From the Fast Train ~ A poem by Imogen Forster

The Beach Hut

From the Fast Train

Across the firth cloudbanks rise
like mountains: a Caucasus range
transported, whipped into whiteness.

Sunlight blinks on the far shore,
the mild hills rise and fall, a roll
of paper scenery opening as we move.

In the salt-spumed distance the land
is misty, painted in the muted, formal
tones of those old holiday advertisements

that showed us summer heat: resinous pines,
mimosa and sharp agaves, their flower stems
leaning over improbable intensities of blue.

Hikers crossing shadowed fells, buckets
and spades scattered on spotless sands,
Arcadias that lay just beyond our reach.

At the estuary’s mouth the coastline ends.
Now it’s steep winter fields, earth steel-turned
for sowing, herring gulls and lichened walls.

Imogen Forster

Imogen Forster has been writing and publishing poems for the past seven years. She completed an MA in Writing Poetry at Newcastle University in 2017, and has a collection on the…

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Maryport sea-wall ~ A poem by Sarah L Dixon

The Beach Hut

Maryport sea-wall

On one side
the disused railway
measured how much
our legs had grown.

Three steps between runners.
One easy stride.

The wall offers shelter
from needles, broken glass, condoms.

We turn sideways to inch through the gap.

To find shells, sea-glass
and have our hair pulled high and hard
by Irish sea squalls.

It is not the place
for loose-fitting hats,
full skirts or tie-dyed scarves.

The wall offers shelter
but stepping out makes me
part of the weather
and of nature.
Helps me embrace
my wild, un-walled self,
to enjoy a Sellafield sunset.

Sarah L Dixon

Sarah L Dixon lives in Linthwaite. Adding wax patterns to Wednesday was released by Three Drops Press in 2018. Her first book, The sky is cracked, was released by Half Moon Press in 2017. Sarah’s inspiration comes from being in and by water and adventures with her son, Frank.


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REFUGEES ~ A poem by Patrick Osada

The Beach Hut


Escaping gunfire from the sea,
fear and blind panic drove them on
like any other refugees.
Without the loadstar of their lives –
away from the familiar –
they travelled unseen through the night
from far beyond the ocean’s swell.

Singing, they kept their spirits high,
they passed Black Rock and Castle Point
to swing into the broad Porthcuel…
Beyond moored boats with jangling sheets,
the sleeping Manor House at Place,
they lost their way and chose Porth Creek.

Into this elemental place
of mudflats, long abandoned boats,
they moved in on a changing tide.
Beneath the overhanging oaks
where brown stream narrows, up near Froe,
the tidal waters ebbed away.

Caught up in flotsam, debris, weed,
the party floundered in the creek
as channel water turned to shoals.
Poor gardeners raised the alarm –
as sun rose on the carnage there,
of those who travelled from the sea,

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Interactions in (un)controlled conditions and Extinction event — Two Poems and Five Images by Ankh Spice

IceFloe Press

Interactions in (un)controlled conditions

Here is the boy who once caused Chernobyl
to be known as terror-not-town.
It was singlehanded and he was just fifteen
years of slow meltdown, design-flaws, all
his wrong secret buttons pushed in sly dark – a child,
who first heard the word delusion as an echo
down a hot tunnel of dissolving ground

The concrete sarcophagus for his containment was ugly, poured
in the frightened 1970
to conceal runaway reactions from the general populace
until they safely (oh privately, quietly please) exhausted themselves

Inside, he found several alien suns still glowing, right
where the lino in the back corridor was scorched, a blast-map
orbited by squeakshoe nurses (15 minute check!), and in that universe
each 2am LadyJesus flamed hard with belief,
post-slot breast flapped up, on Sundays she wept Latin and milk, baptised
him in the night-bulb glow
of her earnest sacred heart

