Our desktop, age 12, expired quietly Last night, after a long illness, Surrounded by loved ones. Win32k.sys Address BF801276… In its declining years It was still able, slowly and with Great difficulty, to find The best price on gas, The route to Nova Scotia. But twelve is pretty old, even in doggy years, So when we saw the dire language On the blue screen, We despaired of heroic cures And entrusted it to the Cyberhospice Who thought they could save My e-mail list, some files; Other things gone, Like certain memories, irretrievable.
I used the library’s computer today— New operating system— And saw a list of files Not meant for my eyes: Resume update, Draft for Mum’s obituary.
If our new computer should last twelve years… Better not to speculate. I do hope they’ll return the Old hard drive. I plan to keep it In an urn On the mantle.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
I listen close, knotting thread through my fingers, focus on the disruntled cock of your head: “you’re fidgeting again”, shrug the shiver of wanting to hold comfort in my grasp but fuel thirst for scrutiny.
Tremor of hand, you analyse to alienate me until– I feel my limbs disconnect and fall heavy weighted by your speared pupils: a broken woman picks, picks, picks away at the fleshy upturned belly of a young girl, soft skin–with time she will grow the armour to fight this woman.
Florence tourist
Quiltwork faces collide we witness, feel stomach swelling toasting, square stuffed with selfie sticks – there a man lies supine painting film her slow-motion street dance, flashing backdrop of cathedral. Brash voices shoot code new language of Google maps hands navigate bars to golden doors future worship flicker on Facebook as night pales to calls distinctly English we wonder where locals hide from storming feet.
Isabelle Kenyon is northern poet and the author of Digging Holes To Another Continent (Clare Songbirds Publishing House). She is the editor of Fly on the Wall Press. Her poems have been published in poetry anthologies by Indigo Dreams Publishing, Verve Poetry Press, and Hedgehog Poetry Press. Her book reviews, articles and blog posts have been published in various places such as Neon Books, Authors Publish, Harness magazine and Five Oaks Press.
i can see in her eyes she will kill me one of these days
if i was an optimist
i could see a future a house, children playing with the dog in the yard
i’m not an optimist
i see a drained checking account, credit cards used without my knowledge and the threat of more violence if the other demands aren’t met soon
when an old woman
my dirty brain laughs when an old woman checks me out
even if it’s just for a second
i can’t help but wonder if i would
it’s been over a decade
of course, i would
single in my forties
the darkness inside of me kills everything it comes into contact with
at least that is how i’m going to think of being single in my forties
i could lament having no fucking luck with love or i could drink away the pain
i’m sure there are better options
but i never set foot in anything resembling a better life
i’m comfortable in filth despair and the usual sad moments of agony and pain
sunshine gives you cancer and there is no gold at the end of a fucking rainbow
beethoven plays in the distance
all the angels are out of mercy
they look out of place here anyway
unlock the case and load
every ending is a new beginning
or whatever bumper sticker works for your ending here
but as the light fades
she was the kind of woman that had already lived a couple lives before you walked into hers
she never wanted to fall in love and you never wanted to like the pain
but as the light fades like a soft angel peeling her lips off an old soul
she’ll teach you the horrors of gin
of cocaine after three in the morning on an empty stomach
of what happens to the hero in a land of assholes and disease
depravity never lets the sun shine
be careful the first time you see your shadow
one false move and she’ll haunt your dreams until you die
no desire to even think
i remember thinking i was going to die in my twenties when i was a teenager
i never even thought my thirties were even a possibility
there was no planning, no desire to even think it was going to happen
and now i’m acing life in my forties and figuring out how to die while poor
indoors is the best i can come up with
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review. His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads
Attention: This manifesto has in itself a magical power and it can finally refute the communist manifesto (1847/48) and its successors in the form of communist states.
It burns a peaceful campfire!
