Psalter – William Thompson



A podcast has me listening to Leigh Chislett,
HIV nurse at St Mary’s in the mid-Eighties.

I think of Gunn, who trained both barrels
at men like me in ’92. Then try imagining Wilfred,

still writing ‘I with who another ghost am lain’,
but then surviving late into his nineties.

Just long enough to see yet another cause
of ‘vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues’

or to summon the will that saw him fighting
‘like an angel’ at the moment he ‘came out

to help these boys […] to speak of them as well
as a pleader can.’ And then, of course,


Housman – whose ‘fear contended with desire’
– who leant across his lectern in ’33 to say,

‘as for a verse in in the forty-ninth Psalm:
But no man may deliver his brother, nor make

agreement unto God for him; that is to me
poetry so moving that I can hardly keep my voice

steady in reading it.’ And so I try imagining
the three of them watching over Leigh, just as

he worries for a patient, who’s signed up
for a dodgy drug on an experimental trial,

only to receive reply: ‘I’m going to die anyway.
This is for those who will come after me.’

William Thompson is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Bristol. Born in Cambridgeshire in 1991, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Wild CourtThe Honest Ulsterman, LighthouseInk Sweat & TearsQuince and The Best New British and Irish Poets 2019-21 (Eyewear).
Twitter: @willthompson237

Mel in the Trees – Mark Russell

Mel in the Trees

‘Hey,. Mark!.. Have you had eye surgery?’.. ‘Hi, Mel.. No,. my. glasses are
right here in my top pocket.’. ‘But you can see me?’. ‘Of course. I’m short-
sighted.. You know that.’. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes.. You’re standing. right in. front of
me.. I can see you as clear as a bell.. But if you went. and stood over there,
I’d have. to put my glasses on. to recognise you. as anything other.. than a
multi-coloured. blur.’. ‘Wow.. That’s fascinating,’,. he said. and moved. off
over to. the. line. of. trees. behind. the. fence.. ‘Can you. see me. now?’. he
called.. ‘This isn’t fascinating, Mel!’. I shouted, but he couldn’t hear me.. I
snatched. a loud hailer. from. a tree protestor. and turned it on.. My voice
became tinny and broken, but very loud.. ‘Come back, Mel,. this is stupid.’
Mel. looked behind him, to see where. my voice was coming from.. All the
tree protestors joined me in waving him toward us.. Eventually, he got the
message. and. staggered. back...‘Good grief,’. he. said,. ‘I think. I’m. going
deaf.’. ‘No Mel,.. you. walked a long. way from here.. I had. to use this loud
hailer,. and still you were.. too far. away..’ He took it from me.. ‘Wow, that’s
fascinating!’ He began to make his way to the line of trees, but this time he
ran due to. the excitement.. ‘Let me see if. I can do it!’. The tree. protestors
were grumbling and wanted their loud hailer back. I suggested they follow
him and force him to hand it over, but they said they were against all forms
of violence. In the distance,. Mel had his back to us. and was addressing an
empty field. to the west,.. but we. couldn’t. make. out what. he was. saying.
‘Shall. we go and. rescue him?’.. one of .the. tree protestors. said... Mel was
jumping. up and down,. but not in an agitated way.. ‘Let’s wait,’. I said.. ‘I
think he’s enjoying himself.’

Mark Russell won the 2020 Magma Poetry Judge’s Prize. His poems have appeared in The Manchester Review, Stand, The Fortnightly Review, Blackbox Manifold, Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal and elsewhere. @mark59russell 

The Doctrine of Triangles – Mathew Lyons

The Doctrine of Triangles

I look up at the tent’s converging walls, their apex
just out of arm’s reach. There is nothing to do

but watch the slow passage of the hunters’ moon
across my torso, watch my body become a map

to track us with beneath the first surveillance satellite
—we dreamers, we moving targets, we stars in transit,

we people of docksides, caravans and container parks.
Bleached skin peels with each passing cloud

as if time were scouring my shadows, my other selves,
from the world. Beneath the moon’s old gaze I am visible

and invisible, naked and meaningless, a thing
of surface only. What does a satellite know of sleep

or the comforts of darkness, of hope and home
and safety: the heart’s grand trigonometry.

Mathew is a London-based poet and writer. His work has been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Lake, Dust, Dawn Treader, Visual Verse and Nine Muses.

