by Helen Ivory | Sep 26, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Patio Writing Did I not see the old sign lurking in the novelty store of my mind? EPIPHANIES XING, it warned, or it could have been a promise — yet I paid it no heed, and kept on falling asleep and waking up at the expected times, coming out under...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 25, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Hop Picking Dickens sees bodies wet in the hedges, hop dust is believed to cure consumption. Eden Phillpotts, writing in 1916, starts with sunshine and deft fingered girls. By the 1930s and Orwell it’s blood all over the fingers and chaff in the...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 24, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Return They used to hang bodies over the black-water creek; picked bodies of picked men, their entrails pulled by the birds in greedy jerks. The dead glass eyes watching over and out to the waves and the clouds: or with a twist of wind, or the...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 23, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
A Concert at the Doge’s Palace with Fans I’m chased by airbnb on facebook, instagram, twitter, Ebay, there is its fluttering gif, checking me out, even on booking.com, which is perverse. I search for Palladium, Copernicum, Moscovium. £98 a...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 23, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Hinterland Man outside in the dark. She looked the same age as her mother. Spider in the sink. You remind me of no one. People who shouldn’t be in prison. A phone call and the night is ended. Dark eyes and a swallow’s nest. It’s...
