Toronto Girl by Oonah V Joslin

Toronto Girl

slender quick how you think no consonants no consequence no breaks events through the day like cup of coffee double shot no lid no lip you flit among high rise traffic fumes and sun-glint twenty four carat bank finger-sampling sushi mall-bites a fluttering cyber-walk mannequin ear-plugging louder to drown the surround sound long into the slim-line stream-line uniform casino Niagara night falls.

restful dawn
golden girl awakes
another gadget-day to go

Toronto Girl by Oonah V Joslin was highly commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh

Redacted by Aelred Down




Redacted by Aelred Down was highly commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh

Homing Bird by Ruth Calway

Homing Bird

Called at your door again today. Last time
it was April; now it is September.
The path is still the same in leaf and stone,
being forever written; thirty years
of bearing and breaking. Knocked softly,
once for the present, once for the past.
My heart, remembering, opened like an old book
that through long use has lost full hold, let pages fall.

Yet that thrill on the threshold; reunion
with a place known to hold and set you free
as a poem becomes the mind’s own motion.
Inside out, outside in – tree, rock and fell
breathe here as in their ancient forms; the house
holds steadfast, and speaks as a hidden spring
beneath bids, forbids, carries you home. To hear this
is to know the weight and livingness of the word.

Footsteps resound the rooms above like rain,
the staircase beats with the wings and echo
of a thousand inspirations. As though
memory had gone before I follow,
turn to see them as though watching behind
their waterfall of light. William’s
bowed reflection; Samuel’s far star-bound sea.
Dorothy, eternally making up the fire.

Homing Bird by Ruth Calway was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.

In the Walled Garden by A C Clarke

In The Walled Garden

This afternoon on the cusp of October
each blade of grass still keeps
its glitter-drop memento,
a tiny prism, as if
a glass rainbow had splintered
harmlessly, the way a sky rainbow
breaks light without a wound.

A feather dropped from a pigeon rests
near a litter of shed leaves.
It doesn’t matter,
the way a tumble of windfalls
means not carelessness
but plenty, their bruises
glut for wasps.

Outside, traffic is growling, a plane
thrums overhead. I think
of glass and steel colliding, the sharp
glint of wreckage
flesh crushed purple;
and how bombs, falling, burst
into angry flowers.

In the Walled Garden by A C Clarke was highly commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.

Liverpool Bay by Seán Street

Liverpool Bay

The voice of a hand on my
arm. Less of me to answer
now, watching from here, waiting,
your ship rising from morning
towards the sunrise as two
great birds flew out to greet you,
took you with them through dawn light
past a shoreline to a skyline,
from a desert to a pool
of life’s possibilities.

The dialogue of breathing.
Where West pours in on the tide,
the exhale of East answers.
Water swims with memory,
but when I ask, it only
whispers to shingle. Too much
to question an ocean,
too many conversations
murmuring here at once
in mid-flow. Too much to ask.

The dialogue of breathing.
How we come and go, we tides.
It is what seas make us do.
We come and go – breath and tides –
body heat’s ebb under moons,
the convection of spirit.
We’re printed here together
somewhere across all this deep.
Listen for voices, further
out each time the moon rises.

The voice of a hand on my
shoulder, and it’s you again
out there on the morning sea,
forever coming towards
me, and the city reaching
for the ploughed space in water
left by your lost ship’s grey ghost,
past a shoreline to a skyline,
forever coming back home,
coming in on the bay’s tide.

Liverpool Bay by Seán Street was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.

Upon a Night by Mary Rozmus-West

Upon a Night

What goes on in the longest night? More
meals for owls, extended predators’ hours?

Who registers additional losses, the nests
now empty, which stomachs full when time
is called by a tiny chirp hesitantly
announcing the shortest day? The sun

stumbles, spilling milky light from behind
wintering clouds. Opalescence bargains
with tenebrous forces, pretends that all is
well, even as the body count mounts.

Everything’s something, deserves at least notice
say the conflicted heroes. Did you really think
that no one would die when you left the injured
bleeding in the darkness? Dolus eventualis.

‘Upon a Night’ by Mary Rozmus-West was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh

The whisper of stars – by Eithne Cullen

The whisper of stars

Chilling, it is below fifty degrees
in an icy tundra- desolate, bare,
the very breath that leaves you starts to freeze
and droplets turn to crystals in the air;

they hang a moment, to the ground they fly…
and shatter, just like little glassy shards,
look down it is like looking at the sky,
they have named it: the whisper of the stars.

