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 Fathom 1989

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

M.L. McConnell (3)
Roy McDonald (2)
Gina M. Beaton (2)
Rebecca Kniseer (3)
Rick Armstrong (2)
Vince Tinguely (2)
H.G. Prosser (5)
Jim Hoyle
Robert Bosch
Lisa Michelle Fiander (2)
Joe Blades (3)

[PDF]

M.L. McConnell

 

 

Mailess

Home
to the penury of the postbox
The commerce of existence has gone to red
       and even the cockroaches have turned insolent,
they turn on heel and saunter away
through the debris of my day.

 

Soldiers of the Shelf

I knew it was over
the day you
divided
the books.
Greene and Naipai to you
Nin and Lessing to me.
Years of travel and time
nestled closely together
from one end of the world to another
and then further still between the covers.
The shabby exteriors clinging in spite of it all
and ten years.
But they are separated.
Soul mates cry out for their compassionate
compatriots.
The soldiers of the shelf lie wounded.
Their literate lives a pulpy mass of severed
arms and legs torn from old friends,
they live
strangely spineless alongside Art and Science.
United by hapchance and circumstance.
Donne saw the world in a flea and was moved to rhyme and
pray
about islands.
And it is perhaps in these small moments
that we most clearly see what is and
therefore must be.

 

Pil-grim-age

So this is the place
whence those
crackled, moist letters
came.
Pilgrimage
to this decaying building.
Dark, once genteel
its moth-eaten
but still undeniably
genuine
red Persian rug
moulders in the hall.
Ten yeurs after her
death her name still
hangs
in the white plastic
letters.
Did no-one call for her
since?
Common knowledge
in this building that the names are
an epitaph.
Not a sign that she or he
at one time
made their place to rest
here.
I’ve travelled a long way
to find this place,
to hover
outside at the door
looking.
Did I expect to find anything
other than the journey
and the arrival,
a laying of a
wreath of memory
in this darkened
hall
of aged paper,
and sallowing light?
You were here
and it was alive
for me.
The neighbours, the dog, the streets
and walkers, I can taste them all.
I can bear to
go no further
in search of
your bed
room stripped of your
vision.
See you naked alone
in the
no longer
white porcelain room.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul