-Boathouse On The Creek by Terry Chipp
-Angel of Destruction by Marcel Herms
Boathouse Destruction
Destroy all structure:
moonlight reverie
summarily shattered
slatted allegory
puppet Universe
domestication, worse
-Sarah Reeson
THE ANCHOR
This is the stillness
around which time revolves:
The creek mirroring clouds
as they disentangle thought.
Spiders spinning vapour trails
from the numb bud of boughs.
The woman sitting in the boathouse
with the universe sheltered
in the pearl of her eyes.
-Susan Darlington
Reality Fascist
No one believed the dystopia you described
as you launched your inaugural obsession with crowd
size, though one distinguished guest called your spiel
“some weird shit”.
Who could know you hid avenging wings beneath
your coat? That your gloating brimstone utterances
were match-strike that would set the world
alight? Now, in these Days of the Dead, wisdom
arrives late. The ashes of innocence choke
breath from the lungs. Arms are drawn brother against
brother, mother against son; our daughters a broken
Eucharist on the altar of your ego. Your apparatchiks
screech over fields of warriors, Valkyrie come
not to save souls, but to desecrate heroes. Justice
seekers march as you part their waves with flash-bangs,
tear-gas children, train weapons of war on the peace-
full, their blood your red carpet. You, Reality Fascist,
riled by fearlessness, enraged by women who will
not bend, those who take pride in the color of their skin,
the old who’ve seen your kind before.
You’ve made believers of us all. The emperor stripped
bare, walls himself in the palace of the people. Benevolence
escapes him. He sells the furnishings to foreign kings,
betrays his allies, crushes the weak, tweets while Rome
burns. We are spurned, turned out of our own houses
while you pour gasoline on our wounds, rob us blind,
put a “for sale” sign on our honor. Narcissus with a sharpie
throwing tantrums, courting porn stars, stacking courts:
art of the steal. We see through your veil of lies the rifts
you sowed. Once you told the truth — the day we
sheathed you in power — you said you would destroy us.
Trickster in a cheap suit, you are no match for Lady
Liberty or our own rebellious bones. Unworthy apprentice,
today the people rise, armed with more than a hundred million
ballots. How’s that for crowd size? We are coming for you.
You’re fired.
-Gayle J Greenlea
(Angel Of Destruction)
Portrait of the Earth as girl
/To create something, we must destroy they said/
when I asked about icebergs warming, the heat
morphing yellow to green & then to blue. A girl ruminates
through her blue seasoning, walks and lifts her hands. Take a beat—
or so they said when I asked about global warming, heat,
watching sky for lineament, for leaves. A girl brushes her hair
through her blue seasoning, walks and lifts her hands. Take a beat—
blue cascades around her in dying sheaves. A pent desire.
Watching sky for the lineament of leaves, a girl brushes her hair.
A girl remembers in her hands, the trees. Their long necks, their reason
of blue. Cascades. Around her, they lie in dying sheaves of pent desire
until land became a vast, barren scraping of terror, a season
of a girl remembering. In her hands, the trees. Their long necks
burning at their roots. And what if the girl should not wake
until land becomes a vast, barren scrape of terror, a season
of loss. A ghost of its former self. A wake we cannot see.
She burns at their roots. And what if the girl should not wake
changing yellow to green & then to blue
of loss. A ghost of its former self. A wake we cannot see.
/To create something, we must destroy they said/
-Anindita Sengupta
MaAngel of Death MH
“Monster’s Make-up”
All the leering parts are hard to stomach
The off red of a fading heart beat Innocent blue scrubs you know are hiding
Deepest black stuffed with spittle Tarnished white to match the scrubs
Demon yellow eyes at the apex of extinction Skewed halo falls into weak endless grey
Boathouse on the Creek TC
“An Exchange”
1 2
Nightfall exchanges so-called insiders A pleasant colour palette draws
For so-called outsiders Each group to their desired spot
3 4
There is a congenial meet They saw aquatic scientists test the lake’s
In the middle without hand shakes Water but for what they did not know
5 6
Lake House enjoyed the many Main House enjoyed the simplicity of
Rooms of the main house The lake house’s one room space
7 8
The scientists of the lake exchanged And left their fascinating office for
Work clothes for civvies The house down the roadin House enjoyed the simplicity of
Rooms of the main house The lake house’s one room space
7 8
The scientists of the lake exchanged And left their fascinating office for
Work clothes for civvies The house down the road,
-Lydia Wist
Angel of destruction
It’s funny how the people with the wings
and halos look so like the ones with black
masks and scimitars, their banners, one in gold
the other black, the same imperious messages—
Do, be, do not, have not, say not, speak not,
kill, save, listen, mute and deaf to all else,
for we alone have the answer, we alone the
words in the right order, the right mouths.
