by Jon Banthorpe | Jun 13, 2020 | Poetry
When I eat a capersome atavistic remembranceburied deep in my DNA stirs,and the back of my skull fizzeslike an Alka-Seltzerdropped in a glass of water.I think of my forebears,Ashkenazi’s and Arabs,and their long journeyaround the Mediterraneanhundreds of years...
by Jon Banthorpe | Jun 13, 2020 | Poetry
the first chordsof the Grateful Dead’s Bertha blared.Over and over,like propaganda from loudspeakers in a communisttown square.
by Jon Banthorpe | Jun 13, 2020 | Poetry
Who knows the miles this deck has seen?The length and breadth of the downtown core,its sidewalks and streets, cambers and crevicesare as but water beneath a small ship’s bow.Atop its begripped back I’ve sounded outthe surfaces of this cities’ roads,like they were some...
by Jon Banthorpe | May 22, 2020 | Non-fiction
(Meldrum Bay, Manitoulin Island, Ontario) Yesterday, at anchor, waiting our turn for the stone dock, I looked out on the pebbled beaches and dense tree-line of the North Channel and noticed a tall white pine standing significantly higher than the other trees by almost...
by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 12, 2020 | Poetry
(For John Prine) Like the poordon’t have it bad enough,this virus seems tobe singling them out.And they’re re-openingPotter’s Field,and the Blacks and Hispanicsdon’t stand a chance. If you’re froma shit hole countrythen you’re doubly screwed.‘Cos for oncewe have the...
by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 8, 2020 | Non-fiction
John Prine died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know… I first heard him at the student union bar at my university in North London. I worked there and the bar manager, Tom, had a friend who was a punk from Northern Ireland. He saw that I liked country music and...
by Jon Banthorpe | Apr 7, 2020 | Fiction
She said she saw the devil, in the vacant lot on Chandlers Row. ‘It’s true mummy,’ she said tearfully as she kicked off her shoes in the front hallway and shucked her book bag on the living room floor. ‘He had a funny hat. And his smile wasn’t nice it was mean. And...
by Jon Banthorpe | Jun 1, 2016 | Poetry
Two gay ducksswim sentinelin the slipat harbourfrontwhere I am hammering oakum into the seamsof an old schooner. Between vigorous bouts of lovemakingthey often regardmy work and enthusiasticallyquack their consent.
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