Category: poetry

Cut Down & Shift

Cut Down & Shift


by Erin Jamieson

Cut Down

I carve your name
under the shelter
of trees
we used
to climb

your grip always
stronger than mine
until the day you
could not stop
staring at sunlight

so brilliant I feel it still
under misty breath
of winter

will anyone else
climb these trees
see your name

or will you be
cut down
for new homes
and new lives


I plant
pumpkin seeds

not far from
where we once

tracing wishes
in the outlines
of shifting clouds

I look over
at the chair
you refused
to get rid of

splintered wood
peeling paint

about to ask
how we know
anything will come

of what
we planted

pumpkin seed packet
About the Author

Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024.. Her debut novel – Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams – came out November 2023.


Three Poems

Three Poems


by Rachael Clyne

Dragonfly Gives a Masterclass on Positive Thinking

Dragonfly says 
i was fat larvae pondlife
greedy turdbelly bug-eye. 
But you never know 
what life is in store
onetime dreamlift me 
out of wet into
skyfly beam 
I wingshh  ape  flut t
       t ter…
Dragonfly says
every fat 
pondlife bitch
has a dragon 
in her just 

using /// what3words

On the sofa, I dream.sensible.swans.
In the kitchen,
My side of the bed is a  
Brian’s side is a lunging,humid.swordfish.

On the loo, I redouble.cracking.depravity.
Next door purifies.their songbirds.park.
Glastonbury folk have past-life flashbacks.
profess.knowledge. The Westminster crew
fence.garage are.unable. while the nation.
vibrates. feeling.

dragonfly on pink
About the Author

Rachael Clyne retired psychotherapist from Glastonbury, is widely published in journals, incl: Poetry Wales, Lighthouse and Ink Sweat & Tears. her pamphlet, ‘Girl Golem’ (4Word Press) explores her Jewish, migrant background. Her new collection, ‘You’ll Never Anyone Else’, expands on themes of identity including LGBTQ and relationships. Visit Rachael’s websiteRead more about Rachael’s poetry at Seren Books.


Two Poems

Two Poems


by Jack Bedell


I brought my daughter to the coast
to set our feet as close to water
as we could without losing
shoes to soft shore. I had her
smell the air, listen for tide’s lap.
I told her these things haven’t changed
since I was a child, only our distance
from the shrimp boats
trawling the horizon has.

Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes;
they went directly to my hands

—Francesca Woodman, 1976

Palms flat against the old house’s wall,
it does not matter what you are, hidden
under tears of curled wallpaper—all hair

and skin and bone and fears of
a life you might not have time to live.
This house, its cracked plaster and bare

plank floor, has its own story to tell through
you, through what only your eyes
notice, the light your lens traps.

Light, dark, straight lines, open angles,
curves we all know are there, just
out of view: these build the chord

you strike. Resolved or not, it all
means, more than you might intend,
even more than the house’s ghosts deserve.

wall & shrimp boat
About the Author

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Moist, Autofocus, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, and other journals. He’s also had pieces included in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.


Physiology, Secret, Contents

Physiology, Secret, Contents


by Julia Biggs


Inkfish Magazine poetry submission_Julia Biggs - Julia Biggs.doc


Inkfish Magazine poetry submission_Julia Biggs - Julia Biggs.doc
About the Author

Julia Biggs (she/her) is a poet, writer and freelance art historian. She lives in Cambridge, UK. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ink Sweat & Tears, Black Bough Poetry, Annie Journal, Sídhe Press, Streetcake Magazine and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter/X @Chiaroscuro1897 or via her website:


On Blackout Poetry and Eclipses

On 8 April 2024, my city will experience a total eclipse for a couple exhilarating minutes. In times past, such days were venerated, gods worshipped, and animals and people sacrificed. I get the day off work, and the local professional baseball team – playing their opening game of the 2024 campaign – plays an hour later due to this astronomical rarity. The fear by the team brass isn’t angry baseball gods but snarled traffic being caused by rubberneckers. In a time of pitch clocks, even an occasional ballgame can be delayed.

miss the mark & Body Rota

miss the mark & Body Rota


by Meredith MacLeod Davidson

miss the mark

I hadn’t known he was into chaos magick but the operatic hex performance paid his dues another night asleep at a monastery we elected not to fuck on the roof I was scared of opening so many portals in Barcelona we fought over wine labels I rolled a cigarette and in my mind begged you to buy me croquettes sometimes we just powerwalk on opposite sides of the street until we can forgive each other again it’s like tattooing it doesn’t always have to mean something but you do need to remember it’s a ritual you’re sustaining an aperture to the body that used to be our best joke you know that the entire body is made of sphincters if you think about it allowing someone to fill it with ink and ink always becomes symbols in May I stared at a basement ceiling my skin bared to that stranger’s nose she was visiting from Porto didn’t know where any of the sanitation paraphernalia was she drew in me something red question do you usually bleed this much all over the country these ruins still offer sanctuary the devout always know the best places to build I’m remembering the label you told me it was supposed to taste like corn that’s why there was a cob on the bottle I’ve got this little bird on my shoulder it all healed just fine.

