Welcome to Issue 19 of Allegro Poetry Magazine. Choosing the poems for this issue was challenging as usual. I hope you enjoy the result.
Sally Long
Poems
Forecast for
the End
a
golden shovel including a Dickinson last line (#541)
As
you predicted, the
clouds obscured the stars,
no need to blind me. You
shrouded my eyes, said you knew
this would be the last
we’d ever spend a night
together. Now, we’re foreigners
once again, orbiting this
frail world, too dark for morning.
Scott Wiggerman
Scott Wiggerman
My Problem with Problems of Time &
Space
and trains. Whenever I hear
train’s whistle
I think of people leaving, always leaving,
never arriving. This
melancholy bent of mind
can be traced directly back to high
school algebra
where we studied problems of time and
space:
“Two trains leave from depots 105 miles
apart.
One train travels at a rate of 34 mph,
the other
at 61 mph. At what point
will they meet?”
For all I ever understood of algebra,
the question
might have been: “What are the
engineers’ names?”
So, I would drift off into a different
time and space:
But what if these two trains were
traveling on the same
track headed straight toward each on a
collision course
and what if the signalman forgot to
flip the switch over
and what if . . . This was when the teacher noting
how wide-eyed I’d become would call on
me.
Sarah Brown Weitzman
Telescope
The optics work
their Galilean trick:
refract you into
nearness so convincing
you might be but a
table's width away.
I could wave my arms,
jump up and down, call out
but I am too small
to attract your naked eye
and the mile between us
swallows all my words.
Wondering if perhaps
a beacon might yet be the answer,
I'm trying to think of where
a can of petrol might be got
when you signal to me,
pointing at your watch.
'Best get back.
Lunch again tomorrow?'
I nod. We neck
our drinks and leave the pub.
The optics work
their Galilean trick:
refract you into
nearness so convincing
you might be but a
table's width away.
I could wave my arms,
jump up and down, call out
but I am too small
to attract your naked eye
and the mile between us
swallows all my words.
Wondering if perhaps
a beacon might yet be the answer,
I'm trying to think of where
a can of petrol might be got
when you signal to me,
pointing at your watch.
'Best get back.
Lunch again tomorrow?'
I nod. We neck
our drinks and leave the pub.
Ken Cumberlidge
Day
Moon
Ghost come too early,
surprised to find sunbathing children,
ice cream vans, water fights in the yard.
Maybe you caught the day’s warmth from us.
Enough for you to shine in a dark sky.
Your face would spoil a seaside view,
spectral above the delirious summer fooling.
A few notice, see you slide icily to the highest
point. Where the sun had been.
It matters little- sun and moon
in the one bright sky Bank Holiday afternoon.
But I saw one shiver in your faint rays,
knowing you come like an outrider,
waiting for death to catch up.
Stephen Devereux
Ghost come too early,
surprised to find sunbathing children,
ice cream vans, water fights in the yard.
Maybe you caught the day’s warmth from us.
Enough for you to shine in a dark sky.
Your face would spoil a seaside view,
spectral above the delirious summer fooling.
A few notice, see you slide icily to the highest
point. Where the sun had been.
It matters little- sun and moon
in the one bright sky Bank Holiday afternoon.
But I saw one shiver in your faint rays,
knowing you come like an outrider,
waiting for death to catch up.
Stephen Devereux
Noon latitude
In a different time-zone
I stood holding steaming coffee
watching bright morning sunshine,
moulded into the elongated shape of a window,
advancing over pale carpet
until the tip was dog-eared against the
sheer, grubby white face of a cardboard box
A stack, like the corner ruin of a building,
that had formed itself spontaneously under the
hollow mouth of the attic looming ten feet overhead;
the shaft of an upended tomb with its treasures shaken out
The ranks of slide photographs,
selected memories held in miniature,
neatly portioned into rectangles of stained glass
awaiting reactivation under bright light,
giving testimony to a time when the
reach of your spread arms extended
across date lines, touching far shores
Before the sun toppled from its zenith
and the shrinking shadows fixed you
to a single diminishing location
A house and a garden
A set of rooms on the ground floor
A single room with blinded windows,
screening-off the inquisitive outside world
and the schoolboys who dashed across your front lawn,
while you stabbed the chocolate-covered buttons
on your TV remote to change the view
A bed superimposed over the circular indentations,
bored into the carpet by the columns of the dining room
table
A hunched urn at the foot of a concrete shaft,
like the base of a totem pole, with room
for two more above it in the stack
Against a backdrop of small conifers
that have since grown to obscure the high fence
and the industrial estate that lies beyond
blocking the sun, preserving the pooled shadows
that hold you there.
