Category Archives: Poetry

Convalescence by Lindsay Turner

CONVALESCENCE by Lindsay Turner

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Iain Morrison

[Poetry For] A new ing

Iain Morrison can be seen reading this poem here

and he blogs here

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from Fantasias in Counting (Buffalo, NY: BlazeVOX, 2014)

Walk—four Passi , then petty Seguito Scorsi, always one Trango to follow, to pull back then
Shuffle—then Man takes Lady’s ordinary hand for possible particular

All still movement is grave , Riverenza to the thigh or driven right or left that they be removed
since this going beyond making beautiful and charming view moves routinely

Now Riprese , Spezzato , trot left edge inwards , raise heels , enabling higher-frown glances ,
the hop is always for Settle

Of the various possibilities that are , as you hold it in then remove ,
that they should be vague and [  ] and any possibility within frames moves

So that—what is involved—first in one of those amounts to the fine and honourable ,
the foot held the principality , and respect before

Perfectly ordinary beats are all manners clumsy reverence but fine and honourable
the constancy and stability of that favourable toe be careful now finding yourself with feet

I will all the objects that do relate to him I will say                  none of them praised
the extended arm , and the lower surface on the side the front or the back

I will all the faces and edges and twists
even all that is reprehensible

‘Winner’ holds back that said arm , and the foot with the bottom-up shot ,
seems one of those who beg

When it contains extensive , and I of those with the sound of it face the opposite ,
or that the back , which swoons , it is the people , show in front , show in faces

Past the sweat , which , at the edge of a little twist, sings, it could not again ,
and in each of these possibilities comes somewhat indecent or culpable that which is relative
So for the head , hold grace , between good Pleasing and ornate Boredom,
take the foot for the turn , just

Hold it to the lower part towards this
you        associated with ordinary hands , partly with a view to


then take ordinary hands back.

(All of this takes place in two counts.)

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Fragment (the sleeping partner)

incised like pieces of time not to touch but to always know

the sound of someone a tractor mowing the field to bristle to cut the kids’ feet tomorrow

yet they run it out make it every

crux a road another road where cells grow frantic drop their proteins run and yet once spread out blankets shook out in the sun

no limit to the room of sleep its volume a boundless continuous basin and bellow


Fragment (the waking partner)

The list of strange
cases includes
me and should include you.
I’m a spring that sticks.
A waving palm. When
you’re making your beautiful
breathing arrangements there’s
one step I want
you to keep for me,
you pearl of need,
you superb embarassment.


Fragment (the sleeping partner)

who does the obligation love the hot wind lick what does it howl on the plain

flood of animal drawings to adorn a flood of t-shirts to wear in caves to warm and

swaddle the A/C icicle high

clouds excite a feeling of nature in the cavity

how to know something’s been torn out more than a line trying to eke out the flood

pillage and relish a loose skin shaped like a tiny boat before it’s stretched under a frame

undo a mooring of water no expanse will drain where it ends is worse


Fragment (the waking partner)

I cut no slack to lack.
My cares can grow
sacrally, fitfully,
threshing effort, indefinitely.
Look at the rank money
under new medicine.
Look beyond. Tender
sprouts. Liquid
manure before the throat.
I wait for you.
I brought you terms.
You refused to love them.
Don’t cry before
you’re hurt. Your
roar, the road down
into you cries
out on the bare offer.


Fragment (the sleeping partner)

on the face of the waters all ducts gush old tears of ruin and hot metal flaring

are they most noble must they become a giant of strategy bestriding

no no high among the milkweeds caught infiltrating in unison said it’d be all right

parted from the past lives department by a three-strand fence

of incalculable menace the rigor bells ring all bedside

all the hollow-eyed night-tide the fear and care of raising

(from The Duration, a manuscript in progress about living simultaneously in the present, a future that exists, and a future that does not)
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Andrew Spragg


The electives and a heart stop:
find there something
idling in you, forging on or
lifted to grouch about.

Time taken by a distance, a measure.
A voice finds footing in the surface
not needing assistance, seeking the guard:
later on will just be later.

Caught flat from the air,
an accidental flourish and
calling it out, that'll be the
magnet of progress.

Incomparable object:
that old la lune.

Collapse the market
            with infinite love exchange,
watching that slight
clip over and over.

Hey but now let's listen:
conquer all turned cheek
as it meets with the sun,  and it is such a
pretty one.

Where we met the last time,
he was pushing the
object gracelessly up the stairs.


Colossal throb, locket for my heart ,
there are the great multitudes of poise
and the proviso of little else.

Dear all – stomp-out the blue ache,
how good and great thou art –
if you just halted by and by.

Outfoxed or rumly does it
or it does not
mainly compete,

but consummate the other.
Where's the den then and the
making of a major.

Stops there, will for the nothing be,
there's the medicine and then
there's the now.

Remarkable measure:
if you can hear this
I am talking to you.


