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Hear poet Joe Williams read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Joe Williams wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Joe Williams is a writer and performing poet from Leeds. His latest book is The Taking Part : a pamphlet of poems on the theme of sports and games. His other work includes the pamphlet This is Virus , a sequence of erasure poems made from Boris Johnson’s letter to the UK during the COVID-19 pandemic, and the verse novella An Otley Run , shortlisted for Best Novella in the 2019 Saboteur Awards. the poems On Platform Zero 00:00 / 01:29 On platform zero, the next train departing is the 08:26 to Oblivion, calling at Emptiness, Nihilism and Existential Dread. This train has no carriages. Please mind the gap between illusion and reality. If you require assistance, stand on a chair and scream. On platform zero, a man has been waiting for the 10:44 to Scarborough for 87 days. To pass the time, he has grown a beard and memorised the names of every Secretary of State for Transport since 1919. The information screen says On time. On platform zero, the 12:15 to London King’s Cross has been replaced by the 16:22 to Inverness. The Tannoy says they apologise for any convenience. Please wait for the doors to open before boarding the train. First-class passengers are advised to go somewhere else. On platform zero, you can view the plans for Northern Powerhouse Rail and the HS2 extension, which will definitely be completed by 2048, latest, unless it is delayed by planned engineering works or llamas on the line or societal collapse or unprecedented coastal erosion. On platform zero, they are building platform minus one. In the Lounge Bar of the Comrades Club Ashington, 1984 00:00 / 00:43 The bairns play under the tables, waiting for Lisa to finish her sweep of the room that tastes of tab smoke and last year’s graft. Lisa gets to Denny, head down, checking the bingo in the Daily Star. She lifts her bucket, delivers a practised line: It’s for the miners . Denny hoys in a pound coin, bright from a nylon pocket. You can ha’ this, pet. Ah divven’t like them. Tha wus nowt wrang wi’ the nurts. When Lisa’s done working the room she takes the bairns outside, where glass from a stoved-in nearside window catches her palm, drawing blood. Glastonbury, Parts 1 & 2 00:00 / 00:55 The first time was magical, baked in psychedelic sun, a third summer of love. Sat outside the dance tent, passing smuggled spliffs, our skins scraped the parched earth to sounds curated by Massive Attack. On stage, someone broke the news: John Major had resigned. Raised the biggest cheer of the day. The second time was Biblical, rain-slapped, mud-soaked. We didn’t see the papers that compared it to the Somme. Pre-mobile, we had no means of contact over ravaged fields. I never found out why I ended up in the rescue van. Might have been something in the whizz. I waited for you for hours. Publishing credits On Platform Zero: The Poetry Supertram (Chapel FM, Writing on Air Festival 2022) In the Lounge Bar of the Comrades Club: Oluwale Now (Peepal Tree Press) Glastonbury, Parts 1 & 2: Green Fields: Sorted for poems (Maytree Press)

Hear poet Kelly Davis read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Kelly Davis wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Kelly Davis lives on the West Cumbrian coast and works as a freelance editor. Her poetry has been widely anthologised and published in magazines such as Mslexia , Magma and Shooter . She has twice been shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and she appears in the Best New British and Irish Poets 2019–2021 anthology (Black Spring Press). In 2021, she collaborated with Kerry Darbishire on their poetry pamphlet Glory Days (Hen Run). Her debut solo collection, The Lost Art of Ironing , was published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in 2024. the poems Calling them in 00:00 / 01:33 Come home for your tea! We called them in, as day fled and night ate our words. The sun had already set. Come home for your tea! Anxiety edged our voices and night ate our words. It was much too late. The sun had already set. Come home for your tea! Anxiety edged our voices, imagined fears grew larger and night ate our words. They grew up so suddenly. Dusk took us by surprise. It was much too late. Come home for your tea! They could no longer hear us. The sun had already set, with darkness at its heels, and night ate our words. We were wasting our breath. It seems a moment ago but it’s twenty years or more. Somehow they gave us the slip. Time wouldn’t wait. Did we suspect, even then? Anxiety edged our voices. Perhaps we had a premonition – imagined fears grew larger. We tried to call them home and night ate our words. Grandfather 00:00 / 01:16 My grandfather’s hands were thick-knuckled and strong. Bear’s paws that scooped me up when we swam in the sea at Durban beach. Sometimes they held carving knives, sliced succulent roast chicken or salt beef, stole the fatty trimmings, popped them in his mouth when he thought no one saw. As a boy in Lithuania, his hands must have been small and soft. Perhaps he played chess with his brothers, helped sort envelopes at the family post office. In 1941, in Durban, those hands opened a letter that said his parents, brothers, brother’s wives and children had all been shot. Somehow his hands continued brushing shaving cream on his chin, patting his daughter’s head, fastening his cuff links, wiping his eyes when he wept. Meeting in deep time 00:00 / 01:20 I’m on a journey inside my husband’s head. We normally exist in different worlds – me with my words, him with his rocks. But now I’m editing his book and travelling back 400 million years. I’m starting to understand how slowly tectonic plates meet and move apart; how layers of rock can shift; how they thrust, fold, edge into one another’s space; how vast glaciers freeze the warm earth and thaw into torrents, sculpting jagged peaks and scooping out deep valleys. I’m seeing orange pyroclastic flows obliterate ancient slopes; and swarms of rounded drumlins under the grass, like whales breaking the surface; realising that a million years is the tiniest sliver of time; that the two of us, and every thought we’ve ever had, are at once utterly unimportant and infinitely precious. Publishing credits Calling them in: Dusk: Stories and poems from Solstice Shorts Festival 2017 (Arachne Press) Grandfather: exclusive first publication by iamb Meeting in deep time: Magma (Issue 81) Author photo: © Clare Park

