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

Pitch of ghosts

It's just a kick around this Sunday.
The end of the season Motherwell vs. Wishaw,
everyone's here.

Passing back and forth, translucence an advantage,
Maclean claims having lost a tackle –
he didn't see him coming.

Donovan mutters it was offside but hasn’t the heart
to contest the ref; even he knows it’s wrong
to speak ill of the dead.

Half time oranges for the lads with black bands,
no sustenance required for the others.

Children cheer them on, parents laugh, arms linked
worn faces and Thermos’ steaming as
booted and fleeced on the sidelines,
Granny heckles from a deckchair.

A break from the daily grind or lack thereof in Ravenscraig.
Past shuttered shop fronts, Ladbrokes and pawn shops wanting gold
to have a moment with a tealight, beneath flowers
crucified on a steel gate.

Framed photographs propped against palisade swords,
going dark at the edges where the rain bled in, warping
sun-bleached smiles of the ones who called time on themselves.

Play on.

Neat passes between the brothers − a race up the midfield
Lewis scores, does his signature run and swoop
a kiss for the wife, feet not touching the floor.

In the pub afterwards they celebrate with a pint
clinking glasses and laughter, a weak echo
reverberating around the rim.

Cracked eyes, smiles fade to grey.
Mum's doing a roast later, but these are the lost boys
who won’t ever find their way home.

Biography: Vic Pickup’s poetry has featured in a number of magazines and webzines over the last two decades. She is a previous winner of the Café Writers competition, with her poem about a Bosnian chicken, and was recently shortlisted for the National Poetry Day #speakyourtruth competition. In 2018, Vic co-founded the Inkpot Writer’s Group in the Hampshire village where she lives with her husband, three children and (of course) her pet chicken.

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