-Marcel Herms who describes it as A new face in hell. Inspired by Dante AND the Fall.

Inferno’s Frozen Circle

I

Lucifer,

the most beautiful fallen Angel of God
with pristine features and brown eyes,
blonde hair. His
beauty is an obsession of woman in sin.
Scorned by those righteous men of cloth
who lived in their own damnation. Like Carpeaux’s statue of Ugolino and His Sons,
their secret sins devoured them. Eating
away at their remorse as they feasted upon
the children of God. No
mirror exists to show the true face of
Lucifer.

II

Lusting,

writhing bodies of the damned are entombed
in ice in Inferno’s frozen circle. Never
to be freed of their sins on earth/
forever, open-mouthed, frozen-screams, hands: outstretched to the heavens, pleading for mercy. They took the seductive path of lust, greed
and pleaded for immortality.
In the throes of their vanity, Lucifer promised them false salvation in the serenity of hell/
where there is no umlilo and brimstone.
An accepted Dantesque portrayal of the beauty
of Gabriel— an Angel of many faces.

III

Charon,

ferried the damned across the frozen seas.
Fire-breathing serpents melt the icy waters that cracks upon the force of the bow of naked women. Seduced by the sins of the living and seduced by the beautiful face of
Him.
For immortal beauty, they now remain frozen
for eternity. Never to age and never to feel
the touch of love again.
Requiem in Inferno.

-Robin McNamara

Higher Callings

Human Reason,
You brilliant and reliable gift,
Your shortcomings aren’t your fault.

There’s simply more at stake.
We need every ounce of you, but
Dante already told us,

Virgil would only take us so far.
Espousing ourselves to bewilderment,
Allows journeying beyond intellect

To Humanity within.
Humanity demands a risk –
It’s a mystery asking us to stop solving it,

Our Humanity asks us to
Stop singing along
Absent-mindedly with the songs

We presume are our soundtracks.
Listen, instead,
For the potential melody outside one’s head.

Humanity
Differs from Reason.
Our mystery becomes the solution.
-SamanthaTerrell.com

Honeysuckle Liberation 

Dampness and honeysuckle
Mingle in thick evening air,
And I am immediately

Made aware
Of a place
Romanticized by time,
Before Dante Alighieri intrigued
Me with meter and rhyme;

Before growth inside this womb,
Swollen twice by life;
Before I was delivered
From a mind stricken with strife,
Freeing me to secure the transformative properties
Of a damp, and honeysuckle-laced reality.
-SamanthaTerrell.com (Previously published by Plants & Poetry Journal)

-Liam Flanagan

ACCIDENTAL INDUSTRY
From the wood
laid low too make it plain
and easy working Smithies for iron
two monks discovered and cast aside
black stuff that somehow caught fire,
like their terrified smiles.

Homespun yarns
from Cheshire caused a riot among the weavers ,
shreds of whom were given transportations
of terror like their horrified employers.

Navvies sweat
cut water and rail tracks
for coal to fire the engines revolutions
like the grief of widows.

Coal gas came
to blow expanding refractions of hot faces
into fragility like redundant workers.

-Paul Brookes (The first poem in my ancient first poetry pamphlet, The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, Dearne Press, 1993)

Bios and Links

-Robin McNamara

is a widely published poet based in Waterford City, Ireland. His debut pamphlet, Under a Mind’s Staircase was recently published with Hedgehog Poetry Press (2021)



Trigger Warning

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUE

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 8 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

        “So, what do you think?” Siobhan inquired of the impatient saleswoman, who was tapping a toe on industrial grey carpet. “My merchant’s remorse kicked in about 10 pairs ago. Just a matter of how your mood strikes you, today, dear.” Siobhan smiled. Clearly, her reputation was intact. As much as she loved shoes, it was not impossible that tomorrow she would return today’s purchase for something shinier or sexier or redder. “I’ll take the Chanels,” she said, thrusting them at the woman. Whatever she might feel like tomorrow, today was definitely a flat day. No soaring above her present depressive state. A look in her closet might infer that she lived in the clouds, preferring to stagger around on dangerously high heels, but spikes were really bravado for a disposition she could never really claim as her own. And if she were honest, her general avoidance of flats had more to do with a desire to tower over her practical, low-heel-preferring sister than any real commitment to spikey-ness.  
        No, today was definitely a flat day. In fact, she couldn’t feel lower if she were an eyelash on a single-celled organism.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

Second week – Growing – Day Eight

Day One

Earth says to dead leaf.

“Find your roots, feeding tubes.”

Mold Sink into me.”

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian 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, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

my watch photo by Paul Brookes

Trigger Warning

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUE

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 7 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

        Which ones? Prada spikes or Chanel flats? Siobhan was on her bi-weekly pilgrimage to Oxford Street in Paddington where she paid regular homage to a vast array of shops, cafes and boutiques. In one of her favourite shoe stores, she lifted a shapely calf for closer inspection of her foot. Not that she needed another pair, but buying shoes always made her feel better. A bulging wardrobe at home was testament to her preoccupation. That and the fact her niece’s first word was “shoooooeees”, much to the chagrin of her brother who noted the anomaly as inherited trait, undue influence, or a bit of both. “No question who’s the aunt,” he acknowledged wryly, opting for humour as his wife frowned her exasperation. “And you have to admit, ‘Siobhan’ is a bit of a mouthful.”  
        “Right,” her sister-in-law had said. “And the teeniest part of you wasn’t hoping her first utterance might be Da-da?” Still, Kathryn had scooped her daughter into her arms, the two of them cooing “shoooooees” back and forth at each other like demented shoppers at a Meyers Red Apple sale. 
         And Siobhan had done her auntly duty, reinforcing this shared fetish at every available opportunity. At age four, Kristin already had a shoe collection to rival Imelda Marcos. 

