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Index: Poetry & Fiction

The Rue Morgue Murders and two more short fictions.

By SIMON COLLINGS. The Rue Morgue murders HOLMES HAD A number of scientific journals spread out around him, and several travel books about Borneo. There was a gleam in his eye which suggested he had made a startling discovery. ‘You’ll remember, Watson, that Dupin concluded that the murders in the Rue Morgue were perpetrated by […]

from ‘The Lessons of Augustus Sprechenbaum’

Norman Finkelstein: ‘Decans, ogdoads, angelic orders, lists of
demonic names. Synods, symposia, conventions:
the learned Hebrew doctors, the Greek philosophers,
the Egyptian wardens of the temples, and all
the stargazers and makers of images…’

Six prose poems from ‘Terraces: a choreography’.

Scott Thurston: ‘The little cabin of the model fishing boat with dark blue windows; on deck a net, a life-ring. Drawing as movement, some kind of tension: dominant, dumb, lackadaisical. Asked to respond to the notion of hope, I reconciled the image to the idea. In the shared drawing you forget what you started; copying me copying you.’

‘In Djibouti…’ and ‘Angel of Hulme’

Jonathan Gorvett: ”This strange ourobouros 
with the phatic promise of the zealot
the indecent suggestion of the martyr
the bad joke of the memoirist.’

An Aural Triptych.

Daragh Breen: ‘Death had saddled
it with a weight
of stars, a strange leadenness’

Three bilinguacultural poems.

Yuan Changming: ‘Among all speakers of the language, touching every
Soul, polluting each context like Californian forest fire. True
The Chinese characters, with their elusive intonations

Can never occupy the smallest island’

The Optician.

Cecilia Eudave: ‘For the first time both eyes saw the same thing, except when she disappeared from my field of vision. Then my left eye tagged along with her like a bodyguard. She spotted me among the crowd, met my gaze, and flashed a smile of recognition at me.’

From ‘The Jazz Age’.

Aidan Semmens: ‘It has been a cold nighttime journey over the high peaks of the Caucasus and she is embarrassed to realise she has huddled for warmth against her fellow traveller Pippin, son of Charlemagne, who now looks at her a shade sternly perhaps as they inch apart, both careful not to come too near the carpet’s edge.’

(a bean).

Fortnightly Fiction. By MARZIA D’AMICO. YOU NEVER THOUGHT you could plant a bean in the desert in the belly heart shaped face your daughter-bean when in the belly the liquid the ultra sound they said she’s fine the bean just fine and well in the belly she’s always been fine just fine nice enough to […]

Manifestos for a lost cause.

Peter Robinson: ‘Street views, daily routes, routines
past health & safety lamp-standards,
and all the social distancing,
they see us frayed, become untied.’

What Heroism Feels Like.

Benjamin Wolfe: ‘She was unclean and unpredictable. Like with a rat or a possum, I knew that she was too small to do me much physical harm, but I was still horrified by the idea of her squirming under my hands and around my ankles.’

‘The London Cage’ and three more poems.

Judith Willson: ‘Smoke holds no shape
but this was centuries ago
in an age of countable numbers
and each man was written into ceremony.’

Seven poems.

Barry Schwabsky: ‘m’lord dug up the bones of your ancient glory
in this sheet the crease resembles a mountain
later melts into a warbling landscape
this life is not the safest place to hide out’

Two songs.

Tristram Fane Saunders:
‘Go soon, my son,
by strong wood prow.
Don’t stop, nor stoop
to mop my brow.’

Two poems: ‘Inbound’ and one untitled about Ziggy.

Nigel Wheale: ‘You demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make
You whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms’