The Source

Peacocks

Their grounds abut a large colonial on Staten Island: Five or six of them Swaggering along verdant lawns, Brick walkways, man-made ponds – Such bravado. What pretty boys! Pets of somebody, clearly. They preen each...

The Source Rory Maguire -

The day she died

...

The Source Nat Conboy -

Death’s Lament

Please, I have done what you asked. I burned it all for her. I wrench the...

The Source Tilly White -

And she woke up…

Yesterday I thought I saw you between blinks of an eye: a lecture together and notes left...

Culture Natalie Conboy -

Latest

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...

The Demolished School

"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...