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Vol.3. No. 2. January 2010





Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
Claire Godden-Rowland
Dike Okoro
Dominic James
Emmanuel Sigauke
Mandy Pannett
Noel Williams
N Quentin Woolf
Olu Oguibe
Paul Jeffcutt
Sharma Taylor
Susanna Roxman
W Jack Savage




Sharma Taylor


Love Poem


If you tell me you love me you would be lying.

Love does not feel like this.

Like a tight fist

This loss of understanding

Hot pain and silt in the eyes

Like sand

My brain is flapping in the wind

Like sin

while your damp shirt is outside on the line.


Love Poem II


Some days the blood on your tongue drips like honey.

‘If you loved me you would not leave me,’ someone says.

doors slam

cases are closed

Game pieces are packed away in dusty boxes

awaiting the bitter rematch.

Who keeps score?

I am left alone picking up the mess on the carpet

wondering when we will stop acting like children

in grown-up shoes.

I drown in the:

‘Why? Where?  If?  How? When?’ and ‘Who?’


Poetry Submissions Offspring


I click send and watch my poems

disappear into the abyss.

In a twinkle of an eye.

In a flash.

Why is the internet called a ‘web’, anyway?

Dangerous place!

Palms sweat.

Heart sinks to where blood pools.

They are babies suddenly alone at night

before I can call them back into warmth

they disappear from sight.

Are they ready?


Wish I could

go with them - like children, in the dark

hold their hands

wait outside the bathroom, standing guard;

peer under the bed

make sure there are no monsters lurking

to pounce when I am out of view.


Do they return, arrive safely

or are miscarried in trash bins?

Do they float in zero gravity?

Do they remember me?

I stumble

stubbing my toe on the floor

already forgetting what I have lost.


Keys rattle in the door.

My flat-mates look at me, concerned -

they do not recognize this blob

on the couch

as animated as the dishes piled in the sink.

I haven’t eaten or left the apartment for days

that feel like hours,

haven’t slept, haven’t showered.

I’m a ghost with dried fingers like claws.


The poems return in dreams unbidden.

“I am a poet,” I say abashed - this feels

like a fiction as someone laughs

in the next room, glass breaks.

I speak

though I know nothing.


What happens if they don’t find the way back home?

Is a mother without her children still one?

I am here.


Three poems. © Sharma Taylor, 2009


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Sharma Taylor currently lives in New Zealand where she is pursuing a PhD in Law. Taylor's work has previously been published in Bearing Witness Volumes 1 and 2: The Best of the Observer Arts Magazine 2000 - edited by Wayne Brown and published by the Jamaica Observer Limited.



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