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Hear poet Bill Sutton read poems for wave 10 of literary poetry journal iamb. Bill Sutton wave 10 summer 2022 back next the poet London-based Cumbrian poet Bill Sutton (he/him) creates visceral, abstract reflections of nature in his work. His poetry has appeared in Anthropocene and new zine Overgrowth . In 2015, Bill and his brother formed music project Slabtoe, which has released several albums and EPs. Bill's recently lent his poetry/song-writing abilities to the BFI-funded short film The Leerie , and his debut screenplay Corpse Road will be produced later in 2022. the poems Helton 00:00 / 00:22 to see stars, the hulk of barn, the rise behind and silent. to see rain, smoke wrapped, the valleys slope and dreaming. to all orbits, a ripple, and the quiet fields sleeping. Lend The River Rain 00:00 / 00:32 The lights on the hillside are a constellation, scattered. A half-remembered conversation; a friend lost, a family gathered under a winter sky, whose clouds are torn and tattered. 'It’s just a shadow cast from a different day, but none of that now matters … ' I lend the river rain. It lends it back again. Black Barn Rise 00:00 / 00:23 shadows in the mist, an echo where a wood once was. moon cold mist, settled on the river's twist. above and behind, black barn rise, there, where an echo of a wood once was. Publishing credits Helton / Lend The River Rain: exclusive first publication by iamb Black Barn Rise: Overgrowth (Issue No. 1)

Hear poet Dave Garbutt read poems for wave 14 of literary poetry journal iamb. Dave Garbutt wave 14 summer 2023 back next the poet Dave Garbutt is retired, lives in Switzerland and has been a keen birder since he was 12. He was born in North London, less than a mile from Keats’ House, and began his writing career while still at school. Recent publications to include Dave's poems range from Deronda Review and The Brown Envelope Book to BOLD! (an anthology on masculinity) and Sound and Vision . His poem Thirteen White Birds was shown at Leigh Spinners Mill in April 2023 as part of the Paper Birds exhibition. Dave's poem ripped was long-listed in The Rialto's Nature and Place 2021 competition. the poems Walk, Stand and Sit by the Hornbeam 00:00 / 01:30 Come with me into the moment the world relaxes We talk, chatting, gesticulating, not drowning. Here, the hornbeam catkins are out— wait. Stand. Sit. Still. Breathe. Watch. —Count six hundred heartbeats— A Great Tit calls, moves past, twig to twig it stops to sing— a bit early, but sunshine makes it right. Now more birds move, quiz twigs, parse branches, a Tree-creeper sings, a Dunnock from the hedge releases its ‘short unassuming warble’ my first for this woody place. Four Magpies swoop past. A Nuthatch hammers a hazelnut A Hawfinch sits and watches drops to the ground ... here is the world when humans are still— this world, without us, is the one we live in best. Water Vole 00:00 / 00:54 The first time I saw a water vole it didn’t see me, and I watched it for half an hour. I had time. I was running away from the last quarrel of my marriage, from the last quarrel of my life, into my last sunset. And this tiny whisker-twitcher, tiny grass chopper, reed wrecker, ate, looked, sniffed, groomed itself, sniffed, rested watched for sky-scares, watched for water-shrieks and for a few seconds slept. Then it slipped off its rest place, and swam, leaving me with a life still to come, and a future yet to happen. Magnol.i.am 00:00 / 01:20 Although I am but one cell budding into a line I am just as much a petal although I am spread, to wind & sun I am just as much a petal although I am creased, folded back by frost I am just as much a petal although there are bruises marking my satin white I am just as much a petal although I rest now, released, on the ground I am just as much a petal although a footprint crosses my silvery tongue I am just as much a petal although time pushes the bruises to cover me I am just as much a petal although I am dissolving to moss and leaf I am just as much a petal and tell me human with eyes and ears and hands and pen how about you? are you a petal now? or still a human? Since when are you both? Publishing credits All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb Author photo: © Brigitta Hänggi

