You scribble on a piece of paper, pausing every two minutes to remember. Your memory isn’t what it used to be. But you try anyway.
Author: Porridge Magazine
ONE POEM – Ogedengbe Tolulope
We sing the songs filled with sadness,
Songs with lyrics written in silence
Bettina von Arnim Accuses Me of Unfaithfulness – Charles Haddox
I dreamt one night about a bright-eyed young woman with dark hair who accused me of being unfaithful to her. Her accusations were apparently true, which troubled me deeply after I awoke. I had never been unfaithful to anyone but had myself suffered the pain of betrayal once or twice when I was young. I…
TWO POEMS — Miriam Gauntlett
any blotched greenery has
the potential to burst
forth into flower.
PHOTOGRAPHY: Tales of a City VII – Seigar
Nobody knows, but I sometimes fantasise about what my partner’s childhood and teen years were like… I feel a great tenderness when I explore this town
ONE POEM – M.E. Muir
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
ONE POEM – Peter Hebden
Tuesday
morning with no people, no cars
only today there are no people,
no cars. Today it’s weird, isn’t it?
THREE POEMS – Hannah Bishop
braid me yes plait me
no plate me
don’t make me
Choice Feminism and Imagination: the representation of women in Disney – Beth O’Brien
The concept of choice feminism operates under the principle that any decision made by a woman has the potential to be a feminist choice, so long as it was made with political consciousness.[1] However, the political and social theorist, Steven Lukes, argues that an individual’s actions are guided by what they can imagine to…
ONE POEM – Kevin Jackson
Red shift Dark-moon cry of you half-him of you, starring backwards axe of you, mastered as youth Teeth of you biting down, tenderizing, sharpening if only for a night The many-fold you, thorns, garden, squall of you, intoxication Thief, the noble cat of you, insistent splinter The wild-world’s red eyes beating in you Me wrenched…
Email to Hannah – Catherine Madden
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.
ONE POEM – Leah Atherton
On the riverbank. In the corridor. In the
laugh ache. In the small hours. On the
station platform. In the stomach churn
on the way home.
Porridge 