Purple Jeans – Rowena Knight

Purple Jeans

When I bought the jeans he was alive.
I was so excited to find jeans
in the perfect shade of purple,
right size and length.
I was on my way to a meeting.
I was killing time when the jeans caught my eye.
A few hours later I had purple jeans
and a white-hot piece of knowledge.
I wonder if I’ll ever wear the jeans now
or if wearing them will always make me think of Dave dying
– as if the jeans had murdered him!
As if denim has anything to do
with chasing yourself down a blind alley.
Was he wearing jeans when he stopped being alive?
Did he slide his belt from the loops holding it in place?
Did the person who found him hate that belt
for forgetting its purpose
and becoming extraordinary?
He couldn’t carry any more, not even
the weight of his own body.
He will never wear jeans again.
He will never go through the dull
but soothing morning routine.
In a bathroom somewhere
a toothbrush is waiting for his mouth.
His glasses are cold on the bedside table.
Someone needs to tell them.
Someone needs to inform his suits.
They’re waiting so patiently
for the privilege of being worn by him.

Rowena Knight is a queer feminist living in Bristol. Her poems have appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Magma, The Rialto, and The Emma Press Anthology of Love. Her poetry pamphlet is All the Footprints I Left Were Red (Valley Press, 2016).  Twitter: @purple_feminist Instagram: @purple_feminist_

Snide – Ava Patel


I hear ‘I do’ and choose to roll amid some confetti filled gold balloons,
the confetti pieces smaller than I remember in the gold balloons.

Something will go whoosh past my ear soon,
maybe the helium let out of a small, gold balloon.

I see nothing at this wedding but hear badgers humming the truly madly deeply tune.
My mother and I had no one to dance with because soon

we’d be left alone with the empty bar, the two of us all on our own.
My gnarled fingers promised to always be alone,

even in her slightly less gnarled ones—
the whale fell through into our fourth moon.

Wrecking ball, helium wrecking balloons
wrecking wedding cakes, I am the ruins.

The snide rabbit mutters, his voice high from confetti filled gold balloons.
‘Always the bridesmaid,’ he says. ‘I’m never the groom.’

Ava Patel graduated from the University of Warwick with a First in an MA in Writing.  Her debut pamphlet ‘Dusk in Bloom’ has just been published by Prolebooks and she runs an Instagram poetry page: @ava_poetics.Her pamphlet is available to buy here:

Stallion – James McDermott


trudging through norfolkfieldsI find
a lone horse a bag on its mouth
and I’m thirteen again
in the farmyard of the school changingrooms

a tall muscly stallion
kicks me to the floor I land on all fours
he forces myheadinto hisgym bag
to sniff his salt sweet shorts

he snorts stamps brays trots off
to the showers I hear the slam
of locker doors and picture prisons but
it’s a gate being closed

in this field I walk on thinking of that
animalprayinghe has been put down

James McDermott’s debut poetry collection Manatomy is published by Burning Eye. James’s poems have been published in various magazines including The Gay and Lesbian ReviewThe Cardiff Review, Popshot QuarterlyInk Sweat and Tears, SpeltConfluence, Bitchin’ Kitsch and Dawntreader.  Twitter: jamesliammcd  Order copies of Manatomy here:

Advice – Neil Fulwood


Come on, give yourself
a talking to. Bad thoughts
are the playground
of other types, those

you were told to keep
away from. Your psyche
is the clean reception area
of a village constabulary

where you popped in
with something home-
made for your uncle
the desk sergeant

not this ungodly precinct
smelling of piss
in a broken neighbourhood.
This isn’t who you are.

Look at yourself. Repeat
the mantra: good family,
good school, good
prospects. Now turn round,

go home. Breathe slowly.

Neil Fulwood lives and works in Nottingham. He has published two collections with Shoestring Press, No Avoiding It and Can’t Take Me Anywhere. His third, Service Cancelled, is forthcoming in June.

Inside Out – Sheila Jacob

Inside Out

So you’re not from this way?
a new neighbour asks
though I’ve lived in the town
for thirty-odd years,
tell her the bus times
and when the bins are emptied.

She’s spotted something
and I’m aware of it, suddenly,
like a petticoat hem
blushing below my skirt.
Soon she’ll know
all my underclothes

are labelled Made In Birmingham
though I won’t mention
the hiraeth I feel
when I recognise the accent.
I won’t mention last week
and the delivery man

who stopped to ask directions.
His depot was in Telford
but he came from Great Barr
where my Uncle Fred used to work.
Things weren’t the same, we agreed,
since they rebuilt the Bull Ring.

I deciphered his invoice:
the village typed first
above the misspelt road
and the road a cul de sac.
He still puzzled the names.
I explained that Maes

meant field, Hyfryd meant
nice or pleasant and Rhosrobin
was a red robin.
So you’ve learned the lingo?
he laughed and I laughed too,
said I supposed I had.

Sheila Jacob lives in North East Wales with her husband. She was born and raised in Birmingham and uses her childhood, adolescence and  Brummie ancestry as a source of inspiration. She has had a number of her poems published in U.K. magazines and webzines.

