Preserved You see them as moons in their vinegar
warmed with ginger root and coriander,
mustard seed and chilli. Or if not moons then the fluther of moon jellyfish you saw
backlit in a tank, their slow rise and fall
a living lava lamp. You stopped to watch when lights tinged their moonstone-white
with lilac-blue, iridescent as the lustre glass
your grandmother kept on her mantelpiece. Don’t eat pickled onions while they’re white,
she said. You line the jars up in a cup
Instagram - Twitter - Blog All photographs have been provided by Hanna Andersson and the copyright remains with her. I have been a reader my whole life, and my childhood homes were always filled with books. Sometimes I used them to build houses for my toys. But mostly, I read them. I read on road trips, I asked my parents to read to me as I fell asleep, and I read during breaks at school. For me, a home is filled with bookshelves, and I am so grateful for all the books that I
i used to be baffled by Twitter why would i want to follow the lives of famous people? more than likely it was my desire to belong
which lead me to sign up and after that
Instagram before all of that
a computer was in the front room
and that is where it stayed
Laptop’s were shared between siblings
Nokia’s were used for distraction - games and a BBM was sent via Blackberry i remember when the computer suite was ope
Instagram - Twitter - Blog All photographs have been provided by Hanna Andersson and copyright remains with her. I am the writer you will see jotting down thoughts and conversations on the tube home after a night out or a first date. I bring my notebook with me to capture my feelings, what was said, how the scene looked and smelled, or what reactions I witnessed throughout the night. The slightly red in my date’s beard, my underwear grabbing on to my bum, or the yellow lager,
'The rumour, / the hollowed out / cookie-cutter shape / does not define me: / don't bitch / about my shadow' - 'Heard it on the Grapevine', p.55 This is not a Spectacle: Extended Edition Isabelle Kenyon Fly on the Wall Poetry, 2017. Isabelle Kenyon’s debut poetry collection ‘This is not a Spectacle’ is a heartfelt six-part response to today’s society, exposing the cracks and claw-marks against our civilized walls. The language is simple but powerful, the chapbook is easy to r
Instagram - Twitter - Blog All photographs were provided by Hanna Andersson and copyright remains with her. Hanna is 26 years old and has just graduated a BA of Arts at the University of Roehampton. She is now working as a nanny, as a bartender, and as a freelance writer. She likes sport, beer, reading, coffee, and the change of seasons. She is also a blogger and takes every opportunity to write and to meet new people. Her best quality is that she makes everyone feel comforta
'He pops around in his spare time to bring me something celestial to put in one of my poems - an angel's feather in a Jiffy bag, a clutch of notes plucked from a lyre, a zephyr in a Marmite jar' 'Reporting Back', p.49 From Where the Road Runs Out By Gaia Holmes Comma Press, 2018. Buy the book: here! We have intimate relationships with landscapes. Sometimes they are internal. We can tread the milky constellations of our own mythologies and float in our own temporal architectur
The Sun Sets On An Open Wound The Sun sets on an open wound.
The broken watch
on 5 o'clock
and the ground is getting warmer. A watchman takes in the view
but cannot distinguish
the muddied dishcloth coat
from the hallowed ground. Across the water
a bugle will play
on a rugby pitch
but the notes
spell out no name.
A butcher and a nurse
keep the name in mind
through pained silence. A spokesman talks the talk.
The walk to the dugout
continues to be sol
we are where orchids bloom the air is so thick you can taste the evaporation the repatriation of the mist the scent is a living thing snaking its way up our nostrils the smell of roots and thick clay mud flooding our senses taking you back to the day fifteen years ago when I pushed your face into the ground the first time you had spread your legs for me and crying with anticipation asked me to hurt you like our father did Stuart Buck is a poet curre
Long ago, it must be long ago,
I have a photograph.
The crevasse- wringled
The winds of it.
Died with it.
Years ago, so much time ago,
Clear out our memories.
Behold the present. The hair shall lay there, Josanna,
Lay down the hairs of the hidden hearts.
The stumbling blade of the tear eyed divers
Ivories paced to the winter’s cold capering.
Pictured himself in the mirror. Reflected.
He shivered. And the hair shall lay,
Lay there Josanna, in a mud mannere