He thanked…

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Five Poems by Steve Denehan

IceFloe Press

Gossip Magazines, Dog-Eared Children’s Books and Two National Geographics

In the waiting room none of us are sick
we are without diagnosis
without prognosis
we live in the world of the well, the un-sick
until our name is called
and we shuffle into the examination room
listen to our test results
nod as if we understand
feel the heavy cloak of time
drape across our shoulders

we fondly remember five minutes earlier
being healthy enough to be disappointed
that there were only
gossip magazines, dog-eared children’s books and two National Geographic’s
healthy enough to be annoyed by the woman having a full-blown conversation
on speakerphone
so healthy as to wish for an off switch on that baby

we did not realise
until it was too late
that the waiting room
was paradise

Seagulls and Silence

I wipe sea spray from your fringe
you point to the horizon excitedly
there is…

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TIME OF THE POET JOURNAL : Of Wretched Slogan Vagabonds and Political Hoodlums!!


December dribbles her signature dance towards January, shaking off jackets  of Christmas fever  welcoming 2020 flipping  pages into another millennium.  We are capping this year of diversity  with a blessing of global poetry. This journal celebrates  the  power in  togetherness  and  the  vintage of  diversity .Poets  and poems featured in this  special  journal represent   the magic of poetry  on  this once peaceful but now war whipped  earth we call WORLD.  It is a selection of defiant but nonviolent spear like words hunting for justice in the deep gutters of war, expedience   and digging for peace underneath crude pits of tyranny. To expose  dictatorial  vagaries and totalitarian  imbecility perpetuated by blood suckers and powers mongers on this our  earth  .Our  God the Almighty , Lord  created   Poets with the wisdom of revolutionizing   and cleansing  the world  of  its political dirty and wash  it clean  from  the trash of toxic corruption. This…

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Io, Saturnalia? Merry Happy Whatever!

The Petrified Muse

Few ancient exclamations inspire the internet as much as io Saturnalia, allegedly shouted by the Romans in the streets during their celebration of the Saturnalia (and as it is December 18th today as I write this, we are already bang in the middle of that particular holiday!).

But what do we actually know about this exclamation?

Very little, it turns out.

The idea that io Saturnalia was indeed shouted widely among the population of Rome is derived from a very small number of ancient sources. The usual point of departure for conclusions regarding this practice is a short passage in the first book of the late antique author MacrobiusSaturnalia:

Ex his ergo omnibus colligi potest et uno die Saturnalia fuisse et non nisi quarto decimo Kalendarum Ianuariarum celebrata: quo solo die apud aedem Saturni convivio dissoluto Saturnalia clamitabantur: qui dies nunc Opalibus inter Saturnalia deputatur…

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The New Burden: The Crunch of Awareness, the tenth and final poem in Linda Chown’s William Blake Series

Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine

Christian reading in his book, one of 28 illustrations Blake did to accompany Bunyon’s “The Pilgrim’s Progress” courtesy of Interesting Literature / Public Domain

“I think; therefore, I am.” René Descartes

Whence it so happened that Descartes left tracks in
John Bunyan who impressed his mind on the way
to William Blake, decent soul that he was. Long ago
we were said to have souls, that mysterious interior
invisible, unknowable. And then things changed.
It was not God so much as that a new burden of knowing
came to be ours. This knowing no bloodless rule, no abstract thing.
Blake no Age of Reason pontificator: “To Generalize is to be an Idiot;
To Particularize is the Alone Distinction of Merit,” Blake wrote.
And here in this, he particularizes, oh how he particularizes.
Christian physically bound in his reading.
Blake kindles hot the near insanity of the meeting,
As his very…

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Four Poems by Ojo Taiye

IceFloe Press

Autumn Leaves

it’s early & i’ve found out that i can’t keep joy to myself. how else to start a new year? (i want to say how else to begin in a strange land). i am the hero of this poem. the one who leans into the night & chants how heavy the world weighs on my slouching shoulders.

smoking the last navy cut— when i think of my mother— a black thread twisted around my neck. how is it that i didn’t spend my whole life being happy? my grief eviscerates my body, breaking it into two: like rain, my stomach is full with the excesses of leaving & staying.

does it matter what we call a thing— the safety of shadows & how the ocean is a safe place to begin. home is a ripe avocado on my tongue: sometimes darkness offers you light.

i can’t afford to…

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