<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
What Greater Map of Liberty<\/strong> Prints on sand, made of a fisherman, stood the beach remembers <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Seth Crook<\/strong> taught philosophy at various universities before moving to the Hebrides. He does not like cod philosophy in poetry, though he likes cod, poetry and philosophy. His poems recently appeared in such places as Gutter, New Writing Scotland,\u00a0Poetry Scotland,\u00a0Rialto, Magma, Envoi, Prole and Lunar Poetry<\/em>. One was selected as one of the Best Scottish Poems of 2014.<\/p>\n (A version first published in the Glasgow Review of Books)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the Quayside at Portsea an Old Salt Button-holes a Passer-by<\/p>\n \u2026there\u2018s no one style of pirate ship, pal, sloop or ship-of-the-line, Years spent in jail gave me a high regard for iron. Nowadays I like the air better\u2026 salty up-draughts and thermals, My fine ship The Monkey\u2019s Fist has a compass for all weathers, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Penelope Shuttle<\/strong> lives in Cornwall.\u00a0 Her most recent publication is Will You Walk A Little Faster?<\/em> (Bloodaxe Books), May 2017. www.penelopeshuttle.co.uk<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Owl<\/strong><\/p>\n i<\/p>\n Walking through woods along the Contoocook, Great Grey Owl: Strix nebulosa? Yellow eyes? Heard you\u2019d had an owl as a Norfolk boy: tiny lives to the exclamation mark of hot white shit ii<\/p>\n Driving, had seen this other fly-guy: face Then, walking, saw the white undercarriage Stand still, feet heavy with Holderness clay; Then think again, of you, of voles, of mice. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Cliff Forshaw<\/strong> has been a writer-in-residence in California, France, Tasmania and Romania, twice a Hawthornden Writing Fellow, and appeared at the International Poetry Festival in Nicaragua. Collections include Vandemonian<\/em> (Arc, 2013), \u00a0Pilgrim Tongues<\/em> (Wrecking Ball, 2015), Satyr<\/em> (Shoestring, 2017). www.cliff-forshaw.co.uk<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" What Greater Map of Liberty Than One Marked Out by Things Themselves Prints on sand, made by beach party feet; by the yellow-boot soles of a fisherman, stood beside two smaller feet far away from the mass the beach remembers only as a scuffed blur. See their toes almost touch. Seth […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15016","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15016","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15016"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15016\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15029,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15016\/revisions\/15029"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15016"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15016"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15016"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n Than One Marked Out by Things Themselves<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nby beach party feet;
\nby the yellow-boot soles<\/p>\n
\nbeside two smaller feet
\nfar away from the mass<\/p>\n
\nonly as a scuffed blur.
\nSee their toes almost touch.<\/p>\n
\nwe use any vessel we can get our hands on.
\nIt must be fast though. The pirate code forbids me to tell you more.<\/p>\n
\nIt is a master of power, structure, suspension, brutality.
\nAn iron shirt never needs ironing.<\/p>\n
\nclouds like sky-cloaked widow-women carrying harps of hornbeam and brass,
\nbusy with their beautiful Acts of Pardon and Acts of Grace.<\/p>\n
\nshe\u2019s been blessed by a famous painter, she\u2019s goose-winged and trim.
\nPaso a bordo, amigo.\u00a0 Out of harbour we\u2019ll hoist the jolly blood-red flag,
\nI\u2019ll read aloud from the bible to comfort you as we speed the flashing brine.<\/p>\n
\nyou pointed him out, big as an upturned leg of lamb:
\ntotem, top of a trunk. Later googled, then looked him up
\nin your Granddad\u2019s old mildewed leather-bound book.<\/p>\n
\nEar tufts? Two white marks like a dress bow tie?
\nYou kept going back, but couldn\u2019t definitively say
\njust exactly what it was we saw that day.<\/p>\n
\nyou tried to trap; the best laid plans caught mostly night;
\nthen mice brought back from pet-shops across the OS map;
\nblack pellets \u2013 coughed-up, the furred and bony point<\/p>\n
\nshat right down your Grateful Dead T\u2013shirt.<\/p>\n
\ngoggled like a dusty Ace of Hearts,
\nwinging it low, twice across this same twist
\nof nowhere \u2013 towards Withernsea in broad daylight.<\/p>\n
\nmetamorphose to gymnast\u2019s legswing, lithe
\nagainst where you feel the downbeat of wing to wing.
\nDusk. Eyes knew it before I knew it, tune to night.<\/p>\n
\nnotice a hornbeam has usurped the unsuitable beech.
\nSomewhere an engine dies. Look to the hedge,
\nthe dimming estuary, the darkened east.<\/p>\n
\nEroding coasts. Owls. That distant screech?<\/p>\n