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Index: Poetry & Fiction

Seven very small fictions.

Vik Shirley: ‘In more recent times, he’d stopped writing and had given up his clothes and possessions, everything other than an authentic animal-skin smock he’d bought at a Prehistoric Man convention in Stroud, back in 1995, and a couple of Neolithic bones. He now spent most of his time drawing on the walls of his London flat, hunting foxes by night, cooking them over small managed fires in his living room, devouring them keenly, without the aid of utensils.’

‘Excavation’ and two more poems.

Annna Forbes: ‘Relative to the swift execution of an antelope
the damage is insignificant—much of the scaffolding endures
and down in the cellar’

Six poems from ‘The Shooting Gallery’.

Carrie Etter: ‘A litany of the dead, including eleven dead children. If I propose their names make a dirge, you may reply, “How very American”.’

EP : From the Life — and two more poems.

Steve Xerri: ‘When the momentum of defeated new Rome
slumps, you come awake dumped in a prison camp,
far from any centre of power, your iron certainty
beginning its long erasure under doubt.’

‘So, Dreams’ and three more poems.

Luke Emmett: ‘The grass crisp under our
hands, short visit stirring,
we’re distracted by sounds of rain’

For once.

Susana Martín Gijón: ‘When the potholes in the road made me bounce, I started to imagine it.  When the vehicle stopped unexpectedly, I felt it coming.  When he got up from his seat with deliberately slow movements, I knew it with certainty.’

‘Earth at Apogee’ and ‘Curbed’.

Sandra Kolankiewicz:”I can’t write of the oceans
without seeing that landmass of
plastic swirling in the Pacific,
bigger than Pitcairn Island

Pain.

Jesse Glass: ‘Pain—grim tapdancer, Fred Astaire of the last rites,
Amelia Earhart of the subconscious:
little blue plane with the black propeller
flying over the dark side of my heart!’

Three poems.

Claire Crowther: ‘Is seriousness a growing problem for outdoor bowls? There is studying opponents, calling to officials and denigrating bagger totals. St John in Revelation warns that those elders who survive a plague do not repent of their fornications. Where are you?’

Four prose poems.

Jane Monson: ‘The house is starting to record the home’s absence; plays it back to them at bedtime. In the floor’s creaks, cracks and groans they relive all the battles and defeats; the refrain of each other’s roars and whimpers.’

Poetry in paragraphs.

Simon Collings: ‘”The Prose Poem Now” takes us from the present back to 2000, “The Postmodern Prose Poem” covers the second half of the twentieth century, and “The Modern Prose Poem” covers the century from the 1940s back to 1842.’

Poems from ‘The Slip’.

Simon Perril: ”’The Slip” is the final volume of a trilogy excavating a crime scene at the centre of archaic lyric. Archilochus, ancient Greece’s first lyric poet, was a soldier, part slave part aristocrat, who took part in the earliest colonial expeditions…’

Only Fools Rush In.

Michael Buckingham Gray: ‘He leads her through the glass doors to a table and sits her down. Fetches her a cup of coffee and makes himself one too. Swings by his desk and slips a blank sales contract under his arm. Then returns to the table and is about to sit down when another salesman walks by and asks him where the manager is.’

Nine haibun.

Sheila E. Murphy: ‘Friendship lapsed beyond a referent. He grew tired of sorting. She knew her history was thin, and thus preferred to formulate her own. The picket fence might have been wicker; fence might have been stone.’

‘Hurt Detail’ and two more prose poems.

Lydia Unsworth: ‘I swallow myself to sleep―on trains, in soon-to-be-demolished houses by the sides of rails. I raise my arm at the steamy driver, her eyes and the things we train them to deter. They say a foolish death is a happy one, that she who looks both ways has an excess of empty time.’