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

First week – Missing – Day Seven

Dead leaf says to tree.

“You’re my past. Not my future.

I’m not seed but mulch.”

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian 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, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

Autumn Evening on Summer Lane – Photo by Paul Brookes

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUE

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 6 November, 2021

<chapter> Two continued

        Ryan surveyed Owen’s sanctuary in mild disgust. How could anyone stand all this cat hair?  A wad of fluff drifted on a shaft of afternoon sun. Ryan swatted it away. He was not a cat person. It was one of the reasons Banjo lived with Hilary’s ex-husband Owen instead of with her. Christ, Owen. Your place looks like a demo for IKEA. Faux leather lounge, modest dining room set, bookshelves, desk and mini-bar rose like stalks from pale wheat-coloured wool carpet. Ryan crossed ten feet to a CD rack loaded with metal, grunge, jazz, indie, blues, and new folk. He grabbed David Wilcox and threw the plastic jacket onto the lounge. Inserting the disc into the CD player, he helped himself to a full finger of whisky from the mini-bar. Banjo blinked from under the bed in the next room, silently observing the interloper.
        Dulcet melody and characteristically clever Wilcox lyrics reverberated from Owen’s Bosch speakers. Ryan settled comfortably into a worn leather armchair, propping feet clad in Italian leather boots on the coffee table. Not long and Owen would be home. And by God, he would have answers.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

First week – Missing – Day Six

Tree says to dead leaf.
“I do not remember you.”
Dead leaf crumples up

-Paul Brookes

Bios and Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian 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, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

Autumn Leaves photo by Paul Brookes

PEOPLE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE ARE ADVISED THAT THE FOLLOWING EXTRACTS EXPLORE FAMILY DYSFUNCTION AND ABUSE ISSUES

Zero Gravity

Gayle J. Greenlea

Excerpt for 5 November, 2021

<chapter> Two

In a Darlinghurst apartment across town, Banjo perched in the window seat, eying traffic three stories down. He stretched his legs and pressed his forehead to the glass. A key jiggled the lock in the front door. The cat’s ears twitched to attention. The door opened and a trousered leg slipped through. Banjo snarled and shot out of the window to take cover under the bed. He watched the door ease shut as the stranger came into the room. 
        Ryan entered with the gait of the over-confident, dropping keys next to the potted plant by the window. He’d always been cocky, proud of good genes that gifted him with height and broad shoulders, prominent cheekbones and the dark curls he habitually pushed back from his forehead in his one unconscious gesture. All else was deliberate affectation. He was the rich kid who’d spent his fortune but not the entitlement…

-Gayle J.Greenlea

YOU’RE THE DEAD TO ME

First week – Missing – Day Five

Dead leaf says to tree.

“I will make a life away.

Join the discarded.”

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an American-Australian 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, Headline Poetry and Press, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, Kalonopia and The Australian Health Review.

Photo of Wombwell on autumn night by Paul Brookes

Respite for Noel

Today you would have been eighty-nine,
the same age as your sister-in-law,
two years behind your wife.
Would you have seen the sunshine
over the Teign gorge, or the autumn colours
at Killerton? Or even gone out to dinner
at midday, which you still called lunch,
drunk your one glass of red wine –
French, Italian, Spanish, you wouldn’t mind,
preferring a coffee to a second glass.
The Black Horse would still be open
on the day before Bonfire Night,
the last before another lockdown,
while we wait to hear how America voted.
I can’t help but be glad that you were spared
the ordeals of frailty, deprivations, bad news,
happy memories of other birthdays
that could not be re-lived.

-Peter Donnelly

November 5th

I’m not taking my heart out tonight, no,
letting it stay in. With the fireworks
and everything, keeping it away some.
Find a quiet nook, with a little snack
in a bowl, bit of comfort food, yes. Yes,
I’m going out, celebrate, empty sleeve,
not so inebriate – wouldn’t want to
leave it on its own mostly, wouldn’t want…

Truth is, I’m not so good at looking after it,
wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t been left with it,
very demanding, quiet often, when it does
play, usually it’s me ending up having a cry…

So I’m not letting my heart out tonight
with the fireworks, leave it in tonight.

-Math Jones

Bios And Links

-Peter J Donnelly

lives in York where he works as a hospital secretary. He has a degree in English and an MA in Creative Writing from Lampeter University. He has been published in various magazines and anthologies, including Dreich, in which the attached poem previously appeared. He recently won second prize in the Ripon Poetry Festival competition.

-Math Jones

is London-born, but is now based in Oxford. He has two books published: Sabrina Bridge, a poetry collection, from Black Pear Press (2017), and The Knotsman, a collection of verse, rhyme, prose and poetic monologue, which tell of the life and times of a C17th cunning-man. Much of his verse comes out of mythology and folklore: encounters with the uncanny and unseen. Also, as words written for Pagan ritual or as praise poems for a multitude of goddesses and gods. He is a trained actor and performs his poems widely.