Welcome to Issue 18 of Allegro Poetry Magazine which this time is a general issue. There are excellent poems crammed into this edition. I received a large number of high quality submissions this time and had to make some difficult decisions. I hope you enjoy reading the result.
Sally Long
Poems
The Lost War
A storm vexes the beach.
Sand pelts my skin,
rain bullets drop from puddles of sky,
every cloud a possibility of war.
Fresh winds clamour the hills,
the surf rolling into truths.
We vanish softly on foot,
linger in the settling darkness and shiver.
Bereft, the Gods
weep.
The dead are like upended houses
growing out from the sands,
the unknown grey tides.
Dusk drifts into rain
on a yellowed window pane.
Blood-lit,
they open their mouths.
Natalie Crick
Natalie Crick
Visiting the Dead
When her only son told Ada
a month before the Japanese bombed
Pearl Harbor
that he was getting married,
she’d exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely!
Muriel?”
“No, Ruth,” Hermie corrected.
It became a family joke,
lore having it Ada’s face fell harder
than Venetian blinds collapsing.
“I was just surprised,” Ada always
smiled amid the general laughter,
but everybody knew,
sweet-tempered as Ada was,
she and Ruth quarreled like spitting
cats,
but then, Ruth quarreled with
everybody.
Now at Hermie’s graveside,
three quarters of a century later
on the tenth anniversary of his death,
his daughter Sheila whispers,
“Dad, Grandma Ada was right.
You should have married Muriel.”
Charles Rammelkamp
Red
Squirrel
A shiver
in the branches of the copper
beech – bare still, spring’s shimmer
not yet budded – and now you leap, skitter
along
the wall and down
the wooden gatepost, then bound,
ears pert, tail long, across the March-damp ground
to clamber
up the viburnum
on which the peanut feeder
hangs: robins, coal tits and finches scatter.
Crouched
upon a branch,
front paws to mouth, round-haunched,
tail fluffed and crimped across your back, you munch
on peanuts
ferociously, as
I, confined, watch through the glass
of the window. Your obsidian eyes meet my gaze.
Marian Christie
Horrible
misrule and tragicall mischief*
For one so faithful she
cannot believe a miracle
would send me home.
Some jealousy, some
hateful worm crawling up
her neck; she knew my babies
never lasted longer than a day,
so when her darling son
caught fever, she said it was my
doing. She fashioned a
poppet,
she signed the dark man’s book.
Women scrabbling to earn a coin
or two from witch hunts, waiting
for spirits to show their faces,
whipping up a spite-froth
in the marshes of stale
disapproval. But when her
charges unstuck, slid from me,
it wasn’t disappointment I felt
at my back on the walk home.
It wasn’t the sting of anger.
It was a trembling.
*Title is from an astrological
forecast for Britain, 1645 (during the English Civil War, and - most
importantly for this poem - the height of the Matthew Hopkins witch hunts).
Kate Garrett
a poppy
shaken off elsewhere in the world
has blossomed
by my door step –
I know, you aren’t here to stay
shaken off elsewhere in the world
has blossomed
by my door step –
I know, you aren’t here to stay
Lavana Kray
Premature
It was way before his time,
fifteen weeks, to be exact,
but who can tell anyone
when to start?
Impatient imp
tried to kick his way out,
so much strength
for someone so small.
Life is always a gift,
but before its time
it’s a worry.
Undeveloped
lungs too weak
to breathe
or cry.
Here too soon,
no one was prepared,
not even him.
Fists smaller
than a thumbnail,
frail taut arms
slender enough to slip
dad’s wedding band
to his shoulder.
All of a pound
and a half
and twelve
inches long,
but here he is,
ready or not.
Eric Chiles
Notting Hill Carnival 2017
That carnival day
hip hop calypso dub reggae
pounding through crowds
of colour crazy dances, laughter,
the carnal lilt of perfume
spicing the air all
chaotic noisy hedonism.
