Tag: Poem

Ben Keatinge

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Saint Atanas Cave Church, Kališta

Your crypt of rock is hidden
your stone is scotched with lesions,
candles drip below disfigured saints,
your script I cannot read.
I stoop in the cool air
clean as bone, smooth as the lake outside.

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Memorial Ossuary, Veles

For lack of air the damp creeps
the walls give way to bones beneath.

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Ben Keatinge is a Visiting Research Fellow at the School of English, Trinity College Dublin. His poems have been published in The Stony Thursday Book, Orbis, Eborakon, The Galway Review, Agenda, Cassandra Voices, Flare and in Writing Home: The ‘New Irish’ Poets (Dedalus Press, 2019). He taught English literature for nine years at South East European University, North Macedonia and he has travelled widely in the Balkans. He is the editor of Making Integral: Critical Essays on Richard Murphy (Cork University Press, 2019).

Danae Younge

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Hydrangea stalks sundered,
stripped from out the copper loam —  
impending corpses sprawled like lapis anchors
tarnishing beneath the stone,
voices praying with the roots: 

                                                     march home, 
                                                               march home. 

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Danae Younge is an undergraduate at Occidental College currently studying remotely from her home in North Carolina. Her work is published in Vita Brevis Magazine, Palette Point, Wonders Magazine, Academy of the Heart and Mind, and Rogue Agent Journal, and is forthcoming in Mason Street Magazine. She was a national winner selected by the Live Poets Society of New Jersey to be featured in Just Poetry!!! Literary Magazine and was awarded third place in the It’s All Write international competition. You can read more of Danae’s writing on her website and follow her on Instagram (@danae_celeste_).

Molly Knox

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I saw a man today
He drowned
Floating, adrift
Upon a yellow lilo
In the canal, flowing down Glasgow

With one hand poking
Through the reeds
And the lillies
Plopping, podgy plastic
Lowly
To the cavern
Of lost
Flouting

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Molly Knox is a Music student at Durham University. Molly is a poet and theatre and literary reviewer. She primarily explores themes of identity, mental health and nature in her writing.

Anisha Kaul

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“It’s just a scratch” the Doctor assured
“Three stitches and she will be fine.”
A cold needle tugs the loops together,
Drops of hot red blood, it yields.
I nod and close my eyes.

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Anisha Kaul is a poet with Masters in English Literature. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Dwelling Literary, The Minison Project, Beir Bua Journal, Small Leaf Press, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine and Visual Verse, among others. You can reach out to her on twitter (@anishakaul9).

Samuel Strathman

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Bottle rockets catapult
off balconies
in the rooks.

Tin villages spilling
from windows, culverted.

Safe landing
like a paperweight
settling beside a letterhead
at the writing table.

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Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and co-editor at Cypress: A Literary Journal.

Mattias Monde

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Why are we digging up all these old bones
from fields, rocky ledges, mounds, temples;
anywhere fine quality antiquities are sold?
Are we trying to understand our ancestors; 
how they evolved us from tree to field to 
brain to speech to agriculture to fine art? 
We dig and analyze pollen and coprolites;
Today shit provides most of our knowledge.

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Mattias Monde’s work has appeared, or is soon to appear, in Pavement Saw, Unirod, Limestone, Chance, Second Revolution, Eratio, and Flashes of Brilliance, among others. After traveling for the past five years through Africa, Asia, and Europe he may now be found in Bangkok, Thailand.

Peter Gregory

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O Cherry tree, through years gone by do I remember you,   
Those falling petals of white and pink in pretty springtime hue.

A secret place only I may see, amidst the shadows of my past.
From time to time I often think on your welcome memory

In summer’s breeze and chipping lark, I see you bathed in daylight rays.
A flowering totem from the dark illuminates the darkest days.

O Cherry tree, tears I shed upon your roughened balm.
When discipline metered in so harsh a brand, you held me high from harm.   

Skin red raw from stinging hand, could no plead then disarm.  
Came sudden without warning, parent’s wrath again would land.

Hiding secrets of child’s innocence lost,
Friend who watched in leafy shade and branches tall.

No matter how, o cherry tree, pain I can’t forget,
Your image, hold on tightly, sure to not regret.

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Peter Gregory has a passion for writing and art, designing book covers and even animated GIFs. He is a proud geek who loves movies and TV, especially horror and sci-fi. Shortly after starting to write, he became homeless and spent several years in temporary accommodation, as well as further periods with no roof over his head. He is now sending his work into writing competitions and self publishing.

Timi Sanni

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I burn the pages of living for the beauty that lives in fire
& become ash in a conversation that rages within my head

where the voices are stronger than my fist around the mast
of this ship on the sea of horror, where their favorite words

are: cut, sleep, live, l e a – v e. I glide paper planes along the runway
of my wrist to let an ocean of crimson water flow onto the tarmac

of a ragged mind. This red snake slithering across my arm leaves
a splat of venom on the cold, marble floor & I – an outcast of living –

enjoy the melancholy of this rebellion because when tears begin
to flood a neighboring town, we know that grief is a giant

that has found home within a broken body. The night, in guise
of relief brings me an aphrodisiac & demons begin to claim

a betrothal to me. & because horror carries the weight
of a certain void too heavy for one man, I wake to dawn’s light

singing aubades to crows in the house of darkness.

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Timi Sanni is a Nigerian writer and literary enthusiast. His works have been published or are forthcoming in various literary journals like Radical Art Review, African Writers, Rather Quiet, Praxis Magazine and elsewhere. Timi’s work often addresses emotions and truth. He recently won the SprinNG Poetry Contest and is the recipient of the Fitrah Review Prize for Fiction 2020. When not writing or studying, he is either painting or exploring new hobbies. Find him on Twitter (@timisanni.)

victoria mallorga hernandez

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but careless,
I cannot remember &
           the shore below my feet
           confirms that a dream is all
I ever held & even if you wave
across the river, your lips in my hand
are the best reminder that memories are a form
of waiting, & I am tired of licking up the dregs of you
holding it inside my mouth, holding onto a whisper
onto something
that     you know
           was never there.

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victoria mallorga hernandez is a peruvian taurus, trickster, and poet. Currently, she’s an associate editor at palette poetry and editorial assistant at redivider mag. Her first poetry collection, ‘albion’, came out in 2019 from Alastor Editores. Her work has been featured in Revista Lucerna, molok, El Hablador and others.

Lynn White

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“Don’t you lot amalgamate round here!”
my friend’s mother used to shout
whenever she saw us playing in the street.
Am-al-ga-mate.
We loved the sound of it.
It made us laugh.
It was not a word ever heard 
in our working class street.
We didn’t know what it meant
so we looked it up
in the library’s dictionary.
Am-al-ga-mate.
What a word!
We used to gather round there
just to hear her say it,
just for a laugh.

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Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including, Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn on her blog or Facebook.