POETRY

A Guide to Kissing and Holding Knives by Anna Jones

Let your hands do what they must.It is much the same — that carrot-sweetnessand wet touch. Hold a little sloppily, there you go.Best done at night, when you’re hungryand therefore most un-careful.Best done in kitchens. There is a swift, melting qualitywhich looks more practised than it is.It is very easy to learn. Anna Jones is a third-year English Lit student and poetry enthusiast. A regular … Continue reading A Guide to Kissing and Holding Knives by Anna Jones

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POETRY

A Sonnet on Halcyon Days by Freya Rose Jenkins

Each time we dragged ourselves over the dusty hill to the murky water’s edgeYou would point out how all the big fish swarmed around my milky feetLike they were two tasty snacks. A child leading a child, you refused to budge,But it was not my place to repeat, you’ll get too cold if you stay in any longer.You lost one of your baby teeth in … Continue reading A Sonnet on Halcyon Days by Freya Rose Jenkins

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POETRY

The Malbec Poem by Anna Jones

Malbec the colour of happinessSlopped Dropped in a flush In a glassIn a rushed hush In a toast Warms the throatDoesn’t look too shabby No it MakesMe into me myself and me (I) is aCabbage butterfly ROCKING the drinks orderSwaggering through a vintage red See itDoesn’t have to be expensive actually butIt’s the history swishing round myTonsils and my sexy Elf lip stain whichI wouldn’t … Continue reading The Malbec Poem by Anna Jones

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POETRY

Abecedarian for my father’s unwillingness to cry by Caitlin Tina Jones

This cento can be attributed in its entirety to Jane Clarke’s When the Tree Falls A Sunday evening in January.Back when his palms, coaxed with tenderness, were asdark as a night without stars.Every family has stories, left like ploughsfifty-odd miles from home.God and religionhad scorched a new place to hide. It happened quickly in the end:just my father and me, watchingkits playing in the scutch … Continue reading Abecedarian for my father’s unwillingness to cry by Caitlin Tina Jones

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PROSE

Sonny by Rafe Taylor

Trees coated the mountains like dark brush strokes, stab wounds, each ragged line shorter as they rose, the tree line falling back until only virgin snow lay upon the rocks, leaving saplings under the snow. Strips of bare stone cut through white like torn fabric in the cloak of the hills. The branches, cropped tight to the trunks, gathered mounds of powder. On one mountain, … Continue reading Sonny by Rafe Taylor

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