All posts filed under: Small Books

‘Hinges’ and other poems by Jax NTP

hinges it is easy to obsess over small objects paperclips spoons and q-tips when self grooming generates silence — virginal trumps untamable — the renunciations of dullness do not lead to desire with upturned hands, razors, at rest it is easiest to use sadness as a utensil to push people away spiders construct traps from their abdomen then devour daily to recoup, silk protein recycled gouaches in lowlight, design or debris we all think we might be terrible but we only reveal this before asking someone to love us a kind of undressing — it is easy to section and peel a tangelo even false origin stories expose shame — a cerebral echo chamber when self sculpture empties mark the focal point as hinge hemmed, at the center, coral since microwave romances have deceptive expiration dates i brush my teeth at his place now, but that’s not the point scuba means self contained underwater breathing apparatus he kisses me urgently mid chew ginger garlic fish sauce in public, no pressure, no hesitation, and this is …

A Celebration of Poetry for International Women’s Day 2020

Papyrus Fragment It darts, bares a blaze of underwing to plain sight; this endless fragile need to make a mark, to come to light Papyrus Fragment is © Annette Skade   ‘Secrets of a cartographer’s wife’ by Katrina Dybzynska The cartographer’s wife never told him about her contributions to his maps. A few tiny islands hidden in the middle of an archipelago in the name of symmetry. Some borderline moved to resemble a face shape. The territory of England shortened slightly, in personal revenge. One time, she renamed an insignificant river in Bangladesh after her lover. She felt pity for the cartographer that he was more furious about the affair than about her intervention in the world order. She knew that romances were ephemeral, while naming things was changing them forever.   Katrina Dybzynska poet, shortlisted for Red Line Poetry Prize 2019. Author of „Dzień, w którym decydujesz się wyjechać” (The Day When You Decide To Leave), Grand Prix of Rozewicz Open Contest 2017. Laureate of national competitions in Poland. She has been publishing short …

“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 …

“Since She Did That” and other poems by E.D. Hickey

Home I rub, and RUB my eyes; Ferocious; Don’t, Don’t, sweetheart. Then the plane tips toward the cool thick Irish sea So that I can face it Gaze into it From my seat. Home! Clouds bubble over the razor wings The light jumps into my tired gaze. Home!   Steel There must be steel in women Who say no. I am made of utter fudge Compelled, somehow, to reply and smile And be grateful for the fleeting interest. This is exactly the kind of thing A better me Would never do.   August I have never been so hollow I will never be so hollow I just felt so hollow When I refused to fix it When you left that city a day too early When you cried to your mother on the phone She doesn’t even know me I wish I could tell her I was sorry.   Stucco I want to build I want to – I need to restructure Gut my foundations Cut into the old black brick below me Throw it …

The North, Issue 61 (January 2019)

Now I am a Tower of Darkness As a child I knew How, beyond the lamp’s circuit, Lay the shadow of the shadow Of this darkness,   Waiting with an arctic kiss In the well of the staircase, Ready to drape the bed with visions No eyelids can vanquish.    Now I am a Tower of Darkness © Freda Laughton from A Transitory House (Jonathan Cape, 1945). From ‘Into the Light Blown Dark: Working with Freda Laughton’s ‘Now I am a Tower of Darkness’ Freda Laughton produced one book of poetry A Transitory House (Jonathan Cape, 1945). At the time of the book’s publication, Freda Laughton would have been 38 years old. Laughton’s chosen sphere was the female intimate, and within this context she was an expressionist of some ability. Her work presaged that of Eavan Boland and of Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill. There is a certain fragility and darkness in Laughton’s expression which imbues it with shadow. Her art was masterful, not least in the poem In a Transitory Beauty,   Maternal the shell Cradling …