The bard celebrates two other fine practitioners of the art, and laments a lost brewer
Sucked
Mark Waldron
Sucked perhaps, and popped
from sockets, but still tethered
to the face by strings (as kites are
to their grounded flyers) the eyes
themselves won’t cry, but their vacated
hollows might, the twin concavities
the tears fill until they overflowing, spill.
So, two strung conkers now; portholed
bathyspheres which, both held between
a finger and a thumb, might each
be shown the bloated fish of the other.
These clackers, these sackless knackers,
this bolas which we gauchos use to hunt
on the scrubby plains of blindness.
ANDY CROFT welcomes the publication of an anthology of recent poems published by the Morning Star, and hopes it becomes an annual event
TONY FOX invites readers to come and hear the story of the remarkable Liverpudlian International Brigader Alexander Foote
by Clare Evans
by Widad Nabi


