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


    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
    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.
    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.
    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

    bones rattled
    cord whittled

    iced, snow, night
    branches high, leaves shake down


    listen it speaks

    slate black vespers

    hushed chapel

    bent knees on grid






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