In the attic she finds a box. Underneath an epidermis of newsprint lies a blue-and-white china teacup, part of the set used by her grandma every week they went to see her.
The china, thin and determined, pulls her into a warm room and seats her at a groaning table.
Every cup has a saucer, every plate has a doily, silver sugar tongs rest on white cloth though no one takes sugar in the tea poured from the squat pot on top of milk. On a birthday, the grandchildren are given sugar lumps and pretend they are horses.
They can start when Grandma sits. The plates are passed, achingly slowly, sandwiches first. Egg and cress, ham and English mustard, soggy cheese and tomato, too much marg, bread cut into triangles, crusts removed.
Then the homemade cakes are paraded: a Victoria sponge oozing cream, a dark ginger cake, scones bursting with fruit.
The woman sees herself drop a saucer, Grandma picking up the pieces as if her fingers are tweezers, the saucer never to be replaced.
She looks in the box again, finding nothing.
Sam Szanto lives in Durham. Her poetry pamphlet, ‘Splashing Pink’ was published by Hedgehog Press and is a Poetry Book Society Winter 2023 Choice. Her pamphlet ‘This Was Your Mother’ won the 2023 Dreich Slims Contest and will be published soon. She won the Charroux Poetry Prize and the First Writer International Poetry Prize, and her poetry has been placed in journals including ‘Northern Gravy’ and ‘The North’. She was awarded an MA with distinction from the Poetry School / Newcastle University in 2023. Find her on Twitter/X Instagram and on her website.
There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park playing a rickety 5 string and hoot’in and holler’in.
I have no idea what he is singing. There is no discernible melody. Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air to take some sort of measure before plunging back into his flailing guitar. After another stuttering burst he will stop/ then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/ punk operatic/ style
nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/ he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough It’s/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key. Beyond the realm of anything/ resembling cohesive musicality /rambunctiously obtuse
yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.
His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/
You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/ and make of that an evening/ with class but I like the way this codger lets her rip/ this ragged chanteur/ airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style
Shine on
Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams oh community of outcasts Art in the essence with no need for product or commodity Convivial souls rabid rebels minds afire Provincetown dunes Christmas Eve Greenwich Village the 20’s to the 50’s Innocent fervent glass of beer cafeteria a quarter Shine on oh perishing republic of dreams!
Winged Ones
Bustling old fella dashing biddly bop by dressed to the nines with briefcase stuffed under his arm equipped with fixed maniacal grin jabbering to himself while confirming his expressions to an equally jazzed and jaunty westie he calls Ralph trailing exuberantly behind let’s me know that there are actually still some living beings out there to learn from
Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur living in NYC. Has had stuff published at The Free Poet, Mojave Heart Review, Jalmurra, The Scarlet Leaf, Poems for All, Free Lit Magazine, Backchannels, Loud Coffee Press, Mason Street Journal, Portsmouth Poetry, the Fictional Cafe KGB Lit Journal and the upcoming issue of Synchronized Chaos as well as the end of year issue of Every Writer Magazine.
Daphnaie becoming she-conjurer Thou – ethereal enlightenment You are a sunflower The elixir is tender poetry And You are longing for wisdom I wish, she had hope for destiny Rumination
Epimelides bewitching she-seer Thou – bucolic romanticism You are a violet The solitude is delicate poesy And You are yearning for acumen I wish, she had desire for circumstance Contemplation
Hamadryad comely she-hex Thou – demure existentialism You are a rhododendron The epiphany is supple verse And You are yenning for foresight I wish, she had aspiration for fate Cogitation
Meliae knockout she-sorcerer Thou – dissemble impressionism You are an Azalea The aesthete is breakable ode and You are thirsting for insight I wish, she had expectation for future Reflection
Phoebe resplendent she-magician Thou – effervescent stoicism You are a begonia The plethora is dainty song and you are spoiling for caution I wish, she had ambition for inevitability Celebration
Chrysopeleia amazing she-prognosticator Thou – stunning Epicureanism You are a hyacinth The delicacy is frail rhyme and You are itching for judgment I wish, she had plan for afterlife Consideration
Dryope sublime she-charmer Thou – vigorous Platonism You are an iris The felicity is effete rime and You are hankering for poise I wish, she had aims for fortune Thoughts
Erato statuesque she-enchanter Thou – glamorous nihilism You are a lily The nemesis is feeble minstrelsy and You are aspiring to prudence I wish, she had belief for hereafter Meditation
Eurydice graceful she-prophet Thou – halcyon eudemonia You are a primrose The scintilla is weak rune and You are lusting after sanity I wish, she had faith for paradise Attention
Tihorea dazzling she-diviner Thou – idyllic historicism You are a marguerite The ripples are soft lines And You have eye on sophistication I wish, she had achievement for karma Intuition
Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
You can find more of Paweł’s poetry here on Ink Pantry.