Empty your minds of all impious thoughts,
they say, for your thoughts are not worth
a gnat’s fart when it comes to the great
au-delà. Bow down and take your medicine,
says the Great Panjandrum in the sky, and
the angels of destruction grin in their white-
winged nighties and golden-bannered haloes,
holding out their hands in fraternity to the
butchers, hatchet-faced and grim¬—reapers.
-Jane Dougherty
(Boathouse on the Creek)
For all my witches
The moon like slivered garlic: yellow grasses
nudge up in silvered air. Sky hangs, a placard.
The houses protect their silence, aloof
to creek’s longing, everything held—yet dark
smears, where the eye travels despite ourselves.
Placid exteriors can conceal, rebuke.
Behind yellow-green walls, some violences
may be un-held, unloosed & Rebecca,
woman of kerchiefs and rumors, may trip
down here, any sec—maligned or mallow—
Hibiscus, pretty/edible, provoking
hellfire. As women do, we’re taught & we
relearn how even our pastoral pleasures
may break gasping into marshland, bog mud.
-Anindita Sengupta
Election Day 2020
The azure angel buoys her
aloft as she aims down with
an elbow strike to destroy
all red, already falling
behind, stricken while it’s down,
the sort of thing a decent
referee would penalize.
Instead call it a left hook,
a left in the name of right,
one more jab toward center.
-Holly York 2020
For All I Leave Behind.
I feel her by my side – again
what it was and what it is
screams to that inevitable end
that stillness in the dark
beating like a drum
at the base of my spine.
I feel her in the room this time
I know her gaze from over my shoulder
and suddenly I feel nothing
and everything all at once
I want to give into knowing
and meet her in the sky.
I feel it when I am not sure how to feel
the first poem – and the last
I want to know you
in another place in time
where I am alive again
and
I need to give and get some hugs
I settle into hysteria
it’s all they ever ask of me
to hear the beating of the drum
and promise them I’ll see tomorrow –
whatever good a promise ever did.
-Liam Stainsby
Nangknee
If I said to you, yellow bear
you’d think Pooh or Paddington.
But I look up to the attic
where my precious bear retires
in an airtight bag.
He’s a threadbare bear
with black thread nose unravelled
from being hugged so tight.
Named before I could write,
he is still Nangknee to me.
Gaynor Kane
Angelic Destruction
I turn out the
living room light,
now into the pitch as
thousands of times
before.
With my finger still
on the rocker switch,
in the dark familiarity
of a sleeping house.
Preoccupied
with bedtime
thoughts:
Tomorrow is Tuesday,
is the front door secure?
Are the cats home yet?
This time,
this one time the
night eternal, eons
of darkness await.
Switched off
ceased
my consciousness terminated.
First my glass of water
leaves my dead hand,
bouncing once throwing
a wave.
My final act.
no more damage in this life,
for an angel of destruction,
heaven’s warrior,
has placed a hand
on my ageing chest.
And all time stops.
Pack your thoughts
for I am death’s angel.
Dark destroyer
of Sennacherib’s army.
Hitting pause,
leaving my life
all is undone,
I am complete.
© Dai Fry 1st November 2020
:: fairies ::
.day 3.
it was one of those books
you know the sort you read over
something about a house
i seem to remember
one of the favourites
have the set up until then
and i expect she has written more
since
there is a boat house up cregennan
another down bontddu
making good photographs
good dreams
***
change that dream to night terror
when you cannot shift
the weight bearing down from hell or somewhere
else
hell is a story for control
for controversy
they come here spouting the belief yet
never ask for mine
***
fairies
..sbm..
