Interview | Raymond Antrobus

Raymond Antrobus is a poet, educator, curator, editor and investigator of missing sounds, who is a founding member of Chill Pill as well as the Keats...

Coming Thunder by James McAskill

When we stole the eggs from the barn that June  you said we held life in our hands. Untrue I said as I carried a near...

Poetry | Full Fathom Five by Sylvia Plath

Old man, you surface seldom. / Then you come in with the tide's coming / When seas wash cold, foam- / Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung, / A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves / Crest and trough. Miles long [...]

The First Time They Lowered The Flags by Peter Ainsworth

The first time they lowered the flags The President bowed his head.The next time they placed flowers To mourn the dead.The time after that they held A...
SYRIA by Ghayth Armanazi

SYRIA by Ghayth Armanazi

SUFFER THE COUNTRY Suffer the curled up corpses of the tortured Suffer the cluttered ranks of the bound and the beaten Suffer the pleading eyes of those...

Bright Celestial Objects by Rebecca Goss

After Alison Watt, ‘Venus’ (2015)Their backs against the grass, she felt a pull, as if the leaveson the trees were lodestones, the hairs on her skin...

Archive | Poetry | Peter Bland

Peter Bland, the New Zealand writer and actor, has written extensively over his long career, and has been lauded with many accolades, among them...

That Boy by Robert Nazarene

 He was patient as a dead bird. He perched on the ledge of bottom and rocked.  He was the missed flight. He was silence calmed down. He loved...

Five Years Ago by Manash Bhattacharjee

                        To Fady JoudahI was waiting at the platform For a train to Calcutta In...

Poetry | Waking Under the Walnut Street Bridge by Mara Adamitz...

        let me persist but not divide        let me sitquietly with        the tiniest    ...

His Bottom Lip by Rachel Long

Clitoral, like finding a small, hidden part of myself in someone else. Nerve-wet, fleshy - for a white guy, and stained between life-lines with red wine gone black. Only this...

What You Call Your ‘Winter Mode’ by Patri Wright

On the wicker chair I wait for the duvet’s rise: you’re just a mound, breath, as I worry over why, again, you’ve overslept. Could it be early...
Replete by Maggie Butt

Replete by Maggie Butt

RepleteEnough of beauty - I have devoured small boats curtseying at anchor, green palace-dotted hills swarming the spice-scented shore of Asia Minor.I couldn’t chew another mouthful of waves,...

The Year of the Pin-Up Calendar by Imogen Cassels

Excerpts from a previously unpublished sequence of poems named The Year of the Pin-Up Calendar.Februarythere is a white pigeon opened like a book on the...

Men by Belinda Rule

I only like imaginary men, the ones who think my art is the most transporting thing they have ever seen, and I am exactly as hilarious as I actually, actually am.Even then,...

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