Hear poet Gillian Craig read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Gillian Craig wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Gillian Craig is a Scottish poet and author who spent 20 years in the Middle East, South East Asia and East Asia. Her poems have appeared in a wide range of publications, including New Writing Scotland , Orbis , Abridged and Black Bough Poetry . Gillian is also a children’s author and poet , with four books published by Marshall Cavendish as Gillian Spiller. She currently lives in Scotland with her daughter, and is writing her first novel. the poems Helen, by accident 00:00 / 00:38 On a windscourged Scottish shore, Hogmanay, three lists brightly wrapped in leftovers. A fire in a biscuit tin, beacon in the storm sparked, smouldered, caught the wishes, snatched them away: a little hope visible as smoke. I intended the catharsis of fireballs; the forgiveness of krathongs. Instead, it seems I stood on the beach in this now foreign land where I’d screamed despair to the howling dark two nights before, and unwittingly vowed to burn it all down. Return to Saigon 00:00 / 01:29 On the long island I too am stranded on, he scans the gaudy propaganda, with its flat figures, stirring sentiments. The traffic laps the kerb. Later a book and a drink and I sit across the street, thinking of the old white castaway, and see him still on the same island, gazing at the traffic. He gives two bright young travellers friendly directions and a story; they laugh and thank and leave him. He resumes his post, staring into hypnotic wheels. ('I've been waiting since early morning to transfer power to you,' said Duong Van Minh, surrendering the South in 1976.) I know, although I do not know, he is no stranger here, and yet seems lost, waiting, watching the road now, not the traffic, for some sign he is remembered too. Eyes trained on the ground, he could be looking with young eyes again, when life was fierce, and any evening wheels could carry a friend, a foe, a flame, himself. As long, it seems, as he is peaceful, makes no sudden movements, things may rearrange themselves with their former brutal clarity. He bows a final look at what was lost. ('Your power has crumbled. You cannot give up what you no longer have,' said Colonel Bui Tin, cutting the strings, tying loose ends.) Stupit fucken wurds 00:00 / 01:01 A man sprawled on the station bench indistinctly opining, gleefully goading you as only a 3pm drunk in hi-vis can or does. When your vape shattered, punctuated the platform, I thought it was a semicolon; I expected something more. The Glasgow train was approaching platform 1. See stupit fucken wurds. That was it. No explosion. A slumped smoulder of despair. The carriage gulped, shunted you on to Kilwinning or beyond. Words can wound, tear, set light winds of fury, we cleave, hew, bark, we resent the toll the sewers we cross exact. We are so often misunderstood. But I wish you knew thae stupit fucken wurds were a poem. That’s all it is: the right words delivered perfectly at the right time. Publishing credits All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb

Hear poet Theresa Donnelly read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Theresa Donnelly wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Theresa Donnelly is an Irish/Canadian poet who has enjoyed a career in Hospitality & Culinary Management. Widely published and anthologised, she's a past winner (and judge) of Canada's Food for Thought poetry competition in 2014/15. Poet Vanessa Shields said Theresa's poetry, ‘offers a delectable arrangement of observations that both haunt and honour.’ A member of The Ontario Poetry Society, Theresa's also a founding member of The Brooklin Poetry Society . the poems Towards Iseult’s Chapel 00:00 / 02:10 Before the brewery, cross Joyce’s bridge. Smithfield has a lighthouse but few horses! Pass pubs that rival any museum. Sweat of centuries steeped into stone; backyards where squealing pigs were kept. On Blackhorse, enter the Pheonix Park through the ‘Hole in the Wall’; traverse the expanse to Chapelizod. The wooded valley where tragic tales of 12th-century Irish Princess Iseult and lover Tristan abounds. A tree grows above each grave, their network of branches continue to reach for each other; alluringly scented honeysuckle, and the hazel with the knowledge of the universe within its branches. The weir-view at Martin’s Row: a favourite place for contemplating characters and the Liffey’s descent. In the Mullingar House, home of all characters and elements in James Joyce’s novel, Finnegans Wake, Earwicker pours pints, served by Anna Livia Plurabelle. Under a copy of Joyce’s death mask, a tourist reads the aforementioned novel. In one afternoon, he’s swallowed five pages whole. His uncle’s book club in Venice, California, took 28 years to finish it. It’s too nice an afternoon to read. Maybe it’s the stone, maybe it’s the spirits from Wakes watched in his father’s local with inquisitive pen and jotter. A cultural institution. A pulchritudinous view of a city from this riverside village. Dublin’s best kept secret. Mystery of Monarchs 00:00 / 02:08 Honeyed sunlight softens his jagged features. Late January mellows under a magenta sky. Sleeping beneath malleable boughs, his heart is unyielding. But only I know it. Remember, Adelita , the path which ran beyond the gated casement into a world we dreamed but knew little of? When Madre left, he occupied the blue room; frantically paced its floor like a caged tigre . His ingested rage spewing like an erupting volcano, over ink-stained flesh. Betrayed when, even the moon turned her face, leaving innocence to whimper in darkness. Remember, Adelita , you prayed to The Virgin of Guadalupe for wings like those of the monarchs, fluttering above the cornucopia of deep burgundy auroras kiss dahlia? Your prayers answered, during the summer of dearth. In a flurry of orange-silk georgette, monarchs filled the sky: the garden: the room. Emptied me of you. You flew away; found sanctuary on Sierra Chincua . Sometimes I hear your voice, rising on the wind, as it blows above the oyamels . Remember, Adelita , for fear that I will forget. Fishwife 00:00 / 01:30 Was it an act of sanctity or sorcery not to be created from Adam’s rib? Caught in your net, I fought brazenly, until you pulled me from the sea. Sweeping shadows aside, you bent barefoot and bronzed. Your lips allowed me breathe the earth once plump with poison. My eyes became saucers over which daylight spilled. I lay on the shore sweetened by the early tides of May. Seashells ringed my newly fashioned fingers and toes. You knew my name; you repeated it over and over until it was echoed by mute swans. You unbraided my hair, draped it like damp seaweed over stones. Visible silken threads coupled both body and soul beneath your cloak of tightly woven canvas. Duck egg is either blue or green, it depends solely on the light. I chose various shades of it for each and every room, in a house where I have never slept without some memory of water. Publishing credits Towards Iseult’s Chapel: Verse Afire ~ Canadian Poetry Magazine (Vol. 2, Issue 1) Mystery of Monarchs / Fishwife: exclusive first publication by iamb

