BlueHouse Journal

issue # 5
STONE

JANUARY 2022

 

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 [Dear Readers]

always in water and ever in stone 

I stand 

and I wait

Best wishes,

Meredith Grace Thompson
editor :: Edmonton, Canada, January 2022

 please note ::

 

BlueHouse makes every effort we can to be as accessible as possible. Any concrete poems or visual artworks which have been displayed as image files have custom alt text available for screen readers to attempt in some way to translate the image into words to be fully enjoyed by all readers. Any videos or sound poems will include closed captioning as well a transcript. A downloadable .pdf version of the journal is also available for those who wish. Accessibility is incredibly important to us! If you have any issues accessing any part of our journal, please let us know!

 

 JOHN WINDER

Granite Obelisk


In black and white, a jagged granite obelisk thrusts up from a grassy hillside into a turbulent sky, it's point reaching into the crest of clouds moving quickly away from the obelisk. The  ferocious sky juxtaposes against the steadfast stone.

photograph in black and white

 

Legananny Dolmen


In black and white, a dirt road moves up a gradual hill with a wire fence on the right hand side. Framed against the billowing high-contrast clouds a stone trilithon  pushes itself out of a grassy field. The ancient juxtaposed with contemporary.

photograph in black and white

 ELIZABETH JOY LEVINSON

Weighted.


I am filling my pockets with stones 

that line the edge of the lake we walk along 

on a stolen Sunday afternoon. 

 

We should both be working, 

our figures bent over screens 

in separate corners of the cottage, 

but even if it annoys us, even if 

we resent each other a little, 

we both agree. 

To stop. 

To walk barefoot. 

The dog between us, barking 

if one of us strays too far off course. 

If only it were all that simple.

 

I am weighing myself down with the stones. 

I try to name them as we turn them over. 

The pink of feldspar rich granite, 

green veins in the unakite, 

the deep blood running through a banded jasper.

 

I want to ground myself in this moment, 

already past tense, already memory.

I pull from the receding tide 

a fossil soup full of tiny "O's" 

like the eyes or mouths of ghosts.

Like the eyes or mouths of ghosts. 

HEIKKI HOUTARI

A Mystery Of Maps


             La La I can't hear you as whose wannabes these are I wouldn't care to know. The infinite regress a pyramid of human pyramids, a stack of stacks of hats, the physical dimension, envied, positively glows.

             As from some cul-de-sac I come out blindly fighting, at each address is another address, so my mission is accomplished. She who hesitates to edit misses out. Potential may not exercise this mystery of maps.

         The anarchist in me says nihilists are unreliable. What won't they renegotiate? For love they're looking where the light is bad and three days sober. What a luster on your flood plain, what an answer, what charisma!

           We have ways of making you live in the present. Between the impossible and the unnecessary are the seven blessings.

 J.I. KLEINBERG

This Profound Land


found poem assembled from torn fragments of. Text: "This profound land knew nothing of numb, boulders contain years, the conversation geological the rate of stone" green wall paper is being ripped slowly to reveal each word trailing down the page

 TERESA H. KLEPEC

Reflections on Stone


Reflections on Stone The hard truth … the unending and ever impending truth … is that everything comes to an end. No matter how weathered, even stone is ground down by the erosive power of rain, wind, and time. Rock, pulverized over millennia, turns to sand that spills through your fingers.

Beware of the pebble in your shoe and a stone heart. The pain you live day in and day out, the hard knocks that grind you down that are hung like a millstone around your neck. Over and over again you call them to mind until they chill your bones. Those tectonic plates, the burdens upon burdens shift, leaving you tired and worn. You steel yourself and harden your heart, and weep behind closed doors or rail against all that is ugly, what others did to you; what you can’t undo. Soften.

Stone is hard, ever enduring, patient and stoic. It doesn’t matter what its size. Mountains are climbed, boulders heaved, rocks thrown. In ancient days, the Hebrews placed stacks of stones to commemorate the great things God had done for them, whether crossing into the Promised Land or thwarting an enemy or prayers answered. They commemorate promises, victories, loved ones. Around the world there are cairns and prehistoric monuments that catch the sun to tell the time, the season. Renew, refresh, and remember.

Balance your stones in artful ways. Along Lake Michigan, stones wash up on the shore and are gathered in plastic pails. A beautiful stone, a colorful rock, holds enchantment. Paint them with what’s on your heart. Stack them, balance them, remember them.

While hard, stones have purpose. The sculptuor looks at the marble block and sees the shape of her vision. She taps and chisels and smooths the masterpiece into shape, creating great beauty that endures. In gardens and at intersections, pillars and arches of stone beckon the passerby to walk through.

Work with what is at hand. A wise bird who needed a drink from a skinny-necked water pitcher took pebbles and dropped them into the pitcher, causing the water to rise and the crow not to die of thirst. The anvil, they say, never complains. It may be beaten, but it doesn’t relent. Decisions determine your destiny. Don’t cast the first stone. While it appears that stone is unforgiving, it endures in strength as a cornerstone built as a memorial to your undying love.

