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Day 5: Our Spired Unicorn
Thankyou for including me in your marvellous project Sarah.
Our Spired Unicorn
is a place of worship.
A moveable feast beast.
Offer it fruits and flowers
at harvest, Easter and Christmas.
Baptise bairns, get married,
celebrate the dead in its presence.
Pray before its hooves and flanks,
comb its hair, feed it oats.
Don’t try to ride it, or steal its horn.
It is sacred and full of light.
Go where it goes, a disciple.
Some may say you believe in a myth.
Your faith keeps it alive. You
know it as a companion, a friend.
Though it has a life of its own
is nothing but itself.
behind our eyes we are all
mythical beasts to others
Bio: Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks includeThe Headpoke and Firewedding(Alien Buddha Press, 2017),She Needs That Edge(Nixes Mate Press, 2017 2018)The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017),Please Take Change(Cyberwit.net, 2018),As Folk Over…
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Review of ‘My Boss’ by Niall M Oliver
Nigel Kent - Poet and Reviewer

I have always enjoyed poetry that explores the workplace and have spent many happy hours with the work of Fred Voss at the aircraft factory, with Martin Hayes at the courier service and with Philip Levine on the assembly lines. Niall Oliver’s My Boss is another to add to that section on the bookshelf. His pamphlet was judged to be runner-up in Hedgehog Poetry’s Baker’s Dozen competition for pamphlets of thirteen poems, but I can see why editor, Mark Davidson, couldn’t resist the urge to publish it.
My Boss is an unusual, quirky pamphlet. All poems share the same title and first line, My Boss, and collectively build a picture of the sort of manager that is instantly recognisable as the boss we love to hate. This the narcissistic boss who believes the world revolves around him; the boss who believes he is always right (‘a businessgod’); the…
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GLASS, KELP – A Poem by Anindita Sengupta w/an image by Vera Schmittberger
C.W.: Abortion
GLASS, KELP
Two nights in a train,
the adagio of her hands
over tiffin boxes of food
She always fed me so singingly
curries, cake, crumble, pita, pizza, cookies, every day a feast
Inside me, love as alga
We were traveling
to her mother’s house
which she still
considered home
because
she could not consider ours
I did not question so much as obsess
Overgrown algae:
fulgent,
filigreeing out of bounds,
can smother
coral reefs
When we spoke of abortion,
I heard
What have you done?/
the words arhythmic timeless.
Her shame aged me girl crouched on the sofa
body curling
& uncurling
its young womb
in high-pitched altos
What is it to be borne?
but she was scared too, the color of her fear, sargassum
In some places, they bang vessels to scare ghosts
Some days I am a ghost of her
like she was a ghost…
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The High Window’s Winter Issue 2020: First Instalment
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The first instalment of the Winter 2020 issueof The High Window is now available. The following new material is available via the top menu:
- A new selection of homegrown and international poetry from 36 poets
- The American Poet is Ken Craft
- A multimedia essay in which Dino Mahoney explores the work of Cavafy
- A valedictory art feature from Penny Sharman, our resident artist.
- There are also several new supplementary posts which have appeared since the autumn issue issue.
- Finally, there are also four new poems in the Editor’s Spot
Enjoy!
David
The High Window Resident Artist: Penny Sharman
The High Window‘s resident artist for 2020 has been Penny Sharman and I would like to express my deepest thanks to Penny, not only for the quality of the artwork and poems which she has supplied, but also for her unfailing enthusiasm and professionalism and hyper-efficiency.
