Kevin Casey – three poems

A Simple Gift

Before I left, I resented every minute
spent cleaning my room, feeding the dog,
dragging the trash to the curb. Any request
that encroached upon my idle time
was an unbearable sacrilege.

A year from home, and I’m back visiting,
shearing a jade maze behind a lawnmower,
humming along to the drone of its motor,
smiling at finches as they labor at the feeder
while I sweep my parents’ porch.

All that was so dear about my time
has been scrubbed away by the wider world,
and a day that’s clear to chip at a list
of chores now seems a simple gift.

Whatever heaven might be, I’d be willing
to come back down for a while
and do nothing all day but wipe off
counters and wash up the dishes,
and the sound of my mother’s gentle chiding
would be a rain that rinses the morning clean.


Within the porcelain cauldron of her new
electric washing machine, his wife
would work her alchemy–rinsing the smell
of silage from his socks, the stomp and tramp
of six generations of dairy cows
from his dungarees, adding a few drops
of bluing to the load of his white shirts.

Cooked dry in the sun, edged with the iron’s heat,
these shirts would hang cooling in his wardrobe
like frosted forms huddled in an icebox.
And then the work week’s transformation,
the alchemy complete: the farmer’s son
turned office clerk, a scarecrow plucked
from its field, driving toward the city
each morning in those fresh white shirts
made whiter to the eye by her indigo potion.

Black Rat Snake

From the pines behind the shower house,
it cut through the campground beach like a drop
of midnight poured back into the lake,
bisecting families that shrieked on their towels,
parting the stillness of that summer day.

Fifteen years old and weary of vacation,
I watched, admiring the panic
this five-foot stockwhip lashed across the sand
before writing its escape on the surface
of the water in a flowing script.

How enviable to fashion chaos
from your presence, to be both dangerous
and beautiful–a single strand of terror,
an onyx fuse that might detonate the day.

Kevin Casey is the author of Ways to Make a Halo (Aldrich Press, 2018) and American Lotus, winner of the 2017 Kithara Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). And Waking… was published by Bottom Dog Press in 2016. His poems have appeared recently in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Ted Kooser’s syndicated column ‘American Life in Poetry’. For more, visit

(Almost) The End

Dear friends,

Earlier this year, after a great deal of thought, I decided that Clear Poetry will cease publication at the end of December 2017.

As the sole editor, I’ve spent many hours over the past three years reading and responding to submissions, as well as running the site itself using a mix of WordPress, Facebook and Twitter. I’m not complaining – after all, I took it upon myself to launch Clear Poetry at the end of 2014. But to put it simply, I need to devote more time to my own writing.

Having made my decision, I waited until all available slots for the rest of the year were scheduled before hammering a piece of 4 x 2 firmly over the submissions inbox.

But don’t despair, there are still several weeks’ worth of brilliant poems to be published before Clear Poetry goes into deep hibernation. I’m also putting the finishing touches to this year’s free e-anthology, which will feature one poem from each of the poets who appeared on the site this year.

I’ve loved editing the site and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. Clear Poetry will remain online in suspended animation for the foreseeable future (as well as on the British Library’s archives), so please feel free to peruse the marvellous roll-call of poets who have helped me to make it the success it is today.

Cheerio for now,

Ben x

Millicent Stott – three poems


Crushing a smooth, ripened peach,
bird song ripples like anger and delight in the early hours.
Sparks escaping a roaring fire,
vulnerability and power –
flowers left abandoned on a grave,
guilt lies unkempt, a nose bleeding into a sink.
Electricity, blue skies hazy with pain,
an empty barn, sweet, sharp straw,
chalk on your hands,
fear in your heart.
Travelling, the smell of new carpets
and soft ice cream, melted before it reached your lips.
for pink skies instead of grey.