KEVIN GRAUKE

Deliberately Buried, An Object of Unknown Function, Substance & Origin

                                                                                after 2001:
                                                                        A Space Odyssey


 
 

SHINE BALLARD

Amain


No matter how tenuously

time thins me, these toes,

dirtily endured in,

bedded by those levees,

are evermore muddy

 

A prehensile safeguard

against ever losing

ground, of ever letting

go—

even if, entirely,

to my erosure

 WILLIAM THOMPSON

Sea Creatures


fish in soapstone

otter in soapstone

 

dolphin in soapstone

 

 BRITTA BENSON

Sgeir Mhor


To the left of Portree Bay,

just metres from the headland,

lies Sgeir Mhor, the Black Rock,

a proud, barnacled bolder,

pockmarked by centuries

and protected by the sea

from unwanted intrusions

half of the time. 

 

I walked to this skerry 

at the lowest tide, 

stepped from stone to stone, 

balanced on slippery seaweed

and played hide and seek

with the carefree licks 

of the Atlantic,

hungry for more.

 

I didn’t get my feet wet.

As I stood on the highest,

the blackest stones,

I wished I could reach 

the dark rocks in my heart

just as easily, nimble,

in a few confident strides,

at the right moment of flow.

 

But my heart is not tidal.

MICHAEL BLACK

In Praise of Sandstone

                                                        after W.H. Auden


My desire line used to be formed on bay windows 

those ones wild at the backs of cityscape. 

At least I used to be formal there, since playing

in condensation, I would draw lines for every walk, smiling 

to remember the fault lines of skimming stones. 

Medusa was and/or is never much remembered in this scene. 

My not science and my not theology would often 

get mixed up in a thing called family, doing its 

mental fight music to topple not differences of best and worst. 

 

At the end of every walk, landscape waits stonily

for it that cast the first tantrum in rapt clay to relax,

admit some little inconstant complicity. 

 

 MIKE FERGUSON and NICK DORMAND

What a Stone Throws


words by Mike Ferguson
image by Nick Dormand

photograph in black and white

Shadow elaboration: next time 

that hustler outside a Denny’s in San Francisco 

bets you ten dollars 

 

he can make a stone 

bigger than itself without touching. 

Power no more than a silhouette; 

 

alter ego of a solid 

distance. Solstices and monsters are 

read from them. 

 

It is a wordless play on the 

mythology of belief, as if magicians and 

heavers of heavy rock have such 

 

long-term plans. 

An overview of an overview is 

not necessarily tautologous. 

 

Standing within its love 

may be hoping more of light and an 

object’s disposition. 

 

Back to perspective, 

we have no idea if it is only a pebble 

casting all this doubt.

 

 JEFF GALLAGHER

Poetry As Sculpture

(begin at any point and continue)

 

 
 

Select                                                     Sit

Imagine                                                   Ponder

Examine                                                 Muse

Touch                                                     Consider

Sense                                                     Draw

Caress                                                    Wonder

Aim                                                         Plan

Incise                                                      Debate

 

Chip                                                        Retreat

Persuade                                                Refresh

Accelerate                                               Forget

Drive                                                       Dismiss

Dip                                                          Breathe

Curve                                                      Enjoy

Shape                                                     Love

Polish                                                      Live

 

Stand                                                      Return

Look                                                        Perceive

Consider                                                 Believe

Think                                                       Accept

Reflect                                                    Approach

Sigh                                                        Apply

Frown                                                     Focus

Surmise                                                  Communicate

 

Measure                                                 Speak

Aim                                                         Grow

Strike                                             Tell

Remove                                                  Know

Reflect                                                    Flow

Decide                                                    Show

Delete                                                     Share

Demolish                                                 Give

 FIONA GLEN

Through Hagstones


sketch in black and white

ED HIGGINS

Cleft-split Rock


1.                     Walking here 

                        with you

                        on these narrow

                        strands

 

                        of clean air

                        and imagination

                        only.

 

2.                     Delight entering

                        despite sorrows

                        that already

                        call me

                        away.

 

3.                     Eased by

                        this rising moon,

                        the tide’s darkening

                        stain surges

 

                        onto wet

                        waiting sand

                        thrust inward

                        toward the yielding

                        reluctant shore.

 

4.                     Tentative, at first,

                        this receding

                        inflowing discourse

                        of wave and

                        cleft-split rock:

 

5.                     The ambiguous edge

                        barely perceptible

                        now against 

                        the sea’s

                        widening urge.

 

                        Memory out there

                        like a pulse quickened 

                        to the heart.

 XINYI JIANG

Aggregate 


towards, a flock, 
herded together, 

 

of one or more mineral crystals,
a cluster of particles varied in

 

shape, size, smell, a considered 
basic structural unit of soil,

 

sand, gravel, slag,  
any hard inert materials, 

 

for concrete, mortar, plaster. Gathered
with cement, Wickes, Travis Perkins,

 

sand and gravels, B&Q, 
Jewson’s chippings and ballast.

 

Crushed, reinforced, fine, coarse,
rock, stone, synthetic, MOT Type 1.