Mark Sadler
Mark Sadler
The Kitchen of Disquiet
It begins with the leftovers after you've served the
guests,
then it's the corn on the cob with a bite taken out of
it,
the half chewed chips, the regurgitated puree,
the day's previous meal still garnished
with dried cucumber that has folded in on itself like an
autumn leaf.
It's followed by a mandatory donation,
then a weekly deduction from the wage
in case I think otherwise. Then the payslips go missing,
payday gets moved back three months,
when you call your boss, he's out of the office
at the moment. We
are sure he will creep up on us,
so we work through our lunch breaks
without a shred of small talk.
We point at utensils, food items, navigate the kitchen
without a sound so that the boss in his office next door
does not hear us. When the last guest has left
and the tips have been collected on our behalf,
when we have cleared the tables, the floors, the sides
the ceilings and scrubbed the dust from the
strip lights we wait in larder for the boss to leave:
the slam of his office door,
the tap of his boots as he parades
down the corridor and we sneak out the back way.
Reiss McGuinness
Geodesic
In memory of Maryam Mirzakhani*
There’s a way out of this landscape.
It may take lifetimes. Beyond death’s
and persistent as a tortoise, or agile
hanging fruit on hollow banyan
petals but the ground swoops unexpect-
coasters round into itself; dragonflies
the high plateau, balls glide
or through, mirrors that line
are split by sudden strike-
like wisps of spider’s thread are
or doodles in our own.
on which to vanish and return?
It may take lifetimes. Beyond death’s
and persistent as a tortoise, or agile
hanging fruit on hollow banyan
petals but the ground swoops unexpect-
coasters round into itself; dragonflies
the high plateau, balls glide
or through, mirrors that line
are split by sudden strike-
like wisps of spider’s thread are
or doodles in our own.
on which to vanish and return?
Marian Christie
*Maryam Mirzakhani (1977 – 2017) was the first woman to be
awarded the Fields Medal, one of mathematics’ highest honours, for ‘outstanding
contributions to the dynamics and geometry of Riemann surfaces and their moduli
spaces’.
Five ways to slice a double cone
Five ways to slice a double cone
I. Hands
touch -
a point is where and when it all begins.
Sperm nudges
ovum, blades of sycamore spiral
on to loam,
a universe expands into
existence. Here,
in our garden, rain begins to fall.
a point is where and when it all begins.
Sperm nudges
ovum, blades of sycamore spiral
on to loam,
a universe expands into
existence. Here,
in our garden, rain begins to fall.
II. A drop
shivers the mirrored surface of the pond,
sends ripples, rings.
The lines of symmetry are infinite
within the iris
of each eye. Your pupils dilate,
reflect the moon
haloed with crystals, an inverse eye.
shivers the mirrored surface of the pond,
sends ripples, rings.
The lines of symmetry are infinite
within the iris
of each eye. Your pupils dilate,
reflect the moon
haloed with crystals, an inverse eye.
III. We’ve learnt
our dance: binary stars around our bary-
centre,
sometimes near each other, sometimes far.
Dancing, the moon
thins and plumps. Milk has been splashed
across the sky -
our sun, a pursuant cat, licks the drops.
our dance: binary stars around our bary-
centre,
sometimes near each other, sometimes far.
Dancing, the moon
thins and plumps. Milk has been splashed
across the sky -
our sun, a pursuant cat, licks the drops.