A Different Home

Knocking on a door the colour of fresh cherries,
acidic paint fumes and falling leaves,
static in my hair from the trampoline.
Mournful bird song at sunrise,
a patio door left open, counting up the squares of my wallpaper.
A piñata, in bright, lime hues,
singing along to brightly coloured songs in the kitchen.
A still, unfinished house,
a street perpetually in Autumn.

Sweet Sixteen

Sixteen, she glitters like shattered champagne flutes,
rosy lips, stained sweet like fruits.
Sixteen, I wrote,
will taste like crushed violets and cream,
Merely a means to an end,
sparkling, clean.
Blonde hair, cocktail glasses,
golden hoops and a chandelier smashes.
In my head she was sequinned and tasselled,
time stands still,
her stance embattled.
A head full of thoughts unclean,
a necklace blue, aquamarine,
oh, how I wanted to be
sweet sixteen.

Millicent Stott is a fifteen year old writer living in the North East of England. She’s a lover of small animals, stars and feminism.
You can follow her blog at
and she Tweets at @millismusings

Amy Kinsman – two poems

Artemis Bathing

You’ve seen her here before, but never so clearly
as now amongst the unsheltered picnic benches
damp with an afternoon’s rain. She’s drinking cheap cider,
red pigment bleeding from her lips onto the cold glass.
What? She’s asking, her doe eyes turned upwards
into yours. Perhaps you look like the outline of her
father. It’s just your face in the moonlight. She laughs
down into her boots, sloshes her pint over the
tabletop. They ask me for ID every time. And your
hair is greying, going, the skin of your old man’s hands
folding into deep grooves. Where’d a pretty girl like
you get callouses like those? She holds out two fingers
before her, draws them back into her chest. But
of course it’s Orion on the pint glass, the design beneath
her lipstick stain, the kind of boy you’d been at that
age: strong-armed, sleeping on the floor of the forest
with the thinnest twigs of girls tucked under your torso.
The M.C. calls you in from the night sky to the
microphone, and maybe if her cheeks hadn’t risen to
such a colour, if some lad or other had been there
with her, you wouldn’t have done it – yet you draw,
in baritone, her naked image slipping into the water
to cleanse the paint from its features, soothe the bruise
against her right breast and leave her flawless beneath
your gaze as you brush the curtain aside ever so gently.
She doesn’t need to speak. Just downs the drink and
strides out into the open air, her calves and knuckles
tight, brows low over her eyes. Don’t say Have you
ever thought about dating someone a little older,
someone with a bit of money? Stop kidding yourself.
You’re another old fool upstairs in the pub,
wishing words would make him a more impressive beast.


I want to take you to Crosby beach
to watch that cast iron legion disappear
into the Irish sea.
You can’t swim there,
the water’s colder than the air in February and
you already wear two pairs of trousers
smoking on the fire escape,
hand cupped around your tiny flame
to keep it lit
while your fingers ice down in their bones,
but I think you’d like it there
watching the tide wade in towards them
and us.

You’re a warm island boy and
I know this place doesn’t feel like home yet.
Spend fifteen minutes in the water
in this season
and it will stop your heart,
twenty a year get caught out like that,
so we became a nation
of sailors instead of swimmers.
We went in search of oceans
clear enough to see the bottom,
climates where the air never cuts your cheeks
and fills the wounds with the cold salt of sleet,
found them
and felt the wanting still.

We belong to these dirt and pebble beaches,
silent, empty, thankless
as their waves heavy with the weight of duty
pull the wreckage onto shore:
Shipping containers full of motorcycles,
half-drowned Spaniards
and all the Gods that strayed from their sacred rivers,
the way all that cocaine washes up
with the steady breath
of the tide just as ceaselessly on yours.

I want to tell you that I’m sorry
but I’m not sure what for –
some old sin
beating steady
as the pulse in my neck
that you kiss and kiss,
this mark of yours rising
against my pale skin.

Let’s call this continental drift.