Hear poet Nigel Kent read poems for wave 1 of literary poetry journal iamb. Nigel Kent wave 1 winter 2020 back next the poet The poems of Pushcart Prize-nominated poet Nigel Kent have appeared in a wide range of publications and been shortlisted in national poetry competitions. His collection, Saudade , was published in 2019 by The Hedgehog Poetry Press, following the success of his poetry conversations, Thinking you Home and A Hostile Environment, written in collaboration with Sarah Thomson. the poems Breakfast Scene 00:00 / 01:34 We watch her fill the glass up to its brim with juice and carry it like the sacrament, across the busy breakfast room, tongue pressed between her lips, to where her mum will sit. Her father shovels sugar into a cup of cooling tea to sweeten the bitterness that has spiked their holiday; the image of her with their friend stirring, stirring, stirring. The mother doesn’t notice what her child’s prepared; she’s looking for her partner, who, seeing her arrive, walks off, wading through a churning sea, chin deep, the sand sinking beneath his leaden feet. ‘DADDY’S GOING, MUMMY!’ her daughter screams and makes us silent extras in this breakfast scene; wishing we had lines to shape a new direction to this plot. His partner grabs the siren child fighting sandaled feet that kick out vainly at her fears, and smash the love-filled glass instead, which haemorrhages unchecked across the pristine linen, and though in seconds a waitress removes the sodden cloth and mops up the sticky dregs dripping from the table top, she cannot rid the room of the stain the family has left behind. Miscarried 00:00 / 00:49 When she lost the little girl she’d longed for, they did not try again; ‘Too old!’ he’d said. She did not lie silently in a closed-curtain room; she did not stare mutely into the unused cot. Her grief was a howling, bared-teeth grief; a sinew-ripping grief; a snapping, snarling grief that locked its jaws around her throat and swiped at both his outstretched hands. He learned in time to tip-toe round her, flattening himself against the nursery walls, but he never could ignore the quiet sound of gnawing, as it devoured her hour by hour. Man of words 00:00 / 00:58 You were so different from your older brother. I’d toss words to you, cajoling you to catch them and throw them back. But unlike him, you would not play; you’d let them fall and watch them bounce across the floor. Silence was your mouthpiece; but you were simply biding time, storing the words you'd let drop, and snapping them together with muffled clicks, to make a labyrinth of plastic streets and towering houses, where you would hide, count to ten and challenge me to find you, though I never could, not even when I cheated. You made me wait, testing patience till it failed. Then you’d emerge wearing expressions, borrowed from friends, concealing the face I’ve never learned to read. Publishing credits All poems: Saudade (The Hedgehog Poetry Press)

