blue epiphany with just the right flicker of candlelight amber 

 

and a looming grey-white Christ fusing into a cross. A lady in 

black plays the organ. A faux Christmas tree standing next to 

the orphic painting reaches for the church's interior. It's a study 

 

in stillness; this corner of bookery, Christ in a watercolour church 

and a plastic tree. The rest of the room isn’t much to talk about. 

Two recliners and their standing lamps, a round coffee table with 

 

coasters from Arunachal Pradesh, an ottoman by the window. 

The same window that opens to the southern backyard, the room's 

pièce de résistance from spring through fall. Perpendicular to it 

 

is a love seat that completes the circle. Above it hangs 

Gaganendranath's Premdoot, love messenger, in ochre notes, 

the figures more solid, self-assured than Christ in the church, 

 

the boldness of oil on canvas sharper than the self-effacing 

watercolour. And that's how -- from water to oil, from shadows 

to forms, from the sky to the earth, a room becomes family.

 

Eating Silence

 

An ocean separates the lands of silence and no-silence. 

Its waves bulge with a suspiring weight. Longings.

I'm flying to the no-silence land where noises, 

 

coveted, unwanted, coercive, rip apart the air’s muslin fabric. 

My earlobes carry the ocean's silence, that creepy lull, before 

the waves crest and crash. Between clamour and calm, 

 

between whispers and wails, between silence and siren,

a mother's heartbeat ripples. Throbbing, softly rising, 

floating. Stoic like her bony frame, her candle-flame smile.

 

Bhaswati Ghosh writes and translates fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her first book of fiction is Victory Colony, 1950. Her first work of translation from Bengali into English is My Days with Ramkinkar Baij. Bhaswati’s writing has appeared in several literary journals. Bhaswati lives in Ontario, Canada. Find her at bhaswatighosh.com.

 

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JENNY HOCKEY

 

Heavy Plant

 

Cyclists only see me  

in part, twist their necks

when a shudder troubles

their toytown tyres,

 

when they pick up a rumbling

of what the hell’s that — rivets

or girders, some muddle or other

of metal, of Mars breaking loose,

 

haven’t a clue of the places I go,

the wreckable hillsides I strip,  

terraces robbed of washing and prams,

doorsteps where kiddies bawled,

 

corner shops, knocking shops, bookies     

but now — I’ve made it over here,   

staked a claim to Ecclesall Road,

the leafy villas of Netheredge.

 

I’ve come for your derelict pubs,

that poorly-attended picture house,

a failing row of specialist shops,

the bank turned performance space.

 

Today’s for making things fall apart,

wiping memory’s slate. I will eradicate,

excavate, let rubble have its day —    

and pray not to lose my grip

 

on some tumbling gravel descent,

or God help the mother’s son

in my cab, Lord save his tatoo’d skin,

his lovingly razored scalp. 

 

Hard Stuff

Like turning back the clock, opera

or statistics, the prospect of poems

can lead to a frown, stifle talk.

 

Didn’t the laureate’s daughter

dread the P-word coming up

whenever they met someone new,

 

someone that didn’t know who

he was — and are we even poets,

people who lay out words on a page

 

like this. Can someone who puts up

a simple shelf, declare themself

a joiner. What to say when asked

 

our occupation. Poetry doesn’t pay  

for food or rent, though poets  

feed off words, live in a dream.

 

Jenny Hockey is a Sheffield poet who’s published in magazines such as The North, Magma, The Frogmore Papers, The Lake and Dreamcatcher. She reviews for Orbis and her collection, Going to bed with the moon appeared in 2019 https://www.jennyhockeypoetry.co.uk/

 

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NORTON HODGES

 

I Lived with Kafka

 

The measures we took for anonymity

proved unnecessary. No one knew who we were.

So it was no problem being seen in public

or having the occasional awayday excursion.

 

I was worried that Franz’s coughing might disturb

the neighbours but, in that part of town,

people left each other alone. Gradually we filled

our IKEA shelves with the great Europeans.

 

Mann. Musil, Proust, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Grass.

The landlord came for the occasional nose around.

Never heard on any of ‘em. Who are they again?

I’m a Dan Brown man. Anyway, I voted for Brexit.

 

On silent afternoons we read, barely stopping for tea.

The mornings, we spent walking, poking round

old bookshops and buying a few bits in Singh’s grocers

and the Greek deli or drinking bitter coffee at the Turk’s.

 

It was a sad blow when the TB caught up with Franz.

No more nights watching Taskmaster or The One Show.

So, I moved away, to this seaside town, anonymous and down at heel,

and, down the street, dumpster divers left alone all the old books.