Amy Kinsman is a poet and playwright from Manchester, England. As well as being the founding editor of Riggwelter Press, they are associate editor at Three Drops From A Cauldron and the host of Gorilla Poetry in Sheffield. Their work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Picaroon Poetry, Prole, Rust + Moth, Up The Staircase Quarterly and Valley Press.

Mark J Mitchell – three poems

One A.M. Concerto, Saturday

A dying man floats up into your store
on whisky tides. Elgar’s cello piece haunts
him, lifts him, propels his one perfect choice.
His wounded breath, staccato as applause,
embraces bottles. Eyes slide from the floor
back to liquids. A thin smile—petulant—
a tenor’s—betrays his sandpaper voice.
He coughs to cover your too polite pause
and points. The malt’s as old as you. “Let’s pour
some.” Shrug. “Why not.” He pays. You splash. He wants
one last adagio, one final, moist
concert recap. Nightcap. The long dark law
awaits. He seals the flask and drinks. “We’re done.”
he laughs. Shakes your hand. “It’s been a good run.”

Fatima Ghazal
For Anne and Todd

Form is exactly emptiness
—The Heart Sutra

The shrine at Fatima
is an empty glass box.

The devout arrive on their knees
to pray at this empty glass box.

Close by, factories churn out
statues to remember one empty glass box.

Houdini would have worshipped
the emptiness of that glass box.

And for decades comfort
flowed from this perfectly empty glass box.

Public Eavesdropping

Tuesday his ex-friend’s best ex-wife just calls
like 1989 never blew up.
Says coffee or some such. He hems and haws—
so he says. He meets her for a quick cup—
you using this cart? Thanks. She probes his wounds
like some evil surgeon, but she pretends
it’s about her ex, he should see him soon.
Dumb crap. But he tumbles. Sure, they were friends
once. Needs one more quarter. I can see it—
She leans forward bouncing those new fake tits.
He’s sliding down the rabbit holes. He falls
like old oak. Grab that corner. Her tuned thighs
ready to split. And he splits. Never called.
Oh, yeah— she has Pre-Raphaelite eyes.

Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. He lives with his wife Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.

Louisa Campbell – three poems

Bulky Waste Collection

The bin men groan under the weight.
I feel so girly, handing up the cushions.
By the truck, I had expected
crumbs, pen tops, maybe even 10p,
but not the old cellophane wrapper
from his cheap fags.

The kindest thing he ever did for me
was to go outside to smoke.
Now I picture my tatty sofa, teetering
on the tip of a slagheap-sized mountain
of rubbish, and him, seated on it,
king of all he surveys,
lighting up.

Killing him
for #MeToo

The only thing that really helped
was the offer to send some people from Brixton
to teach him a lesson.
And I wish I’d said yes

when I picture him
bloodied, bruised;
being asked why –
stuttering up a lie.
But he would heal.

The more I file him in a drawer,
slam it shut
and on just one word,
with it flying open
he jumps out on a spring,
hands waggling,
chuckles in my face,

I wish I’d said yes.

Westward Ho!

He couldn’t build a tree house,
or hoik a spider from the bath.
His job was too boring to remember.
He couldn’t even swim.
His words of wisdom were all borrowed
from perky concert hall comedians
and he lost his temper much more
than any dad should.

Not for him, the Padstein hoorays;
he liked a real town,
a take-me-as-I-am town,
a dogs-in-the-lounge-bar town,
a corner-shop-in-your-dressing-gown town.

In soft sandy coves, dumpling hills,
he paddled and played his childhood away.
Munched squidgy pasties,
all-butter scones with the jam on top
of the cream, to shimmer in softened sun.

I come back to Devon
where nobody minds
if you use an exclamation mark –
even when naming a town;
I’ve just been called m’dear again,
and I realize why he was my hero:
it must have been the Devon in him,
simply the Devon.

