A Stone’s Throw
— Ann Preston 2024
Pebbles have drifted into the corners of the stepsbeside the neglected bowling green. I stop a whileto test the temperature of the March sunshine.Across the park is the garden grandfathermade for his new red-brick house,digging out bucket-loads of pebbles to filltrenches for the paths and doorsteps. My grandparents died in that house in their own beds,so I never knew there was a short-cutacross the park to the hospital.Nor could my mother, aged eighteen, stridingconfidently down the front path – her titian hairblown back, her coat unbuttoned, leaving home,have believed her days would endjust a stone’s throw from that red house on the hill. One day the sea will roll in again from the eastsucking out the old pebblesand swirling them against the new. I pick up a smooth one,put it in my pocket.
Ten Ways of Looking at a False Acacia
— Ann Preston 2024
Why do we call this tree falsewhen it stands straight and trueas any native tree? Wealthy collectors lusted afterthe false acacia’s foreign beauty,vying with one another to make itthe showpiece of their landscaped gardens. A luscious false acacia standsjust outside my garden boundary,but I still like to think of it as mine. True acacias have vicious thorns,but we still prefer to class the false ones with themrather than with their own family,the humble bean? Black-frocked Jesuits believedthe dark pods of the false acaciasustained a prophet in the wilderness.But they were wrong.he fed on carob podswith all their heavenly chocolate flavour. Out of falsehood comes forth sweetness;bees that collect nectar from the false acaciaproduce honey tasting of ambrosia. While others rush to put out tender shoots,the false acacia holds back.But when, at last, it opens primrose yellow leaves,they glow like fairy lights against the darker greens. In June the false acaciadresses in cascades of heavily scented flowers,intoxicating as a champagne fountain. Outlined against a winter sky,the false acacia’s branchesare twisted as the limbs of skiersswept away by an avalanche. The false acacia has a feminine ending.
John
— Andrew Scotson 2024
He was watching his fingerstwist and turn in an ice cold streamthat began in reluctant snow manymiles above before it descendedto this lost boy. Seeing his young fingers enlarged byreflection or refraction or some magic ofwater and sun. He could feel the stonesmooth and slippy beneath his bare feetand feel a gentle current pulling at hiscalves… He turned then and the dark haired man onthe bank smiled and half waved though thedistance was not great. It seemed like forever… “dad” “dad?” and the Lancashire lad put down his bluerucksack and spoke his name… “Andrew” long and full the way only a parent could. And at 62 the boy knew the end had arrivedand the welcome of water, of stone and familyno longer felt cold or strange but fire warmand blanket comforting.
A short performance
— Marion Horton 2024
For Antonio José Martínez Palacios Fingers on strings, painting a landwhere towers soar, castles sing,heat kisses the skin. Was it dawn when Falangistsmarched you roughly cuffed and wornas autumn waved its baring arms? Chords so sharp, so crystal clearmeander into a rhythmic strumbuilding beneath an agile thumb. Did you stand or did you kneeldown on the Andalusian floor –leaves like a reddened waterfall? Broken notes are calling outbuilding to thicker deeper driftsas closer and closer passion lifts. Did you hear behind your back,a metronome click strangely nearas safety catches triggered fear? Coloured keys float overheadas we hear a rainbow flyand ponder what it signifies. Did you hum a final tuneto mask the gun –distract from its sharp percussion? Do sweeter dreams lieout of reacheluding us until we sleep? Nine hundred seconds left is all.Was yours spent in a concert hall?As firing stopped and bodies felldid crowds succumb to your sweet spell? (A study has shown that, at the time of death, parts of the brain remain active for nine hundred seconds.)
The Witch
— Lindsey Calvert 2024
Crisp crackling cursesrattle the windowsThe witch is in her elementof Winter storms The black catslithers through the henbaneShe frightens winter birdsA starling flies within her graspShe pounces, then she purrs I tell you to beware the witchBeware her crimson smileHer pointed shoesHer sharpened teethI would run a mile So when it comes to HalloweenPull your curtains tightLock your doors and guard the fireUntil the morning light
Hanging Baskets
— Susan Jane Sims 2024
For Mum Petunias spill colourover the edgesof my baskets;exuberant stemsand happy faces. Summers agomy babies spilt overin your arms;a joy that could notbe held. I keep the baskets plantedso all season longI have youto come home to.
One voice
— Leela Gautam 2024
A long journey.Just one voice in the car,Hers, from the front,Clear, confident, persistent.He listens carefully,Fully focused,Does her bidding.I sit, mute, redundant,Role reduced to passinga snack, a tissue, a drink.Time was when I tracedthe map on my lap,Time was when he’d ask me to sing.No map now. Singing days, done.Age has lost the key to my voice.I cannot sing.He does not disagree!I take a break, I doze.Then we hit a roadblock,No warning; she stops speaking.A truck has spilled its cargo. A long wait – he switches her off,Turns to talk. I feign sleep!
The beautific vision
— John Christopher Johnson 2024
This is what my aunt who wasa devout Catholic referred to;meeting Christ with even agnosticscaught in his slip-stream. I argued and said supposethe vision was in black andwhite and lacked the luridcolours of a Hollywood movie. She thought I was being facetious,caressed a silver cross and staredhard at me, harder than the nailsdriven into feet and hands, What if her description wasnot fit for human consumption,of merchantable quality like businesslaw; could I demand a refund?
Slow Movement (B Minor)
— Alan Bush 2024
I have an oboe under the bedalmost, un-played since universitythough I still do hum to workthose ‘champagne moments’from the Hindemith or Saint Saenssonatas. And since a recent post-pubdemonstration I’m back to countingrests, and too many family cuesplus the name of an overhauler– local– used to work for Howarth– no pressure thenmemories of my own repairsof leaking pads, the way I usedto oil the rods, over and overor how I scratched the silver-plateof the keys with slips of precisionscrewdriver, the cork and blu-tackmess that remains the thumb-restor the general lack of lustre. No.I still have an oboe under the bed.
Not Cool, No, Not Cool
— Alan Bush 2024
seeing you every day, you’re doing fine,of course,in that way your scars give,cotton and flesh under my fingers.But I ask you, I ask,in the silenceof my not-quite-home, in the cold lightof the fridgethat yields to my history, I ask you,aren’t youmore like this half cucumber, halfhidden in the half lightof a salad drawer, shrink-wrapped,and shining your namefor the freshnessof each day, whereasinsideyou’re just the shaped loosenessof a forgotten dream
About the editor
Poet, editor and artist, Susan Jane Sims has been running Poetry Space since 2010. She has three collections to her name and has edited or joint-edited many anthologies. Poetry Space is a social enterprise operating from Susan’s home in Beaminster, Dorset, where she is also a chef in the food and arts business she runs with her husband Chris (Tangerine Cafe & Gallery). She has been a poet in schools for many years, a judge in a regional heat of The Poetry by Heart competition and a Hawthornden Fellow in 2018. Susan loves nothing better than bringing people together with community events; her latest venture is a monthly collage group supported by Dorset START.