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Carolyn Oulton

Whoever I Am To Them

For the record,
I don’t come here to chase men.
My husband has never
played football in his life.
What I’m reading
really is a sequel
to Anne of Green Gables.

But this week Sylvia isn’t
thank you sorrysorry thank you.
Says she’d – shakes fist at – anyone
who wasn’t being kind to me.
Finds us something to laugh at,
says she could eat me. Of course I’m
just a stand-in. But I love her too.

Carolyn’s poetry has been widely published, including in: Artemis, Dream Catcher, The Frogmore Papers, Ink Sweat & Tears, Nine Muses, Orbis, The Poetry Village, The Moth and Seventh Quarry. Her most recent collection Accidental Fruit is published by Worple Press.

Mandy Macdonald

Redcurrant thief

bold as brass, the blackbird
sashays across the garden
wingtip brushes my nose
quizzical eye checks me
out – what will I dare?
what will he?

poses for a moment on the redcurrant bush,
angles his head down, tweezes a scarlet berry
with surgical delicacy
in that chrome-yellow beak
flicks his head, it’s gone

moves on to the next.

Mandy Macdonald is an Australian writer living in Aberdeen. Recent poems have appeared in Impspiring, Causeway/Cabhsair, The Poets’ Republic, and elsewhere in print and online, and in anthologies such as Multiverse (Shoreline of Infinity) and Vaster Than Empires (Grey Hen). Her debut pamphlet, The temperature of blue, is imminent.

Adrian Eagle

The House

On the hill stands
a cracked-toothed curmudgeon
of a ruined house. It aches
in structural senescent defiance
groaning under a spiteful sky
that drowns Its reproach
till it is left
a sodden wretch.

Draped in its tattered
fineries. Weeping.

Wrecked walls shed the bonds
between bricks as one by one
they are lost
like memories to the past.
A home without a family,
a family without mortar.
frondescent fingers claw
through the cracks and crumbs
of a body that bears
the vermiculation of neglect.

I see its lonely silhouette and wonder
if I stood still for long enough,
would I succumb to the same sorrow
and be left
to disintegrate,
in an open grave
under a lidless sky.

Adrian Eagle lives in Milnsbridge near Huddersfield and spends his time on a rope inspecting the railway viaducts in the north west of the country. This is his first  published poem.

David Leo Sirois

The sound appears

Outburst of the last bird
looking for light

The sound appears as grey rain continues
emptying its quiver Falling staccato

Lights of living rooms conspire to wire the nights together
with almost-invisible seams
as prism’d eyes project patterns
where there are none &
make worlds attempt to function
without sun or sleep or space between

A mass of black skies
obscures secret illicit movements

In wind I live move have my being

I desired fame for the fruit
of a prayer’s drenched branches ~
trading the coin of that realm

Among ethereal oil paint landscapes
the sound appears
in waves of Payne’s grey & Alizarin crimson

Luminous hum

The sound Metallic drum
of a door as it clicks & locks

The sound wells up on lit streets of
midnight blue twilight

Whirling birds converse over the square

The sound appears
as bright broad symphonic chords

The sapphire here

The sound appears as breakdown highway rumble strip
& Paradiso song of intermingled birds

This ink silent
The sound appears

David Leo Sirois is a Canadian-American poet who lives in Madawaska, Maine. Poems have appeared in The Sunday Tribune Online, The Opiate, Those That This, THE BASTILLE, Belleville Park Pages, Paris Lit Up, Terre à Ciel, Two Words For, & more. Altogether, he has published over 75 pieces

Martin Ferguson


Small window in the winter
of English winters when we knew
conditions chance aligned
to hold the weight of our escapes

and we knew the place,
that the ice would not wait,
we made the trip to silvered field,
we tied them on, ready to wield

those heavy blunted clunking clogs,
would make us feel as high as sprites
the brown old leather ankle boots
their metal blades with flecked rust bites

had seen better snowbound seasons
on our grandparents; quick heels.
Back upon the glaze, animals transformed
how they still could dance and reel

make our growing bones buzz and sing,
and race and speed on frozen range,
then we were their ghosts,
souls flying free over flooded plains.

Martin Ferguson was born in West Yorkshire. His poems have appeared in several publications including Envoi, Iota, Purple Patch and more recently The Guardian online and Ink Sweat and Tears.  His first collection was shortlisted by Against The Grain Press and published in 2018 by Original Plus. He gives occasional readings at Au Chat Noir, Paris.


Green Fields: sorted for songs

Maytree Press

The time has come – check whether your favourite made it onto the festival mix-tape.

Play loud at 17.45 and together, in our minds, let’s meet on the ledge. Enjoy!

Here’s the list:

Intro: Pink Floyd v David Bowie
I Wanna Be Adored – Stone Roses
Starman – David Bowie
Can’t Stop – Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Touch the Sky – Kanye West
All You Good Good People – Embrace
Sorted For Es and Whizz – Pulp
Hey Joe – Jimi Hendrix
Jolene – Dolly Parton
No Surprises – Radiohead
Meet Me On the Ledge – Fairport Convention
Any Colour You Like – Pink Floyd

Mixed by DeC – from the kitchen 2020.

We hope you’ve enjoyed our virtual launch of Green Fields over on the Poetry Village during week – here’s a fitting end from one of our editors with a few memories of better times.

In the End…

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Green Fields: Ian Humphreys

We hope you’ve enjoyed our special week celebrating Green Fields. Both Nick and David would like to offer a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to submit poems. No one could have imagined that the book would be launched into the type of world that we see today and for everyone who has ordered a copy we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Our aim has always been to offer free opportunities to writers to submit their work but we can only do this if people buy our books – please share widely and if you have bought a copy and enjoyed it then please shout it from the roof tops (or post something nice of social media).

Tomorrow should have been our very special launch event with Huddersfield Literature Festival. We were delighted to see that the event had almost sold out and, like many, are saddened at the loss of our society as we once knew it. We know, however, that it’s important to keep safe, protect ourselves and look after those more vulnerable.

Love from the Poetry Village.


Return of the discotheque dancers

           Come back, come back—you glistening boys,
you clerks and scholars, farmhands, plumbers,
you make-up artists, money men, you lives

hacked short. You oh-so-very-dazzling, you boho
fops, you preachers, poachers, lovers, sons. My sons.
Years ago we buried you in shame. You bore the guilt

as night closed in. So Many Men, So Little Time,
the chorus rang. When the dry ice lifted
and the spotlight glowered, so many friends were gone.

Rise up! Break free of soil, of stone, of ivy’s snare.
Come chase the hare, the handsome fox. Rattle cages,
shake your bones, come back for one last wicked

whirligig. Imbibe the city—its bars and clubs,
its tribes and scars. Refrains that moved us then will tug
the moon. Shed your shirts, your wounded skin,

shatter the glass dance-floor. Our song’s half-sung
so flex your voices, roar like guns. Tallulah’s waiting!
Devilish nuns are roller-skating!

Come back, come back—you glistening boys.
Let’s march again at Bang, Scandals, Napoleons,
Spats, Subway, Copa’s and Heaven, Heaven, Heaven!