I am part of the pink eternity. I enchant the poetic stars. I dream with ghosts of melancholy. I am a magician of dawn. My wing is called Apollo. I’m so enchanted, so dreamy. I am a sky dreamer. I am shrouded in the most beautiful enthusiasm. My dream enchants the beautiful world. There is a magic dream in my wings. My wings can do magic. I like my dreams. My dream is hotter than feeling. Philosophical thoughts are waiting for me. Philosophical sparks shimmer at me. My philosophy is infinity. I am in love with the infinity of politics. I like a druidic fire. I want to become a druid priest. Modern druids beautify my existence. An eternal spark rests in my poetries. I am spiritualized thanks to poetry. In politics you can be poetic. I never quarrel with muses. I fly in pairs like muses. My wings would need starry rays. With beautiful sounds fulfilling my dream of melancholy. Poetic moments enrich my soul. There is an Osiris chalice in my soul. My friend Loreley is a philosopher like me. In tender tears my magic life takes place. I sometimes quarrel with tears of finiteness. I would build a school for Druids. The imagination unfolds in the moon. I adore Osiris forever. My friend Osiris likes the original beauty. In my chalice there is Osiris’ soul. I fly to the land of Osiris. I write a legend to the Osiris. I drink a dew of eternity. In the dew, I can refresh my soul like muses. I warm myself in a gentle dew. I cool my wings in the magic dew. In the dew falls my little shooting star. Ambrosia is eternal for my sake. In Ambrosia I feel infinitely beautiful magic. I love to perpetuate this Ambrosia. An idea about the Ambrosia is waiting for me. My tender thought must be enchanted by Ambrosia. I, sitting, wait for spiritualized moments. I sit there as if I were a musical angel. I philosophise as if an angelic muse had touched me. In the wind, my moment becomes like a star-shaped existence. This touch reflects my eternity. The tender poetry becomes my temple. In the most beautiful stamp of feeling I belong to you. I can love all the fantasies of the dawn. I’ll show you my freedom of mindlessness. I like to collect coloured shooting stars of the angels.
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Once
there was a slip of paper, folded into four. It sat in the pocket of
a heavy green overcoat.
Dorothy hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the detached house.
***
Dorothy
flinches as she eases the white turtle neck jumper over her head, and
down the contours of her shoulders and back. She picks up the black
stirrup pants from the bedroom floor and sits back onto the bed. He
turns towards her; opens his eyes before drifting back to sleep.
***
The kitchen welcomes him with the smell of freshly cooked: eggs, bacon, baked beans, and fried bread. One place set; one napkin, Daily Mirror, one cup and saucer.
***
Dorothy
is on her knees scrapping a mixture of smashed plate, eggs, bacon,
baked beans, fried bread and blood into a dustpan.
She holds her breath as he dips the fried bread into the yolk of the egg, he pauses: “Perfect, now why couldn’t you do that the first time?”
She pours the tea as he swallows his last mouthful of breakfast; removes the plate and places the cup and saucer before him. Her grip intense on the plate – as he slurps the tea she closes her eyes – waiting “Spot on.”
A silent sigh as the plate sinks beneath the Fairy bubbles. She watches as the grease floats to the top. If allowed to smile, she would at this image, as it impersonates her underlying feelings.
The
chink of his china cup alerts her to be swift. A neatly wrapped
package swops places with the china cup and saucer. He picks up the
greaseproof paper package, held together with string and smells it:
“Salmon?”
Dorothy nods. She hands him his flask of tea. He places the flask on the table; unwraps the neat package to reveal two perfect white triangles. In silence he selects one triangle; peels the bread apart, exposing the pink flesh. He rises to his feet; takes four deliberate steps towards Dorothy. He throws the triangles at the toes of her suede boots and places the heel of his black Oxford shoe onto the pink flesh and twists: hissing through clenched teeth; “It’s Monday.” A fine shower of spittle shocks her eyes. He turns around hesitates glances at the clock, puts on his collar and leaves.
***
“Ladies
it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Mrs Darby our speaker
this evening and judge for the best scones competition.” Dorothy
stands up. “Thank you, madam chair…my talk this evening; ‘Life
as a vicar’s wife.’
***
“In
third place Mrs Blackburn, in second place Mrs Smith’s cherry
scones and in first place Mrs Green.”
“Thank you, Mrs Darby, a delightful talk and I hope you will join us for tea and scones.”
***
She
closes the front door and leans against it. A shard of light glows
under the parlour door, her body is frozen with dread, a moment to
realise. She hangs her green coat next to the black overcoat with the
velvet collar and goes to make a pot of tea.