I was young once, Although I felt so old. I should have been More childish, Soaking up the wild morn.
Now what am I? Old and fat and bald. Yet still younger Than so many Who only exist in the past.
Living In The Now
As we continue our slow destruction Of the only planet Where our species lives, Remember to pause To display a middle finger To all of your neighbours And every plant and animal you see. Especially remember the little children That still run and play. Give them both barrels And your cruelest laugh. As for infants in bellies All those yet to be born, Bare your ass to their future. Let them and others mourn.
Lost Again
With sorrow I looked At the road ahead And the road behind.
How did I get here, This place that is So other?
Ah well, what is life Without mistakes? Sometimes the best Memories come From bloody errors.
I will continue moving One foot after another Until I get to Wherever I go,
Whether it is A shining city, A place not worth Mentioning, Or more of the same That was and will be,
Regardless of My best intentions Or my failed sense Of direction.
Hey Baby
Yes, I am your baby. Goo goo goo goo. I love it when you feed me All your juicy stuff.
Yes, I am your baby. Goo goo goo goo. I love it when you hold me And when you treat me rough.
Yes, I am your baby You better not have another one. If I find out you do It will be the end of all your fun.
Yes, I am your baby. Goo goo goo goo. And I will always be your baby So long as you stay true.
The Language Is Everything
A poem is a short story. A short story is a poem. This is not always known. It shouldn’t be.
All these words, merely outflow From that lake of sewage Deep inside.
Come and take a swim. Dive in. Practice your backstroke, Doggy paddle, and crawl.
You may want to shower After you climb out, But you will never feel Completely clean again.
Far From Home
In the world but not of it, You are merely a tourist Far from home.
You watch, you listen, You taste all the flavours Of good and evil.
You hope your credit card Will pay for all your crimes With a single swipe.
If not you may need To wash dishes Or go to prison
Until you are pardoned Or a sufficient bribe Of prayers and offerings
Set you free enough To return home To rest, recuperate,
Work and save For another trip To lands forbidden,
But so much better Than more Of the same.
Existing in the poem
These verses And so many others Seem hardly worth it, Both to write and read, But they come anyway, And go where they go.
They are seen by eyes Unprepared for Such foolishness. The reader howls Before crumbling paper And throwing it away.
Oh, to be a banker Or a plumber Instead of a poet. That would be A solid life, More easily understood.
Unfortunately I have this curse, This infection That will not go away.
Words are the life Of a poet. There is only Their sound And how they look On the page.
The rest of life Is an illusion, A mirage A hand might reach for, But never grasp Or comprehend.
Joseph Farley has had over 1350 poems and 140 short stories published. His 11 poetry collections include Suckers, Her Eyes, Longing For The Mother Tongue, and Yellow Brick Pilgrim. His fiction books include Labor Day, Once Upon A Time In Whitechapel, Farts and Daydreams, and For The Birds.
You can find more of Joseph’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Silence fills the air, as I sit, alone, among endless rows of graves.
I wish for heartbeats, for laughter, for tears.
I miss the noise.
But I know that I can’t have it.
I can hear the footsteps of the living, but there’s no sound for me.
Silence surrounds me, as I lay in my own void, a void of life, eternal and silent.
I will never know happiness again.
But I accept it, lying here, alone, among endless rows of graves.
