Issue Two

For Stella

It's that. The wilfulness of weather turning us paper, the scatter of wrappers up (or down) a long beach where a dog has no more direction than that of a stick hurled into the wind, That, set against architecture, which is desire, which is man made in the image of his need to leave something for the future, which is the past.

It's that. And the way buildings shape our chances to fall in love, the set of shade of light, the oppourtunity of seeing for one moment how it is at that moment, which is always how it might be, and always a moment.

And the beauty of that. How desire shapes the world out of crumpled paper and tides and will, which is just more tides and crumpled paper. And desire a building in a town near you, which is never so far from the sea it changes the story. And the beauty of that.

And this is to say how the bunched dog figures for me, how light falling just so (on what stranger) figures for me. HOw in my head desire is will is love for the tossed stick in a gale, on a long beach where architecture is merely memory.

- Sandra Tappenden

Old Ma. my leveret envelope has sealed the savage alp and where the lands lap tint stars blush everywhere in heaps on scalps on pavements where repentant men are booming announcements Their primitive responses resound through plastic like surreal squeals.

Women abandon in unison, vehicles scratched by exhilarating rumours in a beautiful indelible appeal they curse the tumour's scorn and wash corn clear of lived in livid bullet shells. The bell flowers a vibration of thorns.

Trust is rusting under the acidic stain of truth... a player is trying to tell.

Been your guess...Amphora...lagging, spray fizzing at the final tide's rise. Today's toes are sweet, poses and peat and pearl pitched ears repeat small doses over pay. She will whistle and pray the satin suicide disperses. It's over dresses.

Together swift and fin, through the elm line to drift and dip the sea as dolphins dive. Alive, the little dancer spies, impresses, swimming to the brim in brine. Many morsels make his pretty seaward jumps, he glides and idles inside her swamp spine wombwriggling estuary. Auld Erm stretches out of the sea and drools more.

Shark rocks on the socks running over, one ragged and already hardy all in one brown berry body at boy skin: tall he walks like a puppet talks deliberately on tarmac. Salt and pepper pebbles asunder, now softly try new tin tread. Bright a carpet of bright seaweed.

Television burns cooled curled clearly blown.

Baby the rhythm of the tides that pull the silk sunrise in ribbons and prise you from under your black shoe sunshine. Push glide or float, heal it implies simple like a grebe he bobs and wonders...seven.

If you wait you do see babboons sitting on gates. When the paradise dolphins come out to play lightly Amphora. then I am younger than you.

- Louise Minton

The mops and wigs of weary seaweed Act as a reminder of drudgery and disguise The pebbles all know this and chatter around salt pools of swallowed grief The desire waves over to take my babies again into the long Brittany grass and to feed their plush mouths with sweet comforts (gentle with the forks) Let them hold my wrists and sob to watch the birds fall from the sky I will tell them there will be new feathers oiler than the ones that sank before and these will swim and fly

Such a collection of small shells each one more curious. more yellow, more spiral As it goes into the bag and waits to be abandoned in a garden far from its chosen place

We'll wait for the avenging skies to play a spiteful tocatta There is sorrow But that won't do People and buildings grow out of the empty spaces and we'll fill our thoughts with words and towers Tolerance philosophically blankets the notion of winners and losers Until there is only time, in time to make dark, sweet treacle of us all.

- Helen Foster

All poems copyright of individual writers