At home, a watcher of the skies, in bed,
holds up a smart phone with a special app,
and constellations loom above his head:
the universe unfolds with this sky map.

Spread out like a rug on the earthy floor,
shooting off to the edge of outer space;
or reaching like the pebbles on the shore
the stars and planets’ patterns interlace.

‘The whisper of stars’ by Eithne Cullen was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh

Two poems by Noel Williams


Windfall phrases flutter on the path, dry whisperings,
litter scratching at my boots. As if someone
doesn’t want me hacking through these brambles
to that neglected shed. Someone is me.
But I’m not listening.
Time to cut this to the root.

In it those toys that Oxfam should’ve had –
the microscope with slides of spider-legs
and eye-bright copper sulphate, a bible scribbled through,
bruised Swoppets and the yellow saxophone
with scarlet keys still creased in cellophane
as if a toy-shop window bent and buckled round it.

You knew I’d kept them. But never said. As if
your silent threnody could scour guilt from these things
heaped up and hidden. Forget this pushchair with rust-soiled wheels
once a chariot. Imagine this typewriter
stuffed with your hundred spidered drafts
holds nothing but pages yearning to be trees.

You wished, I know, to become tongueless as oak.
Instead of words we might have a treehouse.
But what’s the point of knowing? I know this billhook,
for example, was your aunt’s, borrowed to slice
the first thick swathe of nettles from this yard
to clear it for that red pedal car. So what?

I know now this Lone Ranger Colt falls from its holster
if you sprint on the road. I’d planned to stitch it.
I know that if I’d cleared all this and dumped it when I should,
we’d have new tools, oiled and gleaming,
mounds of fecund peat, a dozen rows of seedlings,
fingering the trickling sunlight, if I’d unwebbed the window as you asked.
It feels like rain.

Return to Kabul, 1990

Under the carcass of a T72, the greybeard
elbows professional orphans,
spreads a Quran against a pillow of stone.
We face the same way.

We filter rice and cumin with our fingers,
chew kidney beans folded in spinach.
Stained by firelight we laugh about the carpet,
the lost washing machine, the hours
we’d prayed at that fizzing TV.
Who now crouches by its flattery?
Is it kicked in and sightless, like Mazar-al-Sharif?

Yesterday we counted a blackened mile of buses
lining the pits. My father wouldn’t come back to his cell.
He gave me the hasp of its hacksawed lock, talisman
against its sixty thousand silences.

Between the crazed walls and the minarets
pale pigeons glide like angels.
In the Ziaranth glazed by autumn sky,
a woman in a white burqua kisses the caliph’s tomb.
Those lights rising over the broken stone
are not the beams of any helicopter.

‘Overgrown’ and ‘Return to Kabul, 1990’ by Noel Williams were highly commended and second prize winner respectively in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.

SLQ July – September 2016 Print Cover


De Motu Cordis (On the Motion of the Heart) by Heather Combe

We have yet to explain, however, in what manner the blood finds its way back to the heart from the extremities by the veins, and how and in what way these are the only vessels that convey the blood from the external to the central parts.
– William Harvey (1578–1657). On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.

Her slender arm is clasped in his hand.
One finger softly brushes translucent skin,
feeling her fluttering pulse quicken.
Tracing fragile veins, from elbow to wrist.

Part of him longs to take a scalpel,
and part her skin, like stage curtains.
Hungering to explore her circulation;
to reveal the intricacies of her anatomy.

She shudders. Picturing again the animals,
still breathing, splayed in his study.
The mewling cries, the scalpel’s glint;
his notebooks full of precise sketches.

An intense stare and narrowed eyes,
her husband, pathologically curious.
Enslaved to the pursuit of Knowledge,
that most insatiable mistress.

Despite herself, she craves these moments.
The unexpected thrill of his gentle touch,
the novelty of his breath on her neck,
and the subtle warmth of his skin on hers.

Too soon, he will return to his research.
Immersed again, in miniature anatomical worlds.
And with heavy heart she will wait, hopeful,
that one day he will find his way home.

De Motu Cordis (On the Motion of the Heart) by Heather Combe was commended in the Sentinel Annual Poetry Competition 2015 judged by Afam Akeh.