Hear poet Moira Walsh read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Moira Walsh wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Originally from Michigan, USA, Moira Walsh now calls southern Germany home – her poetry finding homes in a variety of Austrian and German journals. She's the author of Earthrise , and with Wilfried Schubert, Do Try This at Home . A founding member of Kollektief Dellgart, Moira has co-translated contemporary poets such as Olja Alvir, Ken Mikolowski, Halyna Petrosaniak, Maë Schwinghammer and others. the poems White noise, they say 00:00 / 00:22 as if it’s all one color. But then there’s the Lake: a rainbow of sushing and loshing and ashing and flishing and sething and hayshing Apology to local vegetables 00:00 / 00:36 Sweet corn – hours old, stalk to table! Oak-leaf lettuce, garlic scapes! Beet greens, basil, cucumbers! I’m sorry. On days like these nothing can squeeze down my throat except, after dark, some good cheese and a weird combination of transportation starches. Removed 00:00 / 01:09 Small room, only the right twin bed mine, half the bookshelf, half the table and one chair so half time chair sitting I miss those tranquilisers sometimes wish I’d kept the ones they slipped in a small paper envelope for my test night at home when the ward went up in smoke someone set a bed on fire and I missed it Two weeks later the next arsonist nurses changed the sheets too soon fine ash everywhere home again for a night I missed that too If I were still delusional seeking connections at all costs I would feel responsible for incendiary absence Publishing credits White noise, they say / Apology to local vegetables: exclusive first publication by iamb Removed: [kon] (Issue 10)

Hear poet Fred Schmalz read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Fred Schmalz wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Artist and poet Fred Schmalz is the author of collection Action in the Orchards , which explores intimacy and loss via encounters with contemporary art. His writing has appeared in Puerto del Sol , Zocalo Public Square , Places Journal , Diagram , Poetry and Oversound . Collaborating with Susy Bielak, the two mine social histories, texts and archives to create installations and actions that reflect the gravity and strangeness of contemporary cities. The duo's recent work has been presented at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago and Grand Central Art Center. the poems Spring Triptych 00:00 / 02:27 on the concrete jetty a piping plover twice darts across the path first off the breakwater then alighting from a perch on the seawall curl where fishermen idle a group of kids flits and dunks they compare arm scars histories of love and neglect industry for the day’s first hours shared loose affiliation with the eddies’ swirl all of it behind them now cut loose from a flotilla they drift past the wreck away with them a wallet a phone a bag of clothes sinks as they lift with the tide gulls dive into the cove covered in algae staring into the surf stones tumble toward the mouth of the inlet * miles of hatched mosquito cloud columns fold and surge over the fields so thick they crowd the light wave on the hill’s crest pelt passing bodies the injured crawl through my hair to witness to warn teeth and mouth water poured into vessels the narrows of breath cover me in carcasses and with them flower petals flute down from the northern border * I hadn’t seen the woman who sings the sun up on the berm by the beach since before the park closed for months years ago though one morning in winter as I approached was disillusioned by another figure this morning she paces just north of her old haunt along the trail tiny frame and one leg hitch my heart rush at seeing her and nobody around to tell the lengths our bodies age around us muscles tender sag the lax of years mirrors a deep wildness beyond her a seagull beats a sunfish on a rock Basic Training, 1991 00:00 / 01:37 every morgue in Chicago anticipates influxes today a backhoe opens the meadow I climb down into the trench lay prone there a moment its fetid walls its worms recoil while the dead’s names go out in response I eat a vitamin a thyroid pill oatmeal my last orange my odds of dying drop in the night I can’t say what good crawling into a hole serves though I recall twenty-nine years earlier waiting for my brother in a recess at Fort Knox an absolute silence overcame me the trench anechoic save its peat leaching new light formed flat pale branches in relief against the sky beneath the tree I saw through the deaths to the persistence of the living lately I’m less sure than ever my brother rises and waits for me we may reach détente eventually this century will claim us both forever overnight men in blue coveralls begin laying to rest the dead never out of work I will be there after all what have I got to sleep for New Year's Eve 00:00 / 00:58 leaning over a balcony railing to shake the circular rug of breadcrumbs and seeds gathered and shed I've been thinking again of how a year closes and another sets out from home in the lightest perceptible rain nightfall comes slowly the foxes that play in the roadway trot off between houses soon the shops will shutter your daughters take spoons to devour the cakes we brought propped on round white plates they remind me of the palm-sized paving stones we pocketed last night on our walk home they are everywhere around us working loose in the freeze the thaw the freeze Publishing credits Spring triptych: Oversound (Issue Nine) Basic training, 1991: The Canary (Issue 7) New Year’s Eve: Oversound (Issue Six)

Hear poet Marie Little read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Marie Little wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Living near fields and dreaming of the sea, Marie Little has published poetry and flash fiction with Acumen , Ink Sweat & Tears , Black Bough Poetry , Retreat West and many others. She enjoys unpretentious poems, twisty flash and the challenge of a writing prompt. Marie is co-creator of The Swadlincote Festival of Words , and runs writing groups for adults and children. She's best known for her children’s poetry as Attie Lime, and her debut children’s collection is Blue Jelly and Strawberries . the poems In the Sunday Garden Club Hut with Dad 00:00 / 00:44 Underarmed up onto the bench beside you pondering your bad back, too much flesh above my knees I absorb the morning like a dry seed. You chat easy with customers most already friends hand them smiles in paper bags forget the price of things. I play shop with the black iron weighing scales, palming the cold weights, testing the brass bowls for honesty. You hand me boiled sweets, tidy jars, curl twine, lift the stink on the fish, blood and bone bin to make us squirm, laughing. I measure myself carefully in scoops. Dusk 00:00 / 00:42 Six o'clock draws its curtains, twists the dial on chemicals keeping me sunny. The mood over the field is indigo blue, heavy with sooty clouds in waiting. I have no need of litmus paper. I know my score. Bottles in rows wink at me, each emptied to a different level, each a slightly different chime in the tune of dusk. I shun them all, flick the kettle on. Slide something herby, caffeine-free from a purple box, steep it so long it might understand. Drink it in sips, watch the soot spread. Later the bottles will sing. Parents, 1982 00:00 / 00:26 She is milk of magnesia, camphorated oil (warm to the touch). She is petroleum jelly, sodium bicarbonate, cream of tartar. He is the berry-stained wooden spoon as long as my arm, the sticky muslin, dripping. He is the jam-saucer, nestled in the ice box. He is pectin, like quiet magic. Publishing credits In the Sunday Garden Club Hut with Dad: Ink, Sweat & Tears (March 2022) Dusk: Acumen (No. 103) Parents, 1982: Molecules Unlimited Anthology

