Oz Hardwick is a European poet, photographer, occasional musician, and accidental academic, who has published ten chapbooks and collections, and loads more interesting stuff with other people. He is Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University....

      Refugee I know the earth belongs to you in the same way the moon does. You’re the unspoken clause, the question nobody wants: how bad does it have to be to begin an inventory of what you can take:  the clothes you stand up and lie down in, the...

      Ashes They wake in the small hours in the country house, long miles from Hudiksvall. Moonlit snow lies thick. Dark pines shelter the still garden, their shadows lie elongated, spear-head sharp, on  crystal whiteness. Dawn comes late. Always dark...

      CW: Rape Olives Healing is exchanging rape anecdotes, sitting on a bench outside a pub, eating fat green olives and drinking Guinness. How do you begin? She says, new fringe tickling her eyelids, When the body has its own indelible memory? There’s...

      In My Sister’s Arms When she boarded the ship off the coast of Libya, waters were calm and skies flat blue. She stayed afloat with refugees for days, sharing rice and beans, stories of their left-behinds, never to be seen again abodes. And as they...

      A Thousand Miles —to Ibtisam Barakat I dedicate this to you, my Palestinian friend, walking a thousand miles for all the other refugees who had to walk from war, from poverty from genocide, from repression carrying what they could in a shoe box or...

      Exposure Therapy For your fear of spiders? Behold, I have sourced this perspex box and this adult Goliath Birdeater, a type of tarantula which, interestingly, and contrary to its name, rarely eats birds at all. So I think you know what’s coming. I...

      Runts So there we sit, the runts, the overweights, my Jewish friends who, like me, are more academic than athletic, when the don’t-give-a-shits, late to PE and with no kit, are made to join us in the stands, sidle up next to us, taunt us for being...

      ode to pelvic pain outside a herd of elephants thunder past you are number 7 in the queue you swallow a pill that numb the nerves that are sparking like someone stuck their hand in the toaster the hold music is Sade singing, while being strangled...