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poetry

The Ark

Poetry

March 2018

Anthony Joseph

Poetry

March 2018

For Stephen Samuel Gordon: Spaceape.   Sun Ra was on the ark. Prince Nico Mbarga, he was on the ark. So was Art Taylor...

Poetry

February 2018

Three Poems

Belinda Zhawi

Poetry

February 2018

(this) black girl as shadow-boxer   Born soft, bulging, with sympathy & all manner of fruitful & barren laws,...

Poetry

January 2018

Three Poems

Susannah Dickey

Poetry

January 2018

And all the circus ponies had to go home   I   In the ticket booth a woman chews...

Universal Access   I have only ever lived among pollution Tell me it is not the sky I look at but an irradiated blanket, pitched between my street lamps and the real sky To that I say the real sky is immaterial, an idea cast too far back into the dark to matter My pollutions define me   As a child I favoured invented worlds, populated by tribes with kaleidoscopic cultures, another one always over the mountain ridge Today, in the city, the promise of a never spent or perfected flux is all that keeps me here The new thing ever opening Frontiers of the affordable and good   I am stranded in the middle of Moby Dick: p 274 out of 509 The Pequod, after listing in the South Pacific, has embarked upon its first ‘cutting in’, the process of safely flaying a whale of its blubber, which requires the whole crew to heave a hook-fed rope through the blowhole until everything gives at once, for the blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange   Part of me would sooner stay here There is too much to read Far from a complaint, this is only to state the necessary obverse of infinity’s appeal Were we to know that our present book was the last we were yet to read, its conclusion would be intolerable Heaven, then, must be to choose a fixed point, knowing the brawl of infinite, receding options, as if slipping into a particular chair while rain hammers on the skylight Here I can dip my fingers in the dripping hide   Through my browser I watch a documentary, free of charge, about a church repurposed as a data centre where a record of every web page is collected through time Truly, there is a holiness in this: shades of God’s forensic love for hair and sand As well as sites they preserve books scanned by human hand, so that Melville’s relishing and fretful bulk can expand along its ultimate democratic tangent to take its place beside the novel’s Wiki page, as captured on almost every day of its existence   A great wall:

Poetry

December 2017

Three Poems

Dai George

Poetry

December 2017

Universal Access   I have only ever lived among pollution. Tell me it is not the sky I look...

Prize Winner

November 2017

Dream Houses

Lucy Mercer

Prize Winner

November 2017

I forget       some days in Helepolis –  chapelles          of blue peaches  ...

the dark is just another thing I can slip into something more comfortable the dark is a sexy reptile I want to do this right I want to do it here in thirty years I look back on the poem I read with the most care I say yes                every poem since then was about The Death I would like to broker a deal with sleep the drift/sleep/wake                reckoning trinity I feel like how adults thought I felt when I was a child the prospect of cleaning a grimy window is growing more appealing a grimy window in an abandoned house is nothing short of a treat
I want to do this right, and I want to do it here 

Prize Entry

November 2017

Jake Reynolds

fulljustify {text-align: justify !important; max-width:400px !important; line-height:08rem !important; }fulljustify:after { content: “”;display: inline-block;width: 100%; } The work takes her to Amsterdam, LA & Seoul Or else, it’s work in the studio with the old toilet bowls stuffed with soil and seedlings, cold light streaks each morning early, the school playground crashing up next door A recurrent cat It’s true she works most days, the routine becoming normality, just work This, her office, her desk Here’s the most recent, what she’s been working on for weeks now – months? – existing before it’s itself, bleeding paint So, how does it work, then – I mean, physicalities, substance shift, where daily work turns to more than just that? The brush pots, clippings, tinted tea mugs, dead colour worked into wall creases, packages marked ‘sold’ stacked by thick catalogues webbed in dust; out of, I’d almost call it junk, the whole works, it is made – the work
Work Study

Prize Entry

November 2017

Lavinia Singer


 

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