Category: Longform

Yuan Hongri (born 1962) is a renowned Chinese mystic, poet, and philosopher. His work has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada, and Nigeria; his poems have appeared in Poet’s Espresso Review, Orbis, Tipton Poetry Journal, Harbinger Asylum, The Stray Branch, Pinyon Review, Taj Mahal Review, Madswirl, Shot Glass Journal, Amethyst Review, The Poetry Village, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. His best known works are Platinum City and Golden Giant. His works explore themes of prehistoric and future civilization.

Yuanbing Zhang (born 1974) is a Chinese poet and translator who works in a middle school in Jining, a city in the Yanzhou District of the Shandong Province in China.

---

---

You can contact translator Yuanbing Zhang through his email address, 3112362909@qq.com.

DS Maolalaí is an English Literature graduate from Trinity College who now resides in Dublin after living abroad in the US and Canada for several years. Maolalaí’s writing has appeared in such publications as 4’33’, Strange Bounce, Bong is Bard, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Out of Ours, The Eunoia Review, Kerouac’s Dog, More Said Than Done, Star Tips, Myths Magazine, Ariadne’s Thread, The Belleville Park Pages, Killing the Angel and Unrorean Broadsheet. Maolalaí has thrice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has had work published in two collections: Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden and Sad Havoc Among the Birds.

---

Reincarnation.

really,
we’re comfortable.
that’s what’s different.
a year ago
with this kind of money
one of us would
have bought tickets.

now we’re looking
at places together
and being choosy
too—unheard of! 
we need a second bedroom
which we can call our office
and somewhere outside
that the dog can go to piss.
need a big window
and a decent stove for cooking.

I can’t imagine it,
really living like this—my last flat had waterstains
like maps of other countries—I used to lie down drunk
and look at them
and wonder about new york.

last night
before I slept
I thought “next time
I’ll do it differently”
and I wasn’t even thinking
about us. just about going somewhere
when I’m 25 again
and seeing other things
like buildings—I assume
sometimes stupidly
that you get
another go.

---

You can find more of DS Maolalaí’s work via Twitter. You can also read another of Maolalaí’s pieces, Impressive about art., here.

Armaan is an undergraduate student of English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. When he is not running late for lectures, he may be found wandering aimlessly around the library or at the university’s climbing wall. His poetry is forthcoming in the Indian Literature Journal and he aspires to write frantically for the rest of his life.

---

Family Dinner

A round table, with one leg too short,
Ten chairs taking a space for six,
All under lightbulbs dim and flickering,
White light, not bright, rather dimmering,
Shining on backs hunched over steel plates,
Curved spines on straight-backed seats.
Mother sits in the corner, with eldest daughter,
One eye on the stew still simmering.

Father, grandfather and uncles
Eat away like the termites in the walls.
Those ploughs won’t pull themselves.
The meal is done, scraps remain,
Mother calls for the youngest.
All this in a space for six.
Sitting under dimmering bulbs,
Lines drawn in the land are mirrored by
Lines drawn on each hand.
The middle child shifts in his seat
To avoid an uncle’s elbow in his meat.
One can just about see
The creases on colourless foreheads
That move up, as smiles greet
A beetle stuck in the stew
Of the youngest, confused.
For once, even mother is amused.

---

You can find more of Armaan’s writing via Medium.

Amy B. Moreno resides in Scotland after having spent some adventurous years living abroad.  She is an experienced translator and interpreter, now moving on to writing poetry and prose for both adult and child readers.  She has been published in The Scottish Book Trust and in several online publications and blogs.

