Issue 1 index

Meet the Editors & Designers


Rhys Shanahan

Rice Paper
Damon Young

Hopkins & Hallam
Note from Naomi Lebens

Before I go I have to say...
Kate Pursglove

Some Other Where
Steven Matthews

Weekend Poems: Breakfast
Eleanor Burleigh

Aged 7
Jean Watkins

Childhood & Plastic People
Zeng Chen

Street Scene
Peter Robinson

A Martian Writes
Michael Hutchinson

The Tarot Reading of The Fool

Stop Making Sense & Bla bla bla
Jenna Fox

Fringe Festival
Claire Dyer

When you have hope of life returning, this
Kate Noakes

Broadwood 7362
Gill Learner

A Drop in the Ocean
Lindsey Jones

Pitch of Ghosts
Vic Pickup

23rd February 2021
Kitty Hawkins

The Sofa
Tara Bermingham

Trophies on a Windowsill? & Still (monetizing) Life
Laura Rozamunda

Good to know perhaps, but nothing to be done
Kate Noakes

Heading Out
Michael Anania

The Threshold
David Brauner

Hannah Lily

Park Recollection
Liam Anslow-Sucevic

Rhianna Bryon

Ephemerality of the World
Salma Haque

The August Elvis Died
Gill Learner

Michael Anania

Hit Me Gently
Daisy Dickens

A Martian Writes

We never got to visit the swamp,
that wet-world, closer to the sun.
Large, like a female to our male,
she swings herself by her massive moon
a distant dot of air and water.

On the shores of our polar sea,
we’ve traced our ancestral remains.
Under reddening rocks were signs
of shells, of skeletons, impressions
of a sudden variety of life.

Our ancestors used to wade across lakes,
carrying young and food in their forelimbs.
Later, we learnt to place stone on stone,
build shelters, smelt and hammer metal,
forge tools to dig dirt and sow seeds.

We grew mighty over all eating creatures,
named the stars and dreamt of flight.
Our canals carried water from the pole,
to sluice away the red-grey dust
and freshen ourselves and our crops.

But year by year the north-lake shrank
then vanished. Chill winds swirled
around. Not just the cities are gone,
but the small towns we remember,
their libraries and circles of friends.

We few are holders-on, having no young,
struggling to grow grain in thin, icy air.
This and hunger make us giddy and weak,
like our compasses, yet I still diamond-
scribe on glass these lines, not knowing.  

Biography: Retired now from research in Physics, Michael is kept busy as a yoga teacher and therapist. He lives with his wife on the edge of Pamber Forest in the north of Hampshire, keeps an allotment and helps with parish affairs.

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