 

Galloway Grey, Moorland Black, 
Plum Slate, Shierglas Silver,

 

award wining Golden Amber.
Soft and robust, 

 

self-binding, setting,
settling, versatile, dynamic,

 

pathways, cycle ways, canal towpaths, 
bridle paths, golf courses, petanque pistes.

PAULETTE DUBÉ

A story of many stones


photograph in colour

This is how it begins, gravity

on earth then water and the music

water makes when it moves

up and against something.

 

Make a mountain, put it exactly in the way. 

How people react will 

tell you everything about them.

 

This is how it ends, music 

up and against stone. 

 JOHN MURO

Breakwater


Perched upon a plinth of rock, decades old,

Crafted from a mixture of mortar and stone,

Craters and cavities are hollowed just below

The waterline, form a brittle honeycomb,

Which tongues of salt exposed

 

In the going out of tides. Designed

To separate earth from water, 

It’s a barrier near free-fall, inclined                   

To lean hard into sun, eastward,  

Structural integrity’s undermined                             

 

And no longer plumb. Pressed 

From behind by earth and gravity, 

A constant, irrepressible caress,

Subverting with stealth, relieving

The structure of heft and ballast. 

 

Opposing forces work in cruel device

To crater, topple and eventually swallow

And return wall to water. So it is with a life 

Tending to a state of perpetual repair, knowing 

It will end in a loose uprooting and indifference. 

 HENRY HU

lapis_00


Gold flaked volcanic black stone holds cubic puddles of electric blue clouds .

collage photograph in high resolution colour

Black volcanic rock flecked with red, pink, green, and orange shows the crevices which break into more cubic high contrast puddles of white, blue, and yellow. It is a movement away from the first image into even more surrealist.

collage photograph in high resolution colour

The image steps back to reveal the previous two to be zoomed in fragments of this larger piece, showing streaks of gold, red, and green glittery flakes are interspersed with cubic cloud puddles. The image is surreal. It is primal. Hedonistic. Joyous.

collage photograph in high resolution colour

ROBERT BEAVERAGE

Strength (Reversed)


Evident that the wood is rotten 

in places. Smell of cat piss 

overpowers any other,  mold 

or gas or more horrid possibilities. 

Dark basement fit only 

for the homeless, roaches, noise 

kids who need to book a show. Static

and squeals of dust cannot permeate 

concrete, the neighbors undisturbed.

 

We pass the night withdrawn to silence.

Each time I see you at the bar, 

on the couch, I long to offer you 

my jar of honey, dipper of sticky 

sweetness for your tongue to complement

the walls of static, the haze of August heat.

 

I go outside and sit on the curb

between bands and have a few

smokes with Pat and argue

about whether Capitalist Casualties

is a better band than Zeni Geva

and when I go back in you’ve ghosted

and I toss the honey in the garbage

can and reach for the whiskey.

 FABIO SASSI

Rock Art


Clustering pebbles show a bouquet of colours and shapes gathering at the top of the frame.

photograph in colour

Grouped larger rocks, each containing many colours and layers sit in a nonchalant pile, barely touching. Each independent of the other and yet intimately connected.

photograph in colour

A massive light pink stone with streaking layers of white juts out of a crowed of shiny black peoples. The peoples are either crowning the larger stone in adoration or attempting to devour it.

photograph in colour

 

SCARLET KATZ ROBERTS

Sestina

 

 
 

‘A small mouse-like child came into my practice today,

complaining of heartache.’

That’s what the doctor said,

When she examined my hair for grease

And told me that I might get hurt 

But it was going to be okay. 

 

It might have been okay,

I felt the strands of my ache pull apart one by one today.

The doctor said my insides would turn into a puddle of grease

If I kept up my current habits, heartache

among the activities I practiced daily— that hurt. 

Anyway, things will fester if they are un-said. 

 

It was once said, 

That Lancelot would’ve been okay 

If he hadn’t betrayed Arthur, caused the King to hurt. 

‘I slept with the queen, your wife, today’.

He might’ve fessed up; too great was the potential heartache.

That shameful slick, a yard of grease

 

seeping out over the flagstones. But the grease

ate them all up before Lancelot could slip. You said

You didn’t want to watch yourself cause me heartache

Well look at me now, I want to say, do I seem okay?

I went for a walk today,

Like a dog taken by a sudden illness dashing from room to room, trying to escape the hurt.

 

I chased every step with the resolve to do better, hurt

Less. Smile more. I almost slipped in a monstrous puddle of grease,

nondescript city liquid. Today,

as I walked, I said,

to myself aloud, in an incantation: it would be okay.

In the future, it might terminate, this heartache.

 

I want to drench that heartache with a pint of grease,

suffocate the hurt part. I said:

‘Today is a new day’. I’m going to stop loving you now, okay?

