In this issue



Alanna Blake:

On Being Angry

Advice to a Would-be Entrepreneur

Tony Cloke:

Three untitled Haiku

Bill Greenwell:

Amy, Amy

Oh Woes, Thou Run Thick!

A Poison Tree

Matt Harvey:

She Said to Him

If Love

Great Conversions of Our Time

Helena Nelson:

The Normal Child

Submission Guidelines

Man and Nature: A Meditation

Bob Newman:

I just couldn't resist

The Bittern

Two Clerihews

D A Prince:

Mirror, Mirror

A Million Miles from Vogue

George Herbert Downs Tools

Andy Proudfoot

Open Letter

George Simmers:


Frances Thompson

A Lady's First Sighting of Michelangelo's David


John Whitworth

The Things She Says

Captain W E Johns Rallies Us in the Dark Days of the War


Issue 1: March 2008

A number of friends and contacts were begged, blandished, bullied and blagged into contributing items to this issue.  As a result of their enthusiasm and generosity the Editor has had to leave a lot of excellent material on file.  Much of it may appear in future editions.

His huge thanks go to all those who have contributed their work, not for cash, malt whisky or book tokens but simply for the promise of a brief editorial mention to include a website Link and, hopefully, useful references to their publication successes. Also, and perhaps less wisely, to random biographical details chosen at the whim of the Editor - a practice which will continue in respect of all future contributors. 

The illustrations, including the wonderfully doleful-but-resigned-to-it-all bust at the head of the Home Page, are by Will Nice.

Martin Parker



To make sure you scroll to the bottom of the contributors' list, here are two relevant and heartfelt items of my own:

The Poet's Song    

A poetís lot is not a happy one

As he tries to make a living from his verse.

Thereís no recognition, income, fame or fun

For his chance of publication canít be worse.

Too few publishers will help a living poet

By enabling him to get his new work read.

Though the sods may like his work they seldom show it;

They much prefer their poets to be dead.


Itís the late ones who bring in vast sums of money.

You can earn a better living once youíre dead.

For the struggling current poet itís not funny

That itís corpses who are earning all the bread.

So to make ends meet what I should now be doing

Is to buy a knife and go and cut my throat.

Then my royalties will surely start accruing

When they posthumously publish what I wrote.


First published in The Spectator, also appears in 'Pick ní Mix'

 Enough is Enough

A few crisp lines should be enough

to satisfy the poetry buff.

Poetry should be short and pacey.

So cut out crap. Rethink and prťcis.


Surplus words will never please, or

justify your killing trees for.