Showing posts with label M?karo Press. Show all posts
Showing posts with label M?karo Press. Show all posts

Monday, September 21, 2015

A letter to Jim Harrison by Lindsay Pope

.
It may be of no surprise to you that the day
your book arrived the waxeyes at my feeder
were noisier, more nervous and more abundant
than usual. On the global face, I live on the
lower cheek of the world where the tears fall
and turn to ice. So you might not know these
little birds. They may have hitched a ride on
some seafaring boat and decided to stay. Or
perhaps they caught the tail of some

Monday, August 24, 2015

What Heartbreak Felt Like, by Annabel Hawkins


A full stop. In the middle of a sentence.
Not enough water in the jug for a cup of tea, and
all the milk's run out for good. Fumbling for your
keys in your bag at night. No-one remembered to
switch the light on before they went out.

That time you forgot your coat in a southerly,
called home and no-one was there. Just the hollow
sound of you waiting on the other end. But I've got
news, you

Monday, April 7, 2014

Symbols that make up the breaking girl by Helen Rickerby




First comes feet, on tippy tippy

toe � a stretching, a reaching
for approval, perfection, a cracking
a creaking, a split and a snap, but nothing
that a good length of tape and some newly brokenin shoes can�t fix, shoes with the insides torn
out like an inquisition, then beaten and slashedlittle dancers, little digits, they carry her away



The next, a cliche?, but an oldy and a goody,

Monday, March 3, 2014

From Bird Murder by Stefanie Lash

Tusk

Tusk was settled by rogue miners.
They went too far up-creek, there was no gold, they were lost.
They found instead the coloured stones.

The women are most industrious in tusk
and the children hop from house to house.
Perhaps because of the minerality of the River tusk

children�s hair will colour as they age.
Purple is the predominant hue; some boys turn green.
The huge prismatic

Monday, January 27, 2014

Eastbourne by Helen Jacobs

1
It is to the island
and the coastlands
that the shifting light
tethers on a fluid line
weaving water and sand
and rock.

The point of going away
is always to come back �
thrice deny, and you
come back

to the shells of your sandheaps,
allow that there could be
an old spirit or two
or simply an old love affair
with the harbour playing you in.


2

Climbing to the houses
you look down to where