by Helen Ivory | Mar 15, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Old Master Goya was an octopus that smelt of funerals on Mondays. Sundays, the scent of getting ready. Goya liked to swim with sensory stimulus. He would splash about his palette. Goya made two circles on a first encounter. His grip was firm, a...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 14, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Herb of the Sun The pain comes plucked from a field in garlands of sunlight. So many women weave aches into strings of marigolds, with bent backs from children, livelihoods of pouring orange petals, scents of sweet incense and the sunlight is...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 13, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Honesty Lunaria annua Honesty has her green season, her red season, keeping the next generation in her purse, close to her chest, held in. After many moons I am perhaps readying to speak. All the windows in my house are broken, my feet cold, the...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 12, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Jess Phillips reads the names, again Each year in March, on the eighth day, the one we’re allowed to call ours, slowly, Jess reads our names, not the bitch, slut, whore we died hearing, but the gifts from our parents. Remember us now in this careful...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 11, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Julia Webb is a neurodiverse writer from a working-class background who lives in Norwich. She has three poetry collections with Nine Arches Press: Bird Sisters (2016), Threat (2019) and The Telling (2022). She is a poetry editor...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 10, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Ice Maiden speaks whale, speaks star breathes in — tight as a tomb breathes out — splintered crackle snow falls — a silvery kintsugi fooling no-one she wants to be alone with her ice shroud to think slow thoughts drink from snow’s thickening...
