2024

 

 

JUNE

 

 

Stephen Boyce, Theresa Heine, Angi Holden, Sarah James, Hannah Linden, Olivia Oster, Abigail Ottley, Cliff Saunders, Finola Scott, J. R. Solonche, Sue Spiers, Kerry Trautman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

STEPHEN BOYCE

 

Chalk Horse

 

I thought there would be more time

                   to take it in,

                  

that the train would pass at a slower pace

                   through this landscape

                  

and the peachy glow of evening sun

                   on the chalk horse

 

would hold all the way to Castle Cary

                   and into the Vale.

 

But first an oak tree, unfurling,

                   masked the view,

 

then the packed train picked up speed

                   and a slope intervened.

 

Nothing held still. And in my mind

                   the vision

 

of that stately beast, Disneyfied now

                   in the dying light,

 

began to fade. Everything was moving on.

                   We were going west.

 

What little time remained

                   was disappearing in the east.

 

Stephen Boyce is the author of three poetry collections, Desire Lines (Arrowhead 2010), The Sisyphus Dog (Worple 2014) and The Blue Tree (Indigo Dreams 2019) and three pamphlets. He is co-founder of Winchester Poetry Festival and lives in north Dorset. stephenboycepoetry.com

 

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THERESA HEINE

 

Death of a Taxi Driver

 

It nosed in quietly,

one of those May mornings

that holds its breath,

the city spring idling gently

on the quiet street,

lilac slick with possibility,

blossom awaiting its cue.

 

But all we heard

after the siren

and the urgent feet on the stair,

were the paws of the cat

padding across the room,

and her yawn, her soft

expelling of air.

 

Threads

 

Sorting through my mother's effects

I find a box of sewing silks,

and they seem a collection

of strange, pale shades,

not much seen today, soft

with hesitant names,

damask rose and dove grey,

citron and primrose for the yellows,

beige, fawn and light mole,

a delicacy of petit point

matching nothing except the rain

and faded in this morning light.

 

But for her they were spring,

her water colour time,

when she waltzed across the floor

in my father's arms, his suit dark,

uncompromising

 

Theresa Heine is a retired teacher living in a village near Wismar in North Germany. She has published poetry in anthologies worldwide for adults and for children and has published three picture books for children. At present she is writing a musical for children with her daughter, based on the Pied Piper. Her website is: www.theresaheine.de

 

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ANGI HOLDEN

 

In Which I Discuss the Notion of Happiness with Raymond Carver

in response to Happiness, Raymond Carver February 1985

 

I can see you now standing by the bay window

the steam rising from your coffee,

the ash dangling from your third,

perhaps fourth, cigarette of the day.

 

You are watching the dawn break over distant hills,

the sky still so very nearly dark,

as you spot the two boys walking up the road

surrounded by their own silence.

 

I think you’re a little presumptuous

to assume they aren’t deep in conversation

because they are so happy.

That if they could they would be walking

closer together, arms linked in casual friendship.

 

It’s not like you had it easy, growing up:

money always tight and your dad a heavy drinker.

You remember what it feels like to be dragged

from your bed in the half dark,

your mother already in her waitress uniform

for her first job of the day, chivvying you

out of the door for your paper round,

for those few extra dollars, and the lure of tips.

 

Look again down the road. It’s not quite March

yet the boys wear only sweaters, caps on their heads.

If you were out this early the padded coat

you keep by the lobby door would be zippered up

to your chin, the woollen hat from its pocket

pulled down over your ears. Maybe even gloves.

For though the kitchen is warm didn’t you say

the moon still hung pale over the water?

There is mist on the air, the insidious damp

you blame for that persistent cough

although you already suspect something darker.

 

True, they are doing this thing together,

strides matched. Perhaps they wish

to be more than friends in a world that won’t allow it.

It’s possible that this is their only opportunity

to be themselves and for now it has to be enough.