---

Tae the Burrymen an’ the Bogeymen

This body of plucked flesh and epidermis
of bread and wounds and awkward surplus
is outside, but I’m rattlin’ about in my own head
Flipped inside out, like the scraped-back skin
from a baked tattie, exposed in the bin
Picked apart by scavengers
with sharp little incisors
following me, as I’m surveyed by
Birds on a wire
chirping out the dial-up internet tone
An’ I’m covered in bickerin’ burrymen
twisted, prickly
scratchy burrs
It feels like polymer
wool between my teeth, and a hair forever coiled in my throat
Smells like a place I’m homesick for where I’ll never go,
and have never even been
Looks like an itch I can’t scratch
deep inside the bone
My hands are red raw,
Ma heid’s mince, and then she answers the door
and begins to speak and
brings out, not the best china
but thankful mugs built for comfort
an extra teaspoon of sugar, you look knackered sweetheart
a Mr Kipling’s Bakewell tart?
Do Not Feed the Beast
he lurks behind the sleekit skirting boards
or wades in fridge shadows
with a warning snarl
Lurid tail and skittering toes
I feel her chatter above and below
Her hushing blether of neighbours and prices and weather
I’m a letter,
sliding into a warm envelope
and a talcum-pink powder puff dampens the brawl
quieting the hairball, I hear
that fellow-mortal with nightmare feet

---

You can find more of Amy’s writing via her Twitter, @Amy_B_Moreno.

Mary Anne Dryden is a Dundee-born feminist poet with a passion for hillwalking and chess. Mary Anne, who was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, is of the opinion that Asperger’s is not a disability but a way of seeing the world from a unique and beneficial perspective. She hopes to one day to publish a novel and a book of poetry.

 

---

 

I Am My Voice

 

Regimes may throb and dreams may smoke
but my sisters’ thoughts they’ll not revoke.
Through rock that quivers, through concrete stream,
our reds and yellows will dazzle and teem.

My womanliness need not be feminine,
not that the feminine should be seen as weak.
Upon hard ground my body may recline,
but my spirit stands upright, unafraid to streak.

My contemporaries ride, independent their routes,
unashamed of their faith, proud of their roots.
Here I stand, a tangible woman,
distinct and unique, undeniably human.

Palpable our light, pregnant our dark.
Of Ophelia we dream, and of Joan of Arc.
We shall not be victims, we shall not be Persephone;
It is we in our control, the victors of our destiny.

Accomplished as stone, skilful as sand.
Royal my mind, unyielding I stand.
I’ve no need of puppets, virtuosos with strings.
My silence a silence that exquisitely sings.

My world of butterfly is also of moth.
There are many ingredients that make up my broth.
I control what my mirror might choose to reflect.
I have the right to its pureness, its utmost respect.

I am my voice, and I am my thought.
My values are values that cannot be bought.
Here I stand, undeniably human,
real, unbroken, triumphant, woman.

---

You can keep up with Mary Anne’s writing via her email address,
maryannedryden@gmail.com.

Eilidh G Clark is a writer, poet and storyteller living in Clackmannanshire. Her work has been published in various forms–podcast, online, on a billboard at a train station–and in 2017, her short story The Impracticality of Home was highly commended in Carer UK’s creative writing competition. In 2018, Eilidh took to the stage as part of The International Storytelling Festival on Tour, bringing local folklore back to life across Scotland. Eilidh also has a MLitt in Creative Writing from The University of Stirling. 

 

---

 

That Time

 

I hadn’t seen her in a decade,
Not since that time we …
Now she’s lying before me, tucked-up warm
In hospital sheets.

Her face is older now, saggy in parts–
And sallow. Her mouth puckers into
A tight circle when I arrive, an ‘Oh!’
Like that time we…

She touches my arm, cold fingers
That leave circles for minutes after.
‘How have you been? How time flies,
Tell me, what have you done since…
You know.’

Her shoulders hunch, eyebrows rise.
She reads my face, faster
Than the note I left by her bed…

‘Tell me, did you sail to that island,
Where the wind whips the waves
Onto the lighthouse by the edge

Of the sea. Did you?

‘Did you climb the thousand stone steps
To the castle in the sky,
Where the world ends
And life unfolds like a paper chain?

‘Did you find that missing moment,
Capture it in photographs,
Half-truths bent into scraps
Of happiness?
Or did you leave it behind?’

Her chestnut eyes leave mine,
Trail the cracks on the ceiling
And rest in the corner of room.
The sound of my footsteps echo
After I leave.

---

You can find more of Eilidh’s writing here on The Ogilvie as well as through her website.