Hear poet Perry Gasteiger read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Perry Gasteiger wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Perry Gasteiger is a Manchester-based Canadian whose poetry is often described as visceral, haunting, and uncomfortable. Perry’s work looks at birth, growth, and death through different lenses to recast the mundane as extraordinary and, quite often, grotesque. Most recently, Perry collaborated with Canadian visual artist Rebecca Payne to publish a collaborative experimental book, Bruising Bone: life in bloom with Fifth Wheel Press in 2023, and hopes to do more collaborative, multi-disciplinary work in the future. the poems brick by brick 00:00 / 01:16 You know, most of us never asked to be a part of history and to be honest it was pretty boring work anyways: brick by brick by brick to get your cheque to buy the bread to feed the kids and who has two kids these days? In this economy! And that's how you make history: brick by brick by brick until your hands bleed and your nails crack and the cement hardens into the whorls of your fingertips and you think this would be the perfect time to rob a bank because there wouldn't even be any fingerprints left to leave. That's history in the making for you: brick by brick by brick until you're sat on the tallest chimney in the western hemisphere looking down on the earth and you're thinking, you know I bet god doesn't have fingerprints either and that's when the wind gusts and the present shivers beneath you and you're thinking you could maybe definitely stick a landing from 1,250 feet in the air if it came to it and pretty soon all there is between you and earth is skin dug into brick until it fuses, and when it's over and they peel you off the lips of history the pads of your fingers tear from your hands and believe me when I tell you: most of us never asked to be there. Inspired by the superstack in my hometown of Sudbury, Ontario, and a freak tornado that stranded workers at the top – just before they completed it. Leftovers 00:00 / 01:18 I eat leftovers on the day after my mother’s funeral. I eat them cold from the dish, pull plastic wrap back and dig in with my hands, tomato sauce and mashed potatoes crusting under my fingernails. What is left of a person once they’ve closed the lid on red lips in a bloodless face displayed for the sympathy of the living? A feeling, an inkling that your flesh and bones don’t quite add up, that you are something less than whole. Songs are sung for mourning ears as the dead lay deaf and happy while people cry into napkins and paper plates full of lasagna and warm gravy — the horizon screams as the sun sets her hair on fire and we let ourselves fall apart. In the bloody dawn of waking, I collect pieces left behind and try to fit them where you used to sit; but the pieces are still sharp, not yet worn to sea glass with our tears and I find myself back on the kitchen floor, trying to inhale your leftovers. two for joy 00:00 / 00:55 and when I came home I did not know how to love a thing which did not cut me down at the knees, did not know I was wandering streets lined with bitter ghosts, littered with bodies I used to wear, praying to the pavement, please swallow me, take me back where I belong , did not know what it was to slip into the warmth of place, to run my hands along the rough of red brick and press my face to broken stones and taste the earth, when I came home the sky opened up in proud baptism, drenched me in tears and I opened my mouth, let the rain fill me, watched the rot of me wash away, let myself die one last time, and woke finally to the cries of the magpies Publishing credits brick by brick: exclusive first publication by iamb Leftovers: Natterlogue (work by Natter Bolton night performers, 2023) two for joy: Ey Up Again (Written Off Publishing)

Hear poet Robin Helweg-Larsen read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Robin Helweg-Larsen wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Anglo-Danish but raised in the Bahamas, Robin Helweg-Larsen was educated in Jamaica and at Stowe. He's lived and worked in the Bahamas, Denmark, Canada, Australia and the USA. Robin has had more than 400 poems published in various literary journals, including the Alabama Literary Review , Allegro , Ambit and Amsterdam Quarterly. His chapbook, Calling the Poem – on the art of summoning and working with 'The Muse' – is available to read online. the poems Camelot at Dusk 00:00 / 01:44 From under low clouds spreading from the south The red sun drops slow to night’s waiting mouth. Rush lamps are lit; the guards changed on the walls; Supper will not be served in the Great Halls With Arthur still away. Each in their room, The members of the Court leave books or loom To say their Vespers in the encroaching gloom. Lancelot, up in his tower, Sees the sunset storm clouds glower, Feels his blood’s full tidal power, Knows he has to go. In her bower, Gwenivere Puts a ruby to her ear, Brushes firelight through her hair, Feels her heartbeat grow. Guard, guard, watch well: For the daylight thickens And the low cloud blackens And the hot heart quickens To rebel. From his tower, caring not For consequences, Lancelot Crosses courts of Camelot, Pitying his King. In her bower, Gwenivere Feels his presence coming near, Waits for footfalls on the stair, Lets her will take wing. Guard, guard, watch well: If attention slackens When the deep bond beckons, Evil knows Pendragon’s In its spell. And as the storm clouds, rubbing out the stars, Deafened the castle and carved lightning scars, Drenched Arthur rode for flash-lit Camelot Where he, by Queen and Knight, was all forgot. Old Sailors 00:00 / 00:54 Two tars talked of sealing and sailing; one said with a sigh 'Remember gulls wheeling and wailing, we wondering why, and noting bells pealing, sun paling — it vanished like pie! And then the boat heeling, sky hailing, the wind getting high, and that drunken Yank reeling to railing and retching his rye, John missing his Darjeeling jailing, and calling for chai? While we battened, all kneeling and nailing, the hurricane nigh, and me longing for Ealing, and ailing?' His mate said 'Aye-aye; I could stand the odd stealing, food staling, not fit for a sty, and forget any feeling of failing, too vast to defy – home-leaving your peeling-paint paling too far to espy – all because of the healing friend-hailing, the hello! and hi! and, with the gulls squealing, quick-scaling the mast to the sky.' This Ape I Am 00:00 / 01:48 Under our armoured mirrors of the mind where eyes watch eyes, trying to pierce disguise, an ape, incapable of doubt, looks out, insists this world he sees is trees, and tries to find the scenes his genes have predefined. This ape I am who counts 'One, two, more, more' has lived three million years in empty lands where all the members of the roving bands he’s ever met have totalled some ten score; so all these hundred thousands in the street with voided eyes and quick avoiding feet must be the mere two hundred known before. This ape I am believes they know me too. I’m free to stare, smile, challenge, talk to you. This ape I am thinks every female mine, at least as much as any other male’s; if she’s with someone else, she can defect – her choice, and she becomes mine to protect; just as each child must be kept safe and hale for no one knows but that it could be mine. This ape I am feels drugged, ecstatic, doped, hallucination-torn, kaleidoscoped, that Earth’s two hundred people includes swirls of limitless and ever-varied girls. This ape I am does not look at myself doesn’t know about mirrors, lack of health, doesn’t know fear of death, only of cold; mirrorless can’t be ugly, can’t be old. Publishing credits Camelot at Dusk: The HyperTexts (2015) Old Sailors: Snakeskin (No. 146) This Ape I Am: Better Than Starbucks (Vol. II, No. X)

