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
|
|
Front cover poem for #60 by J.S. Watts
Tonight The Voltage Bird Returns
So, the voltage bird flies again,
lightning forking in its scabby feathers,
wings as black as the final dawn.
And everyone is angry.
Everyone is scared,
echoing the groans of all the dead men,
the shrieks of torn children.
But it is a bird
and it will fly.
We grope for words with eyes that will not see.
Why this obsessive need for talk,
tchacking like startled jackdaws,
when the passage of the voltage bird
sheds silence in its wake,
sucking all our hollow words
into its thunderous vacuum,
gifting only one or two
eloquence to defy its binding.
The rest of us spew soiled straw
into the empty places
we pretend aren’t there.
While inside each of us
a solitary scorched black feather
settles slowly down
through a tortured world of hush
towards its destination.
So, the voltage bird flies again,
lightning forking in its scabby feathers,
wings as black as the final dawn.
And everyone is angry.
Everyone is scared,
echoing the groans of all the dead men,
the shrieks of torn children.
But it is a bird
and it will fly.
We grope for words with eyes that will not see.
Why this obsessive need for talk,
tchacking like startled jackdaws,
when the passage of the voltage bird
sheds silence in its wake,
sucking all our hollow words
into its thunderous vacuum,
gifting only one or two
eloquence to defy its binding.
The rest of us spew soiled straw
into the empty places
we pretend aren’t there.
While inside each of us
a solitary scorched black feather
settles slowly down
through a tortured world of hush
towards its destination.
