Issue 4
At the Playground
Wild crows live
to be 15 years, I’m told.
More or less.
I knew one for five,
more or less.
First by the scattered
white feathers
on wings
and tail. Half dozen, more
or less.
Later by how she was
with me, holding
back, letting
the rest in her family group
have first chance
at the peanuts.
I'd go to great lengths
throwing so
she would get her share
more or less ('more' is what
I aimed for). The pair of us —
yes, we were familiars.
Elly Nobbs
Elly lives in Prince Edward Island, Canada.
https://ellyfromearth.wordpress.com/
Photo by Sharon Clark
寫貓
Writing about Cats
1.
我寫貓
直到遇見一隻
也讀詩的貓
牠說，我不夠貓
至少要先會徒手抓住小強
我想起母親的本領
她是貓，孩子卻膽小如鼠
I wrote about cats
until I met one
which read poetry.
It said I wasn’t cat enough.
You must at least know how to catch a roach barehanded.
I thought about Mum’s talents.
She was a cat, her kid timid as a mouse.
2.
我吸了一隻貓
繼續提神寫作
望著窗外的鴿子發呆
許多貓也和我一樣
打了個呵欠，夢裡好多該死的鳥
悠閒漫步
I sucked a cat
and continued to write, refreshed.
I gazed at the doves outside the window
the way cats do
and yawned – so many goddamned birds in my dream
sauntering.
3.
聽說你在天上
順利和生前領養的貓相聚了
我若無其事地舔毛
保持心情愉快
吃化毛膏，將死亡看得
比花還開
Heard that in heaven
you are reunited with the cat you adopted in your lifetime.
I groom myself as if nothing happened,
stay in a good mood
and eat hairball remedies, more open than a flower
about death.
4.
貓不是有九命嗎？
留一條在人間
撥沙、討罐、曬太陽
如果是浪浪，就去找你討摸
用八條命換現今
仍高傲地拒絕你的愛
Don’t cats have nine lives?
I’ll leave one in the world
to paw at sand, meow for cans, sun myself.
If I’m a stray, I’ll ask you for pets
I’ll exchange my eight lives
for your love I haughtily refuse.
5.
什麼都寫不出來的時候
我抓牆壁
瞳孔中的海平線旋轉90度
喵的，我才沒有哭咧！
只是伸了個懶腰
將天空抬舉
When I have writer’s block
I claw at the wall.
The horizon in my pupil turns 90 degrees.
Meow, I haven’t cried!
I’ve just stretched
and lifted the sky.
然靈 (by Ran Ling)
translated from the Chinese by Florence Ng
Ran Ling graduated with a master's degree in Chinese from Providence University. She has worked as an editor and a part-time instructor at university. She now works as a writer and an illustrator. She is the author of two collections of poems.
Nature Lesson
It seems there is a mouse.
A furry clockwork toy zips
over my patio, under planters.
My little ones press noses
to the window, squeal delight
at its speed and shell pink ears.
They study the Book of Gardens,
compare eyes, tails then declare
Granny, it's special - a field mouse!
I feed the birds while the girls place
tasty treats around the pots, picnics
for their new pet Squeaky.
Later I move a carpet in my shed
and a tail whisks my hand. Eye to eye
with my visitor I try not to scream.
The Truth of Territory
Too easy to imagine it human,
to talk about morning songs
as you hear that robin cheerily trill
on patrol in your undergrowth.
But the blue-tits know better,
see that savage eye, feel the wrath
of threats and claws, of jabbing beak
swopping, snatching careless prey.
Flutter is too soft a word. These wings
mean business as they window-crash,
fight the phantom rival, that reflection.
Like a jealous lover he senses change.
Too warm, too cold, records broken,
this bird tries to fits the new order.
Inside, avoiding icy pavements, I study
this sentry as he struggles to survive.
Finola Scott
Glaswegian Finola Scott's work has appeared on posters, tapestries and postcards. It is widely published in anthologies and magazines including in The Lighthouse, Ofi Press, The High Window and I,S&T. As well as enjoying performing her poetry, when not gorging on workshops she dances in her kitchen. Dreich published her new pamphlet Count the ways 2021. Red Squirrel Press published Much left Unsaid (2019) She welcomes you to her FB group Finola Scott Poems .
My Queenly Cat
in one effortless leap
ascends to the table where I write,
sits on her haunches and
for a moment quietly surveys my work
then bats her paw at my moving pen.
I bat back.
My cat showing disregard
stretches out to the edges of my paper
and in one fluid movement
rolls indolently on her back
delighted with her sensual self
looks at me—
no need of a crown.
