Poetry at Sangam

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Sketch by Stephen Collis

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I could say that this is a moment slip through trap door or wander back out of internet signal to tent along hills filled with migrants or maybe squat with Diggers upon St. George’s Hill now a private golf & … Continue reading

The Plague We’ve Now Forgotten by Stephen Collis

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What is it we are trying to be close to one another in the traffic along the river— in ear shot is it? In attendance tending—tender— midst the meanness of the bordered wind that bites like time like news flash … Continue reading

Walls Fall by Les Wicks

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Everyone is losing this year’s war. Turkey cannot cope. Istanbul has ancient fortifications that now adjoin parklands as leaders mortar up new arguments. Culpable gods let good men talk of charity. The displaced ones are sleeping rough, secreted within those … Continue reading

Nomenklatura Suras by Les Wicks

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The oldest river, cradle of civilisation is now a drain. Eyes are everywhere. Beside this rumour of water raw ideas are tortured away from problematic citizens. Some fools remain inquisitive despite all their schooling. Naked in the desert, naked in … Continue reading

Remembered Them by Les Wicks

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Apart from just that once Harry never discusses Vietnam but I know. My current crop of money is eaten, but he’s got it much worse. Harry hauls home his slab like a fallen doe this big white hunter but now … Continue reading

A Problem in Ukraine by Les Wicks

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Emails from my friends: the streets are greased with blood, one poet arrested. 5 demonstrators dead. It’s on. I was there once, funky nightclubs, themes & memes clutter a university town 3 in the morning promises of friendship in stickled … Continue reading

Afterwards by Les Wicks

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We race through towns where the bomb craters are now tourist photo opportunities. Kosovo plans its future. The trees hang around the hills acting nonchalant & innocent. There may still be mines. Three peaks back the shocking blue of the … Continue reading

Boy Soldier by Les Wicks

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He talks about childhood & prays for old age. There is no middle.   Ishmael Beah shot their feet. After a day of screams shot their heads for the birdless quiet of evening. Soldiers in the grasslands reciting Shakespeare while … Continue reading

Sky Trail by Les Wicks

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This one is or is called a witch perhaps. So she disappears, her only trick.   Why travel? No home, (an inflexible, judged word – foolhardy for any to claim) but she was there a tough demountable equivalent. Some can’t … Continue reading

Heart Runoff by Ladan Osman

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I want a dress in today’s theme color: beets and the rice they stain. Cinnamon sticks steeped in hibiscus tea, the cover of a book in which a woman is left on every page, sometimes on every line. The morning, … Continue reading

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