He
grabs her wrist as she sets the tray down, his eyes seeking what is
not there. Once released she sits down and drinks her tea. The mantle
clock chimes ten, Dorothy clears away the cups and goes to bed to
wait.
***
Dorothy
waits in the Little Blue Café on the high street staring out of the
window, she thinks to herself, what secrets are the people that pass
by hiding. Gentlemen hurrying along in their over coats and trilbies;
are they kind to their girlfriends or wives? Young ladies laughing
and chatting rushing to work; are they truly happy?
The waitress brings, her toasted
teacake and milky coffee. “I thought it was you, it is isn’t
it…Mrs Darby?…you probably don’t remember me, I bet you meet
loads of real ladies being married to a vicar and all…”
Dorothy recalls that evening of course she remembers her, it’s the cherry scone lady; Mrs Smith who should have won first prize if she wasn’t the vicar’s wife and it wasn’t the WI.
She remembers, she remembers him coming up the stairs, his dark shadow over her and then she felt the heaviness of his darkness.
Mrs
Smith orders herself tea and toast and tells Dorothy about little
Billy and his verrucas and Nellie and her nits.
Then she stops and asks: “So, how are you?” No one has asked
Dorothy this for so long it takes her breath away. She finishes her
coffee and starts to talk.
Mrs Smith listens, she does not try to make Dorothy feel better, she is not shocked. Dorothy knows she is not alone. Mrs Smith has lived the same life. She understands the fear that stops her fighting back, keeps her in check. Mrs Smith does not question; she writes her name and address on a slip of paper and carefully folds it into four. She takes hold of Dorothy’s hand; pressing the paper into her palm. Mrs Smith pays her bill and leaves.
***
Dorothy
hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The
click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the
detached house; hesitates, then runs towards the Underground Station.
She takes the Northern Line not knowing where she is going.
She slides her hand into her coat pocket; pulls out the slip of paper – unfolds it and reads the address. Dorothy steps from the train at Warren Street.
Sally Shaw is a full-time MA Creative Writing student at the University of Leicester. She writes short stories and poetry, gains inspiration from old photographs, history, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros and Liz Berry. Her short prose, A School Photograph, has been published online by NEWMAG. She worked as a nurse for 33 years and lives in North Warwickshire with her partner, three Pekin Bantams and Bob the dog.
“There are babies.” I looked up.
I hadn’t expected to hear another word out of her. I took her
hand again. Her eyelids flickered open. “Babies? Where?” I
asked. “At bottom of garden.” I frowned at her. Maybe this was
a sign that she as at the end now. “No, Grandma. Fairies.” I
said. “You’ve got fairy statues at the bottom of the garden.
The ones I used to dance around when I was little.” There wasn’t
a pause on her part. “Not fairies, babies,” she said firmly.
“Look after my babies for me.”
I always get a huge thrill out of reading books that perhaps initially I have glanced at and thought to myself ‘Oh no, this isn’t going to be my thing at all’. Followed, three minutes later, by being completely awed by the author’s writing and, by page two, knowing for certain that I’m reading something very special. Linda Green’s book, The Last Thing She Told Me, is such a treasure.
Linda’s plot weaves a superlative
trail across the pages of her novel. Written from a first person
perspective, we follow Nicola, a wife and mother to two girls.
Initially, we meet Nicola as she gently cares for her grandmother,
Betty, who is experiencing her final moments of earthly life. Before
her grandmother slips away, she tells Nicola that there are babies
buried at the bottom of the garden. From that mind-blowing
revelation, Nicola’s world is turned upside down, as she
investigates her grandmother’s bizarre claims.
This is my first experience of meeting
Linda Green and it’s very clear from the opening page that she is
an excellent writer. Her carefully chosen words weave everything
together very tightly and the fast pace of the action keeps readers
on their toes, or at the very edges of their seats. The sense of
mystery is maintained right through to the concluding chapters; again
a firm testament to the author’s literary talents. The balance
between ‘show and tell’ is absolutely on the mark, meaning that
all characters, and their wide range of expressions & actions,
are very memorable; living on in our minds beyond the final page.
Each character’s voice is strong and depicted with utter
believability. Furthermore, each chapter is separated with a thread
that goes back to wartime Britain in 1944. Over time, this thread
becomes a vital part of the overall plot and helps the reader to gain
further insights into the actions of the characters.
