Hey, Who Really Cares? – a poem by Martha Sprackland

11 January 2017 // Poetry

after the song by Linda Perhacs & Oliver Nelson Birds in the wire cage of an open shop singing of grated tin and rusted wind. When the city turns it turns into a dream of water, all the red dust turned to blue. The thing is, I walk past this chalk graffiti so often I […]

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Mend and make do: a poem by Martha Sprackland

30 September 2016 // Poetry

The arm of my sunglasses – now they are so level even my crooked face parades a certain symmetry. This front tooth, whose bedrock is endodontic filler, was cleared of pain and fixed. The molar at the bottom left waits its turn. A milk jug cleft from base to lip. A commemorative plate. All cracked […]

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Snail: a poem by Martha Sprackland

8 August 2016 // Poetry

I caved him in with the heel of my shoe not quickly enough. Not the fair, conclusive smash of a foot’s full weight but the realising what it was, too late, and quickly lifting off – this is worse. The job half-done, the bad day let inside the secret room through the terrible new skylight. […]

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Levels: A poem by Martha Sprackland

21 February 2016 // Poetry

All perihelion week the levels rose and he returned to check the river’s milky height six times a day. It lifted up the banks like wholemeal bread against the sides of a black loaf-tin. Before breakfast, while the kettle churned he slipped on a pair of boots and walked the quarter mile to the harbourside, […]

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Canticle: A poem by Martha Sprackland

6 February 2016 // Poetry

for cushioned nights of thunder and thick air when all the floodgates of the sky have burst and drench the town in summer storms enriched by rising dust from roads and pollen from the wetted heads of honeysuckle and catchfly one small sheltered corner, nooked between the trellis and the compost bin, keeps a lee […]

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