Hear poet Jane Robinson read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Jane Robinson wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Jane Robinson is an award-winning Irish poet with a doctoral degree in biological science from the California Institute of Technology. Her books are: ‘ Journey to the Sleeping Whale ’ (2018) and ‘ Island and Atoll ’ (2023), both published by Salmon Poetry. Jane has taught poetry workshops in libraries and outdoor settings. In recent months she was the invited reader at Green Sod Ireland’s Biodiversity Summer School in Kylemore Abbey, and at the IMMA Earth Rising Festival. Listen here: Music for the Atoll, 2023 (SoundCloud). the poems Fairy Castle Two Rock Mountain, Dublin 00:00 / 00:57 After a long, slow climb from the road, calling out the names of bramble, foxglove, ling and furze, we left the flies behind when we turned from the wood’s edge, bending our bodies to the sandy granite track, to the bog-water pools and slender rushes. But a drone hummed over. All of a sudden it owned the hill, flexing mechanical insect-legs. Whose gadget filmed us tilt our moon-faces down to the mica path? A thin, pixilated sliver of mind let loose on the raised bog made skylarks crouch from their songs to cover nests hidden by heather stems. We threaded our way on up to the cairn. Coastal Forest Fragment ‘Go with the process, go with what you’ve got!’ ~ Breda Wall Ryan ~ 00:00 / 00:52 Your feet are unshod, grassy-toed, horn-hard on wandering paths to a paradise where humans did not ever learn to wield a flint or turn a thread. Imagine the mossy temperate forest grazed by giant deer, phosphorescence haloing their upheld heads and antlers. Hear chuckles from a family of rooks who gossip on the topmost branches of oak trees lining a path from strand to dreaming bed. A pocketful of sand from Magheramore. Sprigs of water-mint. Heathland Observation After a photograph by Tina Claffey 00:00 / 01:06 The landscape’s sharp details are sprung up close by macro lens. On one of the seven heathers stands a grasshopper who resembles a horse in medieval armour. The insect’s breastplate, green. Brighter, the nets of her compound eyes as she watches from her temporary rest on St. Daboec’s heath. Hummocked beside the peaty water, this heather’s named after a saint who raised both his hands to the sky as he walked the mountains and scattered huge clouds of insects with each step taken. Few grasshoppers still sing in the fragments. In wilderness we’ve shopped out, car shaken, light slain. Earth’s future saints will be the ones who help all forms of life and hold them sacred. Publishing credits Fairy Castle: Island and Atoll (Salmon Poetry) Coastal Forest Fragment: Poetry Ireland Review (No. 144) Heathland Observation: exclusive first publication by iamb