Boathouse on the creek
Plank on frame, one door
one window, we would meet there,
he was always waiting, cigarette
curling into the rafters, coiling
on oars, hanks of line, his hands
smelling of leather, never a light
just moon on the water, a small silver
transistor radio playing funk,
the creek a sinuous singing of frogs,
there face down on a pile of tarps
and life vests his flowing
would fill me. Later, only moon
and wind would hear my singing,
night coiled in trees, the distant houses
empty of light.
-Peach Delphine
Angel of destruction
blood spattered, mountain
of death, corpses fill this hearth
of words, utterance requires
no kindling, sparks fly from tongue
shards of light fall
from faceless sun, daybreak
is the sand of graves sliding back
upon the digger in the maw, grasp now
narrowing sky, shadow that fills my eyes
is not night or the darkness taut
within arm and wrist, mountain
of blood we climb ridge
by ridge
as stars recede
wind colder, stars receding,
the precipice is within,
we fall through ash and smoke
into burning pits
of our own rendering.
-Peach Delphine
Bios and Links
-Terry Chipp
grew up in Thurnscoe and ia now living in Doncaster via Wath Grammar school, Doncaster Art College, Bede College in Durham and 30 years teaching.
He sold his first painting at the Goldthorpe Welfare Hall annual exhibition at the age of 17 and he haven’t stopped painting since.
He escaped the classroom 20 years ago to devote more time to his artwork. Since then he has set up his own studio in Doncaster, exhibited across the north of England as a member of the Leeds Fine Artists group and had his painting demonstrations featured on the SAA’s Painting and drawing TV channel. Further afield he has accepted invitations to work with international artists’ groups in Spain, Macedonia, Montenegro and USA where his paintings are held in public and private collections. In 2018 he had a solo exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and a joint exhibition in Germany.
His pictures cover a wide range of styles and subjects from abstract to photo-realism though he frequently returns to his main loves of landscape and people.
Visitors are welcome at his studio in the old Art College on Church View, Doncaster.
e-mail: terry@terrychipp.co.uk
Facebook: Terry Chipp Fine Art Painting
Instagram: @chippko.art
-Marcel Herms
is a Dutch visual artist. He is also one of the two men behind the publishing house Petrichor. Freedom is very important in the visual work of Marcel Herms. In his paintings he can express who he really is in complete freedom. Without the social barriers of everyday life.
There is a strong relationship with music. Like music, Herms’ art is about autonomy, freedom, passion, color and rhythm. You can hear the rhythm of the colors, the rhythm of the brushstrokes, the raging cry of the pencil, the subtle melody of a collage. The figures in his paintings rotate around you in shock, they are heavily abstracted, making it unclear what they are doing. Sometimes they look like people, monsters, children or animals, or something in between. Sometimes they disappear to be replaced immediately or to take on a different guise. The paintings invite the viewer to join this journey. Free-spirited.
He collaborates with many different authors, poets, visual artists and audio artists from around the world and his work is published by many different publishers.
www.marcelherms.nl
www.uitgeverijpetrichor.nl
-Hokis
Hokis is an American Poet of Armenian descent. She is senior editor of Headline Poetry & Press and a regular contributor to Reclamation Magazine. Her work is found digitally and in numerous print anthologies, including SMITTEN (Indie Blu(e), Oct 2019), Pandemic Poetry Anthology (Gloucester Poetry Festival, Oct. 2020), and Heron Clan VII(Heron Clain). You can her digital work and information on her debut collection, UnBecoming, at hokis.blog.
