<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The News from Italy \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n I turn the corner of a Tuscan hill where have you? lost it \/ lose it \/ losing it<\/em><\/p>\n the essence of yellow to force a swivelling turn for an Italian sunset and the conversation of sunflowers.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Doxa<\/strong> *<\/p>\n Crawling *a common belief or opinion<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tristan Moss<\/strong> lives in York with his partner and two young children. He has recently had\u00a0poems\u00a0published in Ink Sweat & Tears,\u00a0The\u00a0Poetry\u00a0Shed,\u00a0Snakeskin,\u00a0Picaroon\u00a0Poetry\u00a0<\/em>and\u00a0Algebra of Owls<\/em>.<\/p>\n Note: This poem first appeared in London Grip<\/em> in Spring 2019<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Drawing the Lines<\/strong><\/p>\n I\u2019m not making it up. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Carolyn Oulton<\/strong> is Professor of Victorian Literature and Programme Lead for Creative and Professional Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. Her most recent collection\u00a0Accidental Fruit\u00a0<\/em>is published by Worple Press. Her website is at\u00a0carolynoulton.co.uk <\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The News from Italy \u00a0 I turn the corner of a Tuscan hill and face the curiosity of sunflowers where have you? when did you? why are you? lost it \/ lose it \/ losing it the essence of yellow is demanding answers but only the sun replies to force a swivelling […]<\/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-20133","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20133","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=20133"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20133\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20228,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20133\/revisions\/20228"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20133"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20133"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20133"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nand face the curiosity of sunflowers<\/p>\n
\nwhen did you?
\nwhy are you?<\/p>\n
\nis demanding answers
\nbut only the sun replies<\/p>\n
\nfrom east to west
\nparading a new alignment<\/p>\n
\nwill cover every question
\nwith gold dust<\/p>\n
\nM.E.Muir<\/strong> is a Scot living in London with poems recently published in magazines including Dawntreader, The Curlew, Morphrog, London Grip<\/em> and the anthology What the Peacock Replied<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\non the rectangular pane,
\nseeming to believe transparency
\nmust give way, a wasp does not stray
\nacross the four-inch plastic frame,
\nto where an open window waits.<\/p>\n
\nSocks edging along
\nthe washing line, pinks
\nand a thousand tiny creases
\non bedclothes, shattering
\nlike autumn sea,
\nor say the split
\nrunning into fractures
\nthrough hot summer earth.
\nI could no more make it up
\nthan that child in the shop,
\nnear the magazines,
\ncould walk on purpose
\nso convincingly like a child;
\nlegs tensed at the knee,
\narms awkwardly placed
\naway from the body as if
\nhe were preparing
\nto walk on ice.<\/p>\n