 

 SHARI LAWRENCE PFLEEGER

Shadow Play

 

 

“Wo viel Licht ist, ist starker Schatten." (Johann Wolfgang Goethe)

 

In Nantahala gorge                                

the river’s pulsive table saw                   

leaving jagged, craggy walls                   

tantalizingly close                                  

caressing, hugging                                 

keeping out direct rays                          

 

No gentle glints of sunlight                    

slowly shifting asterisked ebony             

No glimpses of                                      

gathering at dusk                                  

collective action.                                   

threatening disruption                          

 

Thick, towering boles,                           

throw shadows, even                            

when buds and leaves                           

with frost and lost promise,                   

hurl slick spray,                                     

grinding fallen stones    

                        

No darksome devouring,                       

with covering wings,                             

shading the gloom,                               

chuck holes and wrong                          

scarred bark and                                   

long traversed              

                        

Not stygian foreboding nor absence,      

is defined by it, its spindly                     

catching on the past,                 

as we step out

– Cherokee for “land of the noonday sun”— 

slices through harsh stone, 

soaring steeply,

to tickling,

one another, 

almost always.

 

teasing us awake,

to dawn to day.

stuttering starlings,

to murmurate, to demonstrate

No matutinal thunderheads

or promising welcome downpour.

 

Nantahala’s old growth trees

at midday, even midwinter,

are memories, and earth shudders

when icy, churning rapids

and whirlpools tapdance,

to silt.

 

shadow protects us

contours and down

wiry plumage hiding

turns, masking missteps,

narrow, twisted pathways

and abandoned.

 

shadow craves brightness,

filaments flagging,

reminding us what we’ve learned

into the light.

 FABRICE B. POUSSIN

Gateway to Better Things


High contrast colours of blues and oranges show a desert scene - verging on the alien - show a sedentary rock archway which stands strong despite all else eroding around it. The blue sky takes up half the image. It feels hot and windswept and epic.

photograph in high resolution colour

 

Grace


In black and white we see jagged sedimentary rock formations lunging into the air, their layers clearly visible, the image focusing on the central images, without seeing the sky or the ground where the rock formations begin. It feels serene.

photograph in black and white

 CHRISTIAN WARD

Thoughts on a Stone


The stone thrown at the uncle

who turned the house into a volcanic 

eruption washed up by his feet 

several hundred miles away. A hard

speckled egg shaped by the sea's hands

and tossed and turned until ready

to be thrown by a eight year old boy 

who understood for every action 

there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

The stone knew this. Carried the maths

in its slippery surface. Understood 

how it would bounce back across time

to ripple more than seas. When it returned, 

it slipped through his fingers, making him trip

on the shingle beach and feel the battalion 

of stones attempt to carry him off 

like a quarry for the sea to judge on his usage 

of their creation. The water wouldn't understand 

how the uncle's violence permeated 

like cigarette smoke, lingering in the corners

like a dustbunny pinned down by some immoveable 

force. It wouldn't understand every insult, 

demand and threat. The stone might. It might

bend its trajectory in the air to hit the uncle 

at the back of the head before diving away. 

Perhaps the stone wasn't a stone but a volcano 

in disguise, determined to avalanche the man

with a fury of his own making.

 COLE W. WILLIAMS

Memorialize, Loss


A found poem with lines from
“It was Snowing on the Monuments” by Gordon Henry (left) and 
“For Ilya at Tsarskoye Selo” by Caroline Forché (right)

 

 

Innate dreams of permanence.

Man is like the statue whispering about the marble chiseled from his mouth. 

Unequivocal history, so we can hurry up establishing who we are now,

can you hear the chisel now? Fracturing, sutureless futures?

There where so many lies remain lost to winter,

  the winter when bronzed confederate armies were strung, hung, dragged,

defaced, drowned, they, the immortalized ones—they never look down, now,

dumpsters dedicated to the decapitated busts of child-lore “creator” Christopher Columbus,

a procession of memory,         

disrupted when smoke of Manuel de Borba Gato reached each window of the city and

in the stoic faces told and retold, in each city now it grows cold,

Snow falls from here into the past and vanishes on golden minarets,

ride reverse hoisted on a flatbed truck contentious parade of one, cheering? parading?  

The undoing of transgressions back the way you came through the capitols, indescribable, 

irrevocable legacies, 

It was snowing on the monuments, trying to erase our monuments, trying to memorialize loss 

instead. 

 

 

Sources:

  1. Manuel de Borba Gato, colonizer made his fortune by hunting indigenous people across the backlands for enslavement. Statue in Museum “Museu Paulista,” also a large monument measuring ten meters high, weighing 20 tons in the Santo Amaro neighborhood. São Paulo, Brazil, July 24,th 2021. From @indiginouspeoplesmovement Instagram video post.