‘He had woven a web and I was
trapped in it. It was my stupid fault for getting caught in the
first place. When the knock came, I walked to the door, opened it and
let him in. He wasn’t carrying flowers this time. There was no
need for pretence. We both knew what he had come for. “Best get
the kettle on, lass” he said. He drank his tea, then wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand. “Right then.” he said. “Better
go upstairs, unless you want world and his wife watching.”
Linda’s ability to portray realistic
voices is another testament to her impressive writing ‘toolbox’,
with characters ranging from small children to much older facing the
end of their days. The secrets that many characters clutch painfully
to their hearts is a vital aspect of the story, as Nicola turns
detective and seeks to uncover many skeletons; both metaphorically
and literally. The links and connections between all characters are
made clear and the reader is left in no doubt as to who is who and
what is happening; again a display of fine talent for a story line
that bobs and weaves at a steady pace throughout the novel.
It’s very clear that Linda has
researched this novel extremely well. It’s also a nice touch to
have a short explanation from the author at the end of the book,
describing her initial reasons behind writing it.
Because Linda has achieved a fine
balance in the action and portrayal of characters, the pages turn
very quickly and, for me, it is a literal definition of a ‘page
turner’. We care about the characters because Linda makes them
important to us, ranging from the background characters to the main
protagonist who is relaying the story to our eager eyes.
This is a brilliant read across all
three hundred and sixty-five pages and I thoroughly recommend it. I
would also dare you to put it down, once it has utterly gripped your
literary mind.
there was a tender muse-like moment of charm, such an Apollonian tear when the cute bee set down on a noble rose in the kind calyx of the bloom, full dreamy splendour
the gentle sun smiled, at that time, at it fairy-like oh, a sweet morning gracefulness of rays, the owl stayed with the courage that is in the habit of flying into an ancient forest homewards
there was endlessly angelic-beautiful early spring a tender March like a breath with pleasant smell of hummingbirds and in bright nightly moonlight which is fulfilled in splendour of butterfly the ghosts of open fields are dreaming incredible with the gleaming time of fantasy
dreams about the morning star and this steeped in legend Venus boasted about the dreamy bee with marvellous native glow because it experienced something very old such a butterfly-like feeling as if it had been infinite fledged as the heavenly she-daydreamer
that bee wanted to relish only the dew take a few drops of an eternal water to itself easy drinking and its wings dipping
yes the rose was knowing in a gorgeous dream of the primeval delight
as soon as the insect looked in the mild kind dew it saw there an enchanting minute small mirror
through the mirror the bee observed the dreamful nature the hidden spring mermaid from an other time as trace of ontology
that was the boundless wonderful eagle-like eternity what a melancholic land of spring dream-magic!
the mermaid with the harp was a young poet of muses that youth forsooth with a thousand warm lights of hearts
the bee dreamed like an Apollonian rider through the March into April
meanwhile the soul of the bee became tender willing to a starry flight as well as worth the ambrosia
the while in rosy calyx and mermaid´s observation have enchanted forever the dream of the eternity
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Linda,
congratulations on your debut poetry collection, Hormoanal,
published by Matthew James Publishing, and launched at the Stockport
War Memorial Art Gallery. What made you decide to write about the
menopause?
Hi Deborah, thanks for having me!
Hormoanal is actually a collection of two halves: the first deals with motherhood. Those poems were written organically, inspired by my children as they grew up. That’s my favourite way to write, listening out for poems as I live my life. The second half was written much more intentionally: when I realised I was on the menopause I thought (grumpily), ‘Well, if I’m going through this for the next five years or more, I’m getting something out of it’. I made a point of thinking about the symptoms instead of simply enduring them. I love to laugh at life, because laughter makes everything more bearable, so the decision to poke fun at the menopause was easy.
Can
you share with us a couple of poems and walk us through the idea
behind them?
The Perils of Making a Baby
Stretch marks march over homegrown hills. Ankles, feet, even knees, swell. You love this child created in love. You hate the heartburn, snoring, nausea but – most of all – your unencumbered mate. You miss your feet. And sometimes, the toilet. It’s scary: no one will say what happens at the end, down there amongst the hair… They say all your brains go into the first baby; you can’t concentrate enough to disagree.
