Latest additions to the poetry stock of The Fortnightly Review.
from “Birds of the Sherborne Missal”: three haibun by Elizabeth Bletsoe, from whom new work is not often seen, but much sought.
A PURSE OF LAND, coarsely woven. This
certain waste of ffurzies & other fewell; a chafed place &
barren, lying in the broad comon. Scar tissue knotting together, seared,
scalloped, scythed, serrated...
+ Seven new poems by Peter Robinson, who seems do get better and better
Protected, now, from speculation,
he’s suffering a second death
in this silence, the unsaid,
and, no, I couldn’t hear a thing
noticing those black-edged posters
pasted up around church doors
above another radio
tuned to an Italian station...
+ Three poems by David Cooke, who is the founder and director of High Windows Press.
They were matter-of-fact and mercantile,
their deities stockpiled in lumber rooms,
containers, or the air-conditioned acres
of a state-of-the-art clockwork hangar.
Too good to clear away, they laid them up,
just in case, alongside incense and charms,
the stacks of cheap libationary bowls...
+ Three poems by Sam James, unknown to me, of Yorkshire, who sent them in.
Thoughtful short-term rhyming
What should I lament,
losses of forests, hope,
or even direction? No,
only time poorly spent.
How has it been used,
to lay out the preface
of a concept’s surface?
Time has been abused...
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