
The Spring Issue | 2025
Herewith, our (late) Spring Issue, breaking the cold in anticipation of lazy months to come. Check back daily for new poems, stories and more.
There was nothing I could have done / about the life I was born into. / It was waiting for me, and I slipped into it / like a man waking up in a dream.
My sister bought me a “Sucka Free” hoodie in the ‘80s when Yo! MTV Raps was hot. I wore that shirt till the hole under the right arm couldn’t be mended anymore. That was 1999, ten years after Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince won the inaugural Best Rap Performance Grammy. At that time, I really believed I was sucka free …
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs out the door, causing his friend to follow. Most of the others never saw what Geoffrey showed the White man, although they laugh at the commotion it causes and applaud the result.
Even the curve of a conch shell / goes forever inward to an ending / too small for us to see. I put my ear / to it and hear Do not disturb my circles
My mother / paid for groceries one dollar bill / at a time. When I left home // she lost a third of her aid.
Herewith, our (late) Spring Issue, breaking the cold in anticipation of lazy months to come. Check back daily for new poems, stories and more.
Because we like flowers close to us we hold them / a little longer than their natural cycles. / See these four-hundred-year-old honeysuckles /
in Herrick’s poems. How his rhymes enfold them.
An old man has been blocking my view. / Get out! I shout. He shouts it back. // I open my mouth. He inspects my teeth, / ducks out of view.
I know my neighbours by their walk. / Our walls are thin. A sort of string / between two cans, our stack of floors. / I hold it to my ear. It sings.
Is this the murderer, or the wee nyaff / that kicks the hippocampus when I’m tired? / And should I yell or let it wander off, / my crisis just a detail on the ward / that nobody will log, unless I call?
Such an itch you are / man I don’t quite know // all the things you might say / if we were on your terrace / with a beer
No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.
You say utterance is when word becomes law, is held or holds itself in the air like an accident of heaven.
When I told my mother she has dementia, / she said that of course she’d get dementia / because her mom had Alzheimer’s but //
there is no time for tears, there never is; / no time for breathing deep. / A fit of sadness is like pulling a door
An old man has been blocking my view. / Get out! I shout. He shouts it back. // I open my mouth. He inspects my
The big one was launched at dawn. Doesn’t matter / who sent it. Soon there will be others, / enough missiles to blanket the sky.
I know this silence / by heart, willed stillness, rotten // moon pulling itself through / the cavity of window.
No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.
He didn’t recognize me, or else pretended not to see me. A neighbour who doesn’t say hello. I’m a neighbour who is see-through, perhaps completely invisible, not
My sister bought me a “Sucka Free” hoodie in the ‘80s when Yo! MTV Raps was hot. I wore that shirt till the hole under
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs
Horror stares back at me surreptitiously from every corner of the flat with wide-open cats’ eyes. The reflexes I had of old have become alien
He is not our first dead tourist. We have had copter incidents, people cutting legs on ice, avalanche victims. One lady fell down a mine
SEX AND THE HOLOCAUST I’ve been masturbating for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it seems that I came out of the womb
Andrew J. Moorhouse of Fine Press Poetry talks about what brought him to the life-changing decision to establish the press.
____________________________________________________________________ Read Bob Hicok’s Bottom of the Ocean. ____________________________________________________________________ Some poems come along at the right time. They come along,
B O D Y reviews new pamphlets by David Kinloch, James Appleby, and Sophie Cooke.
Hostovsky’s fondness for words and keen ear for spoken language benefit his writing: he can record and create dialogue in a brilliant and natural way. In this respect, he has more in common with short-story writers than with most contemporary poets, who tend to avoid direct speech.
W. H. Auden once said that poets should dress like businessmen. Thom Gunn preferred leather and chains.
These four poets and their recent books are representative of the poetry currently being written in Southwest England and the country more broadly.
Eight recent volumes of poetry, prose, and photography, reviewed by our editors
From her earliest work — before the idea of eco-entanglement was widely adopted by poets — Arnold viewed nature not as an ‘object’ or ‘other’ but as an inextricable (and clearly endangered) system in which humanity participates.
B O D Y interviews Scott Kiernan, a New York-based artist whose video, photo and installation works interact in ways that address their own materiality and means of distribution.
Anna Hawkins is an artist who works primarily in moving image and installation with an interest in the ways that images, gestures and language are circulated and transformed online and the impacts of technology on the intimate spheres of daily life.
Weaving together disparate references spanning across histories and geographies, German interdisciplinary artist Johanna Strobel explores the entanglement between philosophy, semiotics, and actuality.
“The biggest challenge of translating Sachs into English, for me, had to do with tracking the movement of her mind in the forming of a poem.”
The Russian Civil War was a truly terrible event in terms of awful acts of atrocious violence, but there’s also a weird sense of farce about this, of history being played at the wrong speed.
Andrey Filimonov comes from Tomsk, the 400-year-old “Athens of Siberia” and center of White Russian resistance during the Russian Civil War.
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