You want this child but sometimes, you just can’t stomach it.
It was difficult to choose
representative poems because part of my style is to write in as many
different ways as possible, so some poems rhyme, others don’t; some
have irregular stanzas, some are regular forms; some are short, some
are long; some are punctuated, some are not; some have regimented
syllable counts, others don’t, and so on. Plus, I’ll mix it up so
that very few poems have the same elements. When I write
thematically, I like to approach the theme from as many angles as I
can think of.
I chose this poem in the end because it shows my love of wordplay. As an example, this line: ‘You miss your feet. And sometimes, the toilet’ plays with two meanings of ‘miss’ and allows for a punchline. The use of ‘stomach’ on the last line operates in the same way.
The poem also shows how I treat supposedly sacrosanct subjects (in this case, the reverence in which society holds pregnant women) and makes fun of them, using myself as the source: I did love being pregnant; but I hated it, too. I was often grumpy and unpleasant to my husband. Being pregnant does not make you a Madonna, and we should stop buying into that stereotype.
A
Visit From Auntie Flo
I had a little show But it is not considered good To have an unexpected flow Of private-area blood
My preventative device Should have stopped it at its source It wasn’t very nice I have to blame the men-o-pause
My poems are often visual and don’t
always lend themselves to reading aloud. In this one, I use italics
to represent whispers and the way we mouth embarrassing words and use
euphemisms. I’m a bit of a preacher, there’s no doubt, but if I make
a point, I try at least to be amusing.
It’s Hard Being A Woman
When panty liners curl and stick to your hairs, it frickin’ hurts.
This is my favourite poem in the book,
and is most representative of my personality and my style: I have no
filter, I tend to blurt things out without thinking, but I make you
laugh (sometimes against your will). This poem always gets a laugh,
though it’s usually shocked laughter.
I’m not great at metaphor and going
around the houses to say what I want to say, which is a problem for
me, as that is kind of the point of poetry. I remember writing a poem
as a teenager, lamenting that poems don’t say what they mean or mean
what they say: the meaning/intention of my poems are almost always
obvious to readers. A poet for whom I have huge respect once told me
that my poems don’t make the reader do any work. She was right; and
I’m okay with that. I write for myself but my poems often have an
audience, and that audience is most often made up of people with no
interest in poetry; if they have to work for it, they don’t enjoy it.
If they don’t enjoy themselves, neither do I.
You
are part of the excellent Write Out Loud poetry collective. Tell us
more.
I attend Stockport WOL at Stockport War
Memorial and Art Gallery. WOL is the largest poetry organisation in
Britain and has a fantastic gig guide and poet collective on its
website. WOL encourages everyone to have a go at sharing their poetry
in a safe space.
Stockport is a little unusual in the WOL family in that, though we are classed as an open mic night i.e. anyone can have a go, we don’t have an actual mic, and there’s no stage and no audience; rather, we sit in a circle in the upper gallery. It’s intimate and safe and we welcome newcomers.
We are heavily involved in the
Stockport arts scene, collaborating regularly with other groups. Last
year alone, we wrote and performed ekphrastic poems inspired by your
own Mark Sheeky; we participated in a commemoration of the centenary
of the end of World War I, and published an anthology of specially
written poems; we supported Marple Book Week by attending their open
mic nights as a group. We also support the art gallery each year for
World Poetry Day, providing readings and workshops; and right now
there is an exhibition of work in the gallery from a collaboration
with Stockport Art Guild.
It’s fair to say that Hormoanal
wouldn’t have been published without WOL. Matthew James Publishing
organises Marple Book Week and they invited Stockport WOL to their
first open mic night at the Samuel Oldknow pub. Terrified at the idea
of attending a ‘real’ open mic night, but encouraged by the group to
give it a go, I did, and I had a blast. One of the publishers
approached me afterwards and asked me to send them some of my work;
the rest, as they say, is history. I would encourage all poets to
attend open mic nights because you just never know who’s
listening…and start with us! We’re a friendly group.
Where
did you study Creative Writing? Have you any advice for budding
poets?
