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ONE TWO THREE FEATURED POETS
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The Shape of Oil by Julie
Smirnova
Sunshine 106.8 Doesn't Reach Russia by Julie
Smirnova
Vanessa by Charlotte
Moore
B L A C K B I R D
by Eloise Rodger
The 18th of November, A Poem for Francis by Elise
Carney Frazier
Sanctity (Self-Portrait) by
Violette Smith
The Waiting (Self-Portrait) by
Violette Smith
Passing by Nicole Hur
Moderate Fog by
Lily O'Byrne
Koshka by Lara
Prideaux
Books Back by Kim O’Leary
Mother of Dog by Grace Anne
Black Algiz by Yeva
Huseva
Culhane
Garlic Poem #2 by Megan O'Driscoll
Maynooth, Autumn 2022 by Jim Xi Johnson
No Forever by Claudia Friel
Liz Quirke
Memento Mori
Same River Twice by Alex
Mountfeld
Benson by Inés
Murray Gómez
In Walsh's Pub by Grant Burkhardt
Smeara Dubha by Shane
Leavy
This House is a Metaphor for Us Barely a Trace
Figures In a Bar by Alice
Gogarty
The Fish and The Knot by Fionn
Duffy
The Place Promised In Our Early Days by Harry Pierce
Chopping Back the Hedge in Late Summer by Shane
Leavy
La Grua by Fionn Duffy
by Vanessa Nunan
Hera Lindsay Bird
I Knew I Loved You When You Showed Me Your Minecraft World
THE DAVINCI CODE
Turning Toward
The Shape of Oil
Julie Smirnova
Someday I’ll pull colours across a page and write life into linen and the Hill Street moon will always die in a puddle; you will always kiss me at the door; I will always run up the stairs wishing that you were behind me. For now, our quiet bodies belong in November. Yet they draw closer: waiting for a dent of light to lift purple from beige, or at the very least, bury him in her memory.
Sunshine 106.8 Doesn’t Reach Russia
Julie Smirnova
The sun plucked me from your skin and turned me yellow; I burnt yellow like a million little suns. You grew tall, curved under the weight of grief. Birds don’t fy to Moscow since oil drowned it. When light shines on the river she screams red orange green blue. I’d like to climb back up the sky, a foothold in every raindrop every cloud, and sit forever in your arms when you had two — one for both of us — I’ll keep a diary of everything you said. The heat burnt rubber. Hopscotch traced soil: one two three to ten. A knife kissed your toe and I spread mayonnaise on rye bread; the rings of wheels I leapt between I held your hand I swam in ponds / mosquitoes ate sweat off my nose / she fed me sugar cubes / I robbed them. Crouched in raspberry bushes. Cut my fngertips and bled them pink. Mum swirled sour cream in bowls a fork crushed seeds. The train always carried us back. I never stayed long; less as I got older. Friel said we only exist in the need we have for each another. I can see her (she sees me). There lies my one unremarkable dream: to be a key and a lock, in one unremarkable heap.
Vanessa
Charlotte Moore
Vanessa has an endless heart. Her heart is not her own. It has been borrowed, bestowed: Her heart is a blessing.
Vanessa’s hand was there to stop me shaking, Like the strong right hand but soft, present.
I am withered, dying very fast while Her heart envelops and does so by growing;
I dry my small eyes and let my neck work.
My heart has been very splintered And too full so sinking.
Novembers ago I was needing baptised againAbandoned bagels, shoegazing-
This time, new eyes and more ravaged I feel faces loving me quietly;
I look into her voice and it smiles.
I come clutching just tissues that can’t Bear more moisture; offering only that.
Saying sorry but I want to go home so badly.
The lackingness leaks and it is weak: I want to throw a stone but my fngers strangle feathers. I am pooling and swelling.
Asleep on your lap I am having a nightmare.
Vanessa’s moon is always round; The Copernican Revolution is true in her.
I am saying look there is an orbit Around a void
She holds me and her laugh is very gentle: Her playful exasperation is called Wisdom.
I can cry but she will be there when I am not weeping Just as in Today, giving me more tissues, giving me apples.
Vanessa’s heart is endlessly light and refecting It is a generous gift. It is a gift itself giving.
Bountiful and unquestioning Safe.