 

Fundamentals

 

Perhaps it comes with age.

You start out the young rebel

against whatever they’ve got,

contrary as Dada or graffiti.

 

But when you’ve gone through

marriage, mortgage, children,

failure, breakdown, exile within

and without something changes.

 

They were never wrong, The Old Masters:

Monet, Matisse, Bonnard. They knew

what was important was not that turmoil

 

but a garden, a quiet room, your usual chair,

flowers, a book, a half-read newspaper

left when someone went to make tea.

 

Norton Hodges is a poet, editor and translator. He lives in Lincoln.

 

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RUSTIN LARSON

 

Specimen Journal

 

The page neatly pre-soiled, Finnegan burying

his ears in the sunshine, lunch time, personal

quarantine, scuba mask, and an aching leg, me.

 

Caroline's striped paintings on the walls

and in boxes. My alphabet like trees waiting

for the sap to run, out in the snow.

 

Finnegan makes a dash for his litter box,

Chopin tinkling on the radio. Stuck at home,

car won't start, a full-grown African lion

 

strolls through the kitchen. I remember girls

shampooing their hair at the sink

in a square of sunlight. The humming ghost

 

meets the snickering ghost in the hallway.

The last bone segment of my middle finger

on my right hand burns. Air spills through

 

the furnace ducts. Outside, bright snow

on the ground and tracks of boots

and the tracks of tires. No birds,

 

only the sounds of someone coughing and spitting.

 

Rustin Larson's writing appears in the anthologies Wild Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021) and Wapsipinicon Almanac: Selections from Thirty Years (University of Iowa Press, 2023). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Iowa Review, Puerto Del Sol, The Penn Review, North American Review, and Poetry East.

 

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AL MAGINNES

 

Angler

          CE 1957-2014

 

Catch. No release.

                          Just the bright

lure shining

                    as it spins outward from

the casting, a drop

                           of silver light, liquid

as the surface it skims

                              until it drops under

a surface still

                   as an unstruck drumhead,

vanishing inside

                       black-green water

that has

            no true current,

but is never still,

                        dropping

into blindness

                   we try to read

by the rod’s quiver,

                            the angle of line

the hook waiting

                        like a hard word

for the strike

                   that bends the pole

like a dowser’s wand,

                             the gravity

of another dimension.

                              Some are better

at reading water

                       than others.

I’ve fished with people

                                 who sensed        

the pulse of fish

                       the way some feel

the air change when

                             someone new walks

into the room.

                   I don’t know enough

to imagine

                 what happens

in those negative depths,

                                   why some

take the hook

                             while some have

the wisdom to refuse.

 

*        *        *

 

In summer, fishermen

                               attack the coast

in diesel-burning 4x4’s,

                                 big tires thrashing sand,

speakers thumping,

                             beds filled with coolers

that unleash

                   endless bounties of iced beer,

sodas, chips, sunscreen.

                                 They cast

monofilament lines

                             into the tide,

trying to harvest

                        the quicksilver runs

of blues and Spanish

                             whose appetites carry them

faster than the tide,

                            feeding on all

that comes before them:

                                  krill, cigarette butts,

flashes of soil,

                     carbonized steel bent into hooks,

weaponized

                     and ready to catch

in the soft tissue

                        of the mouth.

The deep,

                the mysterious deep

will save you

                   only if

you can reach it.

 

*        *        *

 

I knew

           you could shoot,

your aim legendary

                            in our tribe

of poets,

              most who don’t know

a .22 from a tank.

                             You and your ex-

sometimes shot appliances

                                     that outlived

their warranties.

                      But I never asked

how much time

                      you spent

or if you ever spent

                             time fishing

beyond the obligatory trips

                                       kids take

with fathers

                   who urge patience

on children more interested

                                       in seeing

what kind of splash

                            a rock makes

striking the water.

                         I spent enough time

to learn I am

                     no fisherman. I caught

a few here and there,

                             even made

a few afternoon catches

                                  into meals.

No fish of mine

   ever made a trophy,

something for humans

                              to admire

but nothing

                   to the ocean,

the ponds turning

                          calm faces to the sun.

 

*        *        *

 

You read

               the anthology

of poems

              about fishing,

the bounties

                    of steelhead

and fat bass,

                    all metaphors

for something,

                     written by

 the poets we considered

                                  our masters,

but we know how

                         fish grow, even

in the making

                   of a poem.

And you know

                    each cast arcing

over fast water

                    or sidearmed low

to rest near a bank,

                           is the start

of one more poem,

                           one more act of hope.