Louisa Campbell has been published in a variety of print and online journals. Her first pamphlet, The Happy Bus, was recently published this Autumn by Picaroon Poetry. She lives in Kent, England, with her husband, daughter and two rescued Romanian street dogs.

Rob Smith – two poems

Mod Life Crisis

Going grey with a workplace pension
But still a symbol of youthful rebellion
45 Fred Perry polo shirts from Debenhams
He’s been keeping the faith (since 2011)
Northern soul meets southern tongue
and a flavour of the far east.
That Harrington was made in Taiwan.

This roundel ringmaster is out to impress
his wife’s friends outside pizza express
sold the Volvo for a Vespa and the rest,
parka on, parked up with what (little) hair he’s got left.
A carefully researched moptop mess.

Thirty years’ time he’s got a new image
never seen him in a better way
that skinhead in a zimmer frame.
Back in my day,
Britain was for the British.
We had real style, listened to real music
I was a real authentic.
A scorching sideburn icon at forty-six
or was it forty-three?
But nowadays it’s all their fault
crushing our culture, taking our jobs.
By royal decree
from the last king of the Mark’s and Spencer’s Mods.


The dress code at Opium Barcelona is one of the strictest in Barcelona especially on weekends. No sport shoes are allowed’

(Barcelona, 17/07/17)

These were quite white once.
Before I learnt to tie my mind in double knots,
tuck it under the tongue can’t let it fray
down on your home front
you need me tight
up on my feet again.

Before this suede became
speckled with scorching orange stains
equally sweet and sour takeaway
from nights spent talking, forcing
down the fire of hungry days
trying to love the scales again.
Weighed down from winning
all those almost silver medals,
as empty as yesterdays crumpled foil tray.

Before I earnt my three red stripes
stitched on from this tin we’re still spilling
trying ourselves for size to a different rhythm
that night. Before every step was
silenced by the swarms, 4am notifications.
Before both these soles were riddled with red dots
bullet holes, burning buckshot translations.
remorse coded messages after the tone stopped,
of your shoestring hanging up on self-appreciation.

We’re not quite boxfresh
If that’s not good enough
we’ll just stagger on to another club.

I love your mud.

Rob is 18 and from Colchester, Essex. He was initially inspired to write by performance poets such as John Cooper Clarke and Luke Wright, as well as the lyricism in alternative and rap music. He’s just begun studying for a degree at the University of Sussex and is looking forward to performing his work locally.

Kathleen Strafford – three poems

Snapshot of my Son Momentarily Stopping

as the sun pierces through
black clouds
haloing your hair
clutching your bottle in one hand
……………..Mickey colouring book in the other
………………….on your way
……………………..into the faded
…………………………..monochrome of grey
…………………………………..your knees
……………………………………….slipping into its crease

Leaving for the Airport

No windscreen wipers

The car ahead strikes
a cat with a glancing blow
………………….launching it
…………………………..spinning 360 degrees
……………..and then some
its tail jutting, fur spiking
…………..blood spraying
leaving a crimson circle
we watch
……..the cat’s legs refusing to accept
………………..its helicopter death
………………..ready to high-tail it
…………………….across the highway

Strange how shock
will keep your head spinning
…………..& your motor running
……………………when all is lost.

that’s why I’m leaving you

Vacation photo

I am the girl
biting her lip
It’s the only time I
put my arm around her waist
I was 10.

Mom’s got an oar in each hand
as we pose on the dock
My little sister with her fake smile
and lopsided pedal pushers
raises her eye brows
when she spies

a tree shaped like black dog
in the background
on its haunches ready to pounce
she calls it by name

I try in vain to rub away
the dark spot trailing down
her forehead

She is marked.

Kathleen Strafford is a student at Trinity University in Leeds studying for her MA in creative writing. She hopes her first collection of poetry will be published this coming year after graduation. She has been published in magazines & online: Interpreter’s House, Butcher’s Dog, Algebra of Owls, Fat Damsel, Ink Sweat and Tears, Panoply webzine, Prole, Cinnamon Press’ Reaching Out anthology and a number of Trinity’s own publications.

