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Index: Poetry & Fiction

Six quite short stories.

Simon Collings: ‘The American academic Wendell G. Beresford appeared to have solved the mystery in 1903 when he put forward the theory that Crusoe had simply made a “slip of the pen” in a moment of distraction, having no doubt intended to write “pelican”‘

Five poems from ‘Mattered by Tangents’.

Tim Allen: ‘they met under the sign of the Merry Lobster
press gangs red caps and white helmets’

Seven more.

Tom Lowenstein: ‘As the spatula scrapes away debris, an artefact emerges with its tessellation warped, the colours veiled in dust. These are not consolidations of an imagined underworld: the lid, the crust, the integument of an interior, but conservation of soul life.’

Languages: A Ghazal.

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee: ‘There’s a hole in every heart. There’s a bullet in every memory.
There’s a grave in every silence. Time is a wreath of languages.’

None of Us.

Luke Emmett, on his new poems: ‘I try to generate content by expressing my appetite. I shape a poem’s sounds independent of that, to create a pattern of abstract and concrete energy on the page. I think of this as nomadic.’

Blind man’s fog…

Patrick Williamson: (From ‘Moon-time’): ‘The gibbous one greet me coldly,
rain squeezed me int’pub but maid
tek n’gorm. Scarpered. Blasted
slippery soles. The boots is off.’

‘Noise’ and three other poems.

Maria de Araujo: ‘poetry is useless when carved into skin —
A quick glance all it can take,
the indulgent caress after the flood.’


Emma Park: ‘This is my European disease, to wake up at night, tormented by the fear that I have not done enough, have not spent my time wisely — that the places where I have lived have remained and will always remain indifferent to me. I cannot bear the thought that my existence will have left no more of an impression on the path of history than a moth’s wing. Even though, if I had proper humility, I should remember how many people there are in the world, even on this distant island, and accept that there is little enough reason why I of all of them should be remembered.’


Tom Lowenstein: ‘Is it that you have gone back to your tower,
your precinct, the territory you value as your own
and in which I remain a stranger?

‘I’ve arrived in the faltering dialect
of my own solitude.’

Empyrean Suite.

Anthony Howell: ‘James Kirkup said that “decidedly, Fawzi Karim is a poet for our times, with his strong yet beautiful voice, his indignation…and the haunting memories of certain lines that seem intended for all of us, but that few can hear in the endless tumult of what is called life.”’

The Champions.

Peter Jerome: ‘It began with the hooked blade and another gesture of appreciation to the crowd. The contestant shrugged the gown he had been wearing from his shoulders, and surrendered his naked form to us all. He appeared unafraid and bold in his nudity, not at all as if he was preparing for bed or passing waste in the commode. This was a gallant nudity as seen in beasts of the wild.’

A Nocturnalle upon St Agatha’s Day, travelling East.

Colin Honnor: ‘…strange night, naked blue eloquent mystery / in the Venusian seventh house of Mars / the pure aspect of Scorpio inclines / asseverate charts table the mapped heavens…’

Heard in Tintoretto.

Hoyt Rogers: ‘At San Marcuola the / table is static / as a refectory plank / on a fresco in Milan…

What they are discussing, and two more poems.

. By JESSE GLASS . What They Are Discussing.               Toothless Or teeth filed flat Slathered with cinnabar                Or powdered slate Eclipses gnawed away Sun                     Moon as Warrior ants a leaf All circling emptiness Jaguar-centuries Dragged bird men from their cries Or disemboweled Quetzel-feathered shadows Rippling down sunlit Temple steps When Xipe Totec […]

Two new poems.

Laura Potts: ‘Bottle and Bible. Now this is pleasurable. Somewhere/on the other side of the night I am hearing you say…’