Saturday, 28 February 2015

Frogmore hits 85

March sees the publication of the 85th edition of The Frogmore Papers. This issue includes poetry from the recent Costa Prize winner Jonathan Edwards and former Frogmore Prize winners Sharon Black and Howard Wright, as well as former National Poetry Competition winner Mike Barlow.

There is prose from Welsh writer Simon Howells and American Alice Wooledge Salmon, and artwork from Ukrainian Alexei Talimonov. The striking cover design is by Hythe artist Carol Lewis.

The Frogmore Papers are available post-free from The Frogmore Press, 21 Mildmay Road, Lewes BN7 1PJ (£5) or may be purchased from Skylark in the Needlemakers, Lewes, East Sussex.

1 comment:

Goo Henson said...

Fish blood, fleas in rugs, this is how it used to be no accountability
Heterophobia is the religion of homophiles, no narcotic/hypnic jerk
will make spherically-woozy insomniacs wake to this skeptic quirk
after septicemia renders void weapon-salve logic from a septic dirk
Rabbit-blood-stained tires is how it used to be before responsibility
My psoriasis ointment causes itching with subsequent scratching as
the flu inoculant I'm gettin' makes any inoculated flu more catching
regardless of C.D.C.-denials concerning the hoaxes they're hatching
like P.M. Thatcher's crimes over which old Q.C.'s are still thatching
as Marxian bombs deliver the deaths crony capitalists are matching
that corresponds to a Virginia opossum & the fated tit he is latching
while the American patchwork of patched-up reality needs patching
I prefer green-monkey meat raw with fibro-fatty matriarchal plaque
as a well-off tramp, ol' sugar-daddy wacko & natty patriarchal hack
I don't find myself, in bleached skin, hearkening back to bein' black
& living the life of Riley in West Bellaire's draftiest tar-paper shack
with Wonder Woman Lynda Nazi Carter scratching bloody my back
because the cleavage I got isn't as wondrous as her fantastical crack
that rides cabooses through Indore on an Indo-Euro fascistical track
over the impossible curvature of our shooting, masonical ball Earth
as it spins one thousand miles-per-hour at its fattest Equatorial girth