IV. From earth
we are bound to earth, a symmetry
of rise and fall,
we dive from rocks into the sea’s
embrace. A fox
leaps, pounces on a cowered
hare; a bowl
sings to its focus, a mirror burns.
we are bound to earth, a symmetry
of rise and fall,
we dive from rocks into the sea’s
embrace. A fox
leaps, pounces on a cowered
hare; a bowl
sings to its focus, a mirror burns.
V. I mould
my body to your shape, the sleeping, convex
curve of you,
while cosmic debris lured by the sun
incandesces
on its path from nowhere to nowhere, and space-
time, warped
by some unseen presence, dips and swoops.
Marian Christie
my body to your shape, the sleeping, convex
curve of you,
while cosmic debris lured by the sun
incandesces
on its path from nowhere to nowhere, and space-
time, warped
by some unseen presence, dips and swoops.
Marian Christie
Lightcone
A point
is where we are and when we are. Our past
joins our future
in our present. Two cones meet,
apex to apex;
beyond their bounds are stars
we cannot see,
horizons we will never cross,
time’s regions
that are always out of reach. Our hands
clasp, then let go.
What need is there to touch?
Marian Christie
is where we are and when we are. Our past
joins our future
in our present. Two cones meet,
apex to apex;
beyond their bounds are stars
we cannot see,
horizons we will never cross,
time’s regions
that are always out of reach. Our hands
clasp, then let go.
What need is there to touch?
Marian Christie
High Fever
Night has draped the window
and the house is quiet.
Lying in bed, shivering,
I see only flat orange sand
stretching forever,
terrifying.
Mantz Yorke
Lombard Street, San Francisco
Long claws scrape
down fog-slick stones,
survival
not a question,
but an act.
Masked eyes shine
with street lamp gold
as small gray paws
corner baguette crusts
in pots of scarlet bougainvillea,
urban quarry set out
by these housed ones
who tithe in bread to hear
these sure ones
pass by at midnight,
searching.
M.S. Rooney
The Poem of Michelson Theory
When I think of home,
A finite place amongst the myriad suns
A speck among the planets
A particle on the continent
A dwelling in a city, in a country, on a street,
A room.
A room
Encompassing
Universes running
Colliding in that enclosed space
A home.
Marc Janssen
Marc Janssen
Space Lion
And what is it about the egg?
The earth is falling away, rolling across the counter
White and clumsy in its awkward lunar dance.
Anything can break it; can give it a fatal crack,
The smallest touch boils the oceans to steam,
The faintest cough murders thousands.
And up ahead,
The naked eye can see trillions of lightyears into the
past,
So far back into it you can almost forgive.
I wish I could hear the loudest whispering of your dreams
from up here
The forbidden knowledge of your life
Shelled into a clumsy tongue I could never understand.
I’ll call you from Regulus.
Standing for a thousand years in an old time phone booth
Listening for the clacking buzz of your long-distance
operator.
Marc Janssen
no bird flying
a roar
the recalled stink
of kerosene
shove in the back
a heaviness of head
rumble jolt and tilt
the momentary queasiness
as we unstick
from brother earth
lumbering
into vacant space
where no joy is
no mystery
no love
while over the hill
we left behind
the high hawk
mews
and circles
still
Nick Carding
perspective
you used to look at me
Nick Carding
perspective
you used to look at me
through the glass
now all you see
are
fragments
because i've outgrown
the window
Aaliyah Cassim
deserted bay –
the emptiness of a sea shell
filling my soul
Lavana Kray
George
Just to keep the
peace,
George is annoying
and
says hurtful things
by accident.
George is Oneonta,
NY,
on June 3, 1981.
George is salt
water,
magnesium and
calcium.
At sea level he is
the
tide that causes
bulges
and depressions in
the
surface of oceans.
George is an
aquifer.
Water soaks through
him, as do units of
water,
hydrogen bonds and
molecules
packed like
prisoners.
George is solid,
liquid, and gas.
His surface tension
is more
than the force of
any filter.
Solvent. Weathered.
Ordered.
Floating around at
room temperature.
George has a lot of
nervous energy.
