Orbis 151

Orbis 151, Spring 2010
Front Cover artwork: ‘Treasure Island’, by Malcolm Bray:
http://malcolm-bray.artistwebsites.com

Featured Poet: Lynn Woollacott
Purple Elephant; Glass Mice; Moving On; Night Lights

Poems from Caroline M Davies, Mark Doty’s dog; Patricia Maubec, Taking Hostages; Abegail Morley, Our House; Andrew Shields, The Last D’athée’s Complaint; John Walsh, Buzzards over Barcelona;
Michelle Ward, Bushwhacked Frost; Ben Wilkinson, Snipe Hunt;
Noel Williams, Presumably butterflies

Prose from Don Ammons, Decree 39; Kevin Brown,
The World (And Everything In It); Christine Purcell, Trust Issues

Reviews Editor: Nessa O’Mahony
Reviews by Laura Bottomley, S.J. Holloway, Pauline Hughes, William Oxley,
Lorna Sherry and Lynne Taylor

Where else will you find A C Clarke’s Manscape right next to Simon Jackson’s Ad Exec in Country Walk? Or setting off on a Journey with Fiona Moore, you may have David Ball explaining about Dickens in Genoa, which could turn into a bit of a Saga, as Bobby Larsson says. Instead, take a look at the Deer Head, seen by Judith Ann Levison, unless you, and Terry Jones, are wondering about Being Cat, or simply Dog, from Mandy Haggith. Barking mad? It’s more peaceful with Gopikrishnan Kottoor and The Chempak Tree In Our Home, but be careful: if it gets too much, you could end up Dizzy, just like Angela France

Editor’s Note
This issue includes a review of How to Pour Madness into a Teacup
by Abegail Morley, 64pp. £7.99, Cinnamon Press, Meirion House,
Glan yr afon, Tanygrisiau, Blaenau Ffestiniog, Gwynedd, LL41 3SU
www.cinnamonpress.com

And, sorry to say, an incorrect version of her poem, which should read as follows:

Abegail Morley

Our House

I go before the leaden sky is ready: it’s hanging limp,
leaden in that in-between sleep-time,
pillows steeped in dreams,
faces red-eyed from the day before.

The streets are cold. Automatically turning
at the corner shop, I pass the Red Lion,
the stink of last night kicked
down its steps. Tripping

off the kerb, I step back, catch myself
before hitting tarmac;
I stand rooted to the pavement,
see our snapshot between worn curtains.

Headlamps sweep the room:
I hold my head in scrubbed hands
and behind us, the wallpaper
near the Baby Belling

lifts its lip and snarls.