It was fun being dead for a while, to feel the quiet and the peace. I thought hell would have fire and brimstone, but I guess that’s only what they tell us.
I’m moving on now, accepting my reality. And I know that one day, I’ll find my meaning, In the cold abyss.
But for now, all I have is silence, a silence that never ends.
And I bet there’s fire in heaven.
Foolish Understanding
The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden— Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been— Or so we’ve all been told: But why should my heart believe it this for so? This is what I know! My dreams! As clear as the words of my own ears— Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be. Just a child at that point in time; Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding. Always trying, always striving. And now, standing here–where was I standing before?
Redacted
Routine is the devil of a stranger: A death spell is different only in name. 18th century England–the rise of industrialisation, the first factory system—the spilling out of a Satanic rage. Alone, for I sought you everywhere. In Spain, at five paces away from me, Your torso moving gracefully like a flower blooming— So perfect you were; I should have found a way to grasp the beauty in it: To be with you was to be good, filled with God’s love, But in that moment my heart dared leap out of my chest In the franticness to make time stop for us… To make us both strong enough to last eternally — To love us amidst the world’s fear of each other— It is not as easy as it seems… It is enough that we are together. You are here beside me. And that’s enough.
Close To Me
It’s lovely, the number of times you look down on me and forget to see, as if from your corner of the sea— You could not hear once I begin to plead; It takes a little time before you come, To coax me back again up to the dreams. That there is no moon, only we are nearer the stars— I am but asleep. And yet, here we lie: Far apart. At some point I think to wake myself up, To make sure I haven’t been lying, And when finally I realize it’s true— I find myself so faint; Holding too tight; Too cold. I think it may be time for a change after all. But as things are today—or so it would seem—I’ll sleep here alone under the covers awaiting you to come, more closely to me at last…
Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based now in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation.
When you put on your mask your glasses fog up as your nose exhales all that super-saturated air and the world acquires a halo putting Homer’s early-born and rosy-fingered dawn to shame but you cannot see pulling off the mask solves that the areola fades the world sharpens it is still beautiful but with risks Sirens still call your name at Hooters Scylla and Charybdis whisper in one ear to sell that stock you bought last week and to buy more of it in the other nothing has changed much risk is everywhere mask or no mask antibody or no antibody take your pick be like Wile E Coyote that manhole at your feet may be a figment of your imagination or maybe your gateway to the netherworld
This Could Be Enormous
I’m not saying we have to be exact what I’m saying is try to be accurate within certain limits I mean how thorough are they? they’re going to give this the once over they’re not fact-checkers or CPA’s they are bean counters and you know how they think it’s all about the head bean counter and as we all know he knows nothing except what is whispered to him when the lights go out this could be the next big thing if we don’t blow it there is no such thing as a national average even they know that but they are stuck with their protocols the only one we have is to make it look good on paper now, here’s a ream of Grade 3 put your mark on it and do us all a favour don’t look back
Short Story
Eternity long as it may seem is like a short story Beginning, middle & end conflict, struggle and resolution Guy de Maupassant could have written it
In the Beginning there was just Him with all this time on His hands He wasn’t lonely but He fretted a lot about His omnipotence and what to do with it a lot of it had to do with miniscule details what atoms He favoured the chemical structure of hydrocarbons and He kept wondering which one would work out the best although He should have known this went on a long time in geologic time yes it is pretty lengthy but in story-telling time only a third of the whole the conflict was His alone that probably made Him grumpy as there was no one to blame yet
Then He made up his mind Bang! Which was nothing but a diversion designed to rid the universe of the Evil One and it didn’t work He thought it might but deep down knew better and the Evil One prospered due to us after all we had the common bond of both being kicked out of somewhere so we all struggled and He fretted some more having underestimated our cleverness our intransigence and our insatiable lusts and watched as His plans headed downhill
Finally things will get resolved we aren’t there yet but He, having whipped out His slide rule sees that about 15% of us actually followed His rules and the rest of us are like Pop-Tarts in this huge toaster cursing part of the resolution is what they call the denoument the outcome of a doubtful series of occurrences which now leads to sadness and this is where He finds the culprit and says: ‘I knew it was carbon all along’
Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. He is a featured poet at Mad Swirl.