Hear poet Mark Carson read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Mark Carson wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Born in Belfast and educated in Dublin and Cambridge, Mark Carson has enjoyed an engineering career that's included sea-going with oceanographers, teaching in Nairobi, and running an engineering software company in Cumbria. He's published two pamphlets with Wayleave Press – The Hoopoe's Eye and Hove-to is a State of Mind – and a wheen of poems in various places such as Ink, Sweat & Tears , Smiths Knoll , The North , The Rialto , Orbis , Obsessed with Pipework , London Grip and Stride . Mark was short-listed for the Bridport Prize for Poetry in both 2009 and 2012, as well as for The UK's National Poetry Prize in 2014. His work has also been commended in the Troubadour International Poetry Prize, Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, and the Mirehouse Poetry Prize. the poems Möbius Strip 00:00 / 00:43 reducing her life to seventeen bullet points was simpler far than she’d somehow imagined and she had them graven in cursive script on a one-sided strip of her native silver given a twist by a cunning smith hammer-welded so the text is continuous with the tip of his finger he traces the edge of the strip with one edge and one surface, re-entrant and cursive like a nightmarish earworm, a catch in four parts, with recursive remorse and the cyclical tides of unable to finish The New Footbridge 00:00 / 03:18 It springs across the river like a slice of rainbow, arched as a vertebrate, golden in the sunlight and the mayor cuts the ribbon, the councillors are ready and they all march together, march across the Guadiaro. Is it not a great idea, a bridge so light and springy? The laminated timbers so pretty and so buoyant? The abutments are substantial, the footings thick and massive, and the bridge rests lightly, lightly on its ledges. * * * The rain fell heavy in the Guadiaro catchment, red with mud the river rose, covering the footings and the river surged and rose again, thrusting the abutments and again the turbid river rose, tearing at the handrails. Who could imagine the buoyancy of timber? Who would consider the drag loads on the structure? Who did the sums on the piddling little brackets, the tension, the shear, the bending and the torsion? The goats and the sheep retreated to the hilltops, watched as the racing spate tore the banks asunder, watched as the carcasses were tumbled down the valley, watched as the pretty footbridge wrenched itself to pieces. Where will it end, the bridge, and what the hell can stop it? Smashing through the gorges, crunching on the boulders, tossing under viaducts and swept across the weir, the stepping stones, past long-abandoned piggeries, until it crashes, snags against the Old Bridge. Snags and floats and traps the trunks of willow trees, of splintered, fractured alamos and olive brash and figs and oleander torn from sodden banks. It rises like a floating dam, the water flooding over terraces, creeping up the door frames, sluicing through the sockets and the fusebox, lifting tables, chairs, cupboards, sofas, floating in a tangle to the ceiling, twisting shutters from their pintle hinges, toilet doors and pictures, prints. Guitars from hooks. Cushions. Books from shelves, maps and guides from folders, useless telephone directories, magazines, a grim confetti, paper-porridge slopping in the slimy flow. There’s no transparency, just thick brown oxtail, rich in clay washed from the groves of olives, ploughed lands, hillsides scarified and naked. Quietly, it starts to settle, thick and smeary. Now the water’s reached the Old Bridge deck, crushing foliage up against the chainlink handrail. Abruptly the bridge gives way, the concrete pier collapses, prising its footing from the river bed. A hundred thousand tonnes of water make a charge for freedom down the valley, tearing the gable from the house below, scattering roof tiles. From the broken windows of the flooded houses, water spews. In County Clare 00:00 / 01:14 And if you should stay in the town of Lahinch after your dinner and a glass in the hotel bar walk out in the long evening on the road to the west and perch on the dry stone wall, your eye to the left for the drama of the sinking sun, and to the east where soon the figure of the girl will appear and walk past you firmly as though stopping for no one only at the last minute she’ll spin like a dancer, coming to a halt in a stylish chassé with her back to the wall beside you. Then you may learn her name, that she is walking to Le Scanoor, which you had thought was called Liscannor, and that her age is not to be revealed on a first meeting, and that she loves to dance, and that there will be a marvellous opportunity to dance with her, next week in Le Scanoor, if you were still to be around. But for all of this to happen, you must be a slender boy of nineteen with an open countenance, and time on your hands. Publishing credits Möbius Strip: Ink, Sweat & Tears (May 2022) The New Footbridge: The Hoopoe's Eye (Wayleave Press) In County Clare: Hove-to is a State of Mind (Wayleave Press) Author photo: © Jon Bean

Hear poet Andrea Small read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Andrea Small wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Andrea Small is a multi-disciplinary artist working across painting, poetry, voice and video. She's a member of Heeley Women Writers, and has an MA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Manchester Metropolitan University. She runs singing groups for all sorts of people, believing we all can – and should – sing. Andrea's poetry has appeared in journals including Strix , Dreich and Obsessed With Pipework , and has been featured in several anthologies. She lives in Sheffield, and is learning to be a clown. the poems A Hawfinch Addresses a Nature Writer 00:00 / 01:46 I do not have the look of a small parrot , fool I am not shy , I do not conceal myself — do not blame me for your dull human eyes, your twitching tick-list. We are not here for your amusement. Do not mar our music — it is not quiet , nor mumbled — with your clumsy words. It is not our job to be counted by you. Try splitting this cherry stone, try laying eggs, try living across three continents. We do not erupt , nor invade . We leave such pointless activities to you, you useless lump of a creature, crashing through our parkland, being surprised you can't see us. Pipe down and sit still. I'll have your finger-tip off if you try to catch me, oaf. We can eat yew and survive — can you? We are not smaller on paper, and to discuss our weight is impolite. What nest were you reared in? Be off with your binoculars and long lenses, your maps and statistics. Has no-bird told you your time here is limited? Take a moment. Think about it. Who will rescue you when you have finished laying waste to this land? Not I, human. Not I. endtime After Louis MacNeice 00:00 / 01:01 fingernails bittengone — wondered how we got there — sunwarm over splintered lichened stile is clear — after that — chillfog fell from hands — saw no more — felt timewinds billowing in soundnot — upsicked bigger than ever when woke — heard keyscrape in cold glass — gutshivered — chatterteethed — between soulmoans — he dragwent first — clawfingered the dripdamp walls — through arrowslits snow driftblew on mealone — in windwail howled and fingerstuffed mouth — he was evergone — the bloodthroated endsilence heavyfell huge — now — inoutside springbloom the roses Reunion 00:00 / 01:27 last Tuesday the sheep came back poked her black face around the kitchen door bleated a brief command I went up the fell in the thick dew door left open pots half-washed it was good to be together again I let her lead me for a change halfway up I untied my apron left it hanging from a blackthorn (when I looked later a goldfinch nested in the pocket beaking lint and hair into place) at the top I dropped the rest of my clothes climbed onto my sheep’s solid back slept on her oily wool like a baby facepalming her father’s broad hand arms and legs hanging over his reliable forearm the branch no wind could break the sheep walked on rocking me past marriages roads not taken shouting fists slammed doors endless beige schooldays to the large-wheeled pram still I slept loose-limbed cells settling into forgotten patterns sun warming my blood Publishing credits All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb

Hear poet Bob Perkins read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Bob Perkins wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet Bob Perkins is 81 and married, with two 40-ish kids. Once a boxboy, submariner, handyman, typist, lawyer and teacher, he's none of these professions now. Bob reads and writes with the Manhattan Beach Poetry Circle, and has had poems published in The Los Angeles Review , Consequence and Delta Poetry Review . the poems Drafting 00:00 / 02:02 Coasting down this California coast, we’re twenty or forty pelicans in a loose line, riding each other’s coattails, taking turns as leader till, spying a friend or careless fish, each goes its own way. This is co-operation, not discipline: no goosestep, no chorus line. You flap when you want to, I’ll station keep for lift, my flap lifts the next guy. We see, we use, vortices, whorls, forces invisible to the grounded. Is this survival of the fit? Sort of. We practice prosperity of the team, but it’s understood: anyone can dive any time. Till then, you stir the air for me, I for you. It’s not quite communism, but it isn’t capitalism, either. Call it community. It worked for eons until a different thought, call it DDT, call it domination, call it human, dealt death to us last century. They thought, 'Let’s control the fields, let’s exterminate the bugs, let’s make more profits.' It worked, too. But turns out it isn’t the economy, stupid, it’s the ecology. You start killing, bugs will die. So will bees and birds and boys and girls. They got smarter that time, banned DDT. Did it again with the ozone layer. But now, they’re flying high with carbon, greenhouse gases, global warming. We we can’t tell how this will end, but you might see us as birds of good omen, soaring since the eocene, never ruling, always getting by, sharing the work and the world. Trigger Finger 00:00 / 01:32 My middle finger, dominant hand, pauses when I open a fist, then springs into place. It’s a caution: that finger has done my bidding for a long time, but now is considering rebellion. 'What,' it asks, 'is in this for me?' It’s not alone. Eyebrows are restyling themselves, peeing is a sometime thing, my hair left town a decade ago. But somehow this gesture – my own body giving me the bird – speaks to me. It reminds me this will end, will not end well, will end soon. I won’t get the last laugh; I will write my last poem. This might be it. And yet, it’s kind of fun – a new trick to do with my body, stepping from the gliding analog world of youth to the binary future I don’t understand. I, starting with this digit, am becoming digital, robotic, reducing to two states. Open or closed. Up or down. Alive or dead. I’m glad it’s happening slowly enough that I can watch the show. You can, too: here, look – it’s open. Shut. Open. Shut. Hey, presto! The Archimedes Palimpsest 00:00 / 02:37 1 They killed the lamb for dinner and for profit, flayed it, split and stretched its hide, sold the parchment to men who rewrote Archimedes there. Someone scrawled an Aristotle critique over the parchment. Later, medieval Christian tastes cut, folded, scrubbed it clean (almost clean) and twisted the sheep’s skin for a prayer book. Just last century, some Frenchman faked illuminations to increase its market price. Now, sheepskins upholster sports cars and the digital palimpsest is on the net, a Google book. Oh, lamb. 2 Above Tom’s Place, off 395, I sit beside Rock Creek and watch the flow. Holy, hypnotic, the motion distracts from displays of standing waves and eddies, leaf and sky reflections flashing on the stream’s stretched surface. If I look at them I cannot focus on the creek bed’s rocks or shadows, and whichever avatar I choose, the clear water itself slips by unseen, almost absent unless some trout swims there. 3 First I sought your pink, your so-white skin beside my brown, your unpainted lips, eyes, breasts, hips-- tried to know you in sex. The fluid years drift by, draw tighter. The mass of your kindness leaves its mark. So do our quarrels and congruences. Sometimes I see flickers deep within, sometimes I hear our humdrum babble; sometimes your body grips me once again. Sometimes I am distant. Lives are too large for telling. I say, 'Ink. Fish. Love. Skin,' one word at a time. I should shout all my words at once like a creek, like a bleating beast. Publishing credits Drafting / Trigger Finger: exclusive first publication by iamb The Archimedes Palimpsest:The Los Angeles Review (Vol. 8)

Hear poet S Reeson read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. S Reeson wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet S Reeson (she/they) is 58 and bisexual. They have been published by The Poetry Society and Bloomsbury/OneWorld, and had work in more than 20 publications and anthologies – most recently, Ink, Sweat & Tears . When not creating, they are very close to being able to deadlift their body weight. the poems Blame 00:00 / 00:52 I will not let this voice be silenced this has become a moment definition carving ideals going forward that in a space for giving the right things aren’t received people have stopped listening everyone who plays this game do you see that rules have changed questions transform weapons a proper form to lessons learnt at distance and in time I will ask this voice will define Cascade 00:00 / 01:27 the day she opened up my brain put her hand inside plucked out a poisoned shard I may not have been listening instead I may have been falling the day I learnt fairy stories aren't for happy endings they're for lessons earnt I heard inertia's static undermining that may soon destroy us all I renounced its terrorism ~ another day begins within a schism inside this safest space indicates an altering position I do not see enough inclusivity instead I only taste their lack of comprehension the day that other people accept they're born as levers the world might then begin to change I will not repeat a previous senseless history inbred I will become a helper kinder force idealism ~ the day I finally embrace a subtle shift relaxing this constant fist constant poisoned shards cascade away Give 00:00 / 00:51 sometimes it is about you and the comprehension given to what it is that isn’t good an acceptance of a need to change looking at what’s fundamentally wrong piling up as rubbish round our feet nobody anywhere is perfect ask when was the last time objectivity came off the shelf in the spaces between living take a long hard look at yourself there is always space to give Publishing credits All poems: previously published in the author's Substack

Hear poet Maggie Mackay read poems for wave 21 of literary poetry journal iamb. Maggie Mackay wave 21 spring 2025 back next the poet After retiring as a support teacher for young people with additional needs, Maggie Mackay took up writing again in 2009. A Masters degree from Manchester Metropolitan University followed – as did her pamphlet The Heart of the Run , and debut collection A West Coast Psalter . Maggie's second collection, The Babel of Human Travel , appeared in 2022. Her poem How to Distil a Guid Scotch Malt was awarded a place in the Poetry Archive’s inaugural WordView 2020 permanent collection, and one of her poems was a runner-up in The Liverpool Prize, judged by Roger McGough. Maggie is a regular reviewer of poetry collections and pamphlets at The Friday Poem . the poems Reasons for Time Travelling to Byres Farm Cottages 00:00 / 00:53 To witness the birth of my father one hundred and four years ago on that sunny November day To meet my grandmother humming a baloo to her new son To hear the milk cows low beyond the limewashed buildings To walk the fields towards the White Cart, Crookston Castle within sight To feel the oak barley breeze in my hair To watch the Clydesdale’s hooves sink as the plough carves into the soil To smell pure country air To play with my toddler uncle on the stone floor with his home-made wooden train which I have to this day To run it down the hallway and hear the wheels clatter as they have for three generations The Babel of Human Travel 00:00 / 01:37 The day comes when she hears the pasture murmur for the last time, and so/her trunk and her soul head for the/Broomielaw where the ship waits for her coming and the Lord/keeps faith while all manner of Scots are scattered/with all manner of dialects and accents, treasuring them/in this fine, vessel-stranger towards new lives abroad/She waits for a roll call, goes from deck to berth from/dining table thence/to fall upon/her lonely spot and weep the/salt from her pale face/dream of/the final lament her brother played, all/the longing pouring through the/Atlantic waters, that handful of earth/deep in her pocket and/the treasured Christening robe folded where they/packed it with the promise of babies to come. Those too aged waving off and miles away, left/behind. The worn spurtle, flat irons, darning mushroom, cradled too in the hold, as the ship casts off/towards the land of caribou and snowshoes through struggles to/understand othery Baltic tongues which yearn to build/homesteads along riverbanks, seek to befriend the Cree nation, preserve the/songs and stories of home, create new histories of their Manitoba city. Void 00:00 / 00:26 Father hanged himself perhaps above the washhouse mangle, or in the orchard maybe, dead weight dressed in apple blossom. You’re wondering if I miss him, if I miss his hand on my arm, if his voice is fading. It’s in the sparrow’s call, ten chisel clangs, a bicycle bell. Publishing credits Reasons for Time Travelling to Byres Farm Cottages: exclusive first publication by iamb The Babel of Human Travel: The Babel of Human Travel (Impspired Press) Void: A West Coast Psalter (Kelsay Books)

