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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

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childhood

Traces — A poem by Justene Dion-Glowa

Traces

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Three Poems by Jaclyn Piudik

Mirages

A house is not a terrapin
                or a sailboat
                or a maelstrom

The sunstorm that swindles
at midweek
sycamore green embossed on the heart
like sequins or worlds

Continue reading “Three Poems by Jaclyn Piudik”

Elephant Slide in the Exclusion Zone – A poem by Laura Wainwright

Elephant Slide in the Exclusion Zone
After David McMillan’s photograph, Pripyat, Ukraine, October 2002.

To forgive
can sometimes mean to think
of them as a child: a wisped head
turned in a wheaten basket. Soft fists.
A bumblebee in a foxglove flower.

Continue reading “Elephant Slide in the Exclusion Zone – A poem by Laura Wainwright”

Escapes by Lucy Whitehead

Escapes

I remember
the rocks hot under
my skin, black sun-glistened
flecks in sugar-almond stone,
rush of foam-tinged
sparkling water, the pull back
of waves fizzing sand.

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A poem by Lee Wright

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The Watersteps by BR Williams

The Watersteps are ruins now, but you can still see what is left of them by walking through the dank forest on the edge of town, over the train lines and then down to the crease where two wave-like hills meet. The steps sit half-swallowed inside a wide clay gorge. A little further up the gorge, there’s a stream at least half as wide as the gorge itself. It drops down an accidental waterfall caused by the collapse of the Watersteps. A sheet of tarpaulin wafts, hit by the unravelling crystal carpet of water. For the most part, the stream disappears amongst the rubble and soft ground at the foot of the waterfall. Only further down does a meagre version of it reform, bypassing the steps entirely.

The Watersteps have haunted my imagination for a long time. The first poem I ever wrote was about the steps. I hated it, re-wrote it, destroyed it and started again. I have been repeating each step ever since.
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Dreaming St. Conan’s Kirk by Ever Dundas

When I was nine, I dreamed of going to Mars. I dreamed of being swept away to fantastical lands. I dreamed of joining David at Groosham Grange, and travelling with Sarah in her quest to the Goblin City. I’m still a dreamer, but I no longer dream of escape. The ordinary and the fantastical inhabit the same world. There are ghosts, vampires, goblins, cyborgs, and aliens round every corner, lurking down every close. There are mermaids and krakens in the ocean, dragons in the sky. Continue reading “Dreaming St. Conan’s Kirk by Ever Dundas”

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