Jennie Farley – two poems


Dinner, and he’s floundering like a drowning fly.
The wife’s parents, and Mr and Mrs Whatsaname
who’ve just moved in next door.

Impatience slinks around his neck.
He makes a point of glancing at his watch.
The dog jumps up, wags its tail.

From the kitchen he takes the wife’s
Saturday-job key from its hook, his mac, torch.
A brisk walk, one turn of the key, and he’s in

the midnight shop he calls Rosinaland, where
torchlit spangles twinkle, satins slide and shift.
Rosina awaits him in her scarlet gown,

blonde wig and bowler hat. Off with his mac,
outdoor shoes, trousers, golf jumper, socks,
On with the gown, the wig, the hat.

A slick of Coral Kiss. On with the heels.
The backlit mirror flaunts his catwalk twirl,
a tip of the hat… The dog yawns.

Vanilla Slices

I wouldn’t say no to a vanilla slice,
says my mother in a plaintive voice.
She is only a ghost so I leave her
sitting on the sofa by the fire,
put on my coat, and go up to the Coop.
Returning, I put my shopping on the table,
two vanilla slices,and a bottle of vermouth.
Whoopee! cries Mum, waving
her legs in the air. She’s turned
into a flapper with newly bobbed hair.
I sit down beside her, flipping
my georgette skirt, raise my
glass in a toast to us both..
Tomorrow we’ll go shopping…

Jennie Farley is a published poet, workshop leader and teacher. Her poetry has featured in magazines including New Welsh Review, Under the Radar, The Interpreter’s House, Prole and several anthologies. She has performed her work at Cheltenham Literature Festival, Cheltenham Poetry Festival, Swindon Poetry Festival. Bristol Poetry Revue, The Everyman Theatre, and various local venues. Jennie founded and runs NewBohemians@CharltonKings providing regular events of poetry, performance and music. Her latest collection is My Grandmother Skating (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2016). She lives in Cheltenham.

Gill Lambert – three poems

The Countryside Code

Plan ahead, be prepared;
so you’re ready for anything.

Follow advice; if you think
it will serve your purpose.

Consider other people;
then forget them, instantly.

Keep yourself under control;
try not to behave inappropriately.

Some gates need closing;
kissing gates take care of themselves.

Follow paths; especially
if you’re not sure where they’ll lead.

Leave no trace of your visit;
go home, act normal.

after Carole King

And when they asked,
she didn’t have the words
for how they’d moved together,
choreographed by understanding;
that they’d found harmony in the familiar.
Or to describe the pin-pricked sky –
tapestry canvas held up to the light.
She couldn’t tell them how she’d stayed
in bed all morning the next day,
so that the night could find its way
inside her head. And if they asked –
and they did – if the earth moved,
she only said it had been beautiful.

The Sickness

It gave you an aversion to coffee,
washing powder and new-mown grass,
made you want to hurl your tea
as soon as it went down. You remember
this time of year, because of the sickness.

With each one it was different.
One of them made you crave cheese
(a love you’ve never lost) another one
expensive orangeade (the cheap stuff
didn’t cut it) and they all put you off fruit.

It was the sickness made you realise.
Before blue lines, or ultrasound, one month
in, one month missed. Twice
it was the answer to a prayer, once,
the delivery of a fear you’d tried to ignore.

But they all came anyway, bringing
shit and sick and noise. Turning you
into a different version of yourself.
Each one chipping a bit more off;
adding something, somewhere else.

Gill Lambert is a poet and teacher from North Yorkshire. She has been published widely in magazines and online and her pamphlet, Uninvited Guests, was recently published by Indigo Dreams. Gill runs the Skipton-based poetry night Shaken in Sheep Town and compères at Word Club in Leeds.