George Cassidy Payne
The Astronomer Dreams of Winter
Sleeping in summer, the stars of winter night
Blaze with a cold clear blaze in his dull dreaming.
Sirius arises, the hard-to-see hare,
Lepus, lies plain at the feet of Orion,
Bright as Taurus, Auriga and Cassiopeia,
In the untinted ink of a sun-deserted sky.
Who would prize those months of midnight haze
Over the cold crispness, when the air catches
And bites cleanly, steaming as it leaves the lungs
Like the breath of the dragon, wound between the lesser bear
And the greater? He groans for it, stewed in his night-sweats,
Suffering his sky-lack, his star-thirst.
Meantime, at four in the muggy morning
The day's dawned a dull blue-grey.
Thomas Tyrrell
morning rain -
shining space of snails
on the gravel road
Goran Gatalica
The Far Side of the Moon
no one goes to the moon anymore
by now
we thought we would be living there
growing vegetables in lunar
greenhouses
and raising kids
in bubbles
new frontiers have always fired the
imagination
man's nature
to reach for lofty ideals
and as rockets rumbled
into the sky
and then beyond metaphysics
we found the sheer size of the
enterprise intimidating
not man-size
hard to realise
that we may have over-reached
ourselves
like the first time
we looked through a telescope and
saw infinity
Gareth Writer-Davies
In Defence of Small Poems
A poem is just a grin.
Or just a little moan.
Size matters,
they often say.
But they are wrong:
it's just a little thing.
In Defence of Small Poems
A poem is just a grin.
Or just a little moan.
Size matters,
they often say.
But they are wrong:
it's just a little thing.
Seth Crook
Marginalia
Vellum offers up its textured
surface,
spaces itself around the skin-deep
words;
makes margins, generous enough,
but not for error. There to hold the
eye
into self-centred narratives
or laws or proclamations. Holy Writ.
Out of the fixed text,
leaking like ink that someone
spilled,
life trickles – a little tentative at
first –
creeping out of boredom down a
doodled edge
In miniature and disciplined
rebellion.
Stealthy jokes, cartoon, a
half-formed piece
of insolence disguised; a wry
uprising against the confines of the
cell
and orderly Scriptorium. A drawing of
a tree –
a brief expression of the question
‘Why?’
My day is set out like an
unconsidered page
for me to copy into someone’s record.
Time to spill some inky anarchy
around the dictatorial canon
where no writ runs;
where one’s thoughts, for now, can
play
with trees, and
little people, and the question ‘Why ?’
Colin Horseman
Coquet Island
Colin Horseman
Coquet Island
Look. And all there is
is lines in space; how rocks stand,
and the little island
is itself against
a blank sky. laying a shadow
on the water, etched
around by edges. How
the space around the lines
is simply infinite.
From that infinity a filament
of wild geese, stretched beyond a
breaking point
rejoined itself, a loveliness of
curve
and swerve, to arrow into distance,
taking
a secret with it. Hidden in the
waking
air beneath this flight, are mindless
mysteries.
Watching the lines in space
and standing rocks around
the little island, I
shall take no inner journey.
Watching the geese fly lovely
Watching the geese fly lovely
and their wings grow wise –
there are no other mysteries than
these
Colin Horseman
Perhaps, the sea
Perhaps, the
answer lies within
that blue
stillness where sea meets sky,
where they merge,
become a third thing,
like another wing,
for us to try.
Perhaps, if not
where sea meets sky,
where salt-lipped
kisses carve the land,
cast its earth,
where old stories try
to find us, told
in rocks and sand.
Perhaps, where sea
embraces land,
a place exists
between the two –
a silent shore,
hushed rocks and sand.
Not sea or land
but something new.
Could it exist
between the two?
Where they merge,
become a third thing,
not sea or land
but something new –
perhaps, the answer lies within.
Annie Morris
Journey
No traffic lights
or workmen's cones,
we sped full throttle
towards Mercury
we had to veer left
approaching Venus.
The tarmac was hot,
dry, dusty a scattering
of particulates spread
by the solar winds. On
either side of us stood
embankments, one
mistake we'd slither
into permanent stasis.
