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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poems from Richard Andrew Howe, Jonathan Humble, Emilia Leonetti and Ash Slade

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Richard Andrew Howe is a poet based in South Yorkshire, England.
He had not written anything beyond the insides of greeting cards for relatives for over 18 years.
In a fit of drama, all those years ago he took and burned all that he had written under a Rail Bridge. The Literary world somehow survived this tumultuous loss.
Richard is 42 years of age and has had experiences with severe depression in the past. This has informed his work to a degree. He has a dark humour and a fetishism for whisky. He fervently hopes that the words he writes will resonate with others. No one likes to be the only weirdo in the room.

Bastard Memory

I never had a memory that was cooperative
they all like to be obtuse
presenting themselves in the third person
over saturated
or in silhouette

Often the more brutal ones will jostle
in their viciousness into first position
or the dark ones trailing their disease like capes of shredded skin
The gentle ones, the subtle ones
they are all faded
as if they were interred tapestry
unearthed after centuries
no detail, just impressions of shape and colour

I have never had a clear memory
of being a child
They’re the worst in their elusiveness
I remember nothing of those days
for all I recall I might never have been a kid
no broken bikes, climbed trees, trouble
scraped knees, parent baiting mess…
And it worries me
my memory
it truly does
the erased pencil of its sketches
the holed pail of its retention

Long term is like gazing into crude oil

Short term is I can’t even recall writing this.

 

Jonathan Humble is a deputy head teacher. He’s worked as a painter, lettuce picker and engineer in the power industry. His poetry has appeared in The Big Issue In The North, Poems For Freedom, The Caterpillar Magazine, The Dragon Poet Quarterly, Lighten Up Online, Paragram, The Looking Glass Magazine, Stew Magazine, Amazing Magazine, WriteOutLoud, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Teacher, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Obsessed With Pipework Magazine, Clear Poetry, Curlew Calling, Atrium Poetry, Zoomorphic, Riggwelter, Milestones , Three Drops Press, Poetry Roundabout, Amaryllis, Fairacre Press, EyeFlash Poetry and The Tripe Marketing Board’s Diary. His short stories for children have been published in The Caterpillar and The Stew Magazine. Through TMB Books, he has published a collection of his stuff entitled “My Camel’s Name Is Brian”. He is also poet laureate for the Tripe Marketing Board and the Rossendale Sunday Clog Market.

 

The Copenhagen Interpretation of E-mails
(after Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg):

I read somewhere, at sometime,
that everything and nothing exists
outside the space you’re placed.

Closed doors are quantum barriers
separating the countless possibilities
of constantly branching parallel universes.

Facts on the outsides of rooms
are blurred, until they are moved into
and created through observation.

So, ignoring Newtonian classical notions,
where time, space and rejection is absolute,
with eyes shut, many hands over multiple ears,

imagining one liquid crystal screen,
focusing on one mouse click outside this head,
what I hope to see are these words:

Thank you for your poetry submission.
We enjoyed The Copenhagen Interpretation
and would like to publish it in the next issue of

*** insert name of publication here ***

 

Emilia Leonetti was molded by the hands of the Universe in 1993. As a child, she found writing as an invaluable escape from depression, anxiety and isolation. Today, she recites poetry at slam nights, at Creative Arts showcases, Open Mic nights and any outlet she can find. She is as yet unpublished, but hopes to change that in the foreseeable future. She lives in Hobart, Australia.

 

Chub Rub

When I was five years old
Kids in the playground
Forgot I had a name.
They were too busy
Giving me names of their own.
I got “Fatty” the most.
Sometimes it was “Fat Girl”.
I admit those monikers were about as creative
As drawing brick houses in lead pencil
During art class.
But those words were still
The nib of sharp graphite
Pointing towards my eye.
I wanted to pick up the nearest eraser
And rub out their existence.
But I couldn’t
So I ran away
Across the playground
They followed me
They were faster
And stronger
They crowded around me
They sought me like rare Pokemon cards
And placed a bounty on my head
If you find this girl
And hurl an insult at her
That was worth its weight in all the Crazy Bones in the world.
Despite their efforts
I still believed that one day
They would go to high school
University
TAFE
College
Work
And meet people who looked just like me.
People who could tell a mean joke
Cook a hearty meal
Talk about the wonders of the universe
Knit blankets and scarves to keep them warm
Wrap their arms around them like the Noodle dolls of our youth
Make love to them until dawn
Make new humans with them
Erase our history
Give them the pencils to draw a brand new story on a blank sheet of paper.
The cupboards were bare of pencils
And crayons
And chalk
And blank sheets of paper.
But
They still kept the bullets in the cupboard.
They still maintained their guns.
And year after year after year
They congregated through swap and sells
Congregated through verbal NRA clubs
How to cock a gun
How to point it at someone’s head
And still make time for one sincere smile
One small introduction
One small act of kindness
Before they pulled the trigger.
Bang.
Woman down.

 

Ash Slade lives in a small Connecticut town with her mother and sister. In her spare time she enjoys collecting notebooks, poetry books, and pens. Ash reads regularly at a local open mic and annual arts festival. Previous publications include Dale Bruning’s Circus of Indie Artists: Nevermore Edition.

 

“go down line across the grain”

go down line across the grain

dirt roads, blacktop
crumbled into dust

sip from chipped coffee mug
backside caked
slag pooling

weeks pass faster than
clock hands spin ’round
step into seconds

gust picks leaves off trees
strips’em clean

roam eyes shut
orphan without place to cradle

roadside cold, fire-can char eased off
trails broken

wounded sighs
whistles

bones rattled
cord whittled

iced, snow, night
branches high, leaves shake down

monastery

listen it speaks

slate black vespers

hushed chapel

bent knees on grid

liturgy

 

 

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