Tom Dwight

Blackmoss Pot

Place me by the hedgerow
near the nearly ripened fruit,
where the skyline falls away
and cascades through the trees,
where the birds perch amongst the trees
like hands struggling to hold on.

Place me in the yellow evening
filled with repentant desire,
where the rain seeps into the crowds,
labouring to extract cagouls and macs
from the recesses of bags,
and the sea is nothing
but a quiet raging
far into the distance.

Place me by the coastline
where the ghosts of ships rust into sight
and the tideway gutters along the mud,
where the morning frames the ocean
that autumn has made sick,
gently relapsing beneath my feet.

Tom Dwight is a poet currently studying for a PhD in English literature at the University of Bristol. His poetry has appeared in Eye Flash Magazine, Stride Magazine, Peculiars Magazine, and was shortlisted for the Streetcake Experimental Writing Award.

Robert Stein

Robert Schumann, Resident for a Year at Endenich
Asylum, is Under the Supervision of Dr. Franz Richarz

Last Tuesday they rolled both pianos down the hill.
In the pile at the bottom, near the farm,
Are sheet music, newspapers, four notebooks,
The upended instruments and an audience of bleating sheep.

Last Wednesday – I think – they tied my hands together until dinner.
The silver spoon with Clara’s name is held for safe keeping.
They took me for a swim even though I don’t swim.
Tomorrow is the blindfold and the bell.

I cannot hurt myself if there are no sounds to chafe against.
They’ve blanketed off the cell-bars and told me Clara is dead.
My dinner is not served and the hunger evidence of madness.
Hour by hour, a little piece of everything.

When they hose me down I ensure I keep my suit on.
I stand tall as if conducting, so the water-jet
Arcs slowly back off my heart under my waistcoat
And asperges them, marvelling.

I bless them all even as they gag my Latin,
Looking each one right between the eyes,
Chanting the name of each and smiling
Which they know means I am recalling something beautiful.

Only the most junior Krankenschwester –
Her face as pale as Dupont’s manuscript paper – is sympathetic.
She has agreed to let me have a small metal spoon.
I just need the earth to beat against.

Robert Stein’s first collection The Very End of Air appeared in 2011. As well as appearing in Acumen, his poems have been published in Poetry Review,
Poetry London, Agenda, The Rialto, Ambit and elsewhere. ‘Margo Szonyi in her Last Year’ was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize 2021.

Myra Schneider

An Elephant

has taken up residence on my doormat,
no ordinary elephant. When the hall dims
how his body, patterned in gold, shines.
I whisper to myself he’s a moonchild.

A flower stems from his uncurling trunk,
another blooms from the leaflike lobe
of his ear. His eyes are a series of rings,
on his ceremonial coat: semi-circles,

suns and stars sing, bracelets decorate
his legs. He brings festival to my house.
Elephant, you who remember everything,
hold birth parties, swaddle your newborn

with motherlove, take care of the sick
in your tribe, rage when you’re upset, mourn
your dead with funerals, cover their bodies
with grass, weep silently, I welcome you.

In the pit of night when chill and anxiety rove
you wrap me in warmth, lull me with a sense
of security even though we both know
no one, nothing is safe in this life.

Myra Schneider is the author of four poetry collections by Littlewood Press and five collections by Enitharmon Press. She has co-edited four anthologies of poetry by contemporary women poets. She is an experienced writing tutor and works as a core tutor for The Poetry School. She taught literacy and communication to severely disabled adults for many years.