The Source

May Morning

Smudged mascara and the curling of coffee steam. Small yawns and the shuffling of boots. Tangled hair plaited by the same girl from first-year, a crumbly pastry shared with...

Culture Elizabeth Bourn -

Sunday

That Sunday could arrive first-class, Wrapped in tissue and stickers with minimalist logo. Sent anonymously (from...

The Source Rory Maguire -

Peacocks

Their grounds abut a large colonial on Staten Island: Five or six of them Swaggering along...

The Source Rory Maguire -

A Drink by Edward McLaren

I rise from my screen and enter the horizontal darkness above its frame, itself over the river I do not see. Why is it...

Once Long Ago

In Once Long Ago, Jenny Robinson invites us to listen to the “dead tales of old gods long gone” struggling to find their place...

Lord Reginald Moreton of Oxfordshire

Poet's Note: "One of my favourite things to do whenever I visit new areas with my friends is to come up with ridiculous "histories"...

Dresse me my harpe

The speaker in Anna Cowan’s poem herself undertakes a myth-making activity in playing her harp. “It is time”, she declares, as she unshackles the...

"Spending years of loneliness sitting on that toilet seat, a haven from slow lunch times with no friends, I knew the peeling paint as if it were my own palm, cream cracking, exposing the avocado green of the seventies."

As the smoke burns down to my fingers

To blink a bloodshot world away And drink in rough, and burn, and heat Until she comes to kiss the dark.

Sticky

Something crawls up my throat, more bitter than honey.

“Everywhere else, death is an end. Death comes, and they draw the curtains –”

Death comes, and they draw the curtains – Not in Spain. In Spain they open them.

Eve’s Laugh

Humour me with golden words...

Stalked by a bear at high table

perhaps next time i will kill the bear

Lost City

The undulating sands stretch out, a vast expanse, sweltering under the gaze of the sun as it burns its way across the sky, dunes flowing like currents, tides on...