Synne Johnsson

Up The Ladder

How far can I climb
before I bump my head
on the glass?

How many of us
have to hit
it before it breaks?

Before the floor is covered
in splintered glass
instead of splintered dreams?

We climb
up the ladder
while they take the lift.

Blisters on our hands,
sweaty backs
and armpits.

Blood stains
from the ones who climbed
before us.

Looking up at a clear sky,
birds flying
carefully.

Reaching for the sun
knowing we won’t ever
reach it.

We keep climbing.
Maybe this time
We can …

Synne Johnsson is a Norwegian writer and journalist living in London. She has previously been published in The Stinging Fly and Blue Pencils. She has a fascination for gothic literature such as Jane Eyre and Rebecca, but also admires writers like Frank O’Hara, Elena Ferrante and Françoise Sagan.

Bibhu Padhi

A Picture of Late Winter

Clouds move towards
the west in a flight
towards rest and sleep.

Somewhere, a prayer
issues from a deserted voice.

All of those who have
forgotten their sleep

in course of centuries,
over vast continents
of dreams, are awake

to listen to the night sounds,
feel an old wound perspiring
in spite of blessings and winter.

Birds re-locate their homes
even as we spell their names.

Bibhu Padhi is an Indian poet and writer. He writes in English and Oriya languages. He is also a literary critic and translator. He has written several books. Padhi joined Ravenshaw College’s (now Ravneshaw University and where he was educated) Department of English in 1974 and was teaching there until 1981 and later from 1985 to 1992. He was also Counsellor for Odisha branch of the Open University (IGNOU). He has 11 volumes of poems written in English.

Marc Woodward

Daffodils

There were guards on the bridge spanning the Oder,
Slubice, the other East Germany.
They smiled at my mother and called to her
to have a cigarette, pass a little time.
She laughed, gently declined and we walked on
along the bank to where the daffodils grew wild.
My mother let go of my hand so she could pick
and I could run. As I ran I would bless
the swaying daffodil blooms with my small palms.
I’ve never felt so free again.
Back on the bridge
a guard whistled. Beside us the steady river
wound away my mother’s cares.
Now every Spring
I come to England to work in the fields
picking daffodils. I wear gloves and mostly
don’t recall how those bobbing yellow heads
brushed my hands.
Mostly I just bend and pick,
determined and quick, moving from row to row.
But sometimes I drink and think then of that border town
and the Oder, quietly unwinding, grey and slow,
the whistling guard and the small daffodils of home.

Marc Woodward is a poet and musician living in the English West Country – an environment much in evidence in his writing. He has been widely published in journals and anthologies. Recent collections include A Fright of Jays (Maquette Press 2015), and Hide Songs (Green Bottle Press 2018). He was recently awarded a writing residency at The Wellstone Center in The Redwoods, Santa Cruz, CA., and his poem ‘Luigi’s Calendar’ was shortlisted for the 2018 Bridport Prize.