Hear poet Heather Quinn read poems for wave 4 of literary poetry journal iamb. Heather Quinn wave 4 autumn 2020 back next the poet Heather Quinn is an artist and poet living in California. She was a finalist in House Mountain Review's Annual Broadside Contest (2019), a semi-finalist in both Cutthroat's Joy Harjo Poetry prize (2020) and Prometheus Dreaming's Unbound Competition (2019), and has featured in Palette Poetry's 'Poetry We Admire' column for Shroud with Lead Wing, published originally in Raw Art Review. Heather's work has appeared most recently in the New York Times, 42 Miles Press, Cathexis Northwest Press, Ghost City Review, High Shelf Press, Inkwell Press, Kissing Dynamite Poetry and Burning House Press. the poems Kaddish for Grandma Irene 00:00 / 02:08 Her bony body is naked underneath a dress of translucent leaves. The knobs of her knees are burls of a willow tree. I place the paper cut-out of a blackbird on her left shoulder. In an open green field, we drink warm milk from cracked teacups painted with tiny yellow birds. She unknots the twine from a Rosenbloom’s cake box. I remember sugar cubes perfectly stacked in her silver caddy. Its delicate silver tongs. One lump or two, angelah? The way she would sing to me in Yiddish, Shlof, shlof, kindela. She was shaky, made of glass. I was a sparrow, terrified that even so small I might break her. Her heart pieced together with string saved from 1930s Pittsburgh, from that Hill District row house where seven children shared two bedrooms. All those socks and sweaters darned for her six younger siblings. All those beatings by her mother with a washboard or wooden spoon. Her father, the cantor, practicing for Shabbat service, Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu. At the Monroeville Mall she bought my first purse, flowered and pink with a gold clasp. Oy! It’s exquisite, kindela, she said. Tearing up, she pinched my blushed cheeks. In her leafy dress she is the green field, her white hair catching flecks of dusklight. From a phonograph, Billie Holiday’s voice scratches, I’ll be seeing you. Grandma closes her eyes and sings. sparrow 00:00 / 01:40 i watched a fledgling sparrow fly from its nest to its mother no, let me begin again it did not fly but landed at my feet after it was propelled from the tree in front of my childhood home by a rock thrown by a gangly boy bigger older the tree was painted with dry pigment & rabbit skin glue no, it grew of bark & leaf but i reconstruct the sparrow’s slippery skin damp slickened feathers its seedling heart visible through translucent membranes beak snapping open & closed squawk with no sound Munch’s Scream i picked up the baby bird held it like a damp lung in my hand nursed it with water & seed no, what really happened was dad said we had to leave it or momma sparrow would never return we knew momma was off building a new nest the O of the baby’s beak an alarm, until feathers wings flattened in shallow grass like a fried egg yet the sparrow lives pecking at my sternum, sipping oxygen from my windpipe clawing for its perch the history of light: a burning haibun After Torrin A Greathouse 00:00 / 02:15 i examine the bones of an incandescent bulb, crystalline glass, base & socket, thin wiry v relic of winged light i remember being chased by a ghost from my bed to the landing crying out to dad his face cast in television lowlights he scooped me up, tucked me back in, kissed my forehead & clicked on the bedside lamp ghosts always disappear in the light, he said dad died months before my wedding day his wedding band bound to my wrist with satin ribbon i imagined him as we wrapped his & her bulbs in black velvet smashed the glass beneath our feet later we picked up the broken shards, crushed metal burned the remains in a fire pit sealed them in a mason jar tonight i shake the jar like a snow globe watch the ashes bloom into embers, into dad’s image as it flickers, a reel of celluloid lit by one struck match // i examine the bones of an incandescent bulb, crystalline glass, base & socket, thin wiry v relic of winged light i remember being chased by a ghost from my bed to the landing crying out to dad his face cast in television lowlights he scooped me up, tucked me back in, kissed my forehead & clicked on the bedside lamp ghosts always disappear in the light, he said dad died months before my wedding day his wedding band bound to my wrist wi tesatin ribbon i imagined him as we wrapp hed his & her bulbs in black velvet smashed the glass beneath our feet later we picked up wroken asha s, crushed metal burned the remains in a fire pit sealed them in a mason jar tonight i sha r like a snowobe watch ashes bloom into embers, into dad’s image as it flickers, a reel celluloid lit by one struck match // bones of an iof winged light dad s face ca ghost always before bound to my e d like a snow he loom ins a s a reel ofcelllits c atch Publishing credits Kaddish for Grandma Irene (earlier version): Minnesota Review (November 1st 2016) sparrow: Prometheus Dreaming the history of light: Cathexis Northwest Press (October 1st 2020)

Hear poet Richard Jeffrey Newman read poems for wave 10 of literary poetry journal iamb. Richard Jeffrey Newman wave 10 summer 2022 back next the poet Richard Jeffrey Newman is the author of Words for What Those Men Have Done and The Silence of Men , as well as the translation, The Teller of Tales: Stories from Ferdowsi's Shahameh . Richard curates the First Tuesdays reading series in Jackson Heights, New York, and is on the Board of Newtown Literary . He's also Professor of English at Nassau Community College, where he recently stepped down to focus on his writing after a decade of service to his faculty union. the poems Just Beyond Your Reach 00:00 / 00:54 The prayer you say is neither seed nor plow, nor is it rain to quench your soul’s old thirst. The parched and blistered field your tongue is now bespeaks the long neglect about to burst, like rotten fruit thrown to chase from the stage a comic leaving dead words at your feet; and she, or maybe he, responds with rage, shrinking the room until the single seat that’s left is where you’re planted. Confront your god, shimmering and luscious, there, his skin— or is it hers?—a proffered gift, a prod to every hunger you have called a sin. Welcome each new taste; spread wide; bow low. Lose yourself till loss is all you know. This Sentence Is A Metaphor For Bridge #20 00:00 / 00:55 Imagine hell unfenced, yourself the unburned center of all that burning, every prayer you’ve ever said undone line by line, until the empty page is all you have. Enter there the path in you that is only a path, gather its shadows into a dance, a movement that ends with love, that keeps on moving till love becomes the rhythm, and you the fire, and the dance, the life you’ve chosen to make your loving possible. You thought you had to be the clench you’ve held where none but you could feel it. Give yourself instead to all that rises. Fill that cloudless sky with laughter. After Drought 00:00 / 00:58 Knees rooted in the bed on either side of your belly, my body’s a stalk of wheat bent in summer wind, a bamboo shoot rising, an orchid, and then all at once a cloud swelling, a swallow sculpting air, a freed white dove. You pull me down, but you are hot beneath me, and the gust that is my own heat lifts me away: I’m not ready. Outside, footsteps, voices. Two men. Giggling, we pull the sheet around us till they pass, but if someone does see, what will they have seen? A couple making love. No. More than that: they will have seen the coming of the rain; they will have seen us bathe in it, and they will say Amen. Publishing credits Just Beyond Your Reach / This Sentence Is A Metaphor for Bridge #20: exclusive first publication by iamb After Drought: The Silence of Men (CavanKerry Press)