  2. “Many Statues of Christopher Columbus Were Targeted” Confederate General Stonewall Jackson in Richmond, Virginia on July 1st, 2020. In Frankfort, Kentucky, a statue of Confederate Pres Jefferson Davis is removed from the capitol building on June 13th, 2020. Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart in Richmond, VA on June 22,nd 2020 an attempt to topple. Charles Linn, facedown, a city founder in the Confederate Navy in Birmingham, AL on June 1st, 2020. Headless C. Columbus, in Boston protests June 10,th 2020. A Confederate statue is seen hanging from a street post in Raleigh, NC on June 19th, 2020. A confederate soldier and plinth removed on June 21,st 2020, after others toppled. Splashed paint on Jefferson Davis memorial in Richmond, VA, June 7th, 2020. Confederate monument from Decatur Square in Decatur, GA on June 18th, 2020. Houston, TX city removes Confederate Dick Dowling from Hermann Park June 17th 2020. C. Columbus in St. Paul MN facedown on June 10th, 2020. Protesters pulled down Confederate General Albert Pike during a Juneteenth event, June 19th, 2020—Washington D.C. set on fire, rope around its neck, spray-painted. Former VP and slavery advocate John C. Calhoun is removed from the monument in his honor in Marion Square, Charleston, South Carolina, June 24th, 2020, by city. C. Columbus facedown in a shallow pond in Richmond, VA on June 9th, 2020. Red face C. Columbus Bayside Marketplace in downtown Miami on June 10th, 2020. A replica of Thomas Ball’s Emancipation Memorial erected in 1879, stands in Park Square in Boston down voted for removal, depicts Lincoln standing over a slave with a god-like hand over him. Robert E. Lee Richmond VA. June 8th, 2020. BLM painted on it.

  3. The Statues Brought Down Since the George Floyd Protests Began by Alan Taylor, The Atlantic, July 2nd, 2021. 

 KARLA LINN MERRIFIELD

Vulcanization


Sea-lashed at cliff base, Pacific-battered,

mine also is a Kona stone swept smooth to hold,

born of molten center Earth as magma,

now blushing iron-laden pahoehoe lava.

 

Swept away, I am Kona’s smooth stone to lose.

 

 IAN RICHARDSON

Looted Stone Carvings

 

 
 

Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert        

Taphian raiders longing to rob them    

As ‘twere a tree, its ripened fruit to take              

I look on chiselled histories,                                     

Carved stones of the abbey ruin in the park                        

And robber bands infest the mountains foot              

to take at night the image of a dream.                       

O, well beloved stonecutters,                                      

buried in the ruins, on Urthona’s dens,                          

buried in the ruins, on Urthona’s dens,                          

it is the pearl she loves, not cutting gems.                       

A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house.                                      

Rome’s ancient genius o’er the ruins spread              

and ‘twere a sin to rob them of their might.                

Shelley

Apollonius Rhodius

Victor Hugo

Walt Whitman

Tennyson

Robert Browning 

Victor Hugo

Walt Whitman

William Blake

William Blake

Victor Hugo

Tennyson

Alexander Pope

Alexander Pope

 
 

Monolith

 

 
 

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

                  EinsteinOneStoneMonolith

 

 MARKA RIFAT

The Ziggaret of Burgh St. Peter


This is not your sky, this milky mist,

yours is the fierce deep blue

of an ancient land between two rivers.

These mild marshes of coot and damsel fly

should be the haunt of leopards and eagles,

only the long slope of yellow thatch beside you 

echoes the rolling dunes of your true home.

Yet here, in five-tiered exotic splendour,

you command a country graveyard

sheltered not by cedars but English oaks.

 

Built in that Age of Reason, were you

met with shock, or awe, or a small nod,

the Broadland sign of firm assent,

a red brick change from round flint towers,

a sign of fortification while we fought the French.

 

Now in this Age of Wonder when all is shown

at a click, your weathered strangeness

still makes us gasp, reflect and marvel.

 RUTH MAINLAND

gargoyles would do great on instagram


Gargoyles seem happy. First off, they have a role. BIG utility. 

Gargoyles got faces like they own the place. They probably don’t even hate

the buildings that keep them, don’t even think about their master’s precious 

walls after they’ve clocked off for the night, pint after blood-pint 

after glorious blood-pint

 being swilled back down into their mouths by angels 

or something gothic and fluttering nearby, 

their faces back-lit by lights of cathedral-level importance.

 

There are some other things that are the same as gargoyles -

the sound of the glass when you drop bottles into the bottle bank. 

Blusher. Plastic pointed teeth. Each of these live their lives 

as tiny omnibuses of hyperbole.

Imagine holding that much emotion in your body. 

Gargoyles, through open smirking mouths, spew all our intensities back up

and make us look at them while they do it, until their stony throats erode.

 

I would like to be them, but I am definitely the building

big and stammering, saying nothing, 

hoping someone puts the work in so all those walls do not fall down ahahah

and dear god don’t look at me look at this cool thing I own look at what it does with

its face

 FERN MARSHALL

Fragments


Beach

As a child, I created my own beach in our inland garden, a collection of the stones I picked up and clasped in my tiny palm wherever we went. Sparkling fragments of quartz, chunks of black basalt, slivers of grey slate. The beach is gone now, the bigger pieces lining paths and the smaller ones sunk into the soil. The garden itself is built atop a maze of grey limestone, water suddenly disappearing into the earth through unseen swallow holes and into caverns below.



Long Meg

In the summer I went to see Long Meg and Her Daughters, a wide stone circle at the end of a long boreen. Long Meg is tall and made of red sandstone with a smattering of blue grey lichen. She was sun-warmed with a rough texture as I traced her mysterious markings, gently following the spiral in and out with my fingertip. The only other visitors were a small family sitting in the shade of one of the stones, three generations of women. On the ground near Long Meg, there was a bird’s foot bound with white string.