-Jane Dougherty
writes novels, short stories and lots of poems. Among her publications is her first chapbook of poetry, thicker than water. She is also a regular contributor to Visual Verse and the Ekphrastic Review. You can find her on twitter @MJDougherty33 and on her blog https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/
-Peach Delphine
is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast. Former cook. Has had poems in Cypress Press, Feral Poetry, IceFloe Press, Petrichor. Can be found on Twitter@Peach Delphine
-Dai Fry
is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter:
@thnargg
Web: http://seekingthedarklight.co.uk
-Susan Darlington
Susan Darlington’s poetry regularly explores the female experience through nature-based symbolism and stories of transformation. It has been published in Fragmented Voices, Algebra Of Owls, Dreams Walking, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. Her debut collection, ‘Under The Devil’s Moon’, was published by Penniless Press Publications (2015). Follow her @S_sanDarlington
-Holly York
lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her two large, frightening lapdogs. A PhD in French language and literature, she has retired from teaching French to university students, as well as from fierce competition in martial arts and distance running. She has produced the chapbooks Backwards Through the Rekroy Wen, Scapes, and Postcard Poetry 2020. When she isn’t hard at work writing poems in English, she might be found reading them in French to her long-suffering grandchildren, who don’t yet speak French.
-Gayle J. Greenlea
is an award-winning poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, “Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel Zero Gravity at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Astronomy Magazine, Headline Poetry and Press and The Australian Health Review.
-Helen Allison
lives in the North East of Scotland. Her first poetry collection ‘ Tree standing small’ was published in 2018 with Clochoderick Press. Her work has appeared in journals and magazines in print and online and she is working towards a second collection.
-Lydia Wist
Like someone who tries out hats or other samples before making a final decision, experimenting with different ideas and techniques is how Lydia spends some of her time. This allows for other portions of time to speak through the lens of fiction, creative nonfiction and art. You can find her work at Cargo Collective , Lydia Wist Creative and on Twitter @Lydiawist.
Website links:
https://cargocollective.com/lydiawist
https://www.facebook.com/lydiawistcreative/
-Sarah Connor
lives in the wild, wet, south-west of England, surrounded by mud and apple trees. She writes poems to make sense of the world, and would rather weed than wash up.
-sonja benskin mesher
-Liam Stainsby
holds a bachelor in English Literature and Creative Writing and is a secondary school teacher of English and Creative Writing. Liam is currently writing his first, professional collection of poetry entitled Borders that explores poetry from all around the world. Liam also Co-Hosts a movie discussion podcast entitled: The Pick and Mix Podcast. Liam writes under the pseudonym ‘Michael The Poet’
Links: WordPress: https://michael-the-poet.com/
Twitter: stainsby_liam
Instagram: Michael The Poet
-Sarah Reeson
is 54, married and a mother of two, who has been writing and telling stories since childhood. Over the last decade she has utilised writing not just as entertainment, but as a means to improve personal communication skills. That process unexpectedly uncovered increasingly difficult and unpleasant feelings, many forgotten for decades. Diagnosed as a historic trauma survivor in May 2019, Mental health issues had previously hindered the entirety of her adult life: the shift into writing as expression and part of a larger journey into self-awareness began to slowly unwind for her from the past, providing inspiration and focus for a late career change as a multidisciplined artist.
Website: http://internetofwords.com
-Gaynor Kane
is a Northern Irish poet from Belfast. She has two poetry pamphlets, and a full collection, from Hedgehog Poetry Press, they are Circling the Sun, Memory Forest and Venus in pink marble (2018, 2019 and Summer 2020 respectively). She is co-author, along with Karen Mooney, of Penned In a poetry pamphlet written in response to the pandemic and due for release 30th November 2020. Follow her on Twitter @gaynorkane or read more at www.gaynorkane.com.
-Anindita Sengupta
is the author of Walk Like Monsters (Paperwall, 2016) and City of Water (Sahitya Akademi, 2010). Her work has appeared in anthologies and journals such as Plume, 580 Split, One and Breakwater Review. She is Contributing Editor, Poetry, at Barren Magazine. She has received fellowships and awards from the Charles Wallace Trust India, the International Reporting Project, TFA India and Muse India. She currently lives in Los Angeles, California. Her website is http://aninditasengupta.com
-Ailsa Cawley
writes poetry and fiction and lives on the Isle of Skye. She is inspired massively by the ethereal landscape and mists that devour the land.
Ailsa Cawley writes poetry and fiction and lives on the Isle of Skye. She is inspired massively by the ethereal landscape and mists that devour the land.
http://ailsacawley.Wordpress.com
The Wombwell Rainbow 