Hear poet Ewan Mackinnon read poems for wave 24 of literary poetry journal iamb. Ewan Mackinnon wave 24 winter 2025 back next the poet Poet Ewan Mackinnon lives in Denmark, where he's artistic director of a charity that brings artists, clowns and musicians to children’s hospital wards. His poems have appeared in Under the Radar , The Rialto , Dear Reader , Jarfly , Obsessed with pipework and Prole . In 2021, and again in 2023, Ewan's work made it onto the longlist of The Poetry Society's National Poetry Competition. He's a big fan of the Arvon Foundation's writing workshops, and his favourite poet is Caroline Bird . the poems After two evening classes in silversmithing 00:00 / 02:13 Finally, The Micro Motor arrived not that the little weak-assed-orange-battery-drill couldn’t do the job, well it couldn’t, but that's not the point. It was a step into professionalism, to taking myself seriously, to feeling the part. It is a pendant drill, I wanted the Balkan Venus but Mickey swears I’d regret it if I didn’t go for the Fordom SR pro with the quick release kit, so, I got that. I screwed a white-enamel shelf bracket into the wall to hold it (I had some left over from the extension that I’d picked up from the bargain bucket at Jewson’s three years back) which was awkward because it’s plasterboard so I had to find the beam and my beam scanner is crap, should have got the Makita, Mickey’s had one for years and he swears by them so anyway, I guessed, and that always means loads of regularly spaced holes in a little line that look like a, very industrious termite has been burrowing for a home(ha) I did try screwing it to the ceiling cause I can see where the joist is by the paint cracking cause of me walking on it when I was fixing the roof earlier this year, but that turned out to be too high for the table, then I considered lifting the table, but I just finished that, its split levelled and bolted to the floor so that seems stupid, it’s heavy, the motor, so when you squeeze the foot pedal, however gently, it jolts and rotates, something to do with momentum or centrifugal force, I’ll have to ask Mickey, but it doesn't really matter, it's not the point, it came with an ash block with a hundred holes in it for the accessories I’d bought; the diamond drills and busch burrs and stone router bits and sanding discs and pendant wheels and frosting brushes and polishing pads and finishers, oh! and a few spare mandrels. Its brilliant. The Streets are Stained with Sorrow 00:00 / 01:07 Walk for miles, find my house but have no keys. Sit on the step, teary, wait for anyone who knows me. A streetlight flickers and dies. Table for one. Dance with strangers, soaked in sweat and tears. Get lost in the museum districts towering ancient blocks, tear-stained cafes fill with early evening aperitif guests. Sharply dressed teary waiters serve huge Negronis and snacks. Join the line at the soup kitchen for leek and teardrop stew. Every head down. Find the river by a wide paved boulevard full of bullish carpenters setting up market stalls, their laughter cuts. I’m sobbing. A crowd gathers to watch the tears melting my face. Collapse to the pavement with a splash, the crowd whoop as they jump back, no one wants my tears on their shoes. James Peddle and Sons 00:00 / 01:03 Tea seems inappropriate. Dark well pressed suits even on a Sunday. A simple solid battered stretcher on wheels and a body bag. I offer to help. They politely decline. Their office is on the parade next to that nice Turkish place. Red sun-bleached drapes block any chance of a glimpse inside. The door has no bell. On the wall is a painting of a horse drawn hearse. Maybe that’s James holding the whip. Mum signs the forms. At the funeral, they stand straight-armed, unmoved. Thousands of souls have taken their last journey on these round shoulders, their breath like shire horses in the frosty sunlight. Publishing credits All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb

Hear poet Jinny Fisher read poems for wave 12 of literary poetry journal iamb. Jinny Fisher wave 12 winter 2022 back next the poet Before writing poetry, Jinny Fisher was a classical violinist, a teacher, and a psychoanalytic psychotherapist. Her poems have since appeared in Lighthouse, Against the Grain , The Interpreter’s House , Under the Radar , Tears in the Fence , Prole , Ink, Sweat & Tears and Osmosis . Jinny's writing has been commended and placed in national and international competitions. She was first runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Open House Competition in 2016, as well as in Prole Laureate in 2020. Jinny also runs the Poetry Pram: taking poetry to audiences at festivals for random one-to-one readings. Her pamphlet, The Escapologist , was out in 2019. the poems Privilege 00:00 / 01:25 Aged eight, my brother walks through the cathedral school’s stone doorway. He is assigned a number, to mark with indelible ink inside his shoes. He is taught only by men who have been taught only by men. Big boys creep to the beds of shaking small boys, who wake in cold, damp sheets. Masters walk pretty boys upstairs, for personal attention, special education. * But my brother can pitch a note, so is chosen to be an apprentice chorister, learning melody and polyphony from the boys around him. Cantoris and Decani , the Cathedral choir stalls become his refuge; his friends are animal misericords under ancient polished seats. He floats to the rhythm of versicle and response, to refrains of psalms and canticles that swirl up to the fan vaulted Sanctuary ceiling. Praetorius, Tallis, Purcell—their anthems shall cradle and comfort him always. And in peace he shall both lie down and sleep. Retrofocus 00:00 / 01:32 Brownie 127: The Beach. As we skimmed the deeps, his freckled back was my boat. I felt the rise and fall of shoulder blades under my thumbs, his mouth swivelling into view as he gasped for breath. Look: a squinty grin, a cartwheel, a sandcastle – fortified against the tide. Asahi Pentax: The Shed. Dust-coated cobwebs, thick as tea towels, draped the windows. I dangled my legs from the workbench, viced the battens while he sawed, and there were so many splinters to be gouged. Look: a table – sanded and glossed, a captain’s chair, three splay-backs. Nikon F: The Studio. A windowless shed at the end of the garden. Only my friend was with him. We all knew there were cameras on tripods, banks of flash-guns, umbrellas to diffuse the glare. I imagine his camouflaged murmurs as her blouse falls to the floor. Listen: Lovely – peep from under your lids. Now – a little smile? Little Brother, Big Sister 00:00 / 00:38 At the back of Deb’s wardrobe, Dan finds the frock: pink satin frills, unicorns, fairies— soon to be sent to the charity shop. Grandma’s beads from the dressing-up box set off the shine in his wavy blond hair. His unisex trainers match Deb’s rainbow socks. Dan poses and pouts to the full-length mirror, catwalks into the kitchen with a shrill ta-da! Father’s eyes roll. He storms out, slams the door. Publishing credits Privilege / Little Brother, Big Sister: exclusive first publication by iamb Retrofocus: The Escapologist (V. Press)

audition for iamb AUDITIONS REOPEN 20th-26th Sep 2027 Thank you to all 160+ poets who auditioned in 2025. The standard of writing and reading was impeccably high. Come back to this page on Sep 1st 2027 to see how you can submit your audition next time around. There'll be more than 115 places available across eight waves spanning 2028/29. See you in 2027!

Literary magazine iamb is an archive of contemporary poets reading their own poems. It's also a quarterly journal of contemporary poetry from around the world. about iamb Part library of poets, part quarterly journal, iamb is where established and emerging talents are showcased side by side. Not just their words, but their readings of them. Expect new poems, every three months, free to your device of choice. ~ Mark Antony Owen, Creator & Curator, February 2020 ~ how you can support iamb The simplest way is to share your favourite poets' pages on social media. You can also donate whatever you can afford to help keep this journal online, ad free and free to all. Thank you for coming, for reading, perhaps donating. Above all, thank you for listening.