he worked there too I would see him in the foyer coming in for evening class asking me about open mics chatting scenes & actors mouth wide goatee curling like a thick black hedgehog under attack always a laugh a long toothy laugh & then his tall man’s hand extending & shaking
& then I stopped seeing him & then I didn’t work there anymore anyway & then I heard the news
a balcony somewhere hot
he picked up the rock
expecting to find perfection
but instead found dead bugs & happiness
he didn’t notice either
because that’s not what he was looking for
Fruit Bowl
she rearranged my furniture while I was out & later tied me to a chair & used a blindfold
she bought me a fruit bowl blue fairy lights and a Paddington Bear coat
I regretted ever letting her have a key
wealthy daughters come along like rain
too much & not enough
after I’d finally found an umbrella her father remarked that I hadn’t been up to standard in the first place
twenty years later I still have the fruit bowl & I’m still laughing
Mum Shagged the Milkman
but it’s not as bad as it sounds
she married him & he was a barman when they first met
then later at some point my brothers & I attended their wedding in pin stripe shirts
I still remember the day I found out I was the dictionary definition of a bastard
I still remember feeling a little surprised disappointed even that the words had no effect on me
but maybe that was when I first learned words can just be words
& nothing at all
A Golden Ale Sky
the horizon is pouring itself almost imperceptibly slowly westward shifting its every thing fraction by fraction
either that or I’m more fucked
than I realise
the remedy
for most things
sleep
& the warmth of someone you’d die for
Danny D. Ford’s poetry & artwork has appeared in numerous online and print titles. He has sixteen chapbooks to his name, including the recent collections Rum Lime Rum (Laughing Ronin Press 2023) and Sucking on a Wet Pint (Anxiety Press 2022). He can be found in Bergamo, Italy.
I am not barren. My fecundity has not dwindled yet. Enough as before to bring forth blossoms of all sorts and I do. Alas! Frequent invasions of atrocious autumn Debilitates their potency to bloom in full To show my greatness in their daintiness and redolence That would once captivate aves from overseas To warble in praise of my nature. O God! Free me from this brutish autumn, Can’t endure it any more. To glitter with my flair Let clement spring reign over me.
Don’t avert thy gaze
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The voices for peace and averse to slavery Are interred here. The eyes anti to tyranny and the altruistic hearts For the persecuted are interred here. Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The buttresses for the decrepit and the comforts for the pained, The joys for the dejected and the glims for darkness are interred here. Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The gallant patriots of my nation- moral for the coward Slaves The upshots of the tyrannous reign and even of the traitors are interred here.
How to fulfil dreams there?
How to fulfil dreams there Where one often takes breath in the net of fear of disappearance and of death And where one carries more coffins but palanquins few. Not many raiments for weddings But more shrouds one has to sew. How to fulfil dreams there Where each moment is spent in jails and yowls And youths decay in dingy jails. Where one while fishing, fishes out a corpse Of a mother’s only progeny and succour Beheaded or mutilated or putrefied Or still from his wounds, is dripping blood of innocence. How to fulfil dreams there Where one’s childhood is caged, divested of its joys Where deranged mothers (as if their sons) are lullabying toys.
Shafkat Aziz Hajam is a poet from Kashmir, India. He is the author of two children’s poetry books, The cuckoo’s voice, and The canary’s voice. His poems have appeared in international magazines and anthologies like Wheel song anthology (UK based), Prodigy, digital literary magazine USA, PLOTS CREATIVES online literary magazine USA, Inner Child Press International USA, AZAHAR anthology in Spain, SAARC anthology, Litlight literary magazine Pakistan etc. He has also written more than a hundred funny limericks for the children and adults’ poetry book, The Unknown Wounded Heart.
The silence of the night, in the wake of many bullet-rent years, is torn by the remonstrance of three stray dogs who find no food in the garbage container, having been emptied by junk-collectors who would not now hesitate to consume any available leftovers.