Equinox

To celebrate Spring Equinox, I went to a rushing burn in Edinburgh. The paths were busy, the ground covered with bright wild garlic shoots. I took off my shoes and socks and forded the burn, wading through the icy water. Under my feet, thousands of stones, each step a delicate balancing act. Amid the slippery green algae, I spotted two tiny pieces of white quartz and fished them out. Once across, I scrambled up the muddy bank back onto the path and dried my cold red skin as birds sang overhead.



Collection

Deep in the right-hand pocket of my winter coat there is a smooth black bean of basalt, gathered on a gusty October walk on the beach. A buttery yellow lump of quartz is carefully placed on a shelf in my bedroom, found on a perfect summer day. Beside my bed sits a small pink glass bowl from Ikea, full of crystals. Some come from my childhood collection – lavender amethyst and navy sodalite. The triangular green moss agate holds a tiny forest, and the sunstone glows like the sun in the heart of the winter.



Chipped

Years ago, when I worked unsociable hours in a nightclub and struggled to pay my bills, I got a taxi home one night. The taxi driver told me to buy a piece of yellow citrine and put it in my purse to attract money. When I think back now, there is a dreamlike quality to the memory and I remember feeling compelled to take his advice. I bought the crystal in a museum giftshop and it has been in my purse ever since, pale gold fading to cloudy white at one end and covered in tiny chips from living amongst coins for so long.

 RODDIE MCKENZIE

Beaming Down to Cappadocia


The door opens with an angry cat hiss and the air con cool 

fades back like a retreating wraith.

Outside swaddled in furnace air,

you step down onto a stark cornflour surface,

yet fertile, in your imagination.

Like alien guardians, giant stone mushrooms

slouch on slopes below rocks flowing like wind-blown curtains,

frozen in time.

 

Fairy chimneys wear stone berets

at angles as jaunty as on any beatnik.

Back-dropped by mighty buttes rising in fissured terraces,

fluted layers of strawberry and lemon stone.

Shattered rocks are crystal sugar glittering,

in the sledge hammering sun.

 

As you turn a sun-blasted corner,

Captain Kirk is karate chopping

and tumbling with anthropomorphised aliens.

Spock turns to you, twitching a single quizzical eyebrow.

And a bad tempered Bones shotguns his incredulous gaze at you.

“Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor, 

not a poet;  

it’s landscape,

but not as we know it”.

 

                                    ---

 NASIM LUCZAJ

mouthpiece


flavour can be read 

as distance

 

between what the mouth 

is and the food is

 

fry the stones in 

hungry water

 

the mouth is skin 

the food is weight

 KATE MEYER-CURREY

Tor


my granite heart 

endures winter

outlasts obdurate 

clouds that seek

to dampen its fire 

under their cloak

of sullen mist to 

veil my craggy 

face scarred by 

past seasons my 

boulders have 

lost their smooth 

contours as my 

bent shoulders 

hunched in the 

wind under the 

drenching rain 

that makes my 

stone joints ache

and fissure with

chilblains as I 

wait for another 

spring too long 

in returning the 

iron wind grates

my cold bones 

so they grind 

and creak like 

rusty gates as 

icy air corrodes

the tarnished 

bracken over

peat numbing 

my clenched 

root toes but 

my mica flecks 

hold the glint 

of deep set sun 

that melts my 

blood and sparks 

the gorse alight

into gold-flamed

grass as coiled

ferns explode 

like fireworks 

and the purple

heather smoke

hugs my knees 

and warms the 

grit huddled at

my rocky feet

 contributors


SHINE BALLARD, the cachinnating choplogic, currently creates and resides on this plane(t). @xShine14

BRITTA BENSON is a circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She writes a daily blog, Britta's Blog - Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea. Her story 'Mum's shoes' has been published by the Scottish Book Trust as part of the Book Week Scotland anthology and was also featured in The Scotsman on 13th October 2021, her story 'The Lioness' was shortlisted for the Bold Types Story Competition in November 2021. She regularly contributes prose and poetry to online literary magazines, runs a creative writing group and is currently editing the first draft of her novel about a dragon on the Isle of Skye.

ROBERT BEVERIDGE (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in FEED October Series, Breathe, and Passager, among others.

MICHAEL BLACK lives in the south of Manchester in the UK. His poems and poetry reviews are hosted in online places like: Adjacent Pineapple, Re-Side, -algia, Beir Bua, Osmosis Press, Ink Drinkers, the Babel Tower Noticeboard, and SPAM 003. Twitter: @beakyblack.

Michael Black Twitter: @beakyblack.

NICK DORMAND is a photographer and artist who captures images on his daily walks at the seaside of East Devon in the UK.

