Sam Rose – 3 poems 

I Googled


According to the internet, you don’t exist.

I am trawling through obituaries

looking for proof you ever lived.


I have been looking for someone

who understands. Someone else

who family friends referred to as

the replacement child. Someone else

who is the “after”.


I googled “get rid of yellow stains

on really old flannel teddy bear”

but it gave me nothing.


I googled “how to grieve

for a sibling you never knew”.

I guess my requests were

too specific.


I googled “how to grieve for

someone you never knew”

and all I got was people

grieving for celebrities.


I googled “death in family during

childhood social anxiety”

to see if you could explain me.

Why I am the way I am.


There is probably nothing to explain.


I googled “non-grief”. 




Seaside distractions


Once more onto the beach

we descend

because that’s the place where

troubles are buried

in the sand

in the hands of the sea

clawing at the shore

and I can’t be sure

when we finish watching the

horizon, when we turn our

backs, when we eat fish and

chips, when we complete our

list of seaside distractions,

that these memories won’t

resurrect, raise their heads and

redress themselves, stand erect

and elect to follow me to the car,

sit with me as we drive home,

and embed themselves inside

my head again, where only I

can see. So

in that regard

I put up my guard



once more onto the beach

we will descend in

a few months’ time

to bury them all,

to put them all to sleep


like the sun that

we watched set


they rise

once more.




Lumpy rabbit-dog


Lumpy rabbit-dog without a name

floppy-eared with a bellyful of

old flannel pyjamas

without a definite identity

somehow symbolic

of my now non-relationship

with you


I think I’m grieving 28 years late

but that’s okay

that’s okay


I might not miss you

but I am missing you

and I’m feeling that

quite acutely


I am noticing the hole

the scoop of flesh

carved out of my

own belly, the

red tendons raw

beneath, exposed

and now I want to

transpose this flesh

and the lumpy


a-name so that I can

carry a piece of you

with me, give myself

a bellyful of old

flannel pyjamas.




Sam Rose is a poet, writer and editor living in England and studying part-time for her MA Creative Writing. She is the editor of Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine and The Creative Truth. In her spare time, she enjoys eating too much chocolate and learning Swedish. 

Charles Rammelkamp – 6 poems

Für Paloma


My granddaughter’s first birthday,

the final day we’d be caring for her

before she started daycare with kids her own age –

Mozart’s birthday, too, I heard on the radio.


She knew she was the center of attention

when her mother served a candled cake,

presented her with the gifts,

but of course no concept yet of age.


I’d gotten her a music box in the shape of a grand piano,

a ballerina spinning around on top, on a magnet,

while the toy played a tinny version of FürElise,

Beethoven’s 1810 composition

for Therese Malfatti von Rohrenbach zu Dezza,

to whom, nearly deaf by that time, he proposed,

but she turned him down.


The ballerina spun round and round.

Paloma grabbed it from the magnet,

put it back on, took it off, put it back on…


I wonder if Beethoven felt as blue as I do now,

buried under an avalanche of the awareness of age,

knowing this babysitting gig’s over,

and Monday Paloma will be going somewhere else.





If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them comes to rescue her husband from his assailant, and she reaches out and seizes him by his genitals, you shall cut off her hand. Show her no pity.” Deuteronomy 25:11-12

The proscription in Deuteronomy

one verse before the Shabbat Purim maftir,

which is all about Amalek fighting dirty against the Hebrews,

made me think of our neighbor,

Herman Polanski, who’d threatened my dad,

“I’ll spill your kike blood all over the street,”
when Dad had had the audacity

to build a garage on his own property,

protection against the harsh winters

in Potawatomi Rapids, Michigan.


Herm fumed and sputtered

how it blocked his view of the rapids,

reducing the value of his own property,

diminished his pleasure.

Dad had advised him of his plans,

but Herm seemed to think

my father should bend his knee to him.


Then when Herm’s wife Mary apologized to my dad,

embarrassed by her husband’s churlish behavior,

excusing him for “just having a bad day,”

Herm accused her of an affair with my father.

“You’ve been fucking him all along,” he thundered,

“You just want to suck that circumcised cock.”


To this day I can’t swing a grogger

whenever Haman’s name’s read

during the recitation of the Megillah,

or nibble a hamentashen,

without remembering Mary Polanski

driving off in the family’s Buick

to her sister’s home in Kalamazoo,

leaving Herm at the curb, shaking his fist.   




Sightseeing in St. Petersburg


The Hermitage? Are you kidding?

The Winter Palace was overwhelming,

but the modest MusEros on Ligovskiy Av.

was the high point.


