The Cafe Review

by Tom Pow One deer, then another, flushed out by my presence, before I can even spot what they were doing before me, cross half a field in four

by Stewart Conn I cannot contemplate your taking ill, say, any more than I can the prospect of no dawn, no morning patter of fine rain against

by Stewart Conn Today’s workshop was on the arc of the poem, its variance in accord with structure and length. Compare for instance the hundred

Simon W. Hall Dverg Mal Orcadian, Scots of Orkney ‘The echo comes from the hammars, or cliffs, on the side of the hill. Dr Marwick decided

by Simon W. Hall Poor Peedie Gaelic Orcadian, Scots of Orkney Poor peedie Gaelic. Peedie tottie grottie buckie. Atlantic o pressure bearan

by Ron Butlin When I reach the centre of the earth let there be someone with me. Each of us must bear the world’s weight, but not alone. So

by Ron Butlin I was having a last drink with a friend at the very moment a truck was being driven down a faraway hillside. I left the bar to find

by Rachel McCrum Girvan Whit’s yer hurry ? That great big sea turtle of Ailsa Craig waiting to finally lumber up evill scattering barnacles and

by Rachel McCrum I am unbuilding a house. Across the living room floor, bricks lie rubbled. Without fail, each morning, I carefully stub my toes,

by Rab Wilson What’s This You’re Writing? English Version There’s none care now about the poet’s work Least of all, not round here anyway.

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