PAULETTE DUBÉ was two years old when she watched her third sister come into the world via the kitchen table. She has been hooked on creation, and miracles ever since. Today, she relies on the good fortune of living in Jasper National Park for her daily dose of magic realism. Her poetry and prose have garnered a number of rewards and short list nominations including the Milton Acorn Memorial People’s Poetry Award, the CBC Alberta Anthology, the CBC Literary Awards, the Alberta Writers’ Guild Best Novel Award, the Starburst Award, the Exporting Alberta Award and the Fred Kerner Award.You can find me on twitter @paulettedube on FB and on instagram @pauletteblanchettedube and paulettedube

MIKE FERGUSON is an American permanently resident in East Devon, UK. His most recent publications are 'And I Used to Sail Barges' (The Red Ceilings Press, 2020) and 'Drawing on Previous Learning' (Wrecking Ball Press, 2021).

JEFF GALLAGHER is a poet and playwright from Sussex, England. His poems have appeared in a number of magazines including Rialto, One Hand Clapping, The Journal and Spellbinder. He has had numerous plays for young people published and performed in various locations nationwide. He has also appeared in an Oscar-winning movie. He has no social media ‘handles’ but runs an occasional blog called ‘The Poetry Show With Gally G.’

FIONA GLEN is a writer and artist from Edinburgh and currently based in London, where she graduated in 2020 from the MA Writing at the Royal College of Art. Bridging essay, poetry, script, and fiction, her writing explores messy embodiment, unruly ecologies, and how human beings understand themselves through other beings and things. Glen's work has been published in anthologies from Dark Mountain to Letters to the Earth, and in periodicals including 3:AM Magazine, MAP Magazine, and Aesthetica online.

KEVIN GRAUKE is the author of Shadows of Men (Queen's Ferry Press), winner of the Steven Turner Award from the Texas Institute of Letters.

ED HIGGINS’ poems and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals including: Monkeybicycle, Danse Macabre, Ekphrastic Review, and Triggerfish Critical Review, among others. Ed is Asst. Editor for Brilliant Flash Fiction. He has a small farm in Yamhill, OR, raising a menagerie of animals—including a rooster named StarTrek.

In a past century HEIKKI HUOTARI attended a one-room school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. He's a retired math professor and has published poems in numerous literary journals, including Spillway, the American Journal of Poetry and Willow Springs. His fifth collection, When Correlation Is Causation, is in press.

Exercising through various mediums, HENRY HU’s (born 1995 Hong Kong) emerging practice commits to an infusion. An exchange. An immediacy. A link between the interior and the exterior — of a self, a being, an identity, a consciousness. Each individual series offers an overarching narrative, steps away from the present for a spell: tasked with casting new perspectives, fresh air to breathe, a spiritual relief. Often juxtaposing the past with the future, differing forms of surrealistic fantasies unfold across his works; along with a recurring structure, the heart of all series rests in harmony.

XINYI JIANG was born in China’s Qingdao and studied in Nanjing and Shanghai. She taught in Fudan University before moving to the UK. She had lived in England and Wales before settling in Scotland.

SCARLET KATZ ROBERTS is 23 years old. After graduating from her English degree at Oxford University, she has now begun an MA in Poetry at UEA. Her work is often concerned with figures from medieval literature — she is interested in how their emotional range interacts with modern landscapes.

J.I. KLEINBERG’s poems have been published in print and online journals worldwide. An artist, poet, freelance writer, and three-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, she lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg.

TERESA H. KLEPAC enjoys writing poetry and fiction, and has been a journalist, corporate editor/writer and magazine designer for many years. Most recent publications include: Vagrant Magic in Blood and Bourbon Issue #9; American Ramble in Pure Slush Sept. 2021; Catbird Seat in StillPoint Arts Quarterly March 2021; Counting Stars, Counting Crows in ArtAscent Oct. 2020. Her fiction Safe Person was included in the Hard Times Happen Anthology 2021, and Heirloom Rocker, a poem, was featured in TigerShark. She is a member of The Merry Bombadils chapter of the MSPS and Columbia Writers Group.

ELIZABETH JOY LEVINSON teaches and writes on the southwest side of Chicago. She has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University and an MAT in Biology from Miami University. Recent work has been published in Whale Road Review, FEED, Tiny Spoon, Floresta, SWWIM, Cobra Milk, and others. She is the author of two chapbooks: As Wild Animals (Dancing Girl Press) and Running Aground (Finishing Line Press). Her first full length collection, Uncomfortable Ecologies, will be published in the fall of 2023 (Unsolicited Press).

NASIM LUCZAJ is a Glasgow-based poet, translator, DJ and life model. She is the author of HIND MOUTH, a pamphlet for the Earthbound Poetry Series, and her work has appeared in the anthology the weird folds: everyday poems from the anthropocene. Her new pamphlet Enskyment is forthcoming with OrangeApple Press.

RUTH MAINLAND is a native Shetlander living in Glasgow who works as a Primary Teacher in Paisley. When she isn’t tying wet shoelaces, she writes poetry and short stories. She was awarded the Grierson Verse prize for her writing, and has been published in Gutter magazine, The Island Review and Culture Matters, among others.

FERN MARSHALL is a writer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. Writing is a source of solace and escape for her, with a focus on nature and mental health. Her work has appeared in Little Livingroom. She is on Instagram @fernmarshal.