In the background, the festivity of a posh nightclub, which is not very far-off, aims at the slumberous heart with enervating beats of folklorish drums. This happens every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night until the break of dawn.
Poverty and excessive wealth sit side by side in this part of the world. There are no West Ends or East Ends, which only makes the contrast more flagrant.
My dog is agitated and responds with a series of barks. I have to find a way of calming her down or I will meet with a wave of disapprobation from the neighbours themselves, who will sift all other noises and only hear my dog’s responding soundtrack. I start stroking her coat and her barks eventually subside, but she remains unsettled by both the shrieks of the nightclub and the intermittent howls of homeless dogs. How can I explain to friends that insomnia has nothing to do with the intake of caffeine or psychological strife?
Contemplation III
What is God? I ask myself as I contemplate the interwoven clouds. Far on the horizon, faint streaks of lightning corrugate the gloaming sky, Ruffling my meditative stance, for now we dread whatever can herald a storm, which we associate with floods, earthquakes, and apocalyptic doom.
I retrieve my thoughts from the menace of apprehensiveness that tends to dominate our current moods. How can I paint a mental picture of a featureless Lord? He is not supposed to possess eyes, a mouth, or a nose. In paintings, He is depicted with a white beard and sagaciously old. What if He is eternal youth and this virgin world which we have contaminated is one of his countless words?
I like the idea of inhabiting a word. It is simpler than the metaphysical and transcendental schools for within each word He utters dwells realms and worlds to roam.
Calculations
She twists every word I speak. I decide to calculate how many words I utter in her presence every day, and to monitor their denotative and connotative implications. She does not say Good Morning, because she knows that every conversation would end in acrimony and ill feelings. She resurrects the past instantaneously and blames me for every single decision taken by my dad, whose headstone is now twenty-two years old. These calculations would hopefully divert my mind from the putridity of every memory she unearths to derail any dialogue aimed at peace-making. I can put up with the abuse that pours into my consciousness but the desecration of the memory of the dead, especially that of my kind-hearted dad, is more than I can take. She seizes every opportunity to heap blame on his decaying head.
On the first day, it does not work. I wade into her lukewarm morning talk until it gets scorchingly hot and lava is forced out of my tongue. It becomes so hard to keep silent once the agitation of the nervous system sets in and she is so good at awakening the worst in you not even slumberous demons on narcotics can ignore her venom.
On the second day, I succeed in shortening each argument by five minutes and though I cannot count the words in use, the shortened time of the interchange indicates the inevitable decrease.
On the third day, I begin to enjoy this test of patience; however, the less words I use, the more infuriated she becomes. It is a no-win situation. I begin to turn my thoughts inwardly every time she starts her turbulent orchestration. Half her words go unheard and the lack of physiognomical reactions on my part makes her mistake taciturnity for acquiescence in her never-ending remonstrations.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Slipping softly through sun-dappled trees swaying grasses in time to summer’s hum casting pollen up like sequinned sparkles strolling though blossoming fields ruffling the feather of the nesting birds. Whipping waves into mountains of spray stripping the last leaves from autumn’s dying. Hats are tossed into the air the rain flies in the face of night. Forever moving, a restless rover knowing no settled home. Tonight there may be howling and the windows may shake but by morning there will be little sign except the detritus of the wild. Packed up gypsy-like, the wind trails his life through the world and is shut out even in the quiet times.
Strike
I saw a spark of lightning in the dark, its burst of brilliance lit up the whole sky. The mark of blackness after was so stark with depth impenetrable to the eye.
The grit and fury split the world in two, with haunted trees denuded of their leaves. The houses silhouetted by the view of such a force that threatens all that breathes.
As quickly as it came it struck no more, the night remained untainted by its thrust, and all that stalked the darkness as before returned to living as they always must.
Glenis has been writing poetry since the first Covid lockdown and does her writing at night as she suffers from insomnia. When she is not writing poetry she makes beaded jewellery, reads, and sometimes runs 10K races slowly. She has been published by Dreich, Dust Poetry, and Wildfire Words.
