The Power of Night by Fianna (Fiona Russell Dodwell)

and   casts   it   wide   –   new   energy   sustaining   night.
now she lifts her arms, her darkening cape
bruised blue bruised grey
till it’s a smear of red
breathes it into lungs
into legs, belly
sucks it
She sits on the horizon sun cupped between her feet
sucks it
into legs, belly
breathes it into lungs
till it’s a smear of red
bruised blue bruised grey
now she lifts her arms, her darkening cape
and   casts   it   wide   –   new   energy   sustaining   night.

Alphabetical Adlestrop by Mark Totterdell

A Adlestrop, Adlestrop afternoon,
all and, and and, and and, and and, and and,
and bare, because birds, blackbird,
by came, cleared close.

Cloudlets drew dry, express fair.
Farther, farther for Gloucestershire grass,
haycocks, heat high. Him his hissed.
I, I in it, June, late, left less lonely.

Meadowsweet minute. Mistier name, name.
No, no, no, of of on one, one, one
only Oxfordshire platform, remember round.
Sang. Saw someone. Sky. Steam still than that.

The the the the the the the the;
there, throat train! Unwontedly up
was, was what? Whit? Willow? Willow-herb?

from FURTHER AUTOVARIATIONS – two poems by Jerome Rothenberg

Reminders of a Vanished Earth


the poem as landscape

The definition
of a place
is more than
what was seen
or what was
felt before
when dreaming
of the dead
the way
a conflagration
wrapped itself
around his world
leaving in his mind
a trace of dunes
the fallout from
a ring of mountains
of a vanished earth
the landscape
marked with rising tufts
the hardness of
clay tiles
that press against
our feet like bricks
the soil concealed
beneath its coverings
through which a weave
of twisted wires
crisscross the empty
field as markers
to commemorate
the hapless dead
the ones who fly
around like ghosts
bereft of either
home or tomb
in what would once
have been their world.
The count fades out
beyond 10,000
leaves them to be swept
down endless ages
fused together
or else set apart
lost nomads
on the road
to desolation
a field on mars
they wait to share
with others
dead at last.


never done counting

Enclosed by matter
all my thoughts
scream for prophecy.
When I wake up on Mondays
the night sky is hanging
above me…..galaxies
shedding their images
fading unknown
in the half light
a light that confounds me.
Nothing we know is unreal
& nothing is real.
There is only the face
of a woman
blind in the sun
& a voice that cries out
in a language like French.
When she raises her arms
they look distant & lame,
something there
that won’t work but falls flat
against me.  I will follow her
up to the moon, will watch her
paint herself red
with no sense
of the distances
still to be traveled,
no plot to adjust to
but numbers
that show me
the little I know,
the way one
vanishing universe
shrinks till it swallows
There are worlds here
hidden from sight
whose ends are like
their beginnings,
the world in daylight
turns dark
the blaze of noon
caught in their mirrors,
as the sun slips
through our fingers
never done counting
where the globe
has dropped
out of sight.


You’ll find much about Jerome Rothenberg and his enormous contribution to the world of poetry at:

Waiting on Third Avenue by Pierre Joris

Waiting on Third Avenue

& 81st street,

that’s Bay Ridge

not the prick-

shaped island on

a Saturday pre-fever


just out post

lunch @ the

Bridge View Diner

where we’ve never

ever had a bridge

view, & while you go

into the Brooklyn Market

which isn’t a market

at all

& I watch

our bikes al-

ready laden

with what was bought

at the actual market,

two tee shirts criss

cross each other

right between me

& our bikes

& the shirt going

north reads

All you need is less

& the one going

south says

below the picture

of a large



screw it!



Klein at us the by Pierre Joris

Oral homophonico-mechanical translation of Gottfried Benn’s “Kleine Aster” using MacSpeech Dictate.


Line as of Colombia for bold the post didn’t teach wished and.

It can die now how to team I know the doing good heavy us to

Switch in the 10 dependent.

But its initial nibble with scouts

Wouldn’t they’re how

Make I none none and mess up

So move with Doman L-shaped,

More sushi conditionals and happen, then think of it

In death may been begin to get him.

-ish Park Disney team in the worst mood

swishing beholds vote,

but it’s Monday soon make the.

Think gibberish sucked in dying of Batson!

Who is hunched,

Klein at a stuff. If

Philip Guston Considered As An Ekphrastic Text by Chris Stewart

He takes his feet with him

And his hands.


He piles the corpses of his favourable reviews

In a cart.


They carry their feet

So they can work

Preserve their hands

In crude oil like ammonites,


Stack their lungs

Like smoking chimneys

Flaring effluent,


Discharge themselves from hospital mortuaries

And retard against walls where

The dead queue patiently.


He piles his hands as a bonfire

They light


The chiascuro hides

What they refused to see:







Late at night

In the kitchen


Window volcanic

Magma night metamorphic







A charred cinder cross

On unkempt weed-lawn

Ayrian mower in shed.


Crude oil on tap,

Seabed in the kitchen sink,

Plates unwashed

No visitors come to visit

The plughole

He struck.


His feet feed mushrooms

Sitting in the basket

That forgets the dog’s bark.


Hands point

But they don’t laugh any more.

His back remembers the applause of slaps.


New shores

Flat palm on cheek


Red face

Dishevelled hood.


His new work?

No good.

Machine in the Ghost by Ira Lightman

there is a ghost school

your rectangle nests in it and

is a school with a name

mine may square have could

perhaps bebeen


there is a call to

no call to

bell hour clock second minute

counted cost


blubber to a chum

concertina memories


a hand perpendicular on the z

from a face


reassemble ass-let us be


aged 4 to 5 waddle in the


noise and eye’s-cries is


booth your partake

five year term primaries

five year term go to my office


in seven years all the cells

and even the head gone



now test labour-rat-TORY conditions

insultation quest on air


Paranomia: Suites by Peter J. King












Peter J. King (b. 1956; Boston, Lincolnshire) was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s, running Tapocketa Press, and co-founding words worth magazine.  In 1980 he took up philosophy, and is lecturer in philosophy at Pembroke College and St Edmund Hall, Oxford.  Returning intermittently to poetry, including translation from Modern Greek with Andrea Christofidou, he began seriously writing poetry again in 2013, including translation from German, and has been published in journals such as Tears in the Fence, Dream Catcher, New Walk, The Stare’s Nest, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Three Drops from a Cauldron, and streetcake.


We May Not Sing by Geraldine Green

the wolf song

but we can and must try

and the bee song tree song

insect and amphibian song

the old songs

the flower nations

bird sisters bird brothers

sister moon brother sun and

lizard song

must sing the spring song

the old songs

the bee songs

wolf songs worm song

badger hare

and jay song

never forget the old songs

they are our heart ways

our pathways

the spirit way back

to our selves.