Sure, we saw the Kolyvan Vase

in the west wing of the Old Hermitage,

largest vase in the world,

like a birdbath for pterodactyls,

after we’d already passed through

the Hall of Twenty Columns,

its amazing mosaic floor,

hundreds of thousands of cubed-tile tesserae;

over three million pieces of art altogether,

largest collection of paintings in the world,

founded by Catherine the Great in 1764, yes,

but the MusEros has Rasputin’s footlong dong

preserved in a glass jar,

severed from the mystic when he was murdered

a hundred years ago, in 1916.

They say just seeing it

can cure a man of impotence.


Did it work?

Maybe it was the exotic unfamiliar surroundings,

St. Petersburg so different from Davenport,

or maybe the aphrodisiac qualities of the vodka,

but when we got back to our room at the Pushka Inn,

I hadn’t felt such ardor for Alexandra

since the steamy backseat of my parents’ car

after football games on crisp Iowa evenings –

my wife’s name the same as the Romanov tsarina

rumored to be Rasputin’s lover.




Pitchman’s Melody


I first met Jerry working the cash register

like a pianist playing a plaintive note

in the record department of the Harvard COOP, 1976,

sporting my green-and-yellow John Deere stocking cap.

He fixed me with that Ancient Mariner stare

I only later learned came from the meds.

Amused: he hailed from Iowa, familiar with tractors.


Two years later we’re both contractors

for an editorial outfit at the Department of Transportation,

Kendall Square, Cambridge.

Paunchy, puffs of whiskers exploding

like tumbleweeds from chin and cheeks

where he’d missed with the razor,

ratty old college professor’s corduroy sports coat –

and those eyes, like Bela Lugosi’s.


How was I to know he was manic-depressive?

One day he didn’t come to work.

Nobody saw him for weeks.

When he returned, fifty pounds heavier,

we learned he’d been hospitalized.

Co-workers avoided him like a leper;

conversations died when he approached.


But then he was on the radio,

a weak-signaled student-run show, true,

but he sounded so erudite, euphonious, sane

discussing his Ph.D. dissertation,

later a book: George Bernard Shaw,

Shaw’s criticism of Shakespeare,

his rage at the public fawning over the Bard

like star-struck girls: they wouldn’t know genius

if it spat in their eye.

“Shaw was both a word-musician,” Jerry chuckled,

“and a pitchman advertising his wares.”


I wondered years later,

when I learned about his death,

the body discovered after two days by his landlady,

if Jerry didn’t harbor similar resentments;

he could have been an academic superstar,

had he played his cards right,

at least head of the English department

in some little Midwest college,

if only he’d pitched his qualifications

like Ronald Reagan selling us GE appliances.




Bay State Road Blues


Upon listening to the Rolling Stones’ Blue and Lonesome for the first time.


Remember that time, forty years ago,

when we bought Hohner blues harp harmonicas,

got high on weed, wailed

what we thought inspired music

in that student studio apartment I had

near Kenmore Square, across the street

from the dormitory where they said

Joan Baez had lived?

Or was it Martin Luther King?

Or both?


We fancied ourselves Chicago bluesmen,

Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Jimmy Reed, Little Walter,

full of soul,

our next move to busk

on the Common or the Public Garden,

or on the Esplanade by the Charles River


until the girl in the apartment next to mine –

was her name Linda? –

pounded on the flimsy particleboard door,

threatened to call the landlord

if you don’t stop making that noise!





A Real Name


I’m not complaining,

“just saying,” as they say:

I have trouble with names already,

like remembering facts for History quizzes,

so when somebody changes theirs,

it feels like another unnecessary challenge.


My cousin Carol, after fifty years,

now goes by Carol Anne.

My daughter’s schoolmate, Sarah,

announced she wants to be known

by her middle name, Eugenie.

I try to remember these

when I address them,

not that they hold my memory against me.


I remember as a kid

discouraging people from calling me Chuck,

my fear that somehow

I could be labeled Chuck

for the rest of my life,

no say about it.

I even had to fend off charges

Charles was not my “real” name –

first name Julian, middle name Charles –

and I don’t need to tell you

the hell I’ve gone through with government forms.


A cousin named Julian got nicknamed

Juney at an early age,

spent  his entire life fighting it,

calling himself Jay,

not that it did a lot of good

with the cousins who’d known him

all his life.


So when my friend Karen told us

her daughter Jennifer was now Jeffrey,

I understood the stakes of identity

had just been raised a lot higher,

this kid’s self-conception a central struggle.

So, Chuck?  Not a crime at all, in the long view,

no matter how tenuous I might fear

my interpretation of my “self” might be.