 

Perhaps just for a moment

they choose to forget their empty bellies,

the aches already accumulating in their young limbs

the heel-rub of thrift shop boots a size too small.

 

You’re right.

Death and ambition, even love, these thoughts

are too much for two young boys, delivering papers.

The taller boy shrugs the canvas bag on his shoulder,

its gradual lightening near the end of the round

more beautiful than any sky taking on light.

 

But happiness? That much I doubt

though I agree it has its moments,

sudden and unexpected,

beyond any early morning

or our talk of it.

 

Glove

 

Even now it retains

the form of her hand,

as it reaches out, palm exposed,

leather fingers distorted by arthritis.

Its partner long-lost, forgotten,

the button at its wrist pearled,

the shank stitched tightly

secured by waxed thread.

A sleeping creature,

it lies curled on the hall table

next to the telephone

that never rings.

 

Angi Holden is a retired teacher of creative writing, editor and Open Book New Writer. Her doctorate explores the impact of memory and family history on her writing practice, which includes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. Her debut Spools of Thread won the inaugural Mother's Milk Pamphlet Prize.

 

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SARAH JAMES

 

A touch of watercolour

after ‘Apse of the Duomo, Pisa’ by John Ruskin

 

I see a ghost of the cathedral
from the outside: its pillars, arches
and mosaic details seeping colour
and wisping away at the edges
back to a daydream of white paper.

 

Textured by sun, it's as if warm light
has softened the building, melted
a fragment of it to the page. Shadows
zoetrope the columns and curves
of the mid-layer of colonnades.

 

Like this, the structure is more
beautiful: unfinished, as ephemeral
as a wedding cake first taking shape
in a lover’s mind. Or a birdcage
in marble, rendered only in part

 

to set the soul free – still whole,
its delicacy intricate and intact.
The artist’s touch of watercolour
and brush might be gentler than a kiss,
more tender than any caress,

 

but this drawing’s elusive dream
will last longer than a lover’s heart 
or any faith built from stone.

 

Darling Blue

after ‘Little Speedwell's Darling Blue’ by John Everett Millais

 

The only hints of blue are a touch
of sky left on a distant mountain
and two sprigs of bird’s-eye speedwell
in the child’s hand and lap, vivid
against her white dress, like the black shoe
peeping out beneath its hem.
 

The ground she’s sitting on is as blurred
as the sky and mountain, except for

a few spikes of grass and the growing heap

of picked flowers at her side:
ox-eyed daisies, dog roses, pink fragments
of something unidentifiable and the yellow
 

of what might be cat’s-ear, rough hawkbit
or even cornfield marigold, though I
see the petals of grounded stars.
The speedwell she holds closest
might have been intended as hope of spring
but my eyes mistake it for forget-me-not,
 

a cry for what is lost reminding us
how little remains. Impossible to tell if

her gaze is dreamy, simply that it’s downcast.

And the sad heap of petals beside her

is still growing. How long will she keep on

picking? Beyond her own death
 

now she’s painted into infinity.

I’m sure only I see this pile as prescient

of a world with nothing left to pick.

But what of the children I might want
to have, my grandkids and their futures?

The heap of picked flowers slowly wilts
 

into the blur of changing seasons.

 

Sarah James is a prize-winning poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Winner of the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine 2020 and CP Aware Award Prize for Poetry 2021, her latest collection is Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press, 2022).

 

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HANNA LINDEN

 

sitting in the car in a car-park

 

no view but cars

 

cars being not-car

 

sound of cars

inhabiting themselves

 

beyond

grass verges, bushes

 

nature

as border

 

realities of waiting

 

a very small fly

explores the steering wheel

 

Hannah Linden, from Devon, UK, won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition 2021, & was Highly Commended in the Wales Poetry Award 2021. Her debut pamphlet, The Beautiful Open Sky (V. Press), was shortlisted for the Saboteur Award for Best Poetry Pamphlet 2023. X: @hannahl1n   

 

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OLIVIA OSTER

 

Sunrise

 