Gerard Sarnat is a physician who’s built and staffed homeless clinics as well as a Stanford professor and healthcare CEO. He has been nominated for Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards and is widely published in academic journals, including those by Oberlin, Brown, Columbia, Virginia Commonwealth, Johns Hopkins, and Wesleyan. His work has also appeared in Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, MiPOesias, Margie, Blue Mountain Review, Danse Macabre, Canary Eco, Military Experience and the Arts, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, and the Los Angeles Review. His piece KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY was selected for pamphlet distribution nationwide on Inauguration Day 2016. His poem Amber Of Memory was chosen for his 50th Harvard reunion Dylan symposium. He’s also authored the collections Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), and Melting the Ice King (2016). Gerry’s been married since 1969, with three kids plus four grandkids (and more on the way).

FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA 1. OCEANS OF WHEAT is part of a larger in-progress work.

 

---

 

FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA
1. OCEANS OF WHEAT
i. Freedom Bucket Brigade, or, Before Ellis Island My Name Was Gesundheit
Sarnatzky.
– RIP Frank L White, 1867-1938

Board-certified carnivore whose shuck ‘n jive flunked out of locavore vegan school,
laid up in bed day two after hip replacement,
I pleaded with my wife to prepare this invalid physician some Cream of Wheat.

Not fashionable Bob’s Red Mill Organic or new-fangled One Minute or Instant,
but original good old seminola
you must stir on the stovetop forever. The kind with the Uncle Tom

white hatted plus monikered chef whose inviting welcoming face greeted
breakfasting Americans for a century before
the Great Chicago Deluge of 1992. Which is almost exactly

forty-six years after Gerard Sarnat’s conceived on the Windy City’s Southside,
fifty-four years since a Barbados-born son of slaves,
suddenly become primo box cover model material, was buried there in
segregated

Woodlawn Cemetery. It’s not far from where Mommy spoon-fed moi farina
that like now had a dollop of butter in the center.
It still melts me–as embarrassingly so do Mr. White’s ivories and sunny grin.

ii. Life Savers

Both urchins
peel off ring
after ring of
hard candy
from rolls
such iconic
foil wrapper
–he trades
watermelon
for her cherry
sucking one
after another
to take edge
off hunger as
each hardy soul
waits on Mom
to bring food
back to home
in residential
hotel next to
vacant church
borders dump
or county jail
–only real
utensil for
cooking is
a hotplate
chained to
chair bottom.

Mommy’s
hunting’s
done just
after dark
when she’s
scarfed up
an opened
box from
dumpster
-diving
behind
some diner
6 blocks
past last
subway
stop–
it was
not easy
because
3 other
mothers
competed.

While
daughter
boiled
water,
younger
son was
nursed
before
perhaps
a cup of
cereal
[maybe
infested]
is added
to the vat
for 7 or 8
minutes
which’s
enough
to make
today’s
1 st meal.

During good
times living
with friend
[who does
too many
‘shrooms]
in borrowed
room, should
our family
be able to
scrounge
together
~$4.49
Shoprite’s
proprietor
gives them
expired milk
and spoiled
fruit as well
as a pristine
Cream of
Wheat box
that has 24
servings per
container
plus plenty
of vitamins/
hot calories
so they can
get through
winter nights.

---

You can read Gerry’s previous piece, Been Down So Long Looks Like Up To Me, here. More of his work is accessible via GerardSarnat.com.

Nigel Best has been writing poetry on a range of subjects for over forty years. He has performed his work at several Scottish book festivals. His poetry has been greatly influenced by life experiences, as well as by his love of language.