I’ve been writing poetry since primary
school but only began to take it seriously when I took a creative
writing course as part of my Literature degree with the Open
University. Eager to hone my skills, I attended several creative
writing courses at local colleges, plus any free writing workshops I
could find. One of those – coincidentally, held at the art gallery –
led to the creation of Stockport Writers, which we run as a workshop
at the Hatworks once a month. Free to attend, we particularly welcome
new writers. Finally, thanks to the recent availability of student
loans for second degrees, I have just graduated from MMU with a
Masters in Creative Writing.
I learned a lot from all of this, of
course, but the real learning for me came from writing, reading, and
editing. Sitting at my desk each day and writing something – not
necessarily a poem; reading poets I like and, more importantly,
dislike (I have so many poems inspired by my hatred of Larkin,
there’s probably a second collection all ready to go); leaving poems
for a while and then coming back to them with a critical eye: these
habits taught me to think critically, helped improve my work. As with
any skill, practice is how we improve. My advice (I have lots of it)
would be to read and write as much as you can; to keep an eye out for
free writing workshops; to look online for free writing courses –
many universities around the world offer them online (known as MOOCs;
simply Google ‘creative writing moocs’) and the Open University has
some excellent ones available via OpenLearn.
The best resource for newer writers,
however, is to find some like-minded people and set up a critiquing
group. I learned a lot by submitting my work for critique; but I
learned even more by critiquing the work of others because I had to
justify my comments i.e. think critically, and so often I would
suggest to another poet the reason why their poem didn’t quite work,
and realise that, actually, I made the same mistakes in my own poems.
As you grow in your craft, be an
encourager, a mentor, for those who come after you: watching other
writers blossom has been a great joy to me, and I often learn from
them in unexpected ways.
Don’t believe in writer’s block. Yes,
there are times when the words won’t come, so do something else. I
think of non-writing times as my brain lying fallow, like in crop
rotation; eventually, the words will come again. They always come
again. Fretting about it is counterproductive.
Finally, do it because you love it,
because you have to. It’s difficult enough to create something from
nothing; if it’s a chore, why are you bothering? Go do something you
actually enjoy instead.
Who
inspires you?
People are going to laugh at my
inspiration, but I swear this is true: The Two Ronnies. Listening to
Ronnie Corbett’s shaggy dog stories inspired my blog writing style;
and Ronnie Barker’s clever wordplay is something I try to emulate in
my poems.
My favourite poet is Roger McGough;
he’s funny, clever, topical. I read his work as a teenager and
realised that poetry didn’t have to rhyme or be serious to make a
point or to be enjoyed. I also love Wilfred Owen, but his influence
is more about didacticism than style.
What
are you reading at the moment?
I’m reading Elizabeth Bishop at the
moment. I discovered her on the MA and I spend a lot of time
listening to her recite her work in You Tube videos. ‘One Art’ has
displaced Owen’s ‘Disabled’ as my all-time favourite poem. I’m also
re-reading Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric. Her
didacticism is wrapped in a deceptively casual style and I absolutely
love it. Andrew McMillan’s Physical is another fabulous read.
He writes about a world of which I know nothing and makes it
accessible; he is blunt, and that appeals to me.
What’s
next for you? What plans have you got?
What’s next for me? Time off. I’ve been
so busy for the last two years, completing the MA, preparing
Hormoanal, working with various community groups (I deliver
poetry readings and writing workshops around the borough), that when
I had a recent health scare, I was glad of the enforced rest!
I have two complete collections that I want to shop around; they are very different from Hormoanal, though each is themed and both have humorous moments. I also want to improve my submission rate – women are notoriously bad at submitting their work; Hormoanal would never have happened if it had been down to me. I would also like to get back to sitting at my desk each morning as I haven’t written seriously since my poetry dissertation. But I’m not worried; it’s just a fallow period 🙂
Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Curlew, A New Ulster, Straylight Magazine, Down in the Dirt, The Ink Pantry, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves of Ink, the Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Always Dodging the Rain, and Coldnoon.
The Apparition
The rain seeps into my brain. The swishing of car-wheels entails mud-stains on pants, in veins. I strive to grasp the shredded clouds with dripping hands, in vain.
The trees, heeding my gaze, now sway with contrived grace, disguising their strain, for the fog that stalks my pace has begun to draw a face.