The earth is an ebony woman

Skin coffee rich and chocolate dark

Day comes like a bright African kaftan

Alive with pattern, overwhelming with

Saffron, amber, spice, ochre,

Colors with names like wedding feasts,

Rich in tint and taste and fragrance

Carmine, crimson, orchid, cornflower,

Lifeblood and sky hue swirled and outlined

Forest, jade, moss, fern

Shades of jungles dyed to depict

Slips over the coiled head

Around the curved shoulders

Covers the night skin with

The cacophony of day

 

Poetry

 

It’s not buying, selling,

Sparkling decoration or

Pretty thought.

It’s not fake smile,

Second glass

Knee-high boots

Party trick strategy.

Instead it’s trying to

Decipher

Define

Illuminate

A world whispered into being,

Looking past details to significance,

Slowly turning it all

Backwards

Upside down

Sideways

Until meaning becomes possibility

And words become wizardry.

 

Olivia Oster is a writer living on Lookout Mountain, GA, USA, whose fiction and poetry explore the spiritual aspect of common everyday life as well as the things with which she is most familiar: chronic pain, parenting, gardening, cooking, and homemaking.  Olivia is also a teacher, wife, mother of five, and taker of long walks with her rescued dachshund-beagle and chihuahua-mini-pinscher.

 

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ABIGAIL OTTLEY

 

   On The Necromancy of Daughters 

 

they exist far away with

nomads and thieves

under inky satin skies

hand-stitched with diamonds

 

some nights they go flying

shrieking like Harpies

fall to feasting on whatever

they can find

 

they know how to be true

to their nature and purposes

they must  be willing

to upset the table

 

their impossible hunger

drives them to it

they are prompted

by the tides in their blood

 

their sadnesses are fed

 by the dark of the moon

and their tears are the spring-

source of their cunning

 

if you would be loved

be a golden boy

be a sun-god

 

daughters are dark.

 

Abigail Ottley's poetry and short fiction has appeared in numerous journals. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, last year she won the Wildfire Words Flash Fiction Competition and was twice placed in the Frosted Fire Pamphlet Award. Her debut collection will be published by Yaffle in spring, 2025

https://www.facebook.com/abigailelizabethottley/ https://www.instagram.com/abigail_elizabeth_ottley/

 

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CLIFF SAUNDERS

 

Owed To Bill

 

Shakespeare was right:

The whole world is wounded.

Turning trauma into art,

 

he was assaulted daily

by the world and its secrets.

His heart went slowly mad.

 

Into the woods, seeking

his full-circle moment

under yellow birds riding

 

strong winds, he had a wealth

of peace, living his dream

of gravitational waves.

 

At the top of the world

he hugged the northern lights

until crickets in his backyard

 

debated his sanity. This man

gave his more ruinous fire

to the future, for Shakespeare

 

was really a comet, a journey

toward rebirth. He covered

cannons with tears of joy.

 

And yes, he would glow

like any glass full of judgment

even when talking to his city’s

 

tree canopy. When beauty fell

on his yard and a harbinger

rattled, why did he walk away?

 

O William, as you ate fire

and pointed your finger

at a tangled web of three

 

hearts, what brought you

to the brink of the free world?

Was it the clock once again?

 

Did you awaken packing

light in a cup? Did you find

your sweetheart a smaller glove?

 

Cliff Saunders is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including Mapping the Asphalt Meadows (Slipstream Publications) and The Persistence of Desire (Kindred Spirit Press). His poems have appeared recently in Quadrant, The Rockford Review, Exacting Clam, Concision Poetry Journal, ArLiJo, and Cigarette Fire.

 

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FINOLA SCOTT

 

My turn now 

 

Slowly folding, Mum curves towards foetal,

pebble knuckles clutch the bathroom sink.

 

Her bones are brittle, weary from holding

the bulk of her belly, so often baby-full.

 

Time-faded freckles hoard long summer days,

her shrivelled teats remember my touch. 