 

---

 

Melt Down

 

it landed, ladened my world
white fluffy
brown ugly
grey sludgy
black ground, minus eight, crunch now
yellow stained, stay clear, don’t eat
foot print, tyre print, paw print, bird foot
white cap bush bent
broken shovel, wooden handle splintered
roof tile coat, gutter full, icicle
mound high, slabs piled, loose crushed
car roof with white mohican top, car tyres, wheels, bumper coated
droop the azalea, pot bound, white heavy cap of frozen weight
dripsicle, spikesicle, freezing pointed fingers down
steam belching from hidden flue
smoke wafting, wood burner firing
weather warning
red, amber, yellow
thaw, freeze, thaw, frozen rain
weather warming, melts to floods
blizzardly wind, blastery gusts, die down, sky light from grey leaden
thrush in bush, red wing stranger, visitor to new found land, garden
blanket sound dumbed by white clad roads and tracks
figures dressed in boots and hats
gloves and that’s not all, thick socks and striped scarves
children as old as forty-five throw hand packed, specially picked ice snowballs
slide on trays and sledges, plastic, not good wood like proper sleighs
scandinavicle
snow boots, ski poles, nordic walk
slip slide, skinned shins and elbows red, like nose drips
reindeer red nose day, laugh
slip, cry, laugh, smile
no milk, no bread
freezer bare
inventing meals from cupboard tins, jars ’n cans
out of date, out of time
couldn’t care, add lime and oil, garlic and thyme
community spirit thrive
shovel your neighbour’s drive
check they’re still alive
offer coffee, laced amaretto, warm the cockles, hearty, heartfelt stuff
snowman, snaewoman,
built, igloo fashioned, twigs and sticks and carrots and coal
gonna go when…
snow gone
melt down time
grey slush, not magical orange street light on pristine white mound
gonned away
drip to gutter dirty
not cold enough to feel cold, in need of hot toddy
not warm enough to doff hat and cough
not pleasant
not pretty
back to what was before
away go big shovels ’n brushes
away go blackbirds ’n thrushes
snow thaw, toes sore, chilblains
mind games
snow melt, fingers dry felt, fill drains
back to green, heart flames
mend damage, heal wounded branch brown
mow and prune and weed pick
and plant and plan for summer, summa this ’n that
and sun hats
talking about how bad it was when the snow fell

---

You can find Nigel’s previous poem, House., here.

DS Maolalaí recently returned to Ireland after four years away and now spends his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Publications. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and his work has appeared in many publications including Down in the Dirt Magazine, 4’33’, The Eunoia Review, and Ariadne’s Thread.

 

---

 

Impressive about art.
the thing was
we were both tired,
but anyway
we went to this art gallery
to look for a while at the pictures.

an art gallery
is a bad place to be
with someone you love
when you are tired

you want to seem clever
and keep trying to say
clever things
about paintings
but it just
wasn’t
right,
was it?

it took a long time
walking through big
empty spaces like churches,
and I could only
make jokes
and not be impressive
in my knowledge
about art.
it’s hard
being in love at first
and not
being impressive
about art.

instead I just
talked some nonsense
and never
got wowed by any paintings
like a fool.

I was tired.

except, maybe
this one;
I think it was called
the fifth seal opening or something.
that was good.
there was
this lightning
flashing so bright you could see it with your eyes closed
and this one guy
down low,
he was throwing up his arms.

there were also
all these sexy pictures,
the mistresses of old painters
or just models
paid 10 centime a day to shake like barley.
but what was I to do
when my girlfriend was there.
it was disastrous.
so difficult
early on
in love
looking at pictures.

my advice:
if you want to see some art
don’t do it

and if you must,
wait until you’re with someone
that didn’t spend the night.

---

You can find more of DS Maolalaí’s work via Twitter.

Dominic is a playwright and librettist based in Edinburgh. He completed his MLitt in Creative Writing at the University of St Andrews in 2016. His recent work includes librettos for the contemporary operas Boys of Paradise and Goldilocks and the Three Little Pigs.

 

---

 

jam

 

today i wish for jam
jam sliding down the walls
jam dripping from the ceiling
sticky pools of red and purple
oozing through my toes
as i press my feet into the carpet

let it rain jam
globs of seeds and skin
spattering the window
i will hear the pap pap pap
look outside and see a path
that runs between two mountains
walk on a cliffside stained like teeth
and stare into a viscous tide of jam

step
fall
eyes closed
mouth open
nose breaking on impact
submerged and reeling
sputter-spray my last breath
exhaling blood and currants
until nothing is left
just jam

today tomorrow every day
one perfect moment
preserved

---

You can find more of Dominic via Twitter.