Hear the poets of wave 14 of literary poetry journal iamb read their poems for summer 2023 . wave fourteen summer 2023 Alice Stainer Aysegul Yildirim Dave Garbutt Deborah Finding Devjani Bodepudi Ed Garvey Long Hannah Linden Ian McMillan J L M Morton Jamie Woods Jerm Curtin May Chong Ramona Herdman Valerie Bence Victoria Punch

Hear poet Julian Bishop read poems for wave 22 of literary poetry journal iamb. Julian Bishop wave 22 summer 2025 back next the poet A former environment journalist turned poet, Julian Bishop lives in Barnet with his family and dog, and runs a small media company. He’s worked for many years as both a reporter and a producer with the BBC, and also on ITV’s News At Ten. Julian's first collection of eco-poems, We Saw It All Happen , appeared in 2023, and his poetry has been published widely. He was a runner-up in the International Ginkgo Prize for Eco Poetry, and is currently writing a series of poems about masculinity, as seen through the life and times of Italian painter Caravaggio. the poems Lobster 00:00 / 00:58 Pepsi – it was the brand he grew up with – the sweet memory of it, the familiar tang of aluminium. Each night cradled in a cot of cans, suckled on bottles, sleeping on a seabed littered with plastic toys, tops spinning on the floor. Every one of them Pepsi. He dressed up in armour – it became a habit (with a Pepsi logo) – hung out with a pile of drifters, washed-up types who didn’t even look fine on the surface. They all drank Pepsi. He got a tattoo – festooned in red and blue, he soon became a brand ambassador, the extravagant fandangle spangled on a hand. But he threw it all away. Bottled it. Abandoned, he washed up on a beach – that’s where I found him. Junked, with only a Pepsi filigree. Even his mother had sent him packing. Sitting for Caravaggio 00:00 / 01:46 Ground floor of the Palazzo Madama – I walk into the blasphemous dark, black as a Vatican bible. The air hangs heavy with myrrh, hint of dead flesh. He wants an assistente – a boy to prime canvas, grind his earths and ochres. The pay – two soldi less than my age, dieci per una seduta . Then the Master appears, brighter than The Crucifixion, blinding rays of mezzogiorno sunlight stabbing a straw-covered floor. He thrusts towards me a set of predator’s feathers, angels’ wings cadged off Gentileschi. My heart flutters; just like the others his eyes strip me before I can undress. Shucked and pinioned, I edge onto a set cluttered with props: crumpled bed-sheets, bawdy musical scores, violin, plated armour, a dead flower. I don’t feel sweet like Cupid. Legs wide, an angel’s wing brushes my thigh – I’m his Love Conquers All, unadorned. My right arm aches from clutching arrows without a quiver. I grin. The Master spits grape pips as he paints. Although we never touch, I feel his fingers flicker over me. He spits another pip, his temper sweeter than the flesh of a maturated fig; Bellissimo Cecco, next time I make you a saint. Pangolin ‘ ... a splendor which man in all his vileness cannot set aside ... ’ Marianne Moore, fromThe Pangolin (1936) 00:00 / 01:07 Part botanical, part mechanical dragon – Marianne considered you more Artichoke than mammal, more plant than ant-eater, your pine-cone whorls Nestled snug among the jungle under-scrub. Ardently pursued for your aluminium Glossiness – armoured dinosaur, your snakeskin plates were scraped quite clean by Opportunistic traffickers; exotic crocs served up as mysterious elixirs to quicken Lactation or help drain pus. Alas, uncanny pangolin, maybe your foil-covered flesh Incubated more than a quick fix, your silver plates Stripped by unscrupulous poachers, Name made notorious by those who sickled open the last cans of your slatted metal backs. Publishing credits Lobster: Ginkgo Prize Ecopoetry Anthology 2018 (Ginkgo Prize) Sitting for Caravaggio: winner of the 2021 Poets and Players Poetry Competition Pangolin: runner-up in the 2020 Ver Poets Open Poetry Competition

Hear the poets of wave 9 of literary poetry journal iamb read their poems for spring 2022 . wave nine spring 2022 Alexandra Citron Barney Ashton-Bullock Catherine Graham Charlotte Oliver Craig Smith James Giddings Jonathan Davidson Judith Kingston Kyle Potvin Liz Houchin Mark McGuinness Nóra Blascsók Olivia Dawson Rachael Clyne Radka Thea Otípková

Hear the poets of wave 12 of literary poetry journal iamb read their poems for winter 2022 . wave twelve winter 2022 Caitlin Stobie Doreen Duffy Jenny Mitchell Jeremy Wikeley Jim Newcombe Jinny Fisher Leanne Moden Louise McStravick Ruth Wiggins Sadie Maskery Samantha DeFlitch Sue Butler Susie Campbell Thomas March Zannah Kearns