A dual carriageway
led to Jupiter and then
we were travelling on
an infinite motorway
beyond watery Neptune,
Uranus captivated
us with a surface porous
as a human heart
and further out
Pluto, sullen and
obdurate as a mealy-
-mouthed traffic cop
exploded halting our
exit to the stars.
John-Christopher Johnson
Wild quietude
Wild quietude
I hang out my wings to dry
in the wild quietude
in the wild quietude
that I am
like the first cormorant I ever saw
like the first cormorant I ever saw
who took my breath away
hanging out his wings
a stark cross
louring
against the Cornish sky
Hélène
Demetriades
Contributors
Sarah Brown Weitzman, a past National Endowment for the Arts Fellow in Poetry and Pushcart Prize nominee, was a Finalist in the Academy of American Poets’ Walt Whitman First Book Award contest. She is widely published in hundreds of journals and anthologies including New Ohio Review, North American Review, The Bellingham Review, Rattle, Mid-American Review, Verse Daily, Poet Lore, Miramar, Spillway and elsewhere. Her books are available from Amazon.
Sarah Brown Weitzman, a past National Endowment for the Arts Fellow in Poetry and Pushcart Prize nominee, was a Finalist in the Academy of American Poets’ Walt Whitman First Book Award contest. She is widely published in hundreds of journals and anthologies including New Ohio Review, North American Review, The Bellingham Review, Rattle, Mid-American Review, Verse Daily, Poet Lore, Miramar, Spillway and elsewhere. Her books are available from Amazon.
Nick Carding's poetry has appeared online and in print in the UK - most recently in Allegro, ink sweat and tears and Orbis - and in Europe, Australia, and the USA.
Aaliyah Cassim is a nineteen year old Audiology student currently residing in Durban, South Africa.
Marian Christie was born in Zimbabwe but now lives in northeast Scotland. Her delight in patterns of all forms finds its expression in mathematics, physics, astronomy and crochet as well as in reading and writing poetry.
Dr Seth Crook lives on Mull. He is transitioning into a seal. His poems have most recently appeared in such places as The Rialto, Magma, Envoi, The Interpreter's House, Causeway, Northwords Now, Antiphon. His photos have most recently appeared in the Nitrogen House.
Ken Cumberlidge is based in Norwich, but can be lured
out by decent beer and an open mic. Recent work can be found variously online
(Algebra of Owls / Allegro / Ink Sweat & Tears / Message In A Bottle / The
Open Mouse / Picaroon / Pulsar / Rat’s Ass Review / Strange Poetry /
Snakeskin). Webpage: https://soundcloud.com/ken_cumberlidge_poetry
Hélène Demetriades studied English at Leeds University, went to drama school and worked as an actor. Later she trained as a transpersonal psychotherapist. She has had poems published in Reach Poetry, Sarasvati, The Dawntreader, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), Anima magazine, the anthology Play, (from the editors of The Broadsheet), and online in Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Eunoia Review and Allegro. She lives in South Devon with her family.
Hélène Demetriades studied English at Leeds University, went to drama school and worked as an actor. Later she trained as a transpersonal psychotherapist. She has had poems published in Reach Poetry, Sarasvati, The Dawntreader, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), Anima magazine, the anthology Play, (from the editors of The Broadsheet), and online in Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Eunoia Review and Allegro. She lives in South Devon with her family.
Stephen Devereux is a poet, short story writer and essayist. He has won several competitions and published in UK, Europe, USA and Australia. He has worked with the late Felix Dennis and Lizlochhead and been involved in projects including Poems Under Water. He is currently working with the artist Peter Wylie.
Goran Gatalica, born in Virovitica, Croatia, 1982,
got both physics and chemistry degrees from the University of Zagreb, and
proceeded directly to a PhD program after graduation. He has published poetry,
haiku, and prose in literary magazines, journals, and anthologies. He is
a member of the Croatian Writers’ Association.
Colin Horseman is a retired Anglican priest having not so much lost his faith as found freedom to think around and beyond the edges of what is merely seen or too easily believed. He lives in Northumberland and has a love of the outdoors,the sea shore and high hills.
