What springs from earth dissolves to earth again, and heaven-born things fly to their native seat.Marcus Aurelius ‘It’s about a third full,’ I say, clutching the mobile phone to my ear as I hang my head into the water tank, my voice bouncing off the metal sides and echoing back at me. ‘Does the pipe…
Tag: porridge magazine
ONE POEM – Mary Chydiriotis
a chant begins
a loud doleful wail
smear my body in holy oil
adorn my head with your crown of thorns
Sylvia Townsend Warner’s The Corner that Held Them: Managing Isolation and Becoming the Fabric of a Place – Joanna Mason
January and the New Year are often dreaded in their insistence that we look back on what we have achieved, or what we meant to. This year, the looming of March feels the same, with its marking of the anniversary of the initial lockdown. It is easy to be hard on the progress you have…
ONE POEM – Nicola Maclean
Zones one to three have become a long-distance relationship.
Underground, Hades and his sardine dead
reach their eleventh hour
THREE POEMS – Susan Moon
My mother packed eggs sunny side up,
Spam slices golden-browned to perfection
tucked into my lunchbox.
ONE POEM – Alice Foo
The angel comes unbidden
on a Thursday morning,
knocking briskly, handing me
a pineapple and thirteen coral-tinted roses.
PHOTOGRAPHY: Jessica Swank
Through photography and sculpture, I question how the manipulation of behaviour and patterns dehumanises society.
TWO POEMS – Kali Richmond
the diver submerged for so long
we presume her dead
shark food
scattershot of matter sinking deeper than cameras
ART – Geneviève Dumas
Because of the pandemic, we didn’t have any Olympics this summer, so I decided to reproduce the Olympic coverage in July by printing (screen printing) over selected pictures from the Montreal Olympics of 1976
ONE POEM – Gerry Stewart
Spread out before you,
whipped and bright coloured,
dripping with sauces,
a world of unimagined flavours,
untranslatable.
ART: Natalie Bradford
Through countless retrievals, our memories of precious moments lose their ‘truth.’
ONE POEM – Ryan Clark
Below the wall the soil
leeches contaminants
from an artificial hill rising
out of the field like a wart.
Porridge 