Live traffic cameras essex
Live traffic cameras essex
Daniel Bennett was born in Shropshire and lives in London.His poems have been widely published, including in .
Born in County Derry, Northern Ireland in 1976, Jo Burns studied Biomedical Science. Her poems are published by or forthcoming in: Forage, Four x Four, Headstuff, Ink Sweat and Tears, Orbis, Picaroon, Poethead, Poetry Breakfast, Poetry Pacific, Prole, The Incubator, The Honest Ulsterman, The Interpreter’s House, The Irish Literary Times, The Literateur Back to top ***** Luigi Coppola: Two Poems ON THE BUSES WITH PHILIP LARKIN The 11 stops at the library first, ends opposite The Red Lion.
A girl removes a T-shirt illustrated with a silver skull. The scene has a perfect objectivity tranquil and without pain.
Now, as my daughter plays with her pizza’s green meat she laughs at the name you share and we are both the weight on the scales of your story, raised and balanced by a spark.
Luigi Coppola is a teacher in London and a graduate of English & Creative Writing from Warwick University. I swerve between slicks of them, jumping sacks of green saturation, golden-eyed with apocalypse as if pursued by an Aesopian Stork God stilting about the woods or a French chef sheathed in the bog & whetstone of night.
He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and his poems have appeared in: Acumen, Anon, The Ekphrastic Review, Equinox, Fourteen, The Frogmore Papers, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Iota, Lighten Up, Magma, The Ofi Press, One Sentence Poems, Orbis, Other Poetry, Pennine Platform, Poetry Digest, The Rialto, THE SHOp, Snakeskin, South, Strange Poetry and Stride Magazine. Hours on the back lot, me & a single lopper buying time born to be spent, slashing the longing, smelling the life infectious. Wet streets and the wan smell of drowning earthworms. My tires speak the quality of mercy, slurring soliloquys beneath wet brakes as these dark croaks of life, yellow & green, live & die with only the briefest of benedictions, only the reddest of blessings in tail-lit exhaust.
Back to top ***** Ken Craft: Two Poems PRUNING Hours on the back lot, me & a single lopper against Asiatic bittersweet. I can hear it still in the thin hours of night: the hungry refrain, the rising root of earth’s warming choir. The deluge-drummed hood on the drive to work before dawn. Ken Craft is a teacher and a writer living west of Boston. I watch their sucked-out leaves Rotting with moss and mildew. The gleaming grave Stands like a door Without handle or hinge, It’s only pathway through the soil. Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Its nihilist vines wrap the split rail fence, ambush birch & ash, blanket boulders. I think in terms of strategic advantage: before its bitter hymns sweet, before the sun jazzes its sap, while it’s not looking. Long slender fingers learning a lopper’s fault lines, finding the hubris inherent in human marrow, orbiting ankles’ smooth vulnerabilities. Ahead, halogen slivers of silver pin effervescent puddles in sibilant streets. Smell of amphibian air creeping the car’s phosphorescent cave as headlights pith the darkness. His poems have appeared in The Writer’s Almanac, Verse Daily, Plainsong, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Off the Coast, Spillway, Slant, Angle Journal of Poetry, The High Window, and numerous other journals and e-zines. Back to top ***** Natalie Crick: Poem GRAVEYARD IN NOVEMBER It is early November. Back to top ***** Emily-Davis-Fletcher: Poem WASHHOUSE He cuts power and chokes the phone before driving off in one long scab of a truck ripping up gravel at the sunset and Mom her brother dead since March her belly hardening round a boy her naming people who died of a broken heart I miss cartoons watch shadows bruise the wall till she is silent long enough for me to come down search closets and dark slices behind doors I find her walking barefoot in the horseshoe drive her skirt turned up into a red bowl sagging below her knees I step out in socks the screen door smacks makes her jump spill a collection of rocks I hold back for her cuss or plea to run for help but she bends to fill her skirt again with dead seeds as branches let go easily of birds and leaves she stands to face his washhouse with its rusted roof and splintered door cocked towards his pigs slack barn the sun’s hysteric escape through trees a window shrieks then holds its breath in shock she unlocks her fist again knocking out teeth as I come closer to silences and screams that shatter jars of screws chewed down with Indian head pennies blow open cracked smiles of porcelain dolls spill rusted coffee cans of crusted fish hooks burst balls of burned-out Christmas lights tear spiders from nets stir wasps from mud hives like pupils fleeing swollen eyes to take in more light than the scraps thrown over his shoulder once a month when he sits in the doorway crushing a mountain of beer cans one husk at a time Emily Davis-Fletcher earned a BFA in creative writing from Stephens College and an MA in women’s studies from the National University of Ireland Galway. She placed third in the 2016 Just Add Words Video Description Contest.His fingers were stiff but still adept (and to old Midas, loyal deputies).He ached for his ochred vault of unused Krugerrands, to pick each from eyes of mummified years, to spend each lifeless coin buried in Natal bank, to resurrect them like Lazarus.SHINRIN YOKU, THE ART OF FOREST BATHING ‘Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms… Come now’ i.m The forest floor my penumbra, I lie in remembrance of what trees know of bloom and clairvoyance, How green summer understands that to make way for the wind is life, as Come now, is turned on its head. Rustled echoes pull me back to you, the dunes, August’s glint on car bonnets carpetting the strand.From the Barmouth, barbecue smoke pouts overhead, flirting with the convent rocks, looking down on salt kisses and the shed of abandon.The leaves above could be Zen or just middle age–– acceptance, proof, that light can’t last long, that discovery is fleeting and only happens once.