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Index: Poetry & Fiction

Three récits by Georges Limbour.

Georges Limbour: ‘However, as soon as the first white-painted houses appeared, as though sensing it would have been dangerous to go further, they stopped and scattered amid the cacti and fig trees. I entered the village. A woman rooted to the spot by the pitcher she carried on her head raised the edge of her cloak to her eyes. ‘

Birds of the Sherborne Missal.

Elisabeth Bletsoe: ‘Slipping between pleated histories at the lake’s surface, brilliant or dazzling, the coup de foudre. Fortunately falling folded amongst these structures of unmaking, these collusions in perceptual paradox. Stunned by the flashover irrupting capillary walls in arborescent erythema…’

Three poems by Sam James.

. Anaphora. What should I lament, losses of forests, hope, or even direction? No, only time poorly spent. How has it been used, to lay out the preface of a concept’s surface? Time has been abused. Shall we bring to fruit the flowers of the tree, shall we, from the root, rise tall enough to […]

Seven poems: Peter Robinson.

Peter Robinson: ‘Deposited at Castletroy and come
like an old man to this country,
I may stroll at ease
above the Shannon’s dark mutinous waves
into County Clare, then back again…’

Three poems by David Cooke.

. MILESIANS. They were matter-of-fact and mercantile, their deities stockpiled in lumber rooms, containers, or the air-conditioned acres of a state-of-the-art clockwork hangar. Too good to clear away, they laid them up, just in case, alongside incense and charms, the stacks of cheap libationary bowls. It didn’t take that much – distant thunder, a tremor, […]

The Picture in Ireland.

Laura Potts: ‘You warned the living of the dead.
And said that prayer you’d never said, but it was lost instead.
And in those gobbet-drops of flesh wept Our Lady overhead.’

The Gauloises Blonde and four more poems.

Lana Bella: ‘ike a girl lost,
like the first crescent in a kind
of teardrop, I was never born to feel
night from your hair, backlit with
smooth shine dirt giving yards
to fire and smoke.’

Essay on Spam.

Alistair Noon: ‘Come, O Ostrich Chuckle Ball.
Come, exoplanets. Come, dark matter I could call
out at the superfluity, Hi, here I am!
For where there’s intelligent life, there’s spam.’

Five new poems by Emily Critchley.

Emily Critchley: ‘Remembering to remember. Remember to pass beyond you into the us
In the winged shadow, the space you will never know.
Taking me from myself, in the path
Which the blind birth of the day has consigned me to.’

Two new poems by Carol Rumens.

Carol Rumens: ‘From Mametz Wood and Loos,/mouths blaze with rhyme, but when/Demos sifts the chaos,/we watch how class writes men,/in every stripe of pen.’

Two new poems by Carola Luther.

. . 1. Birthday in Emily Court   Hip hip Noreen, hip hip… ♦ Now we have sung, and made our toasts with pop and beer through the leaves, through the window, light like water we gather round tables with friends and strangers, making time for the old folk, letting small-talk darn us in for […]

The Attendant.

Nigel Ford: ‘They arrive here, moth-eaten winter crows, dipping and croaking, bending and creaking, they grasp the deck chairs with knowing hands and place them where they will. Their knowledge and expertise transform them into a grace of ravens. They have grown above their souls.’


Alan Wall: ‘How reconcile the holy text of Genesis with modern cosmology, which we now know to be true? Hebrew scripture being canonical. Well, God makes everything in six days before signing off for the Sabbath. But look hard at the words.’

The Adjunct.

James Gallant: ‘Aurora’s had persisted in her “crummy profession” partially because her MFA from Iowa prepared her for little else; but she also really liked teaching. She had hoped early on that adjunct teaching would lead to a more permanent, stable situation, but that hope was long gone. ‘

A Diatribe.

Anthony Howell: ‘Aren’t you as dismayed about the growth of our arms trade
and how it’s all been done before
or has already been made?’