Featured Publication – Night Shift by Jonathan Totman

Our featured publication for May is Night Shift by Jonathan Totman, published by Pindrop Press.

Jonathan Totman’s debut poetry collection is a bag of exquisite gems. Lightly, discreetly, he takes us by the hand and shows us owls and fireworks, chores and spreadsheets, architecture, lichens and encounters with wild animals, in ways that make us see the world through fresh eyes. Poems about the grief of losing a parent are woven through others exploring the joys of new fatherhood – and ultimately about what it is to be human. Delicate and hauntingly beautiful, this is a collection by a poet who is going places.

“Totman has a gift for marrying the natural and the human – sparks of life from every source flare and soar into the darkness, scattering their fine traces on the imagination. Night Shift is a collection to warm the heart – a book rich in humanity, tenderness, colour and light.” Clare Best

These bravely tender, beautifully intimate poems speak of the presences and the voids that shape our apprehensions: of ‘the prayer-deep dark’ and the heart’s private lanterns’; of ‘the rich soil of the night’, and of ‘the light // crashing through’. Whether ‘trespassing’ into the ‘rickety barn’ of fatherhood or acquiescing in a wood’s ‘rough shelter’, Totman treads softly, inviting us to bear witness, to feel ‘the flutter and kick of imagination / pushing against absence’. Night Shift is a vigil, and it is also an incitement to attend: to embrace life’s ‘grit’ and ‘balm’, its ‘slip and scrape’ and the everyday ‘kindnesses that stick like burrs’.” Rebecca Watts

With an appropriately skilled language of poetic sensibility, and an often understated tenderness, Jonathan Totman with an open generosity invites the reader to share his experiences of Nature and family. ‘Night Shift’ is an impressive first collection.” John Lyons


In the car’s close warmth,
the long tunnel of the night,
a memory surfaces:

glimpse of fur and motion,
grey hind too low and large for anything
domestic, caught in the headlights as we

bumped down the drive.
Curled in the back and half asleep, I saw
the arrow of him

spin towards earth,
the safety of a hole 
and the knowledge of having strayed too far.

He’ll be long gone now.
His chamber sealed,
the complex passed to his offspring’s offspring.

New entrances, perhaps, new passages
ending in moss and the scent of a mate;
a tumble of cubs deep at the heart.

And I’m gone too.
Driving my own clan down different routes;
the black and white road

and the grey, grey panic at the verge.


Crouching to inspect the sweet peas –
tendrils coiled round wandering stems,
purple flowers like crinkled summer skirts,
laden with dew – I spy, behind the blue
ceramic pot, some stray, domestic tangle:
a pair of maternity tights, gusted from the line,
leaf-light and ghostly, stretched with a memory of body.
I bundle them in a palm and think of
that little life, flexing its shoots of limb:
all those clothes to be worn, the picking up to come.

Previously published in the pamphlet Explosives Licence (Templar Poetry, 2018)

The Damage

Slung up, she is an eager tourist,
little limbs dangling from the trunk of me,
head against my too-fast heart.

What’s that, what’s that, what’s that
old oak kneeling on spread limbs,
the billion open doors of its bark.

What’s there beneath that high-rise of pine,
its drop zone of nibbled husks
a triumph of collectibles.

She wants to know about the damage:
the wounds where branches were,
the smooth table tops of stumps –

their human angles.
I tell her how the place mends itself,
the small machinery of decay

moving in to mould and remould;
this sodden rug of moss and fungus,
woodlouse, worm and all

the fingertips of the forest
reaching in until eventually
the heartwood gives way;

the giant and tiny bodies
leached into soil. I tell her how
seeds unzip in the mud, grow

down, spreading through the rot.
I tell her there is life, and life,
and she listens, throbbing like wood,

brain branching into all those possible worlds.


And then that pause-in-the-wind moment
when his notes fall out 
of the background music of sky,

a rattled coo, toy-like, close 
and shapeless on the walk home,
the thought of a feathered warmth,

musty with chick and pellet, the kill 
waiting to happen on some dark edge
of field, the thought of other

owls on other nights,
and what you never quite see,
a sense of size, of story,

a faith in what a parent said
taking off into the woods
in the fledgling light.

Previously published in The Fenland Poetry Journal

Jonathan was born in Sussex and now lives in Oxfordshire. His pamphlet, Explosives Licence, was joint winner of the 2018 iOTA Shot Award and was published by Templar Poetry the same year. Jonathan is a former Fenland Poet Laureate and co-edited poetry magazine The Fenland Reed for several years. This is his first full collection.

Night Shift is available to purchase from the Pindrop Press website.