Charles Rammelkamp edits The Potomac, an online literary magazine – The Potomac — A Journal of Poetry & Politics He is Prose editor for BrickHouse books in Baltimore, where he lives. His latest book is a collection of poems called MATA HARI: EYE OF THE DAY (Apprentice House, Loyola University) and another book, AMERICAN ZEITGEIST, has been accepted by Apprentice House as well.

Glenn Hubbard – 2 poems 

La La Land

In the central square men and women in colourful costumes:

affable Mickey, solicitous Minnie and a smurf.

Waving, they make a bee-line

for small children and giggling, selfie-inclined teenage girls.

A mafia, apparently, jealously guarding their pitch,

they are all love as they swelter within their guises.

A man has painted himself with a product that has made him bronze.

Under the gaze of spellbound, dumbfound tourists,

he sits at a chess board, pre-move.

He’ll make it when a coin drops into his box.

But will he make enough to cleanse himself

of the poison working its way through his skin?

A dog stands with a plastic chicken leg in its mouth

opposite the fat lady outside the military church

who appears to be wearing twenty layers of clothing.

Almost blind, the notice at her feet asks for money

to help her go and see a daughter.

Who will take her?

A Rumanian gypsy, battled hardened,

crosses my path at Opera.

She carries a placard explaining

her predicament: children, unemployed, illness.

It is written in good Spanish.

She did not write it, could not read it.

On the underground, a man gets on to tell us his tale.

After the standard apology for bothering us,

he takes out his “I am a genuine beggar” documentation,

and we stop listening, look into space till he finishes.

Children, unemployed, illness. He’ll take money, food, anything.

Perhaps we could offer him a job, he says.

At the station exit, the old Rumanian gypsy is at his post.

He leans on his crutch, which could just be a ruse.

Nobody, though, will kick it from under him. So we’ll never know.

He lunges at those who emerge, his crazed exclamation of the word “Hola”

transformed now into “Allah”.

As always, his white polystyrene beaker is empty.

I make for the sanity of the supermarket,

where the African at the door,

not knowing me from Adam,

greets me once again,

not bothering to offer me the paper

that nobody buys.




​Why We Need Another Huge Shopping Centre

Because of posterity

Because of the Pharaohs

Because of our legacy

Because of Iron Age barrows

We need another huge shopping centre

Because of architecture

Because of cement and sand

Because of structure, texture

Because of prime development land

We need another huge shopping centre

Because of franchising

Because of zero contracts

Because We’re hiring!

Because the law is lax.

We need another huge shopping centre

Because of stuff

Because of excess

Because enough is not enough

Because less is less

We need another huge shopping centre

Because we all deserve it

Because fair is fair

Because we’re worth it

Because we want our share

We need another huge shopping centre

Because of leisure

Because Who doesn’t love to shop?

Because of innocent pleasure

Because we don’t want this to stop

We need another huge shopping centre

Because if not, then what?




Glenn Hubbard lives in Madrid. He is fluent in Spanish, but poetic only in English, especially about birds. He has been reading poetry for many years but only started writing in 2012. His poetry has appeared in The Bow-Wow Shop and will appear in The High Window and Carillon later in 2017. He is currently working on a translation of Miguel Hernández’s poem Los Hombres Viejos​.

Grant Tarbard – 2 poems 

 A Thought Captured 

inspired by Le Penseur by Auguste Rodin



in monument 

captured the persona

of a thought that bubbles away

in bronze.





A Trip to Cythera 

inspired by The Embarkation for Cythera by Jean-Antoine Watteau


Régence’s amorous revelry 

celebrates love with a staff of cupids flying,


ink absorbed sensuousness,

an acid bathed statue of Venus within the knotty stump.


Diana splashed with vermillion in a glaze, 

the anatomy of light in their passionate delicateness.


The party seem to be leaving rather than arriving,

at the foot of the hill the golden boat of wispy brushstrokes waits


with increasingly transparent sails, a hesitancy of moths wings,

a tryst glancing back fondly at the goddess’s sacred grove.


The hazy landscape is a puzzle-box

not giving anything up whether it is dawn or dusk.




Grant Tarbard is an editorial assistant for Three Drops From A Cauldron and a reviewer. His new collection Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams) will be released soon.

Bindweed Magazine interview in Lagan Online’s ‘Around Ireland’ feature

This month Bindweed Magazine’s editors, Joseph Robert and Leilanie Stewart, were interviewed for Lagan Online’s ‘Around Ireland’ feature. We answered 7 questions related to our editorial decisions and process focusing on our family-run magazine and sub-strand, Heavenly Flower Publishing.
Do check out the interview for more insight into our work as co-editors of Bindweed Magazine. You can also find other great literary resources including links to Literary Journals and Publications within Ireland via the Lagan Online website, so it’s well worth a good browse.