She knows who’s boss:
raises the tip of her tail
in pointed exclamation.
I laugh.
What’s my scribbling
to one aristocratic twitch
of her royal scepter.
Things To Do
when your black cat
twenty years old
will die . . .
let the tears run down
as you hold him safe
on the metal table
keep on petting
rubbing his ears
stroking under his chin
add an extra bunching
of skin and fur
as the anesthetic is given
watch how he comes
to relax into inertia
whisper to him of love
all the time he
slips further away
until the doctor comes
to shave one point on his leg
where the needle
comes with death
to stop the cancer
that would not let him eat
to end his starvation
lift him tenderly after
the doctor puts down the stethoscope
and tells you he is gone.
wrap him gently in a blanket
bring him home to rest
beneath the olive tree
find a stone
to mark the place where
you have dug his grave.
Allegra Jostad Silberstein
Allegra grew up on a farm in Wisconsin but has lived in California since 1963. Her love of poetry began as a child. Her mother would recite poems as she worked. In addition to three chapbooks of poetry, she has been widely published in journals with a growing number online. Her first book of poems, West of Angels was published by Cold River Press in March of 2015. In March of 2010 she became the first Poet Laureate for the city of Davis, California serving for two years. She also dances with the Third Stage dance company and sings with Threshold Choir.
Ernie (1990-1992)
We called him Fiddle-Faddle,
my darling Ernie,
for nothing was safe
from his prying paws,
and sharp little teeth.
His eyes were wide and green
in a guileless face
that seemed forever smiling.
He had a black spot
beneath his white chin
like a goatee beard
and jigsaw curves of white
behind his black ears.
He adored digestive biscuits,
gave kisses on demand,
loved to be held
like a teddy bear
up in my arms.
When I was ill in bed
he never left me,
guarded me all day,
looking concerned.
Part cat, part dog,
part human,
he understood
every word I said,
or so I thought.
He had far too few
of his nine lives,
killed on the road,
aged only two,
but, in those two short years,
he gave and received
so much love.
Nearly thirty years later,
his portrait still hangs
by my bed.
Guardian Angel (A Cinquain)
Slipping
in slimy mud,
just brambles for support;
caring robin stays close until
I’m safe.
Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Maesteg, Wales, in 1942 but now lives in Derbyshire, England. She has had poems published in a number of journals both in print and online. Her subjects include nature, childhood memories, human tragedy and people and places. She also enjoys writing humour verse and short-form poems such as haiku. She has published two collections, Perhaps One Day (2017) and Striped Scarves and Coal Dust (2019).
Giraffa Camelopardalis
You
sky-scraper you
pin-headed with knobs on
always poking your
nose into somewhere
your chow-blue
tongue
is a restless rustler
a turner over of
sweet new leaves
a rooter out of
tasty tender
shoots
You are a standing
up sleeper
a napper in
snatches
catching forty winks
like a grandpa
knobbly-kneed
as 1950’s Butlins
but fast and frisky
on nimble, delicate feet
on top of your form you are top of
the tree
lions and leopards hunt you but fear you a well-timed
kick from one powerful leg can shatter a skull or a spine
with your three hearts and your too long neck
you wear your crazy-paving coat like a fingerprint
no two of you ever quite the same
GIRAFFA CAMELOPARDALIS you rock
Adaptive Intelligence
Solitary, I hunt by night, preferring to
sleep late when I am able.
My undulating bed is where I choose.
I tuck myself in against the light.
By night I am Protean.
Nimble mistress of my fate.
I am amorphous in my sea-witch
disguises.
By turns elusive, shape-shifting prey and
beaked predator who calculates
each strike.
Though I observe your failures with alien eyes
my exploratory preference is tactile.
You may conclude my three hearts beat
with dispassionate slowness
but in your world I strive to be
safe.
I inhabit your cast offs with a sense
of peace.
An age ago I made myself
comfortable.
Now you and yours have poisoned the ocean.
While I make this soap dish
my home.
Abigailel Elizabeth Ottley
Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance in Cornwall. A Pushcart nominee in 2013, her work has appeared in two hundred journals, magazines and anthologies including The Lake, The Blue Nib, Atrium Poetry, The Atlanta Journal, Gnashing Teeth, and Ink, Sweat & Tears. A selection of Abigail’s poetry appeared in Wave Hub: new poetry from Cornwall (2014) ed. Dr Alan M. Kent and in Invisible Borders: New Women’s Writing from Cornwall (2020) Her collection of short stories is Old Soldiers. Old Bones and Other Stories. This year Abigail was shortlisted for both the Cinnamon and The Three Trees pamphlet awards. She is working on her first novel.
