The Journal
'...plenty of different styles of poetry in each issue. The result is that, whilst The Journal will never have that sense of comforting familiarity that some 'zine have developed, it will always stretch your boundaries.' The Supplement #73
'...an international magazine in the tradition of Poesie Europe, Ecuatorial, and Labrys. It publishes poems in English, in particular by English-language poets in exile, translations into English alongside the originals, interviews with poets, and appraisals of current poetry scenes...' Wolfgang Görtschacher 'A plainly elegant layout, making the most of its size to incorporate sequences and longer poems, articles and plenty of reviews .... The contents are global ... all saying what has to be said, in ways and words you wish you'd imagined. Shining intelligence, to brighten and inspire serious poetry lovers.' Orbis 'Few publications deliver consistently good issues — The Journal is among them. Filled with well-written poems from some of the best contemporary poets I've ever read, The Journal is the definitive showpiece of the small press. Each issue also contains thorough book and journal reviews composed by writers whose love of literature is evident.' Hyacinthe L. Raven Via Dolorosa Press (USA) '...interesting and experimental while avoiding the obscure and unnecessarily difficult. Add to the excellent selection of poetry, some interesting and insightful reviews and The Journal is a must for anyone who loves poetry and is not afraid of a bit of experimentation and the new insights that this can bring.' Juliet Wilson
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#64 front cover poem by John Freeman
Sharing Sweets on a Station Platform
When I see loose-limbed, graceful cricketers
from Trinidad, Jamaica or Barbados,
I think of men I used to meet in childhood,
bus drivers and conductors, railway porters,
or crowding Brixton market where I went
to buy potatoes, apples, greens and grapefruit
from a list given me by my mother.
It was the friendliest, safest place I knew.
What shocked me when I opened an account
at a bank was hearing tellers making jokes,
not caring if I heard them, that weren’t funny
but full of ugly spite about their neighbours.
I saw nothing to like in either of them.
I wouldn’t call their unwholesome colour white,
just unhealthy, pallid like curdled milk
or something else that ought to be thrown out.
I thought back to when I’d been much younger,
standing on platform 2 at Herne Hill, taking
a fruit gum from a packet, peeling it back
to offer to somebody who was with me.
A railway worker built like Joel Garner
happened to be walking along the track.
I caught his eye and offered him a fruit gum.
Tall as he was, his face was just below me.
I peeled the paper back. His hands were dirty,
he showed me, so I put into his mouth
the small round ridged jelly like a wafer,
as he looked up with a face as trusting
as I was myself or even more so.
Don’t think I’m saying that he wasn’t adult.
I’m sure people like those clerks had got to him.
He was touched, I saw, and made me feel I’d done
something beautiful, but to me it was he
who was beautiful, a spirit full of grace.
I hope that moment shone through years of insult
for him as it has always done for me.
Sharing Sweets on a Station Platform
When I see loose-limbed, graceful cricketers
from Trinidad, Jamaica or Barbados,
I think of men I used to meet in childhood,
bus drivers and conductors, railway porters,
or crowding Brixton market where I went
to buy potatoes, apples, greens and grapefruit
from a list given me by my mother.
It was the friendliest, safest place I knew.
What shocked me when I opened an account
at a bank was hearing tellers making jokes,
not caring if I heard them, that weren’t funny
but full of ugly spite about their neighbours.
I saw nothing to like in either of them.
I wouldn’t call their unwholesome colour white,
just unhealthy, pallid like curdled milk
or something else that ought to be thrown out.
I thought back to when I’d been much younger,
standing on platform 2 at Herne Hill, taking
a fruit gum from a packet, peeling it back
to offer to somebody who was with me.
A railway worker built like Joel Garner
happened to be walking along the track.
I caught his eye and offered him a fruit gum.
Tall as he was, his face was just below me.
I peeled the paper back. His hands were dirty,
he showed me, so I put into his mouth
the small round ridged jelly like a wafer,
as he looked up with a face as trusting
as I was myself or even more so.
Don’t think I’m saying that he wasn’t adult.
I’m sure people like those clerks had got to him.
He was touched, I saw, and made me feel I’d done
something beautiful, but to me it was he
who was beautiful, a spirit full of grace.
I hope that moment shone through years of insult
for him as it has always done for me.