 

As I soap the flannel, I feel the tug of return.

She bows her head, accepts this is her time.

 

Inscription: Letters from people who are mostly dead

 

And they are all now

mostly dead.

At the back of your linen press,

this chocolate box inscribed in your familiar style

crammed with blue letters to you in Belfast,

paper crisp as Honesty.

 

Tongues slipped and licked

stamps in New York, Antibes, Cork,

family seed blown wide.

Fat writing on frail paper.

 

The rain's awful, potatoes may rot.

Mahler concert wonderful, fine seats.

Hope the cease fire holds.

 

Finger-worn envelopes stuffed with receipts

catalogue an Ingersoll watch, the fur coat

that strolled through picture frames,

the holiday-house, the family lair.

 

Buried deep are faded documents.

I pull out a Poor House record

Three boys found wandering, destitute.

Cork 1884

begin to understand.

 

For Finola Scott, writing is compulsory, non-negotiable, she is pleased that her work is published widely, including The High Window,  Lighthouse and numerous anthologies. Successes include winning The Hugh MacDiarmid Tassie and being Runner-up in the McLellan Competition. She welcomes you to fb Finola Scott Poems  More at https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poet/finola-scott/ ‘My turn now’ was first published in Atrium, 2022, ‘Inscription: Letters from people who are mostly dead’ was first published in Scottish Writer Centre Tenth Anniversary Anthology, 2018.

 

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J. R. SOLONCHE

 

I have changed my mind

 

I have changed my mind

about Billy Collins. Not

the poet Billy Collins.

I still don’t care very much

for him. No, I’ve changed

my mind about Billy “Bully-

Boy” Collins, the boss of

the Irish gang that called me

“Four eyes” in school and

followed me in the hallways

punching me in the back,

exclaiming, “Hey, Four eyes

can take it!” He was right.

I could take it. I still can.

  

The Condition

 

The acupuncturist asked me

to fill out my medical history.

I listed all the usual conditions,

the same ones I always list --

osteoarthritis, high cholesterol,

sciatica, deviated septum. Then

it asked about something I had

never seen before -- Excessive

dreaming. What’s this? I said.

What is it? she said. Excessive

dreaming, I said. Oh, that means

if you dream too much, she said.

Well, I’m a poet, I said. Oh, then

answer Yes, you suffer from excessive

dreaming, she said.  Yes, I said. Yes.

 

Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of thirty-six books of poetry and co-author of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

 

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SUE SPIERS

 

The Four Equestrians of the Omnishambles

 

When the first seal was broken

 

the ghost of The Lamb, twice the National champion,

galloped out, his form grown to twenty hands or more.

 

A quiver of empty syringes dangled from his withers.

The fury of his hooves spraying people in the street

trying to keep two metres from the grey’s pestilence.

 

His rider was clinging weakly to his mane, slipping

side to side upon his unsaddled back, sweat stained

from eighteen-hour shifts, a mask bucked off her face,

a plastic apron, spattered with snot, flapping wildly.

 

And the Omnishambles counted as people succumbed,

posted statistics each day, from the day before, adjusted

for those admitted to wards who might not have died

from their infirmity or accident or routine operation

but died in the breakage of the first seal.

 

 

When the second seal was broken

 

a sorrel gelding stood his ground, shifted uneasily

despite the training, suppressing his desire to bolt.

 

His visor stopped stones grazing his eyes. A blanket

cushioned the placards battering his barrel, proof

against Molotovs, kneepads against broken glass.

 

His gauntleted rider armed with baton and taser

guided him closer and closer to the high-viz men.

Black-clad in riot gear, his rider, no longer gentle

as a curry-comb but hammering the anvil-crowd.

 

And the Omnishambles ordered the charge early

before the strikers reached the negotiation conference,

and self-defence became offence became criminal,

fighting in desperation and there were no ambulances

to help in the breakage of the second seal.

 

 

When the third seal was broken

 

the Lloyds bank symbolic beauty trotted glossily

across a dank pasture, whinnying loudly with greed.