KARLA LINN MERRIFIELD has had 900+ poems appear in dozens of journals and anthologies, with 14 books to her credit. Following her 2018 Psyche’s Scroll (Poetry Box Select) is the newly released full-length book Athabaskan Fractal: Poems of the Far North from Cirque Press. She is currently at work on a poetry collection, My Body the Guitar, inspired by famous guitarists and their guitars; the book is slated to be published in December 2021 by Before Your Quiet Eyes Publications Holograph Series (Rochester, NY). Web site: https://www.karlalinnmerrifield.org/; blog at https://karlalinnmerrifeld.wordpress.com/; Tweet @LinnMerrifiel; Instagram: https://www.facebook.com/karlalinn.merrifield.

KATE MEYER-CURREY moved to Devon in 1973. A varied career in frontline settings has fuelled her interest in gritty urbanism, contrasted with a rural upbringing, often with a slipstream twist. Since September 2020 she has had over a hundred poems published in print and online journals, both in the UK and internationally.Her first chapbook ‘County Lines’ (Dancing Girl Press) comes out this Autumn. Her second Cuckoo’s Nest’ (Contraband Books) is due in February 2022.

A resident of Connecticut, JOHN MURO is a graduate of Trinity College, Wesleyan University and the University of Connecticut. In the Lilac Hour, John’s first volume of poems, was published last fall by Antrim House, and it is available on Amazon. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in numerous literary journals, including River Heron, Moria, Sheepshead, Writer Shed, Euonia, Third Wednesday and the French Literary Review. John is also a two-time nominee for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

SHARI LAWRENCE PFLEEGER’s poems, inspired by human, technical and natural interactions, are published in several literary journals, including Thimble Literary Magazine, Green Light Literary Magazine, Blue House Journal and District Lines. Her first chapbook, Yorkshire Sonnets, is available here. Pfleeger’s work has won awards at several Ripon Poetry Festivals, and she read most recently at Ripon and for Poets vs the Pandemic. An enthusiastic board member for Alice James Press, Pfleeger lives, writes and rides her bicycle in Washington, DC.

FABRICE POUSSIN teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

IAN RICHARDSON lives on the East coast of Scotland. He was overall winner in Scottish Borders 'Waverley Lines' in September 2015. In November 2015 his postmodern poem 'Notes for my Frankenstein Film' was published and performed at The Poetry Club Raum 2, Glasgow's international poetry magazine. In 2016 Ian was presented with the Anstruther Writing Award and was a regular contributor to 'Lies, Dreaming' spoken word podcast. More recently his poetry has been published in several places including blackboughpoetry.com. In 2019/20 Ian studied haiku and micro poetry, many examples of which can be found on Twitter @IanRich10562022

MARKA RIFAT lives in north-east Scotland. She writes stories, poems, plays and articles. Recently selected for the Lancaster 1 Minute Monologue booklet, awarded 3rd in the inaugural international Saki short story competition, commended in the Toulmin and Janet Coats Memorial prizes and featured in the John Byrne Award, her work appears in more than 20 North American, UK and Australian anthologies.

FABIO SASSI makes photos and acrylics using whatever is considered to have no worth by the mainstream. He often puts a quirky twist to his subjects or employs an unusual perspective that gives a new angle of view. He really enjoys taking the everyday and ordinary and framing it in a different way. He also likes the imperfect in things and believe that those imperfections add a lot of value. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy. His work can be viewed at fabiosassi.foliohd.com

WILLIAM THOMPSON is totally blind, and he teaches children’s literature for MacEwan University in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. His work appears in journals from both North American and the UK, including Hippocampus Magazine, Penmen Review, Ponder Review, COB Magazine, Literary Orphans, and Firewords Magazine. He has two collections of stories ¬ The Paper Man and Other Stories and Fractured and Other Fairy Tales.

CHRISTIAN WARD s a UK-based writer who can be recently found in Red Ogre Review, Discretionary Love and Stone Poetry Journal. Future poems will be appearing in Dreich, Uppagus and Spillwords. He was recently shortlisted for the 2021 Canterbury Poet of the Year Competition and the 2021 Plough Prize.

COLE W. WILLIAMS is the author of Hear the River Dammed: Poems from the Edge of the Mississippi (Beaver’s Pond Press, 2017) as well as several books for children. Her poems are forthcoming in About the Art, FERAL, North Dakota Quarterly; and found in Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Intima: Journal of Narrative Medicine, Martin Lake Journal, Indolent Books online, Waxing & Waning, Harpy Hybrid Review, and other journals, as well as in a number of anthologies. She recently attended Rockvale Writer’s Colony and graduated from the MFA program at Augsburg University in Minneapolis.

JOHN WINDER is a landscape and creative photographer working in both colour and black and white. He began photography many years ago and enjoys trudging around outdoors, hauling camera gear, and spending time behind the camera lens. He has been developing his abstract landscape imagery more recently using unusual viewpoints and long exposure techniques. He has art work previously published in The Bangor Literary Journal and The Fly on the Wall Press.

  BlueHouse Journal is edited by Meredith Grace Thompson.

Thank you to all our wonderful readers & contributors.

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