raising new air & breathing by reuben woolley

from back

…………lanes we watch




………………of dark trees


come mary

……………………..let’s change a season


……………………..a slip

through colour

……………………..a heart




& warm breath.i’ll light

a fire

…………a flame



sit back

on old



till wings stretch

& dry


Two poems from ‘Moving’ by Scott Thurston

What can you say? To think with the body as subject

and object at once change flows through the pattern.

In the push and pull of yes and no, word’s edge

is a body of thought, such way out feeds time back.

Okay to keep eye contact with myself in rehearsal,


to imagine a focus beyond audience. Your own ego would.

Judging other’s egoism to be shared as my own is exposed,

finding it hard to let go into levity. To whom did the

screams appeal? Still once a day is shorter in sound –

each phrase becoming an object hanging in space.


Let movement follow sound, track out up to the beam.

Increase the range of tone, pushing a volume between

hands, touching the limit of the moving imagination.

An impulse to touch a line now forgotten across our

Distance. Bringing too much effort toward meaning,


let me stay in my body’s direct gesture in

the alignment of the spine. I see you seeing me

stay closer to myself. From shape to gesture to expression,

a trialogue between thought, word and movement: the moving

thinker writes and having moved writes on.


Expressive beyond reason, our arms and heads go round

in a circle making internal connections: another sweat angel

on the floor. Purity. Objects that can’t object to what we

cannot bear: impulses and choices to follow, affects brought

forth as love in movement.








What are you doing with this poem? You take it all in,

make some choices, take some decisions, or you don’t. To split

your individuality from your self, from your ego dissolved in spirit.

Its particularity might lead to generality, or vice-versa, or not.

Waiting for the impulse to start, step on to the navigation


point as imagined witness, addressing what is prepared for you

as a present, trying to see the movement. Not enough time

in the world to wait for it: is it a choice or something

that comes unbidden into attention’s domain? Listening

for the sounds of the other moving in the room,


making my own sound to detect the shape of the space.

My lip touches the edge of a table. Touching the edge

of syncopated, harmonised reduction; conflict bodies

for the logoclast. All these things at once hook left

then right, twist and push away, turn and absorb


body to body. Try to be beautiful as you use the word

quiet at the window. Judgement stops movement.

Language fell away. Language fell to. Stop

movement. Get the language working again,

releasing out from the centre to the edges.


Trusting that you can follow your energy without

refusing others’ shape and disperse: trying something

to find it wrong also. I try to perceive this in relation

to the colours of different flowers in proximity, and,

going up to a rose, my perception of it has changed.

SCOTT THURSTON’S most recent book is Figure Detached Figure Impermanent (Oystercatcher, 2014). He co-organises The Other Room reading series in Manchester and co-edits the Journal of British and Irish Innovative Poetry. Scott lectures at the University of Salford and has published widely on innovative poetry, including a book of interviews entitled Talking Poetics (Shearsman, 2011). See his pages at www.archiveofthenow.com/

Song and the bottom of the root

Go, I am to reclaim you as a song that misfits the memorabilia. A song that rustles through from branch to branch pecking, over and over, at all the blossoms cramming into a gap which has been otherwise declared truly unbridgeable, yet glistening. I once was a place. You have come a long way to hand me a song like that.

To think that you are a song, because a song can open and reopen the wounds of past and passing. And when you cared to roll over those immaculate burns, nothing came out healed. Now the suture does not quite appear as a mere buzz as dead blood threads keep seeping through the parchment. What is it a song, a brooding beak, or an engine blowing smoke, a falsetto of that kind?

You as a song, because a song flows down to read the retreat address over and over and fails. Flow is something that is innate to the song. And flow holds at its root an incessant movement, a reforming displacement, an eternal slippage, a bubbling friction being dragged away from where it was previously remembered. The journey of the song could only mean the drifting waves that undercut the shoreline to carry it off. Am I to think of you as a song slipping away from the root harbored deep in the throat? No oysterhood, no cries, I know the song always riles the bottom of the root.


Debasis Mukhopadhyay lives and writes in Montreal, Canada. His poems have appeared in publications in the USA & UK including  The Curly MindI am not a silent poetWith Painted WordsYellow Chair ReviewThirteen Myna BirdsOf/WithSilver Birch PressThe Bitchin’ KitschFoliate OakEunoia ReviewSnapping TwigFragments of Chiaroscuro, among others. Follow him at https://debasismukhopadhyay.wordpress.com/ or @dbasis_m on Twitter.