The leaves grimace. A candle-flame is displaced. A dog stops howling, disgraced as a hand on my shoulders pats then strays down to my hand that has grown quite weightless.
My fingers interlock with boneless flakes. A torrent of glows seeps into my frame as of bygone days when we frequented this very same lane to evade the hailstones of the human race.
Anchor {For Berjouhi}
Her face may be blurred by the mist of fifty years but my childhood shores still boast the marvellous gifts she once bequeathed, the aeroplane magically flying above our heads, the tortuous roads for sliding match-box cars in blues and reds, Andersen’s tin soldier miraculously resurrected from the belly of the fish, a doll, my height, with ebony lashes and gorgeous plaits, a Christmas-ball with ballerinas of silver flakes, and Joan d’ Arc on a Templar’s steed.
Her presence must have borne the vehement passion the very ancient monasteries of Anatolia evoke, she must have carried in her genes some ancestral trait of the early Christian martyrs who readily died for the King of Kings, a Gregorian gift.
I felt anchored in her lap and securely snug at the altar of her eyes, on which burned candles whose stature remained intact despite flames and flickers which refused to weep while diffusing their innumerable halos of light.
Amends
How can we make amends to lost friends when every single utterance has been rendered impotent? How can we redress the grievances of forests’ inmates whose habitats have been effaced? How can we rectify the gaping holes in heritage walls, the crumbling leaves of historic lore? How can we mitigate the bile of wounded pride? How can we reconcile a face with a smile?
Atonement is not an invisible force that embalms the mind with a remedial dose. It is a genuine feeling of remorse which to serious action it takes recourse. It is an act of healing rift that goes beyond verbal craft. It is an effort to repair damage, to rebuild, replant, retrieve and salvage.
A Student’s Reminiscences
Townhead, George Square, and Cathedral Street, I tightly close my eyes on these Glaswegian spheres, then distill them into cooling tears. It’s true I was friendless and without means, but at least I roamed those amicable domains unmolested.
The front window of W.H. Smith was my sanctuary in times of distress. I walked the isles in search of books I was certain I could not purchase, instead inhaled the fragrance of print, regaled my eyes with the gloss of tints of Penguin, Macmillan and university presses, and was not found wanting in taste for preferring books to a hookah’s blaze.
And the monster who resided in the dark blue lake had imparted its subterranean grace to my slender frame, for the ripples that caressed its bashful face still carry the fragments of Columba’s gaze.
A reluctant leader, Jacob fights to remain loyal to the tribe’s doctrine.
But in an unpredictable city, how far should they go to bend the rules?
With their mentor gone, Jacob promises to care for the Tribe – its members and its values. But as new threats dog the city backstreets, the men are open to flexing the doctrine to serve the fallout as well as to meet their own needs. Fearing he is losing control of the tribe entrusted to him, Jacob is pushed toward despair and the person he used to be.
In the city, Alex bears the scars of rebelling against their corporate-run government and can’t afford to step out of line again. Jobless, paranoid and alone, he considers leaving the city behind altogether. But then he meets Alice, a new reason to stay, even when in the weeks that follow he’s drawn closer to danger than ever before.
In this second book in the series, protagonist Jacob has been passed the role of Tribe mentor. Not a natural leader – or at least not perceiving himself to be – this is not a position he wants, but is obligated to carry out as their previous mentor’s dying wish. To make matters worse, life in the city is becoming more dangerous for those who don’t comply or fit the mould, and in response the men of the Tribe start to challenge their own doctrine and the values they govern their lives by. For Jacob, such challenges are dishonourable to the man who established this alternative and supposedly pressure-free lifestyle for them all, and what follows is a battle of wills that he struggles to win. Torn between loyalty to his former mentor and maintaining the trust of the other men, Jacob sinks further into despair, one exacerbated by his own perceived inadequacies and prediction of inevitable failure. In this second book, Jacob retreats to a state of mind he hasn’t visited since before the Tribe, but which he slides back into easily and which leads him down the path to self-destruction.
Like the first book, Hidden, this one carries themes of mental health – such as anxiety, depression, imposter syndrome, panic disorder and paranoia. It also depicts addiction and drug use.