Canis Familiaris
I hear yese. What daes she ken aboot dugs?
I mind braw like.
Ma great-grandfaither wirked
sheepdugs at Shennas.
Ma grandfaither wis reared wi collies.
Paw wis reared wi them an aw, by yon Govan shipyards.
I ken dugs, collies an terriers, an tramps tae.
I kent Glen.
I kent his gumption.
The siller-blae pirate squint, edge o a sneer
as he placet baith paws fou square
on wir carpet for tae own us,
minding yon gate frae the curve o mae arms,
lead-mobbit on the foremaist chord o ‘Z cars’,
hirdit golf balls on the Links putting green,
refusnik, my braither’s fae. Groul, yowl,
wheenge in the nicht.
Hip twisted on the front stap
gin we locked him oot. Eejits.
I kent he wis a steerie,
Jack-in- the-Box whalpie in yon tea kist,
wi the slanted rhythm o his gait,
lugs brent sails,
the burn o iris on yon squirrel,
moist leather release o cold tap on skin.
ma Dad minds doukits through mud-slicked dubs,
an hurlies through forest mulch an canal ice,
ower broken flagstones an sand dunes,
the rock an roll o his back in benties
efter a sea salt sweem
or velcroed tae ma belly by a bee sting gliff.
He wis ma fiere.
His teeth ‘tae muckle for size of moo’,
girn fur yon Newcastle car thief,
playbow tae the bully or the feartie,
growl o a Baskervilles choir,
open arms for Mum, for meat
his lunge at a jogger tae close tae me
neb on glass paws ruler-tight, waiting for the late car,
the failed ascent o Paw’s lap but the heave o the hail sofa,
ribcage tight across ma legs on a bad day or
proffered paw as an apology fur a forgotten ill or
his flirt with a flichtin o spinners o a deuk.
We baith kent moose, tods, cats, bicycles. He chased them aw,
ayont the fence, in dreams – intae yon saftness o naithing.
Maggie Mackay
The English translation:
Dog
I hear you. What does she know about dogs?
I remember well.
My great grandfather worked
sheepdogs at Shennas.
My grandfather was reared
with collies.
Dad was reared
with them as well, by the Govan shipyards.
I know dogs, collies and terriers,
and mongrels too.
I knew Glen.
I knew his gumption.
The silver-blue pirate squint,
edge of a sneer,
as he placed both paws four square
on our carpet and owned us,
minding the gate from the curve of my arms,
lead moving at the first chord of ‘Z Cars,’
herding golf balls on the Links putting green,
refusenik, my brother’s foe. Growl, howl,
whinge in the night, hip twisted on the front step
when we locked him out. Idiots.
I knew he was a hubbub,
Jack in the box pup in that tea chest,
with the slanted rhythm of his gait,
ears smooth sails, the burn of iris on that squirrel,
moist leather release of cold tap on skin.
My dad remembers drenchings
through mud slicked puddles
and dashes through forest mulch and canal ice,
and over broken flagstones and sand dunes,
the rock and roll of his back in marram grass
after a sea salt swim or velcroid
to my stomach by a bee sting fright.
He was my friend.
His teeth ‘ too big for size of mouth’,
grimace for that Newcastle car thief,
play bow to the bully or the frightened,
growl of a Baskervilles choir,
open arms for Mum, for food,
his lunge at a jogger too close to me,
nose on glass, paws ruler-tight,
waiting for the late car,
the failed ascent of Dad’s lap
but the heave of the whole sofa,
ribcage tight across my legs on a bad day,
or proffered paw as an apology for a forgotten ill,
or his flirt with a flutter of crane flies or a duck.
We both knew mice, toads, cats, bicycles.
He chased them all, beyond the fence, in dream
-- into that softness of nothing.
translated by Maggie Mackay
Maggie Mackay, an MA Poetry graduate from Manchester Metropolitan University, loves family history, winding it into lyrical poems in print and online journals such as Ink, Sweat &Tears, Prole, Spelt, Southlight and in several anthologies, including MeToo and Bloody Amazing!, winners of Sabotage Awards. In 2018 her pamphlet The Heart of the Run was published by Picaroon Poetry and her collection A West Coast Psalter by Kelsay Books in 2021. The Poetry Archive WordView 2020 awarded her poem ‘How to Distil a Guid Scotch Malt’ a place in the permanent collection. She is a reviewer for https://www.sphinxreview.co.uk/ and the online The Friday Poem. Twitter @bonniedreamer.