Into this giddy atmosphere
a different air
gate crashed the party,
requests to wear the colour green
quiet prayers, release of white doves
marked a different mood
a profound disconnect.
3pm that bank holiday Monday
the music stopped, procession paused
60 seconds silence for 80
dead
something
from the ashes something
ragged
and inspired.
Julie Mullen
Reading The New Yorker
Cartoons first, then the poems.
Then a piece about a man who
went through John Updike’s
trash
every week for years.
It was unwanted, he reasoned,
so he collected a bevy of paper
and cast off drafts, perhaps
thinking that someday it could be
significant.
Or at least worth something.
No one stopped him, if you trust his
side,
so he imagined he had a blessing
to sift through refuse for a
chance
at a letter or ledger, notes on a
photo.
I heard Updike wrote only
and always with publication in mind,
which might suggest he was inclined
to revise even his garbage,
knowing someone would come.
And who are we to scoff?
Our own waste makes
an archive of the ordinary, a
record
of our shabbiest moments.
Enough
to fill an article or a
cartoon,
even the elegant remnant
of some rumpled poem.
Mike
Bove
Leaving
Home
They sneak off with all they can carry. In the early mist
the sun's a bloodstain soaked in cold water,
sparkling the drops on the washing line -
one flick and they're gone, revealing
what loneliness hides - the beauty of the morning,
the hollow cheeks that make-up can't disguise.
Not all horizons shrink to windowsills,
nor do all meanings cling to words like nomads
around a fire, sharing deliberately vague prophecies.
They peel the sad scab of the moon
from the sky, not expecting all that blood.
Disagreements keep them warm, so do songs.
A bottle passed around cures so much bitterness,
awakens memories to flee from at dawn,
leaving promises far behind. They scuff the grey ashes
before going off in all directions. A desert's not as vast
as people think. They follow the same old paths
unless they're looking for a place to die.
Some meet up again over the years, around new fires.
Others return alone, unrecognisable, guiltily pacing up
and down the streets of their childhood,
wondering why only hardware stores and barbers
haven't changed, why the roundabout's a crossroad,
and why everyone they knew has gone.
They sneak off with all they can carry. In the early mist
the sun's a bloodstain soaked in cold water,
sparkling the drops on the washing line -
one flick and they're gone, revealing
what loneliness hides - the beauty of the morning,
the hollow cheeks that make-up can't disguise.
Not all horizons shrink to windowsills,
nor do all meanings cling to words like nomads
around a fire, sharing deliberately vague prophecies.
They peel the sad scab of the moon
from the sky, not expecting all that blood.
Disagreements keep them warm, so do songs.
A bottle passed around cures so much bitterness,
awakens memories to flee from at dawn,
leaving promises far behind. They scuff the grey ashes
before going off in all directions. A desert's not as vast
as people think. They follow the same old paths
unless they're looking for a place to die.
Some meet up again over the years, around new fires.
Others return alone, unrecognisable, guiltily pacing up
and down the streets of their childhood,
wondering why only hardware stores and barbers
haven't changed, why the roundabout's a crossroad,
and why everyone they knew has gone.
Tim
Love
Finch
No wonder she’s
unhappy She wants
back to the nest above the lattice
but I am there in the white painted corner
below the owl and a fringe of catkins
She has a song for I’ll be back and sings
to the eggs she knows are listening
I am explaining myself to the notebook
about patience and long separations
She waits only till the eggs can’t stand it
back to the nest above the lattice
but I am there in the white painted corner
below the owl and a fringe of catkins
She has a song for I’ll be back and sings
to the eggs she knows are listening
I am explaining myself to the notebook
about patience and long separations
She waits only till the eggs can’t stand it
Allan Peterson
Child with Black Mirror
“Only where there are graves are there
resurrections” F. Nietzsche
How could a river fail
to find its way back
to the sea? How could it
not
return to be reburied?
Reborn?
And you do likewise?
The river Meuse murmurs
muttering to no one near.