And found there
out in the dark
a warm sate of attentive

longed aspects,
too in excess of simple excess,
and there's the warm rub.


leapt from one thing to
another like wild fire

do not be daft all
another fire is a kind of wild

and the world is a stone
cold fox

other things that are a stone
cold fox

include you.
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a priceless pus was nicked
you start a child
then a stone
a child’s thoughts
who they wanted to be
served accordingly
puke in a suit, slime in a tie
there is a connection
mess & calm
a chair with its back to me
a seat, a sitting opportunity
the libs picked up 17 beds
I cut a false figure here
a stranger, a pile of clothes
just another one
awake to his one review
his one thesis
this had to change
he didnt mind it about himself
in bed with the abbotts
“they” came in “here”
took the white macbook Annette gave me
as payment for proofreading last year
oops, theft as payment
for the editing of time?
doesnt sound that likely
a footprint on the toilet tank
suggests entry through the bathroom window
the shadow edge of a footprint
as though just in time, barely
ghosting plastic surface reality
I want to say placard surface
I cannot help feeling
a sense of no
these physiques pains mild
a mosquito floats up, across
bounces so like a paper ash
with volition, delicately
battering away the wall
a sense of no, a forced parallel
by time’s too-rigid structure, they
stole the government, or continue
to keep it,in a way hence
Rudd’s pleasure, having not lost
anything but his days
the secure great balance
wobbling along further
driven by controlled work
–call this my idiot pass
I could’ve pressed my face
to that macbook, & thought it
the hard flakjacket, leatherette, of the leftmost
daughter of Abbott, but to her
she is on the right, but
an unrelated theft took the opportunity
away, leaving time alone
reading back clueless as to how
taking the stage with a red clipboard
then dealt with by the after sentences
but I left it on the floor
in the clear mess
fumbled books, camera gone
voting bizarrely i don’t want to be
startled by these jug-heads, yokes,
I want to be laconically responsive
but if impossible then fulminative
lightning against their calm prick faces
then I think of generation
in unstymied commute gut
it is okay, keep eating vegetables
riding a bike like the prime minister
there is a vague perspective of theft
discounted as irrelevant to today’s politics
& your whimsy will not do
the pure lyricism of a Clive Palmer
lookalike is more Manly
Clive Palmyra, Palamon, purse evil
Abbott or Paladin
sure is in flames today, that country
which else, the miner’s tail
the minority government’s tale
the miners’ tailings of the masters
& they also masters, the little
pricks in their uniforms
hooting for unmitigable defeat
the boats floating on the roads of the future
the out of control feeling one sometimes
gets is perfectly understandable, a rare
reasonable response to real life
as it is lived, deeply felt
one wishes to sink into things
outrun the cuts, to forests
in a paradigm of ghostly fitness
evade oneself into a room in the landscape
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Trevor Joyce – Three Poems

when  i  died
somebody  forgot
to  tell  me

so  I  held
to  the  highroad
instead  of  the  low

invisible  in  cities
markets  orchards

looting  the
sweetest  fruit

what’s  the  worst
can  happen

to  one  already


how  much  must
change  till
it  become

so  long  a
thing  may  be
and  yet

when  every  least
bears  already
the  wounds
of  its  futurity

is  to  be


as  surge
and  torsion
of  the  great

all  through
an  involved


nerved  and
mapped  only
in  its  churning

deep  ab
too  troubled
for  skin

blades  and
flanged  bones

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Sophie Robinson


that is how a dog goes  that is how a dog goes
boom in the night that is how a dog slides
sideways that is how a dog lies down
in the grass and loafes and dies like the bad
dead dog it really is inside its orgied guts
& this is how we do it: in out in out
this is how we move inside the dogspace
this is how we are inside the dog I am the
dog head with my head in the dog
you are the dog end with your end inside the dog
we are a pantomime dog & this is how we do it:
left right left right that is how we walk
like the sick dogs we are that is how we fuck ourselves
inside out and our fur turns to mush this is how
we love ourselves with suffering this is how
we think of something to make us cry on purpose
this is how we be brave and glass over like a
sad dog’s eyes this is how we eat our own shit
and sing with a mouthful all night long:

this is how we know ourselves & this is how
we hate each other this is how we sound
when we speak each others’ language & how
your pussy tastes on a hard day’s night I like
to suffer it’s good for us & makes us wet with pride
or raw with longing pulling at the leash – I might
die I might lie down and die you can dog me in
the park and I won’t let it lie – I’d screw you
five thousand times and still be happy in my
mummy skin in my daggy dogskin in my foxfur
mangy woof woof jacket.  My skin is my life
jacket my skin has a hole in it my hole is round
and red my hole is my dog’s head I will die forever
in my sick dog head I will LOL forever in my
total bowl of meat I will LOL with my hole wide
open I will LOL all night to the tune of my howl
o I will place you in my snout and sing you all over
I will raw myself all up and down inside you lover forever

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Stephen Emmerson

Paul Written

From Letters to Verlaine



How bell rang
to swallowed chest
my dinky boots
or surface clock
I squeezed a spot
and time started
the raw god lipstick
windows kissed
for winning ever
to expanse

You should
should shard should

Forever Paul should
not shard should
not glitter

But stab shard dark




I heart
deleted horses
to cyclone
when be
around bee
feels stupid
to be bee
I heart bee too
copper plated Paul
in hive
it has gotten
to pale again
to Paul



I am flattered
that winter is
dressing up as me
but the rain
into my body
such frozen lake
a chemical grass this darling
and the rain is
drowned on
by everyone, each one a fish-fake
scaled up to human
I am human
fish-fake and human
in rain
to burst open
coz of minus
that there is minus
even is rains cardigan
English Paul
there are ice lumps
in my throat
water will try
become circle
this cycle be circle
around us



a parasite
where water
new beef lake
to wander
deer or startle
I am full
of diamantes
to                      be
at last where
hotel potions
very idea
would be
aspirin enough
to drink
I beckon you
the notion
give bread
a second chance
to break
there            there
I ate all the rhinestones
on your



I am back in the Wolds
& all I can think of is us
sat in Poppins cafe smoking
roll ups
we had drunk a bottle
of Martini at Grimsby train station
and smashed the remains on
the track

But track is always glass
a glass mouse track that
tails suddenly last

That we came from a pub later
singing an 80s hit
testament              Apocryphal maybe
yet the good book lies only
to reveal a truth

A truth track coal shoveling
choo choo
my little mouse / my cracked
glass mouse          a mouse last
the track is mouse no more

we are blind Paul
and mouse no more

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