 

*        *        *

 

The hook’s shape,

                          how it curves

back on itself,

                    so it will hold

what it catches,

                      might illustrate

our impulse

                   to turn back

when presented

                      the odd or the frightening,

or maybe just the usual

                                 cruelty

of a universe

                   that pulled you,

against all

                 against all reason

from this place

                    where we still swim,

still cast forth

                   your name,

this surface where

                          we move

like Yeats’

                 long-legged fly,

caught only

                   in the moment,

motionless,

         heedless

of what rises to claim us.

 

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BETH MCDONOUGH

 

They tried to tell him there was no market for cloud domes.

He persisted, on the basis of snow's success,
designed his limited edition trinket.

Ready to pick up, a hand-tempting glass,
filled with liquid, mysteriously thickened.
 

Look closely, he called! Be transfixed
by the so-wary scarecrow, hand-modelled,
exquisite and fixed, placed
at the very centre of his ripe barley field.

Someone else would agree to swish
grey round the mannikin, watch
minute grains turn pale nimbostratus
for a bit, then fall, to collect

at his stuck-down modelled feet. All weather settled
as city-slush over yellow. Spin again!
All that altostratus. Which lingered
rather longer. Somewhere inside, scarecrow

feels beyond this occluded front, some world
he's ready to see. Someday, someone
will drop their plaything and he will escape
through the smashed glass, and find the Blue Door.

Dundee-based Beth McDonough co-hosts Fife's Platform Sessions. Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word. Makar of the Federation of Writers (Scotland) in 2022, she's working on a hybrid project on outdoor swimming, and a collaborative collection with Nikki Robson. Both books are scheduled for publication soon.

 

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ESTILL POLLOCK

 

Dancer

 

A churn of tourists in the market square

 

Their numbers shifting on the hour—everyone 

Looking up to the bell tower doors, opening 

On hinges old when Shakespeare 

Was a boy

 

A clockwork figure 

Judders out—from here a toy, his frock coat 

And breeches, his shoes' bright buckles catching

The midday sun

 

The hour struck, his golden hammer meeting 

Cast bronze—again, again, time’s clanging encore

To applause below 

 

Protocol selfies and à la carte menus, pigeons

In dirty shoals

 

The Old Town washes into alleyways 

Of pickpocket cafés—a drunk there, arms flailing

In trance rotations, dances to the music

In his head

 

The watch he wears is mine

 

His little dog beside him—wagging

Ragged time

 

Jump

 

Insects keen past, in ratcheting clicks

Of territorial panache

 

A shrill acoustic

Of chittering threat—rivals quelled 

 

Wasps and blue-bottles, gnat clouds

And thrips

 

Some, sweet-sap suckers still 

Immature, a porridge of nymphs

 

Wings cut from cellophane rotate

In flight-arc incrementals

 

Each jump-jet flash a lesson in agility 

And the prejudice of swifts

 

Estill Pollock's publications include Constructing the Human (Poetry Salzburg) and the book cycle Relic Environments Trilogy (Cinnamon Press, Wales). His poetry collections, Entropy, Time Signatures, Ark and the forthcoming Heathen Anthems, are published in the United States by Broadstone Books. The e-chapbook, And Then, is published by Mudlark. He lives in Norfolk, England.

 

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JOSHUA ST. CLAIRE

 

Moon Haiku

 

leading me deeper

into the night

moonblossoms

 

I have to tell him

death is forever

craters of the moon

 

a bite out of the persimmon moon

 

Atlantic night

a single pelican roosts

on the moon

 

shortening night

an orb weaver unstrings

moonlight 

 

the gulls come back from where they come from the dawn moon

 

day sliver

hiding his face

in his hands

 

the Atlantic

a moon snail stretches

to infinity

 

marking

the distance to the moon

tide lines 

 

wet moon

low over the Cape Fear

ibises 

 

Queen Anne’s lace

the day moon swaying

at the roadside

 

twilight

low tide abandons

a moonrock

 

 

Star Haiku

 

Castor and Pollux

fireflies‘ light

on an evening primrose

 

starfield

a cold wind blows in

from land’s end 

 

starcolor

nightwaves

shifting shellsand 

 

the deep glow

in the bell of the moon jelly

Procyon

 

Diadem

a line of streetlights

on an empty road

 

nightwind rustling

through the mourning dove nest

Rasalhague

 

awake

with a sunburn

Unukalhai 

 

occultation of Regulus the neverblack of an Atlantic night

 

Alhena and Calx

a mushroom jelly rests

on shellsand 

 

Messier 23

at the crest of the dune

pennywort blossoms

 

Joshua St. Claire is an accountant from a small town in Pennsylvania and works as a financial director for a large non-profit. His haiku and related poetry have been published broadly including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and Mayfly.

 

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