When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest, men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances, noises are no where to be found, talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly. About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria. He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram.
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Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers, and massages their temper before we misunderstand. let us have them submit to our attention and call that moment the vibes, so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins. let us speak to them in silence since they already know the meaning of that word but not in the shape and form of poetry, let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands or sweep away the river with their lashes. let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see and release the clogged tunnel in their veins, let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking but birds and butterflies will know. About the author:
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.
You lie there, caressing the minuscule dark particles of my brain the reminder that you were once here a constant murmur in my ear Your sweet voice — echoing enticing me to live better to endeavour love and hope once again Your image severing my lust for life with a strewn icicle like the ones that hang lightly from the roof of the veranda hoping one will fall and slice through me as I slam the door harder and harder each time to lie by your side, frozen in time with larvae from the blowfly seems all but a dream to me one I fantasise about daily I would have the larvae devour my flesh consenting the soil to make love with my ossein, the thought of our carcasses inflating reminds me of that summer, the summer we rented a bouncy castle in the shape of a cat for your birthday together we shall bloat and collapse, allowing our love of creatures to bounce and feast upon us Mites Carpet Beetles Skipper Flies Ants Reminiscing that time I gifted you an ant farm after your first transplant About the author:
My name is Hannah Myers. I am originally from British Columbia and grew up in Glasgow. I am studying for an MA in creative writing at UCC. I adore writing poetry, game narrative, flash, scripts and ‘dirty rap’. Authors I am interested in and influenced by are Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, Raold Dahl and Sylvia Plath.
Such a beauty reaching out of sand with a shine that shocked my eye, to drop from a wrist was a dangerous flight. Half buried in sand was its resting place − the softest of landings, a whisper fall, the grains all gathered and made a bed. Who wore this bracelet and lost its power, who held her hand and let it swing, who swam away and gifted the beach? It rolled anxiously round my wrist; each jewelled stone had sought my hand, its spirited bodies singed with guilt. Temptation landed as I searched the sea whilst haunting voices gathered inside, the bracelet scratched and cut its mark. To wear any longer would ignite my fear − these charms spoke and knotted my mind, to wear any longer, would leave me buried in grit. About the author:
Julie Stevens writes poems that cover many themes, but often engages with the problems of disability. She has two published pamphlets: Quicksand (Dreich 2020) and Balancing Act (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2021). Her next pamphlet Step into the Dark will be published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press. www.jumpingjulespoetry.com
This walk is never easy, with these legs. As I step on the grass by the forest path, I feel its blades lift me up. Smoke from behind seems to carry me forwards, did I really feel that? A gentle push, and hand on my back, but where is this person to ask? They rush through, ripple my coat − a girl with shimmering hair. Take a strand and hold it like a rope she signs, and twirls me along, to the top, the very top of this hill, I couldn’t walk up. I sit with her, believe in magic, what else could it have been? She smiles and places a finger on my lips, then softly, drifts away. About the author:
Julie Stevens writes poems that cover many themes, but often engages with the problems of disability. She has two published pamphlets: Quicksand (Dreich 2020) and Balancing Act (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2021). Her next pamphlet Step into the Dark will be published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press. www.jumpingjulespoetry.com Content indicator: reference to child sexual abuse.
Once upon a time, a child was sexually abused. The abuse was reported, and the perpetrator was discerned. The perpetrator was apprehended, and duly appeared in court. The courts found them guilty, and the perpetrator was sentenced to a punishment befitting their crime. Justice was acquired. The child was subsequently looked after, psychologically rehabilitated, and nourished with love. And they all lived happily ever after (except for the baddies). The End About the author:
Holly is a mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her work has appeared in: Stand; The Moth; Ink, Sweat &Tears, amongst others, and has also appeared in a number of anthologies. Her debut poetry collection, Dirty, is available from Yaffle Press.
We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. Creating a sketch or collage shaping silvery stars with pencils to fill the empty winter skies, we paint with silver, grey and blue for a new and captivating crisp horizon. Perhaps we will decorate our coats with fluorescent colours and glittering threads of silver that will illuminate our snow-covered clothes. And we will find our place in the books we chose. Favourite folklore creatures add their silvery song to our new poems, and their fables and traditions are still and not made to alarm or frighten. We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. It became a part of winter as we dream of the distant memories of summer meadows. There is courage found in the stories that we find will enlighten. We speak and sing as freely as the changing winter outdoor scenes with songs and carols to invite in. It is time to celebrate the winter sun and share its wisdom in paper stories we can write in. We start each day anew, and now we see how a song, story or rhyme calls towards the silver in the soaring trees with their early gleaming shadows. It is a single line from poetry whispering in the coolness of winter air when it is time for warmth and the days ahead to brighten. 'Winter Silver' was previously published on the children's poetry website, The Dirigible Balloon.