At least not those who
might hear
its swollen sadness, the
spirit
of its single-minded
patriarchal
contempt. Rising
it accepts
the uncounted
dead, wrapping their
silence
with thirstless thanks.
They ride past
careful of sunlight,
mired in landscape.
Conveniently deaf
to its siren call.
Day returns to probe
the dark corners
until it no longer yellows
and green slows, hardens
and clots
where the shells have
hollowed out
the dead earth. Black
Spring holds back
its sightless blossoms.
What trees remain
lean naked, old men without
canes.
As if the weight of your
stare
could topple them.
All or
none. They wait
and weigh the
possibilities.
The river waits to escape
its battlements, to wander
free
to die to find its way
again
to accept what may fall its
way
to exhume the lost nameless
ones.
Richard Weaver
A Wit
He made a living out of being clever,
Contradicting others when they spoke,
And he was always quick with some slick
joke
On this or that Quixote’s failed
endeavor.
Those like him will be with us forever,
Distracting Meisters in
their master strokes,
Giving earnest artists playful pokes.
Admitting grander heights than his,
though? Never.
But every sneaky joker someday dies.
And we may rue the brutal hours we
Were trapped in that trite devil’s
spell,
The days we suffered his sly taunts and
lies,
The ways we chafed with chill civility.
Hence we have known some of his endless
hell.
William Ruleman
A Reading
Silence.
No questions.
Questioners but no questions.
Silence.
The silence is awkward.
The non-questions are awkward.
The room is awkward.
The room tilts backward awkwardly.
The room spills its awkward load of non-questions
on the lectern.
The silence is a door.
The lectern is the knob on the door of silence.
He folds the silence in half.
Then in half again.
Then in half again.
Then he puts the door of silence into the inside
pocket of his jacket.
The room tilts to the angle gravity loves.
He slides across the stage.
He opens the door and falls into his pocket.
J.R. Solonche
Apology to the Reader
I admit it. I have not written a good poem,
and I apologize. There is no excuse.
It should have been good but it wasn’t.
I wrote it the first thing this morning, before
breakfast. That was a mistake. I have never
written a good poem on an empty stomach.
I shouldn’t have tried. Also, I had to use
an unfamiliar pen. My favorite fine felt-tipped
pen ran out of ink last week and I forgot
to buy a refill, so I had to use a cheap Bic.
The heft was wrong and it kept slipping
out of my hand. Another thing you should
know. I couldn’t find the yellow legal pad
I always write good poems on, so I wrote
it on whatever was at hand, one of my
daughter’s extra sixth grade composition
books. Even Robert Frost couldn’t have
written anything decent on that paper.
Anyway, I’m sorry that I have not written
a good poem. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll write
two tomorrow. After breakfast. I promise.
J.R. Solonche
Still New
She wraps herself in a red robe
Slips into the shower.
Her voice follows the music from the radio.
When the door opens, we meet halfway
The robe crumpled beneath our eager feet.
Slips into the shower.
Her voice follows the music from the radio.
When the door opens, we meet halfway
The robe crumpled beneath our eager feet.
Korey Wallace
Seasonal
That year we worked apples. The orchards,
in their valley, fuzzed with mists. Lullabied
by late bees, the trees also laboured
at laying down next year’s buds.
We spent all August picking.
We packed on trestle tables, wounded
by decades of autumns. They wobbled
for England. Sun speared through holes in our shed
and blinded us when the door opened.
We spent September squinting.
Brown boxes were for Dr Strogmuir’s Pink:
in rosy layers – tangy, scented, crisp –
and cardboard cartons held the Perfumed Pippin.
Across the dusty floor our boots scraped and kicked.
We spent October sneezing.
Into bags went Sweet Jade and Honey Russet,
Auntie’s Favourite, Moonbeam Early, Sun Bite.
In slack times we sloped trestles and apple-raced,
laying play bets. Crab Mellows were the fastest.
We spent November laughing.
You raised the final boxes; stacked the old van.
Your hair, bleached silver by the season,
glittered crystals of casual rain.
You waved. I waited. You didn’t return.
