The Day
give name to nothing. there’s
no body to it. nothing to give
or to take form. Continue reading “‘The Day’ by Clark Chatlain”
Hot Pocket Annie Queen of Broadway
She only existed under the neon
swirl of Broadway
between 42nd and 9th – Continue reading “Hot Pocket Annie Queen of Broadway by Saira Viola”
Macro created by the artist Penny Goring from a found version of The Busman’s Prayer. Continue reading “‘The Busman’s Prayer’ macro by Penny Goring”
Untitled
…what say now/ as if unsaid/ said/ what then
now/ often/ strays what will/
beyondless fathomless not/ close door/ what
foreign gift silenced/ Continue reading “‘Untitled’ – a prose-poetic by Michael Mc Aloran”
Opiate
Little light sing me your lullaby
that I may lose myself in you Continue reading “3 Poems by Christian Downes”
New People
My story is not my own
it is ours, sung from the mouth
of first nations, through generations
it somehow survived. Continue reading “3 Poems by Karissa Lang”
NAKED CITY
Everyday crucify what you know
in the naked city Continue reading “2 Poems by Rus Khomutoff”
My question is this:
will you let yourself pray to your own body here where worship begins in the hips Continue reading “‘My Question Is This’ by Celina Dietzel”
Part 1: ‘When We Found Out’
Dear diary,
It seems silly that I am writing in my diary at this age, and yet –
Mother called earlier today. The biopsy results are in:
A malignant tumor. Breast Cancer. Continue reading “‘Living With Cancer’ – an essay in five parts by Arathi Devandran”
“The Fundamental Poetry Of Presence”
Submissions to Burning House press are still open – keep sending us your poems stories art non-fiction photography etc upon the wild wild wing xx https://burninghousepress.com/submissions/
The Bridal Suite
After eleven years she wondered suddenly at the silence. Once there were so many words to fit into the hour before sleep and now barely a syllable was uttered. The silken pull of the eiderdown over the blanket whispered: You are lost to me, lost to me. Continue reading “2 Poems by Kathryn Hummel”
Traveller’s Stones
Now I am a lake,
opaque in depth and silence
the ground unreachable
toes dip in my legends
and recoil at the truth of my temperature.
Tell Me More Lies, The List Is Growing
In tribute to Adrian Mitchell (Based on his poem ‘Tell Me Lies About Vietnam)
As a child, I was always kept safe,
Though I thought I understood pain.
So hold my hand across the road,
Tell me lies
About Libya.
Continue reading “‘Tell Me More Lies, The List Is Growing’ by Kirstin Maguire”
DECONSTRUCTION XLII
all words used in this poem taken from lyrics to the album Document #8 by Pg.99
my darling mistake / must I speak of you
only / as a wound? A ghost? // a whisper,
Home Sick
Raggedy Ann bed sheets cover
my aching body, smother
moans of malady.
I call to you.
12 GREEN, 14 BLUE
Rita had been a volunteer-worker at the St Teresa Hospice shop for nearly a year now. Her friend Gladys had suggested it in a sideways way, that time over a cuppa when Rita was still unsure what to do with her days. Sure, she had friends to call on, who would call on her, friends like Gladys. But it wasn’t as simple as that. It was the hours inbetween that were difficult. The days where she saw no-one. Sometimes two, maybe three days on the trot. Especially when she slipped into what she called her ‘flunks’, this long drawn-out malaise of nothingness, of not even having the energy to pick up the phone. Continue reading “’12 GREEN, 14 BLUE’ by Dean Lilleyman”
SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN TO BURNING HOUSE PRESS ON-LINE PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD AND SUBMIT YOUR WORK TO US NOW
“We do this [write] because the world we live in is a house on fire and the people we love are burning in it” – Sandra Cisneros
Let us say that the house is on fire and you can only take one thing with you. So you take the fire. Burning House Press is the fire you take with you. On the night of the great fire Burning House Press escaped the crackhouse and crawled into the arthouse. Burning House Press never forgot. Burning House Press speaks from the side of its mouth, all aorta aria, loudhailer lung-song. Burning House Press is the steel spine in the feral ones. Burning House Press has one leg up one leg down on its tracksuit bottoms. Burning House Press cradles a butterfly in one hand and holds a butterfly-knife in the other. Burning House Press is the scallywag intelligentsia, the council estate oracle. Burning House Press is the Blakean grain of sand that Satan cannot find. Burning House Press portrays a crow’s cadence, is courageous enough to be mystic in these days of the septic tepid optic. Burning House Press is both concrete and quotidian and conflagration vision. Burning House Press is too verbose for the stage too vandal for the page. Burning House Press is born bookworm and baudville hooligan, voodoo and vindication. Burning House Press crawled for a thousand years on hands and knees over broken glass and molten-tarmac, just to tell you a poem. Burning House Press remembers the path to the water-well, as well as the way to the ward, and we sing them both.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 