Colin Horseman is a retired Anglican priest having not so much lost his faith as found freedom to think around and beyond the edges of what is merely seen or too easily believed. He lives in Northumberland and has a love of the outdoors,the sea shore and high hills.
Marc Janssen is an internationally published poet and
poetic activist. His work has appeared haphazardly in printed journals and
anthologies such as Off the Coast, Cirque Journal, Penumbra, The Ottawa
Arts Review and Manifest West. He also coordinates poetry
events in the Willamette Valley of Oregon including the Salem Poetry Project, a
weekly reading, and Salem Poetry Festival.
John-Christopher Johnson’s poems have been published in Interpreter's House, Orbis, The Journal, Agenda, Dreamcatcher, Frogmore Papers, etc, forthcoming London Grip, Pennine Platform. He lives in Reading, Berkshire and sells lovely statues, animals and plaques for a living.
John-Christopher Johnson’s poems have been published in Interpreter's House, Orbis, The Journal, Agenda, Dreamcatcher, Frogmore Papers, etc, forthcoming London Grip, Pennine Platform. He lives in Reading, Berkshire and sells lovely statues, animals and plaques for a living.
Lavana Kray is
from Iasi – Romania. She has won several awards, including the status of Master
Haiga Artist, from the World Haiku Association. Her work has been published in
many print and online journals. Currently she is the editor for Cattails collected
Haiga works of the United Haiku and Tanka Society. This is her blog: http://photohaikuforyou.blogspot.ro
Reiss McGuinness is a MA graduate currently living and
working in Bath Spa. His poems have appeared in UK US and a Japanese Journal.
He is a professional miserablist and writes poetry in his dwindling spare time.
Annie Morris lives in South West London and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing with the Open University. As well as writing poetry she sings and writes her own songs.
Annie Morris lives in South West London and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing with the Open University. As well as writing poetry she sings and writes her own songs.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Adirondack Almanack, Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, the Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George's blogs, essays and letters have appeared in Nonviolence Magazine, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, pace e bene, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, the Buffalo News, and more.
M.S. Rooney lives in Sonoma, California with poet Dan Noreen. Her work appears in journals, including Allegro Poetry Magazine, Leaping Clear, Ekphrasis, and Naugatuck River Review and anthologies, including American Society: What Poets See, edited by David Chorlton and Robert S. King, and Ice Cream Poems, edited by Patricia Fargnoli. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Mark Sadler lives in Southend-on-Sea with a chameleon named Frederic. His writing has been performed by Liars' League in London and has appeared most recently on The London Magazine website and also on the Kaleidoscope Healthcare website as part of the Writing the Future summer reading anthology.
Thomas Tyrrell has a PhD in English Literature from
Cardiff University. He is a two-time winner of the Terry Hetherington poetry
award, and his writing has appeared in Spectral Realms, Wales Arts
Review, Picaroon, Lonesome October, Three Drops From A Cauldron, isacoustic and Words
for the Wild.
Scott Wiggerman is author of three books of poetry, Leaf and Beak: Sonnets; Presence; and Vegetables and Other Relationships; and editor of Wingbeats: Exercises & Practice in Poetry; Lifting the Sky; Bearing the Mask; and Weaving the Terrain. Recent poems have appeared in Narrow Road Literary Journal, Red Earth Review, bosque, Softblow, and The Ghazal Page.
Gareth Writer-Davies is from Brecon. He
was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (2014 and 2017). He was commended in
the Prole Laureate Competition (2015) and was Prole Laureate in 2017. He was commended
in the Welsh Poetry Competition (2015) and Highly Commended (2017). His
pamphlets are Bodies (2015) and Cry Baby (2017) (Indigo Dreams) His
first collection The Lover's Pinch
(Arenig Press) was published June, 2018.
Mantz Yorke lives in Manchester, England. His
poems have appeared in a number of print magazines, anthologies and e-magazines
in the UK, Ireland, Israel, Canada, the US, Australia and Hong Kong.
