Crosby Uncompanioned, address unknown Sven Kretzschmar

Uncompanioned, address unknown

On Smithfield pavement, young and old rush into the night not extending a hundred thousand welcomes for me to follow. Unaware

of the newcomer up there, they roam never on their own, don’t ask about the mystery of an air-short ribcage in the dark while I, homesick,

gasping for breath, stand my ground in a hostel room facing in the mirror the face I deserve envying even a beggar

for his pug companion. Evening wind takes a written scrap of paper on a walk over the kerbstone, uncompanioned by stray cats or nocturnal birds –

a message delivered to no address. Sven Kretzschmar

Lightless

The last of the matches; nothing fires now but thunderheads, their reflections trouble the relief of the sloped ceiling. I shut my eyes but can no longer hear

the whirr of wings. I lie down with my ear against the floorboards to listen for the soft beating of dust and membrane. Nothing; desiccated husks, used up silence.

With no light-source as night comes on even the luna moths have gone. Gillie Robic

Bouquet

Phlox, to make you complicit. Or so much more: our souls united. For tender truths told: narcissus, petals as gentle as fingertips. Baby's breath, this love as light as air.

Snowdrops, precursors of joys to unfold. Or love yet to be awakened: jonquil. The fierce promise of a primrose timid tempered only by resolve. Let this not go unacknowledged.

A hundred-leaved rose, extravagant declaration of my sincere affection, petals paramount to my adoration. Honeysuckle; sweet, heady, a token of my devoted affection.

Let variegated tulips testify to the beauty of your eyes. And yellow, the sun of your smile. Fuchsia a symbol of this secret love still budding, waiting to be told.

Thoughtful pansies, faithful violets. Love me truly: daisies. Love me loyal: lemon balm. High summer’s ease, wildflower breeze. Lily of the valley: return of happiness.

Asters, like fallen stars, for patience. And peonies. Big, bold, hearts burst into bloom; richness of love undisputed. Whimsical ranunculus, for I am dazzled by your charms. Forget-me-not blues, through and through. Siobhán Mc Laughlin

September in Ireland

Imagine the narrow, cobbled streets of Crete, empty of tourists who now huddled at home, the stray cats roaming free, hunting scraps, that no longer fall from careless tables. These battered wooden taverna doors locked down for months now. The basket chairs we sat on, upended, legs to sky.

Yellow and red bougainvillea still tumbles in papery excess over roofs and walls, snatched glimpses of sea between buildings and the rinsed clarity of light is the same. It is we who are not there. Memory and longing wash through us. The heavy bottomed glasses still brim

with milky Ouzo, threatening to overspill at any moment, the tatzike is spoiling in the sun and the baklava is a fester of wasps as we cocoon with our cups of strong tea and raisened brack, dolefully watching September rain, hearing its racket wondering if we will ever get back. Jean O’Brien

Foolish Love

For you, I would carry out homicide, like in Double Indemnity. I would make it look like a suicide. Your hips are the road to perversity.

I would climb the K-2 Mountain, rob at gunpoint the Royal Bank. I would find the misty fountain from which the old gods drank.

I would sign up to the gym with a feeling of euphoria. I would dive in the Antarctic, swim, hope for pneumonia.

I would enlist in a senseless war, fight for a lost cause. I wouldn’t mind wounds, nor an ugly scar, if you gave me a round of applause.

I would run the New York Marathon, race before the bulls in Pamplona, I would rebuild the Parthenon, a kiss is well worth an hematoma.

I would gladly give myself in for crimes I did not commit. I would sing Video killed the radio star at the most decadent, karaoke bar.

I would perjure myself in court, deny having known your name. I would go through plastic surgery to end up looking just the same.

I would carry your bags to the station for a train to an unknown, final, destination. Then, I would wave you sweet goodbye, while you slip away from my life. Jorge Leiva

Created or Destroyed.

Aimed poor and unknown, at least unto death, Semi-precious wastage of a daughters skill Chewing on the precious literature in an inkling Not a whit the wiser for swallowing words.

In the underground swathe, ascertaining probability Playing with the lungs, keeping peace with mighty Seen once, then forgotten, wanting to be picked From the wealthy and loving goldmine that burns

Converted into forms, similar the better Escorted home in disgrace, enjoyment forestalled Watching elephants in the classroom, thunder forth Broken into pieces the watchman stands.

Wrecking on the level, tripping on holidays Singular knife twisted to a legendary groom, Worse than is able, the cotton-on defeats, Jobs too big or small, continuous, above board

The instant ideation, purely academic, Cities numbered on the back of another history distilled sentiments poison the persuasive Defensive drinking shoots the hip fantastic.

Sitting in wait, reading one's own debts To a hardened clique, being seen often Contaminating the sweet, lost in a lecture The real suicide perplexed for the better. Patricia Walsh

Sinking Ships

They go down fast, When descent begins. Ready. Canon. Fire.

What a blaze it made Of the night’s cold. The ship has sunk with its load.

It bore a name I dare not speak Lest I call it back to life.

But there was treasure Once, hidden in the hold. The ship has sunk with its load.

Its former grace, Vanished on the waves Whispers through the deep.

I hear the song. Where once it flowed, Now the ship has sunk with its load. Aoife Bradshaw

Polly Richardson Munnelly

Dingle Wilds 6 - Cow Chatter

Silence speaks volumes, eyes hold the scaring the distant wonders of past slaughters, churn

fermenting insides to regurgitations, unwanted digestions acidifying cuds, burning holes with each morsel chewed dripping drool to the blackened, they say we ingest the fear of bovine’s green mile before the eyes turn white, the moment deaths sensed the realisation the grey pasture maze has no way out.

Their own Auschwitz, we the exterminators manoeuvring.

The bullocks in the pasture dream, suckle the mountains take the cake offered over decades of fences erected, revealing baby’s teeth, belch seven rounds, heavy in aroma enough to knock out sea.

Under sun basking giving curiosity a terrific show, smell green apples crunched amongst parting dormant briars,

slap tongues to clap their approval as mouths synchronise opening, silent, taking smallest of sweetened bits as if nestlings. The days milk into weeks, no lowering decorates ebony

to serenade lunar light, only hock movements speaking its own as if earthen ballet, bowing to shadows cast.

Disconnected

I witness astonishment, envy its virtue, feel the contours of her wide expression, long to capture the essence of her being to journey south from the breastbone.

To lie in the infirmary, behind battlement walls, receive intimate attention from curative fingers.

To trace the horizon, place myself at the kernel of understanding, and return to the place, I last gave a shit.

To recognize truth; find purpose beyond abandoned faith, something that drives blood through my wasted veins.

So, try I must, before apathy slows my pulse, time takes my bones and she averts her gaze. David Ratcliffe