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audition for iamb record send wait Record yourself reading an original poem (published or unpublished) by you in English. Save it as MP3, M4A or WAV. Your poem doesn't have to be one you'd like to appear in iamb – you'll get to choose which three poems you'd like published if your audition is successful. Please don't choose an 'edgy' poem that has offensive or hateful language or imagery. This will be rejected. Submit your details in Step 1 (below). Then upload and submit your recording AND your poem's text file in Step 2 – using Word, TXT or PDF only please. Both your recording AND your text's filenames MUST include your full name plus your poem's title. Check for an on-screen confirmation message after Steps 1 and 2. If you see an error message, try again. If you don't get an invite to iamb by Nov 30th 2025 , please audition again in September 2027. If you accept a place in iamb, your invite email will explain everything. If you accept one of 12 places on the reserves list, please note that you could be asked to submit work at short notice at any time in 2026/27. who can audition for iamb? iamb is a journal – but it's also a directory of poets, their work and their voices. To give as many poets as possible a chance to be part of iamb, each poet can appear only once. how to audition Step 1 Send your details Send details Your details have been sent Step 2 Send your poem Your recording Filename MUST include your full name and poem's title Your poem's text Filename MUST include your full name and poem's title Send poem Your poem has been sent ** Please submit both audio and text **

audition for iamb what to do when auditions reopen on September 20th 2025 record send wait Record yourself reading an original poem by you in English. Save it as MP3, M4A or WAV. Your poem doesn't have to be one you'd like to appear in iamb – you'll get to choose which three poems you'd like published if your audition is successful. Please don't choose an 'edgy' poem that has offensive or hateful language or imagery. This will be rejected. Submit your details in Steps 1 and 2 – which will appear further down this page from September 20th-27th. Both your recording AND your text's filenames MUST include your full name plus your poem's title. Check for any on-screen confirmation messages after Steps 1 and 2. If you see an error message, try again. If you don't get an invite to iamb by Nov 30th 2025 , best of luck in September 2027. If you accept a place in iamb, your invite email will explain everything. If you accept one of 12 places on the reserves list, please note that you could be asked to submit work at short notice at any time in 2026/27. who can audition for iamb? iamb is a journal, but it's also a directory of poets, their work and their voices. To give as many poets as possible a chance to be part of iamb, each poet can appear only once. when to audition September 20th ~ 27th 2025

wave twenty-one spring 2025 Andrea Small Bob Perkins Fred Schmalz Gillian Craig Jane Robinson Joe Williams Kelly Davis Maggie Mackay Marie Little Mark Carson Moira Walsh Perry Gasteiger Robin Helweg-Larsen S Reeson Theresa Donnelly back to top

wave two summer 2020 Aki Schilz Angela T Carr Anna Saunders Claire Trévien Emma Page Georgia Hilton Helen Calcutt Jack B Bedell James Roome Jo Burns Maggie Smith Mat Riches Matthew M C Smith Neil Elder Paul Brookes Reshma Ruia Sarra Culleno Scarlett Ward Bennett Scott Elder Seanín Hughes back to top

wave seventeen spring 2024 Carol J Forrester David Pecotić Eilín de Paor Helen Kay Ilisha Thiru Purcell Iris Anne Lewis Jonathan Humble Lesley Curwen Margaret Dennehy Nina Parmenter Sarah Holland Steve Smart Sue Spiers Thomas McColl Tracey Rhys back to top

wave eighteen summer 2024 A R Williams Deborah Harvey Hilary Menos Isabelle Kenyon Julieanne Larick Liam Bates Mims Sully Nicole Tallman Niki Strange Phillip Crymble Rachel Carney Sinéad Griffin Thomas Zimmerman Warrick Wynne Yvonne Marjot back to top

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 back to top

wave nineteen autumn 2024 Christoper Arksey Corinna Board Frances Boyle Julie Stevens Kerry Darbishire Laura Theis Lewis Wyn Davies Louise Longson Marc Alan Di Martino Michele Grieve Nicholas McGaughey Oormila V Prahlad Rhona Greene Suyin Du Bois Tom Bailey back to top

wave eleven autumn 2022 Charles G Lauder Jr Daniel Hinds David Butler Heidi Beck James Nixon Jan Harris Kittie Belltree Lauren Thomas Lisa Tulfer Lydia Kennaway Maggs Vibo Nichola Deane Rick Dove Sam Henley Smith Susan Fuchtman back to top

wave fifteen autumn 2023 Abigail Lim Kah Yan Adam Cairns Andy Breckenridge C Daventry Dominic Weston Elisabeth Sennitt Clough Emma Lee Gaynor Kane Grace Uitterdijk Julie Easley Lesley James Luke Palmer Lynn Valentine Özge Lena Wendy Allen back to top