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Sunday, 22 June 2025

Poem, by Parnia Abassi

 Parnia Abassi was an Iranian poet, reported killed at the age of in the bombing of Tehran.

.
I cried for both of them
for you
and for me
blows
to the stars my tears
in your world
the freedom of light
in my
the pursuit of shadows
you and I will arrive in the end
at some where
the most beautiful poem in the world
is stopping
you begin
at some where
to complain about the murmur of life
but I will finish
and
i will be that dying star
in your sky
like smoke

Translated by Veronica Jimenez

Saturday, 7 June 2025

Problems of time travel, by Peter Shilston

 Agent F2X had been trained always to obey without question orders from the Time Lords, so when he was ordered to travel into the past and blow up a certain designated building, he set his co-ordinates to an appropriate time and place and set out. 

  On arriving there, however, he was surprised to find merely a shallow crater, which was already being colonised by a few weeds. Clearly, the building had already been destroyed, probably some weeks or months earlier. While he was standing there in puzzlement, a man approaching him, and after a few casual comments about the desolation before them asked, "Haven't I seen you here before?" Covered in confusion, Agent F2X recalibrated his return to his own space/time location and made his report to a Time Lord.

   "The mistake was yours," came the reply. "Your co-ordinates were set wrong. You arrived at your destination fifty earthdays later than you should have done, after the building had been destroyed. So now you must return there, but at the correct date, and carry out your task as instructed."

   "But," replied F2X in confusion, "surely the task has been done? I saw with my own eyes that the building had been destroyed!"

  "In that timeline, yes; but only because you returned. So proceed with your orders."

  "But the building might have been destroyed by someone else!  And why do I have to return now? Surely the task can be done by anyone, and at any time in the future?"

  There was no reply.  

Monday, 2 June 2025

Rote, by Annabelle Jane Palling.

 ROTE

There are no words but words
And lightning-shattered skies
And torrents crashing by.
There are no sounds but these
A secret whispering wind
And howling gales of joy
And earthquakes thundering.
This is more than just more
And never quite enough
My pleasure in surfeit
My skin that sings your touch.
There are no words but words
And lips and tongues and eyes
And gifts that cost us naught
And you between my thighs.
But.
Clichés are all around
Some hide a whit of truth
And even when they don’t

We tell ourselves they do.