Body Rota

I am seeking the sleeper cells carried

in our very bodies, revelation

of matrilineal inheritance

a perception  /  not  /  separated from

the integration of being           :            it is

alleviate being           :            to clarify

to amputate conclusion           :            intervene

intervention can           :            pose security

a question: Can a poem escape           :            being? 

after all, a reduction can suggest 

intimacy           :            Does the revision do 

the same? the polemic is not always

: synonymous with distance : should or does

(imagine)                       (imagine)             (being) (being)

About the Author

Meredith MacLeod Davidson is a poet and writer from Virginia, currently based in Scotland, where she recently earned an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. Meredith has poems in Propel Magazine, Cream City Review, Frozen Sea, and elsewhere, and serves as senior editor for Arboreal Literary Magazine.



Husbands, Picture Gallery & Early

Husbands, Picture Gallery & Early


by Stephen Keeler


We stood together side by side my friend
and I in his bright kitchen two old men
sun-bleached and stubbled liver-spotted and
a little more considered now that he
had lost his wife as well as though we’d both
been careless in an unfamiliar place
he chopping the tomatoes I had brought
and me the basil they had planted in
the spring and it was unremarkable
in its uniqueness in our linen shirts
the flashing knives cool blues stone floor the heat
outside I thought of how our fathers might
have looked on this on two old men their sons
preparing lunch at ease and how they might
have taken such unasked for setting loose.

Picture Gallery

A Sunday volunteer at
the modish one-room gallery

the woman with the novel on her knee
looked up and saw them

fading through the whitewashed walls
the paintings like a choir singing as they leave

the church and the returning light
and richly-painted darkness

brought in the ice-skates that had hung there
from this roof-beam that old Andersson

had chiselled and stiff brushes and limp
inner tubes and blocks of soap the

candles bundled into eights and
tied with string the pins the yarn

the things the women had to ask for
whispering while she

stood listening on the wooden steps
a girl of seven or eight in dungarees

and flannel shirt
beside the painted table where

the tourist leaflets are
the information packs and price-lists

for the clever paintings
no one came to see today.


This bed
these crisp and tumbled sheets
fat-bellied pillows
a pleasure garden
once upon a time
in a far-off distant land
where perfumed lovers
orchestrated limbs and wine and whispers
in the half-light unaware
the sunrise
and the hardening of the day
wine turning into water overnight
the cockerel and the old tin clock.


Fruit bowl illustration
About the Author

STEPHEN KEELER is an award-winning memoirist and poet. His memoir 50 Words for Love in Swedish (Archetype Books, 2021) won the People’s Book Prize (2022/23) and his poetry appears regularly in prestigious poetry magazines, journals and anthologies. His small collection They Spoke No English is published by Nine Pens Press and extracts from his collection A Diligent Pantomime will be published online by Black Bough Press (forthcoming). In addition to residencies in the UK and France, Stephen Keeler was awarded the 2023 Writer-in-Residence scholarship in Skara, southern Sweden. Manuscripts currently under consideration include Superlative Objects, a second memoir, and Small Unnecessary Things, a collection of poems written during a recent writing residency.





by John Panza

When the nurse
removed the drain
from my thorax,
the half-inch-thick
rubber tube
slid out the way
a dagger would
sink in, quietly,
starved of drama
or even pain.
But the second one
the surgeon himself
removed after a
month or two,
after the chemo,
and the sleepless
nights and opioid-
induced nightmares
as I slept sitting up
on a chair, the living-
room a cozy ER
managed by my wife,
pale with fear,
thin with energy,
lost but for this job,
expecting me not to
wake one morning.
That drain unraveled
in me inch-by-inch
like a garter snake,
slowly uncoiling
like the DNA
that failed me and
brought this plague
upon me and my
nurses, doctors, wife,
and child. Then the tube
was out, its length thin
and gleaming. The
surgeon patted me
on the shoulder,
told me it’s ok.

About the Author

John Panza lives in Cleveland, Ohio, USA, on the shore of Lake Erie. He is a professor, musician, music producer, and president of a music foundation. He also sleeps sometimes. Find him on IG @jp1lung.


Necessary Exercises

Necessary Exercises


by Ewen Glass

Here’s something.
Go back
to your worst day
and bathe in it.

The water
lifting all boats.
Call it just swell.

Sit in it.
The boat
or the water?
Possibly both.

Or neither.
The thought,
the memory,
boat and water

all. I try
not to
be overwhelmed
by metaphors,

or bath toys.
red, splintered decks.
But here they come.

And I’m left
among words and
water and wood,

on advice.
Believe that?!
Feeling something
of what I felt

back then, back
when I
was just a kid
who hadn’t drowned.

whale & boat
About the Author

Originally from Northern Ireland, Ewen is an emerging voice in poetry, in both English and Ulster-Scots registers.


At Night

At Night


by T. E. Niemi

At night as
I reach for the shade,
my ghostly reflection
glares at me
from the window.

With skin drawn taut
over protruding cheekbones
and sunken eyes
framed in black,
it frightens me.

I pull down the shade.

at night illustration 2
About the Author

A resident of New Hampshire, T. E. Niemi writes poems, screenplays and stories.