Portrait of a country   What is your country in a definition? When the first ship anchored on the shore of the Atlantic. My country became an experiment of - forced marriage. As with guns, plough and religious wars, they wedded three adults without their consent. For the interests of the king; queen and her cabinets - Marriage was initiated by the crown over the subjects. In another version of my country, we were never ready, To govern ourselves but the sceptre was thrown out; Those who are qualified thought it was a trap and They withdraw from going for the thrown out power - And those who are not fit grabbed it in tyranny. In my country, we know the truth but we are baptised with lies and we better be born again to know the truth. We are sugar coaters; coating our bad leaders with praises; For the evil that they do each day, we loved them because, We have been submerged into the deep seas of suffering. - Looking back is considered cowardice instead of...

      Memory of Water  When you told me once that grief comes in waves, were you referring to your own death? All of us still living trying to dissect our own meaning as if it were pooled in our hands, slipping through the cracks of our fingers. Perhaps you meant to suggest that memories are waves crashing into each other. But have you ever tried to disentangle water from water?  Lives are like that too. The writer in me wants to narrate a full circle, create it neatly, preserve its meaning in certainty. But I will not be the colonizer of your life. How ridiculous to fabricate         borders in the ocean. Yes, if I can curate anything it will be my own trust in this wild unknown. Anyway, all this to say let the waves take me. I am strong enough to swim.   Sapphire Allard is a creative writing tutor living in sunny Eastbourne. Her work has been published in The Kent Review, Lucent Dreaming and Ambit and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. She can be found at...

      Alanis Morissette small dark speck on the window looks at me says you are lonely small dark speck on the window laughs says you are surrounded by joy small dark speck on the window stares at me how it stares small dark speck on the window refuses to go away although i scrub yes i scrub tell my hands bleed small dark speck becomes smudge small dark smudge on the window small dark smudge becomes smear small dark smear on the window small dark smear becomes window small dark window small dark window becomes house small dark house small dark house becomes me small dark me in the corner tea goes cold on the window sill i ask Alanis Morissette the meaning of irony haha she says and disappears i turn my phone on and immediately hate myself i turn it off no thats a lie i have fallen down the hole like Alice i am drink me size in my stomach     Jake Wild Hall is one half of Bad Betty Press, the founder of OOIPP fest, one fifth of Boomerang Club and winner of the...

      Golden Shovel after Gwendolyn Brooks ‘We real cool’ A tribute to Khadija Saye 1992 – 2017 Gambian-British artist and photographer She bubbles laughter and we are captivated, caught by real joy in her happiness. So cool – I’m an artist! Rock my blessings. We watch images emerge, rituals left behind, corn-row crowns at school. Dwelling in this space we breathe. Shadows lurk in liquid and form too late for us to understand. We cannot ask her now. From strike to blaze the fire burned straight through twenty floors. We watch destruction. Sing our sadness, talk of sin and retribution: thin lipped councillors who drink their gin and give no answers when we ask, Why did Khadija die? Jazz notes echo in a blackened June Pray for me, it’s in my room. We watch her promise die too soon.     Anne Symons began writing poetry in 2015 at the age of 70. Her work has appeared in a range of poetry publications, both online and print. She has recently completed an MA in...

      I want/do not want my daddy He is screaming and crying and wants Me and doesn’t Want me And is not sore and does not want medicine But does not want to stay In bed or get out of bed or go Downstairs or to the window And wants me to go away and come back And doesn’t want carried but doesn’t want down but wants To wriggle free and I sing I sing increasingly tenuous verses Of Wheels on the bus And try to keep my voice calm Unbroken And I sing And list things we can see And he tells mummy to go away And I sing And his cries feel less like failing and we know He could shatter at any minute And our hearts race And we will never ever know the reasons he was screaming     Andrew Blair is a writer and performer based in Edinburgh. He co-produced Poetry Shows and podcasts with Ross McCleary under the name ‘Poetry as Fuck’. His pamphlet ’The R-Pattz Fact 2020’ was published by Speculative Books.