![]() This is the kind of magazine that you keep forever and continuously revisit which is evident in both its physical quality and the quality of the content. Released quarterly, Popshot can be purchased as a single issue for £6 or as a yearly subscription for £24. In 2012, it relaunched itself as ‘the illustrated magazine of new writing.’ It looks for the best writers and illustrators and combines their work to produce a stimulating culmination of fantastic artwork. The magazine proves that poetry is still fresh and exciting in the 21 st century. It certainly did that when it became the first British poetry magazine to be internationally distributed in 18 countries. Launched in April 2009, Popshot was a poetry magazine intended to breathe new life into British poetry. poems above are taken from Shelling Peas with My Grandmother in the Gorgiolands, published by Bloodaxe on 26th May 2022.Popshot is a literary magazine which publishes short stories, flash fiction and poetry. Her first collection Shelling Peas with My Grandmother in the Gorgiolands is available from Bloodaxe in May 2022. She has published two prize-winning pamphlets: Bloodlines (Seren, 2020) and The Last Dinosaur in Doncaster (Smith|Doorstop, 2021). Sarah Wimbush’s poetry is rooted in Yorkshire with tales of childhood, colliery villages and Gypsies and Travellers. Rattle buckets – ‘Miners Children’s Xmas Party’ Previously published in Ink, Sweat and Tears Slides her jaws around a roadkill squirrel, She paws the tarmac, bows to me – but no, I wait outside my daughter’s boyfriend’s house.Ī flicker creeps into my peripheral vision –Ī head that oscillates her upturned snout. ![]() Previously published in The Interpreter’s House ![]() Or maybe leant against the wall, says over, fot in’t war, I did –Īnd he has no hat. The men drift away, one lad left on the floor Or could it have been into the air? Metals wield and thud. The chuckers bless a fat penny each and bowl against the wall, Beneath the sign, ‘No Gambling Or Spitting’, Or was it Pluck? A school of men march into the yard, keen to winĪ fortune with Pitch and Toss. Or was it the dray, water Plunk our dapple pony, or was it Spike Daddy has a bloke to seeĪt The Old Ship Inn or perhaps The Robin Hood, God’s peopleīlinking as they enter daylight. With washday waste, singing Paddy McGinty’s Goat or maybe That morning, we pitch our caravans on Joe White’s, Previously published in Bloodlines (Seren 2020). On a still day, I feel that call for miles. Her first full collection was shortlisted in Live Canon’s 2021 Collection Competition. She has two pamphlets: Naming Bones ( ignitionpress, 2019) and Ovarium (The Emma Press, forthcoming in June 2022). Joanna Ingham lives in Suffolk and writes poetry and fiction. She has work forthcoming from Broken Sleep books and Poetry International. ![]() Placed or commended in numerous competitions, she recently won the Anthropocene Valentine’s Day Poetry Competition 2022. Nora Nadjarian is a Cypriot poet and writer who has been published internationally. Marie Antoinette picks it up, trembling with rage, starts plucking itsįeathers. One sparrow leaves her hair, bashes against the She takes the shoes off the counter and starts tearing them apart,īiting them, spitting thread and buckles out. I am not Whoever, says MarieĪntoinette, I’m the Queen. Says the salesgirl, who’s been trained to say that, to whoever. She turns to the salesgirl: I’d like to buy the mannequin. Then she calls the palace: More shoe-shaped cakes, she says, though it sounds more like an Strawberry Sherbet, Cherry Glaze, Carousel Purple, Pursuit of Happiness, and she giggles. Splash of colour in the palace, says Marie Antoinette, I ordered hundreds of paints online. Thinks, licks whipped cream off her fingers. Then her hair becomes a bird nest, sparrows fly in and out. She tries on a pair of flat shoes, her hair is flat, her Salesgirl says they don’t sell them here. Marie Antoinette’s shoes are like cakes in pastel colours. The Salesgirl says the Mannequin is Not for Sale
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