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Penny was born in Oxford and brought up in Burford in the Cotswolds. She ventured north in the late 1960’s and has remained in love with the Pennines where she lives. As a poet, artist, photographer and complimentary therapist she seeks new ways of being creative. She is inspired by art and natural landscapes and has a surreal approach to her work. She has an MA in Creative writing from Edge Hill University and has been published in many magazines and anthologies. Her pamphlet Fair Ground (Yaffle Press) and her collection Swim With Me In Deep Water (Cerasus) are available from her…
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The High Window’s Featured American Poet, Winter 2020: Ken Craft
Ken Craft ‘s poems have appeared in The Writer’s Almanac, Pedestal Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Spillway, Slant, and numerous other journals and e-zines. He is the author of two collections of poetry, Lost Sherpa of Happiness (Kelsay Books, 2017) and The Indifferent World (Future Cycle Press, 2016). His third collection, Reincarnation & Other Stimulants, is scheduled for release in 2021. His blog, ‘Updates on a Free-Verse Life,’ can be found at kencraftpoetry.wordpress.com.
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‘Though I taught poetry for years as an English teacher, I didn’t start writing it until I was in my 50s. The inspiration came chiefly from nature – a typical source, considering its historical importance to Chinese and Japanese poets as well as to poets like Robert Frost, Jim Harrison, Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson, and William Wordsworth, to name a few. Still, I feel that nature poems are somewhat out of…
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Konstandinos Mahoney on Constantine Cavafy: Poet of Alexandria (1863-1933)
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Note: You can watch Dino’s short film, The Poet of the City by clicking on the title
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CAVAFY: POET OF ALEXANDRIA (1863-1933)
Finally, here I am, Rue Lepsis, a narrow dusty street in central Alexandria, looking up at the second floor balcony, the only one on a shabby, turn of the century, mixed residential and commercial block – it’s the balcony from which Cavafy would sprinkle cooling water over the grateful bordello girls below. On the wall by the main entrance, a dusty plaque, in Arabic and Greek – Constantine Cavafy, 1863-1933, Poet of Alexandria – the great poet identified by a city, not a state. I walk through the open entrance door into an open stairwell area, graffiti on the flaking walls, a skewered heart, a phallus. On the second floor, a small sign at the side of an apartment…
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Two Poems by Tryphena Yeboah w/an image by Robynne Limoges
On the Occasion of Answering
Before it is too late to talk about love,
My mother wants to know if someone, a boy,
has stopped, even for a second, to look at me
If maybe, in this foreign land,
while the roof of the world slowly suspends,
threatening to collapse,
A boy, a man, a gentle, kind being
has paid any attention to me-
this difficult heart, this wilding path,
this angry body tearing through itself
There is not a lover who sees a lonesomeness this thick
and wants to touch it.
All around me there’s the kind of fires
that turns the sky a dangerous amber.
A virus erupting into a body.
My eighty-year-old neighbor feels her
vertebrae shrink, each disk pressing down
on the next, rubbing against the cord
For a surgery, the possibility of stroke,
of bleeding to death
We count the days like they were fruit,
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A Personal Journey : Polly Oliver
A lot of us have something we have done; perhaps a small childhood incident or something in adulthood which threw our self image against the wall and broke it. These things could seem quite small from the outside or they could be huge. Either way they can arrest our growth when in our own heads we let these events or crimes define us. The same mantras of regret run like cart tracks down an ancient lane to the same dead end. Til one day we stop driving the broken horses, unhitch them and wander into a different meadow to seek a new view and meet a new version of ourselves and a future undefined by our past. Or our view of our past
Cocoon
Cocoon. Then move through.
Choose your green-veined awning.
Bind to stiff xylem your dun hideout.
Hunker down, drapes drawn.
Unplug. Slice though wires.
Digest the old, dream the new.
Imaginal cells spin in fertile dark.
To birth your imago,
Nourished in compost of what’s past.
Shake the ash from your wings.
Storm Breaks by Polly Oliver:
Too full of their burdens,
the clouds’ sides tear.
Veil of tears brushes earth,
Washing away the grime of days
Dashing flotsam down drains.
A pluviophile lies listening
Thrill of thunder
Clarion of fresh starts.
-Polly Oliver
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at ‘real writing’ a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.



