Here are extracts from a selection of the prose and poetry from Issue No 4.
Caught between grapes and the throat in tangled
vine-weed; late summer storm in the lost sea
where wind and rain - cat of nine tails manacled
to mast - clatters the sky, tinpot grey
and spits pyrotechnics – our lunged gasps from
directions opposite, our sodden
flailing; groping on upturned fossil bed
for purchase; regained at tree’s ringed edge:
magic circle entered; to climb, then deck
dazed and jazzed - two separate shipwrecks -
in Juniper’s open arms. Pause; lift heads; eyes’
first meeting as hyper-volts split the sky.
Total meltdown - when points of the compass
fuse – in realtime was it ever like this?
You rush towards us, unthinking.
Our presence is sobering:
dark, naked, sexless creatures
persuading you to a slower pace.
By our absence of motion
you cannot ignore us.
Look at us, mere cut-outs
with our perfectly round, hairless heads,
our arms clamped like this forever.
Keeping guard, marking a spot.
Sometimes alone; in twos or in threes.
Black images of misery and pain,
our eyeless, speechless,
featureless silhouettes
more voluble even than those
withering bouquets
tied to fences, hung from railings.
Listen to us.
Our shadows that ran so surely ahead
are all we are now.
Outlines, standing solid
in cloudburst, sunlight and the dark,
our only work this dumb vigil,
our only duty to watch and warn.
Pity us, we 25
dead on this road since 1999.
Did you know about the gaura? I didn’t,
until I firmed in this small plant with finger-like leaves.
When the garden was dressed for the fęte,
the gaura sat hugging the earth. Then,
up came a periscope stem;
slender wire arching a metre into air.
More shot up, and more still, all tipped,
with tiny white flowers, until, stems
disappearing in sunlight, a fountain of stars
showered the garden with light.
In the summer breeze, vying with whirling
butterflies and zigzagging bees,
the gaura startles with her festive Sardana
on membranaceous wings.
Clutch of ripe apples, white drapes, a tureen.
Today we will study each subtle nuance
of colour and tone. Be brave, take a chance,
compose a Cézanne from this simple scene.
Flame red, yellow ochre, viridian green;
we mix vibrant palette of sun-soaked Provence,
leave paper white where studio lights dance,
make cast-shadow greys with ultramarine.
Alchemist’s magic is rationed today:
lacklustre, opaque, like overripe plums
our pommes de Cézanne have failed to portray
crisp edible fruit a hand grasp away.
Ten mature students, as one we succumb;
reach out and consume our still-life display.