All posts filed under: Letters

“Writing with Light” and other poems by Gerry Stewart

Writing with Light Finnish Photography Notes Guided by imaginary intersections, fumbling our heavy DSLRs, we learned the rules for rhythm and repetition, aperture and cropping. My notebook sketched the tutor’s words in haste. They resurface beyond the lens. Organise your space. I carve out this new home without maps, using rough translations and neighbourly advice. Exaggerate the angles. Each experience becomes bigger, more muddled. I focus along sightlines to the extremes until I can make sense of the finer details. Never cut away the long shadows. If I cannot embrace the long Finnish winter, I can view its sharp oblique light, from skis or over a hot cup of glöggi.* Leave the house, explore the parts of the world where you don’t belong. Blend in with the locals, find what attracts you to strangers in their silence, in their open faces. Travel light. My unnecessary luggage and expectations are abandoned. Arrive early, leave late. Wait for the decisive moment to speak those hesitant first Sanaa. Don’t put the subject in the centre. Yet even out …

“Needlepoint” and other poems by Erin Vance

Hiraeth In the turpentine afternoon I wanted to beat my wings— hollow so hollow. And in the rectal evening 
I wanted to be a hummingbird. A hum m ing bird. In the frost-swept night I wished you a Lamb. Soft like cotton balls and languid with musk. Turn me into a violent fresco,
 Lamb, and touch me like hot bricks in the wet dawn. I wanted to be a leaf lodged in amber. — — An insulin needle. And at the musk-soaked August’s end
 I wanted to be hollow t r a n s l u c e n t a hum mingbird with — — insulin — — needle— — legs lodged in amber. My hollow wings snap ping In your lamb’s mouth, turn me into a violet fresco, Lamb,
 touch me like hot bricks. Confession After Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, photographers of The Cottingley Fairies When Frances followed the little thing into the shallow beck I stayed back, watching her stockings sag in the water, flapping at her ankles like bloated second …

“Chattel” and other poems by Kushal Poddar

Panther Unbound My blind uncle asks if it is a fountain. “Ah, a fountain!” he says. “No, a dog licking!” I smile. We both know we fool around a lot. I turn the shower off and rub his back. My mother broke my air-gun against my spine when I failed to sum up success with the correlatives given. I walk with my eyes cast downwards unless your eyes are shut blind. I towel my uncle to sun. “Tell me a story” he says, and I retort, “So this one by Louis De Bernieres…” We both know I lie. I make this tale on my life as a panther unbound.   The Wise Rusts Meanwhile in Texas, a callidus gun takes us to a street led hoodwinked towards its end – bricks over bricks, more bricks opaque and thick. They report – five demised last night. One rebirths as a shepherd, one as a notorious skirt chaser, one a sheep, one a chef. One never returns. A gun buried, rusts its way back to the nidus, …

‘Glendalough Sonnet’ and other poems by Angela Patten

Glendalough Sonnet   Rain and relatives, relatives and rain. In Glendalough’s monastic town a jackdaw baby thrusts his downy head out of a round tower putlock and raises an ungodly yellow beak to squawk at gawking tourists snapping cellphones, the spines of their umbrellas dripping on the ancient bullaun stones where monks once mixed their potions and the holywell was rich in lithium which turned out to be a great cure for the occasional pilgrim who, like me, suffered from the watery weather or a sodden slough of Celtic despond.   Angela Patten ©, The Cumberland Review 2015   Inchigeelagh Getaway   Gaeilge, Inse Geimhleach, meaning “Island of the Hostages”   The land is a sponge sodden with salt water and rain, the mossed path a tangle of Herb Robert and buttercup. Giant leaves of gunnera and the green spears of rushes stand guard around the pond. Laburnum hangs its head like a girl drying her yellow hair.   Water gushes under culverts over rocks, tap-tapping on the roof of the sunroom like a timid …

Three poems inspired by Ric Carfagna, Rus Khomutoff

Vintage ghosts of joy and sadness a saccharine statement the highest expression of the autopoetic force the incarnation and withdrawal of a God declaration of hither swarms accretion of the torrential becoming instances emancipated from all anxieties and frustrations in the anagogic phase made dizzy by the hybris a regular pulsating metre of recurrence     This is not a method   O blacklist of preeminence louder than life itself countdown sequence of aired mysterious booms natural coction the shadow of a shadow of an obtainable new order to bathe in the splendor of lathe and labyrinth as momentum grows that bold and legitimate certainty of endlessly repeating variations and recollections that erect their desire to exist like a new sensation articulating lifelong repeal     In this mode and vague notion of a stay in your placeism event horizon a derangement of senses dragging the echo from the culvert from the book of common prayer eschewing the copula almost like the pace of a dream ordered fragments of a disordered devotion a space we …