 

Her coat slick with oil, noisome with a diesel bug’s

sulphur. Her tail was plaited with avarice and slack.

Her horseshoes glistered with coins unsecured by gold.

 

Her rider held a Gucci rein, wore wide red braces,

Louboutin boots with their scarlet soles, screaming

unceremoniously the amount of toxic debt he held.

Maxed-out credit cards stuffed his Louis Vuitton wallet.

 

And the Omnishambles doubled the charge for fuel,

When this was not enough doubled it again, so men

had to make a choice to freeze or starve or vagabond

without a home. Prices exploded like a SpaceX launch

in the breakage of the third seal.

 

 

When the fourth seal was broken

 

a fat honey-coloured palomino sauntered into view,

rested against a fence until it buckled under his girth.

 

Panniers were laden with pizza, burgers, French fries

and all manner of indelicacies, nothing light or fruity,

but comforting and moreish, things found at Greggs.

 

The rider helped herself and the panniers replenished

as she scoffed. Her chub-rub shorts bulged; spandex

under pressure and her brassiere made hillocks

across her back, a fan of Master Chef and Bake Off.

 

And the Omnishambles plastered social media

with thin people, photoshop and My 600 Pound Life,

spread confusion about how to reconcile pitfalls

so, there’s anorexia and infertility and heart failure.

For Chrissakes leave the fifth seal alone. 

 

Sue Spiers works with the Winchester Poetry Festival. Sue edits The Open University Poetry Society’s annual anthology. Her poems have appeared in Acumen, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Lake, The North, South, and Stand. Sue was longlisted in the 2023/4 National Poetry Competition. Sue Tweets @spiropoetry.

 

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KERRY TRAUTMAN

 

Meat

 

They smelled off, so I threw away the grocery pack

of turkey drumsticks with today’s date—not taking

 

chances. Grilled hot dogs for the kids instead. We make

these plans for meat and what goes alongside it. Tasting

 

in our brains as we go. The kids’ bus-driver is a

nice woman. She drives carefully for a living. It was

 

garbage day, meaning the turkey would sit in

the can for a full August week. Flies within

 

hours, trying their buzzing best to bust the lid. My kids

will eat what I put before them, despite what had been

 

planned. They will eat or not, digest or not, thrive or

not. The bus-driver had a 17-year-old son—nice boy.

 

The meat rots a week then is carted away. Refrigerator

stock dwindles and is replenished as long as throats

 

keep at it all. One icy school morning, the 17-year-old

son’s car spun out into a leafless tree. Necks snap when

 

cars hit trees. All I can do is plan as far as tonight’s

supper. All I can do is wake and sleep and watch them

 

wake and sleep and sustain them in between.

All we can do is improvise when everything’s ruined.

 

End of December, 2020

 

There is a peace in replacing the calendar

on the refrigerator front—empty squares

 

like sparrows’ gaping beaks—

the way a handbell choir and robed chorus

 

ringing O Come, O Come, Emmanuel is

more beautiful hearing it only once

 

each year, and in its darkest weeks. Earth

spins away from one sheet-music of stars,

 

but toward another. There will

always be the choice to fill

 

a gut with what nourishes or rejoice

in rum-soaked fruitcake. The choice

 

to see starlit snowfall as a mausoleum

filled with ravens and irises in need

 

of dividing, or as canvas to paint

new gardens. To hear white

 

silence as suffocation, or as

inhalation awaiting a chorus

 

to appear in a snowdrift, erupt in

O Holy Night, fall on their knees.

 

Kerry Trautman lives in Ohio, USA. Her work has appeared previously in The Lake, as well as numerous other journals and anthologies. Her books are Things That Come in Boxes, To Have Hoped, Artifacts, To be Nonchalantly Alive, Marilyn: Self-Portrait, Oil on Canvas, Unknowable Things, and Irregulars. https://linktr.ee/OhioKerry

 

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