Picaroon - Issue #7 - March 2017
Happy first birthday, Picaroon Poetry! We published Issue #1 last March, and I'm so pleased to see how far our little home for rogue poems has come. Thank you to writers, readers, submitters, supporters, and everyone who fights the good Picaroon fight (poetry-related or otherwise) for you are all the reason we do what we do. This issue feels like spring: parents and children, the glory and disappointment of youth, nature, and sex all make appearances, as do religion, mental health issues, dwellings, and learning from mistakes. Featuring work by David Seddon, Steven Bruce, Sue Kindon, Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Marc Woodward, Jamie Houghton, Rachel Burns, Nikki Robson, R.K. Wallace, Jennifer Lothrigel, Rosie Garland, Sophie McKeand, Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt, Leslie Thomas, Courtney LeBlanc, Scott Edward Anderson, John C. Fitzsimmons, raphael d'abdon, Bobby Steve Baker, Oz Hardwick, Louisa Campbell, Brett Evans, John Grey, Robert Ford, Kate Noakes, Cheryl Pearson, Simon Cockle, Ben Banyard, and Howie Good.
Happy first birthday, Picaroon Poetry! We published Issue #1 last March, and I'm so pleased to see how far our little home for rogue poems has come. Thank you to writers, readers, submitters, supporters, and everyone who fights the good Picaroon fight (poetry-related or otherwise) for you are all the reason we do what we do. This issue feels like spring: parents and children, the glory and disappointment of youth, nature, and sex all make appearances, as do religion, mental health issues, dwellings, and learning from mistakes. Featuring work by David Seddon, Steven Bruce, Sue Kindon, Yoni Hammer-Kossoy, Marc Woodward, Jamie Houghton, Rachel Burns, Nikki Robson, R.K. Wallace, Jennifer Lothrigel, Rosie Garland, Sophie McKeand, Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt, Leslie Thomas, Courtney LeBlanc, Scott Edward Anderson, John C. Fitzsimmons, raphael d'abdon, Bobby Steve Baker, Oz Hardwick, Louisa Campbell, Brett Evans, John Grey, Robert Ford, Kate Noakes, Cheryl Pearson, Simon Cockle, Ben Banyard, and Howie Good.
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Beachcombers<br />
Cheryl Pearson<br />
The Winter sun hits wet sand,<br />
and the struck world whitens.<br />
The sea is lightning<br />
strung with salt. The sand is white fire.<br />
You find a crab and lift it,<br />
red legs clicking like worked locks.<br />
You find a seahorse, crispbrown<br />
and snappable, curled in a<br />
permanent question.<br />
But it’s my find you handle like real treasure –<br />
the mussel shell, hinged like a fairy-door,<br />
with its tin stink and violet folds,<br />
the insides holding their own wash of light<br />
like a net of pearls cast at a throat.<br />
I watch as you tilt your palm sunward,<br />
then away, to see the lilacs rise,<br />
to see the goldpinks shift. Your eyes<br />
are the crucible where magic lives –<br />
colours from nowhere, rainbows<br />
rinsed from dead shell.<br />
I shift, too, when you look at me like that.<br />
I am also made beautiful.
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