I spent December weeping.
E A M Harris
Lisa walking her dog
Lisa, they say;
and that dog of hers is a darling
with those philosophical eyes
and wry countenance -
like Stalin contemplating
a purge.
Robert Dunsdon
Returning To Your First Love
It’s really simple, returning to your first love:
once you find the door (not that many),
open it (it’s always unlocked), and walk in.
Sure, it will be scary; traveling back in time
often is—but once you inhale the fragrance
of her dad’s cherry-flavored pipe tobacco;
once you see the sepia-toned photographs
of her murdered grandparents atop the piano;
once you see her at the piano, sixty years
will vanish with your breath; and once
you hear Leucona’s Malagueña pouring from
her fingers you will be engulfed once again
with love—not just for her, but for music,
for pipe tobacco, for the world,
despite its unspeakable horrors,
despite the cruelty of not being allowed to remain.
Fred White
On looking at Christopher
Williams’ ‘Study for Ceridwen’ 1909
crooked woman
dark heart ripples
source of poesie
mountain tarn rock
her eviscerate dress
melds with tangled flesh
her cauldron seethes
she gathers simples
wisdom churns
three sparrows take turns / lifting sea-gull’s / fallen feather / in
their beaks
its heft / perturbs their balance
young fox on roadside
paw transfixed mid-stride
tractor flails russet wheat
as weak as whispers / in a genocide / the feather / triple their length
iron in a glowing fire
white grain of pure wheat
captivated twice born
loud boom from kitchen
fledgling blackbird hits window
his corpse a feast for magpies
a spillage
a coracle
a leathern bag
adolescent robin
navigates precarious stems
finds ripe grass seeds
pastoral poet
avoids ‘massacre’
prefers to rhyme on ‘hare’
three drops
give wisdom
excess gives death
two shrews
skitter from barberry shelter
to ash-tree haven
fox scat
fresh
on the turf
Helen May
Williams
Largesse
An owl
heavy with moon
swoops
dusting the earth
with feather tips
She rises glowing
carrying
the breadth of the world
between her wings
Hélène
Demetriades
In the beginning, they bought me
things
with pedals. Things to move me from
my spot.
When all I wanted was a world in
miniature
that was mine, that I could hold at
once
in two small hands. You see, a book
could
take me further than a bike; could
take me
miles in seconds without fear of
reprimand.
Henceforth, they bought me things
with pages.
Things to move me all at once to
empathetic
tears; to envy and to love; to anger
and to fear.
And in this world of miniature I
travelled
through the pages; held my breath on
top
of man-made mountains built with
words.
Perished in the loneliness of every
final page.
Then, breathed myself alive with each
new spine
cracked open like a new born dragon
sent to
set the world in miniature within my
hands afire.
Amy
Louise Wyatt
The Box of Tools
Today I found a box of the tools
from your love making; cards of pins
and other things, tight woven spools-
a treasure chest of hidden sins.
Pandora, you wore a veil to hide your
face,
used sharp edged scissors to cut
heart strings;
wrapped love letters to Harold
longingly in lace
and wore a thimble that was your
wedding ring.
A china cup where once black tea
leaves
danced like Eastern symbols you never
dared to read;
where others’ hearts were sown onto
sleeves
you’d sown yours shut so it wouldn’t
bleed;
and as the sun made love to the moon
you lay as a spinster in your
sleeping room.
Amy
Louise Wyatt
Walkin’
Up the hill, past the disused church
circular green windows, and ivy,
then the flood-lit car-park
behind the railway station.
Walking with imaginary legs.
A city: its spires, bibliothèques, avenues …
They’re comments, models in my mind.
I’ll take you there, take you back
before it’s dark, before it’s too late
for someone to follow me.
Come along. Let’s go, before the rain:
we could stop at a small hotel,
on the outskirts, across the boulevard,
where, one by one, the lamps are lit.