"From the nether world, whence I came," intoned the old hag, stirring the bubbling cauldron with an enormous wooden spoon. "That's the answer." She sighed. "But, what was the question?" asked her acolyte, peering into the murky green depths of the pot. He winced, withdrew. "The question, Sivet," scolded the old woman, "is, from where did I arise." He nodded his understanding though in truth he understood little of the Old Witch or her ways. He stuffed another mint into his mouth. Suddenly he spoke: "What is it you're cooking, Milady?" His inquisitive- ness served to intrigue her. "Good, Sivet, you're learning to think," she observed. "This is pixie porridge," she replied to his question. "But, what's in it?" he persisted. "It's contents are eponymous with its name," she said shortly. "Eew," mewled Sivet, cringing. "You put those adorable little pixies in there?" and he pointed at the churning, bubbling cauldron with an accusing forefinger. This was not at all what he'd signed up for, he thought. "Here, take a little taste," the crone invited. She lifted a spoonful to his lips but like a cat he angrily batted it away, spilling the contents. The thick fluid hissed angrily where it landed upon the wooden planks. "Now you've done it, now you've done it," cried the Old Witch like an avenging angel. "Here, I'll clean it up," offered Sivet hastily, grabbing a rag and wiping at the stain. "Too late for that," she said harshly. "The magic has gone out of the elixir!" "Wh...what can I do?" asked her assistant fearfully. She was a formidable witch and would make for an unwelcome adversary; he must stay on her good side at all costs. "Take a sip of it--now," she snarled, glaring at him with bulging, fish-like eyes. Reluctantly he took up the wooden spoon and sipped; it tasted like vomit, he thought, but smiled his approval at her. When she wasn't looking he pushed another mint between his lips. "Take another taste," she told him and while he was so doing, she crept round behind Sivet and coshed him thunderously across the back of his head with a length or iron pipe. The impact made a sickening, moist sound, like the crushing of an overly ripe apple. Sivet fell forward and the witch directed his head and shoulders into the burbling concoction. As he slipped beneath the surface, the witch grasped his legs and pushed them into the pot after him. She reached down and added wood to the fire. "Now," she thought, "Sivet would take at least twenty hours to render into new magic elixir; but she was missing something. What was it? Oh, yes. ************* "Pratalia stood by the steaming cauldron this time, awaiting Milady's pleasure. She hadn't long to wait. "Are you ready for me to taste, Milady?" she asked. The Old Witch nodded her approval. "Yes, Dear," she rasped. "Tell me what you taste." Sticking the wooden spoon into the frothy liquid, Pratalia spooned out a taste, applied it to her tongue. The Old Witch looked at the lass over her spectacles. "Yes," said Pratalia excitedly, "it's mint--wintergreen, I think." The old hag nodded in satisfaction. "Pratalia," said the Old Witch, "you are now my new potion taster. That's a very important position; do you think you can handle it?" "Yes, Milady," said the girl. "But, what will become of Sivet? He was your taster-in- training." "Oh, I've promoted Sivet," said the hag. "He's now in charge of selecting the elements for my potions." "One final question, Dear," said the Old Witch. Pratalia looked up inquiringly. "Do you fancy pixies?" she asked. Pratalia made an ugly face. "Frankly, Milady, I do not!" The crone smiled. "I believe you will fit in very nicely as my new assistant," she murmured contentedly. About the author:
Bill Tope is a retired Public Assistance caseworker who lives in Illinois (almost in the very shadow of the majestic Gateway Arch) with his mean little cat Baby. He has been a construction worker, a cook, a nude model, you name it.
Photopsia, brightblack, between me and the words. Sparks dive but do not illuminate. A scintillating castle haunts my vision, just out of reach. I can almost get there when I hold up a sheet of snow white paper… Dig up the key and the box. The dove gets my right eye, this time. It splits. It’s sharp it shimmers. About the author:
Amy Bennett-Zendzian is a Lecturer in Writing at Boston University, where she teaches courses on fairy tales and advocates for disability access. Her fairy-tale poetry and stories have been published in Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, Enchanted Conversation, and NonBinary Review. "Megrim" was previously published in Liminality: A Magazine of Speculative Poetry #25.
I My grey sisters never lived their youth They share one eye and one tooth Aligned as eggs they sleepwalk through our back yard and nest beneath our apple tree. Our kind mother is the Lady of Canines Under the surface of herself she has the distorted body of a swan and a cosmogonic castle of riddles. I absorbed I merged I forgave Amalgamated inward To slay I disdained Stood in the clearing alive as a forest II My armless body across currents of memory Do I lose control or clench as the impalpable axe in my floating palm hangs over stretches of white plankton An eroding seabed bears my pearl face Underneath I am eight years old my unripe hand clasps a pen I toss my small journal book in the depths of my throat -An undomesticated land of reversed periphery from the ocean’s floor, out into the forest, up the mountain, out into the river, out into the desert, stars come up, night falls over, my childhood house in flames Flesh in its boundless amorphous fate My crucible heart a geomorphic mystery of distance a melting agony of protruding golden arms About the author:
Maria Constanti is a performer from Cyprus, based in Athens, working across the fields of storytelling, music and devised performance. In her work she embraces practices that explore the body as the creative source of poetic and symbolic articulation, as a space for speaking in images from the body’s experience, informed by the underlying resonance of the mythic. She studied Classics at the University of Cyprus and researched postmodern reinterpretations of fairy tales at the University of Athens, performance practice and embodied dramaturgy at Arthaus Berlin Centre for Devised Theatre and Performance. |
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