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

Some Other Where

After Propertius, Elegies, IV.vii

Ghosts are, to some senses:
death doesn’t inter all things
into a past. Some thing
shimmers freely beyond
cremation’s flare of loss.

When our love dissipated,
and I’d lapsed into sleep
where my hand strayed over
to cold sheets where you’d lain,
still you seemed to lean
over the bed, hair, eyes,
as I recalled them.

Only your clothes’ colour
was hard to bring back; the shape
of the beryl ring I gave
distorted. I could no longer
shape my lips to your lips.

But your breath between them
and your voice were real,
as you made the night air
resonate, clicking frail
fingers on thumb-bones at me:

“Have you already dropped asleep
towards me, have our furtive
restless nights already faded
for you? or the times
we had al fresco sex,
moving together, bare
soil agitated beneath us?
forgotten love-words you gasped
which the wind shattered to noise?

Through doubling ways
memories are wreathes laid
on this poisoned world-stream,
where we all scull about
                     Along one bank,
shades, moments from the past

drag back intimate guilts.

On the other stream-bank
we’re stolen away by flower-
scented images to the place
in our brains where we danced
to our song that time
in a sweltering Leeds night-club.

Plant ivy in that region
where you have settled me
in your mind; let the fullness
of its berries, dendriting tendrils
preserve the wavering memory
of me.
                  Picture us on
our river walks, meadows

and orchards, sunlit scenes
that will never fade away.
Don’t let our happy daydreams
lapse; if they are good ones
they always mean something.

At night our thoughts stray
free of day’s fore-shadowings,
but with dawn we return
to life’s pale stale marsh, we
are translated to silence.

All the other lovers haunt,
but I’ll hold you soon, body
to my body, some otherwhere.”

Once your voice died away
your image rose, ungrasp-
able beyond my arms’
quick reach to embrace you.

Biography: Steven Matthews is a poet and critic who was born and brought up in Colchester, Essex. Waterloo Press published his first collection of poems, Skying, in 2012; On Magnetism, his second collection, appeared from Two Rivers Press in 2017. In 2016, Steven was one of three inaugural poets-in-residence at the Museum of Natural History, Oxford, and created new work for the residency anthology Guests of Time (Valley Press). A poem from the residency was set as the final part of a song cycle for soprano and string quartet by Cheryl Frances-Hoad, Those Endless Forms Most Beautiful, which was premiered in October 2019.

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