William Park
List of things you left behind:
1 pair of pants
1 photograph album
1 pillow
Notes on Samuel
Beckett
15 hair clips
(left in the bathroom)
A ukulele
1 individual
sock
A CD
Notes on George
Orwell
1 blouse
A sickening
feeling
1 blanket
DVD
of ‘Love Actually’
A chequered
internet history
1 packet of
tissues
5 condoms
10 glasses wipes
Lines
of poor verse I wrote for you
An attachment
to the tube station where you live
1 deck of
playing cards (8 of hearts bent in the corner)
Half
drunk glass of water
Train tickets
Rosaries from
your “Buddhist” phase
Letters
The way your
friends look at me
The way your
parents look at me
The way I look at myself in
the mirror. Naked. I touch my reflection and he reaches back out to me. But
what can he do?
A can of
hairspray (lid missing)
Samuel Smithson
august flood -
a sprawling meadow
reflects the stars
Goran
Gatalica
El Paso
Border towns weave cultures together-
braiding the American locks into something
beautiful.
Straddling loosens language. Syllables run
off the tongue, they dance with intermingling
vowels and kiss the cheeks of bilingual children.
Words are fluid- they gush down the throat floating in
the belly, tracing the silhouettes of mirth.
Mosaic homes scatter like ripped tissue paper, the dirt
feels velvety under heavy blues overhead. They call it monsoon
season- when really it’s the summer letting down its guard, summer
shedding a tear.
This is the turquoise beads and the vibrant paint. The liveliness
of color that slices into glances across.
Church missions. Rich vistas. Mañana vibrations. Beautiful zeal.
Borders are broadened by context. Less of a fence, more of a funnel.
A blending of brilliant existence.
Beverly Broca
Contributors
Mike Bove was born and raised in Portland, Maine.
He lives there still with his family, and he teaches in the English Department
at Southern Maine Community College. His poems have appeared recently
in Rattle and The Cafe Review. His first
book, Big Little City, is forthcoming in the fall of 2018 from Moon
Pie Press.
Beverly Broca lives in El Paso, Texas and is 17 years old. She is the creative writing editor of Perception Magazine and her work has been published in Body Without Organs Literary Journal and Moon Magazine. When not writing, she can be found playing the violin or petting her dogs.
Eric Chiles is an adjunct professor of Journalism and English at
a number of colleges and universities in eastern Pennsylvania and was a
prize-winning print journalist for more than 30
years. His poetry appears in Allegro, American Journal of
Poetry, Chiron Review, Gravel, Plainsongs, Poetry Porch, Rattle, Snakeskin, Tar
River Poetry, Third Wednesday, Word Fountain, The West Texas Literary Review and
other journals.
Marian Christie was born in Zimbabwe but now lives in
northeast Scotland, where she has a large and unruly garden that attracts
a variety of wildlife. Her delight in patterns of all forms finds its
expression in mathematics, astronomy and crochet as well as in reading and
writing poetry.
Natalie
Crick (UK) has poetry published in Bare Fiction,
Crannog, The Moth, Interpreters House, Allegro, Poetry Salzburg Review and
elsewhere. She is studying for an MA in Writing Poetry at Newcastle University,
currently taught by Tara Bergin and Jacob Polley. Her poetry has been
nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice.
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 recently started to write poetry. She has
had poems published in Reach Poetry,
Sarasvati and Dawntreader
magazines, (Indigo Dreams Publishing), online in Clear Poetry, Ink, Sweat and
Tears and Eunoia Review.
She is soon to be published in Anima magazine.
She lives in South Devon with her family.
Robert Dunsdon, who lives in Abingdon, was first published in Ambit,
since when his work has appeared in numerous literary magazines and
anthologies.
Kate Garrett's recent pamphlets include You've never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017), and she is widely published in online and print journals. She was born in Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she lives in Sheffield with her husband, five children, and the cat.
Goran Gatalica was born in Virovitica, Croatia, in
1982. He was awarded 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.
E A M Harris has been writing both prose and poetry
for several years. Her work has appeared in magazines and anthologies, online
and in print.
