Something Lives Something lives in the crawl spaceAbove my room. A bird? Maybe a rat?Sometimes it seems to be shaking out its feathers.But then there’s a scrabbling overheadAnd the squares of insulation quiver. I’m not afraid of you, I tell the shaking panels.We all have the right to be.And I will not pursue you with…
Category: Creative Writing
ONE POEM – Constance von Igel
Brazil has 27 administrative regions, and we found
The strongest evidence of your ancestry,
In the following 10 regions.
ONE POEM – Sofia Lyall
I find the roots of an oak (dead, upturned, twisted)
and am left more disoriented than before.
The Sea People — Euan Currie
I often fantasise about tipping the cabinet forward until the plastic drawers slide out and spill their contents in a wave of plastic. I tell myself they should be recycled or reused. But in the fantasy it all just spills out and keeps on spilling.
Something You Can Feel in Your Teeth — Hannah Stevens
Neither of them talk much in the morning. Somehow things are more difficult in the early hours. She feels more fragile, more lost, more oppressed by the narrow confines and the lack of light.
ONE POEM – Kira Scott
these are the tears that we cannot shed
as we comment on the beauty of the glen and
how wonderful it must have been to live in such a place.
TWO POEMS – Tim Kiely
the cake is made of Walthamstow
a dense and glutinous Walthamstow
we are going to make Walthamstow
a Titanic success for Walthamstow
COMFORT FOODS // What’s for Dinner? The Friday Night Table in Ashkenazi Culture — Hannah-Clare de Gordun
Through this shared language, seen in the celebration of Shabbat at our round dinner table, we create a “home”, a space of belonging, for a culture that has frequently been forcefully ripped from its physical roots.
ONE POEM – Claire Sosienski Smith
paring knife, won’t use it to make
the pierogi. The potato goes
soft in the microwave,
the onion falls apart
and fries itself.
ONE POEM – Noemi Gunea
I wanted you so much
I started making things up
Scheherazade — Lydia Waites
He studies me for a second before facing the road again, his jaw set. My breath is caught in my throat. I clear it, arranging my thoughts. It was just an outburst, a loss of patience: I am safe.
ONE POEM – Bernadette Gallagher
Get some hens
dig up the garden
sow and plant.
Porridge 