It takes a train to see America by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

What a kooky ride

The fire-roasted red peppers yellow squash & carrots are still lapping the edge of your rack

Served with loaded mashed potatoes

You said you always enjoy baby back ribs

The tender lean pork loin meat glazed in bold dark sauce humbly falls off the bones

Yesterday it was seafood jambalaya with rice pilaf & salad

And the day before pan roasted wild sockeye salmon with fries

It has been a whale of a time

I can see how easily you could coast into the scenic dreams

For these three days and three nights

Your train is soon going to pull into your last stop

But before you sign the guest book

Jonas liked it here

Take a look at yourself from behind the window

Upon which an eclipse of moths are dissipating

Since the train left the foggy Bay

Your knife looks remembering rust

Your fork looks shining into blood

Maybe you are taking too much time to bring yourself to them

Huddled between your hands they look so displaced

They do not know you know when your heart beats

Unwinding the sweet America without stopping to wind the bones

The soda can is left undrunk and perspiring

Since the time the train crossed

From Nevada into Utah

And then rolled through the canyons of Colorado

The ice cubes keep waning in your hyper dreamy glass

When treated to the view of a setting sun

That stretches down from the desert cliffs

And tumbles directly into

What you ordered for lunch

With yellowed teeth a couple of hours ago

And a couple of hours ago the clock was reset

To isolate the runoff moments of yearns you might think they had ever been

During the time the steelhead train traveled from coast to coast

Leaving you with nothing to do but

Admire the view of your hollowed out dreams in free fall

And take a glimpse into the soul of remains and moorings

The train is now pulling into New York Penn station

Time to cut loose from America

America is not the world on earth

You can now remain tight in life

Dreams will not come again

Jan ’64 by Dominic Albanese

particular bad patrol
tight ass fire fight
bugs…really bad bugs
bit to shit
Maddy is welts n itchy
on commo…out of his ear
I call
back base camp
ice up some San Miguel Dark
get me a Thracian swab
two cans of Dole Pineapple juice
I don’t care how
but some flowers
drag ass I mean slug ass
Mad Dog is patrol leader so
he gotta check in
head count n supervise
stack arms n visual
all cowboys check in
I run
hooch side
Honley (God rest him)
had all I asked for


My main Man Mr Terrific
just about
really…..drops his gear
I call out….come to pappa big boy
sees a bucket with ice n beer
these scraggle ass weeds
n a big can of Dole
I tell him
he busts out
shouts out
you meddle dick sad excuse for a paratrooper
I love you too much


war….frolic n fun
o yea….the bug juice balm
really was a big deal
some guys get it really bad
me I eat way too much garlic
they hate me

Living History by Dominic Albanese

pages pages all fall down
static electric movements
howling back reaching forward
why I
wrote THEN N NOW
a photo…some 40 years old
or so
captures encapsulate time events days
laughter n pain
all assembled like a Greek chorus
wags nags busted knuckles bloody noses
we all had lot o hair
girl friends …sidekicks home boys
dealers squealers stand up lie down
alley way exchanges of
so much money it is funny
sitting trying to make
a check book not bounce like
we bounced bopped hopped
n gave not a fuck
bout tomorrow
joy n sorrow….bindles full of
marching powder ….smokin Js foggy haze
yes static electric play grounds….grind beans.tight jeans
fast bikes;;;;soft leather seats
swearing we could not be beat
old now…..living history on
books of faces
remembering those places
ashes ashes all fall down……narco bunko jail cells
self abusing hells…bells….paint it write it
call it what you will
life fill….sitting here
magazine subscription or water bill

The Trees by Monika Kostera

(Zaton, 2013)

What shall I do?
The smooth walnut tree,
cut down in her prime.
She that cradled me,
told me stories
unmatched since.

When the leaves fall
where shall I go?
When hurt,
when I’ve done wrong,
when no tears can wash
my eyes clear?

The oak tree upon the hill
that taught me that courage
hangs his hat in the mind,
in whose branches
I reached beyond structures,
to think the unthought.


He, the same who
taught me to grow,
was struck by lightning.
His roots died slowly and
the light is stark,
undappled by his leaves.

none tread before me now,
no canopy above.

So take this, my song,
black swallow.
Weave it with
the dead twigs
of fallen trees
and make a nest
in the bows of the living.



Monika Kostera, a professor at the University of Krakow from her debut collection Oneiropeia. I include here a trio that have abuse & manipulation deep in their roots but perhaps still an optimistic aftertaste.