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. She was chosen for Haiku Euro
Top 100, 2017. Currently she is the editor for Cattails collected
works of the United haiku and Tanka Society. This is her blog: http://photohaikuforyou.blogspot.ro
Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet Moving Parts (HappenStance) and a story
collection By all means (Nine Arches
Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His poetry and prose have appeared in Stand, Rialto, Magma, Short Fiction, New
Walk, etc. He blogs at http://litrefs.blogspot.com/
Julie
Mullen lives in
Hertfordshire, England, she is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing
with the Open University. She spent her working life in a library and now
enjoys volunteering, singing and yoga. She writes mainly for pleasure on any
subject but would love to get something published.
William
Park was born in West London; he began publishing
poetry in the late 1970s, receiving a Gregory award in 1990. Surfacing published
by Spike was reviewed in Ambit, Critical Survey, London Magazine, The
North. Park has a Master’s and PGCE; he is Creative Writing Editor
for Asylum.
Allan Peterson’s recent books are: Other Than
They Seem, winner of the Snowbound Chapbook Prize from Tupelo Press; Precarious,
42 Miles Press, a finalist for The Lascaux Prize; Fragile Acts,
McSweeney's Poetry Series, a finalist for both the National Book Critics Circle
and Oregon Book Awards. His New & Selected Poems, “This Luminous,” is
forthcoming in late 2018 from Panhandler Books.
Charles Rammelkamp is Prose Editor for BrickHouse Books in
Baltimore, where he lives and Reviews Editor for Adirondack Review. His
most recent books include American Zeitgeist (Apprentice House) and
a chapbook, Jack Tar’s Lady Parts ( Main Street Rag Press).
William Ruleman lives in east Tennessee, where he writes,
paints, and translates poetry and sometimes prose. His most recent books
include Munich Poems (Cedar Springs Books), From Rage
to Hope (White Violet Books), and his English version of Stefan Zweig’s
unfinished novel Clarissa (Ariadne Press), all published in
2016.
Samuel Smithson is a poet and a playwright. He graduated from the Brunel University in
2018 with a degree in Theatre and Creative Writing. He currently studies at the
Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. His play ‘We’re All Dead,’ was
performed at the Brunel University in January 2018.
J.R. Solonche is author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook
Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s
Content (chapbook from Five Oaks Press), Invisible (nominated
for the Pulitzer Prize by Five Oaks Press), The Black Birch (Kelsay
Books), I, Emily Dickinson & Other Found Poems (Deerbrook
Editions), In Short Order(Kelsay Books), 110 Poems (forthcoming
from Deerbrook Editions), and coauthor of Peach Girl: Poems for a
Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books). He lives in the Hudson Valley.
Korey Wallace lives and works in the blue-collar
town of Sioux City, Iowa. He believes poetry is the single thing that has kept
him functionally sane.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore where he volunteers at the
Maryland Book Bank, and acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit College. He
is the author of The Stars Undone
(Duende Press).
Fred White's poems have appeared in Rattle, South
Carolina Review, Euphony, The Cape Rock, Analog Science Fiction, Event Horizon,
etc., and is forthcoming in Spry. He lives near Sacramento, CA.
Helen May Williams formerly taught at the Warwick
University and has written extensively on twentieth-century poetry. She runs
the Poetry Society’s Carmarthen-based Stanza. Her chapbook, The Princess of Vix, is published by Three
Drops Press. Her book of mainly haiku, Catstrawe, will be published
by Cinnamon Press in Spring 2019.
Amy Louise Wyatt is a lecturer, poet and artist from
Bangor, County Down. She is the editor of The Bangor Literary
Journal. She has work published in a range of established journals and
magazines including The Blue Nib, FourxFour, Lagan Online and CAP
Poetry Anthology. Amy has read at festivals throughout Ireland. She was a
finalist in The National Funeral Services Poetry Competition 2016; The Aspects
Poetry Slam 2017 and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Award for New
Writing 2018. Amy is currently working on her first collection of poems.
