top of page
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

 Readable 2 


March 2019


A free-themed poetry issue, celebrating nature, love, identity and mental health. There's something for everyone, even spiders.




Andrew Cross and Ellis Carr



Bopape Jessica, Callum BeesleyKatie, Nina Marie DunneJoel Fisher and Mel Glazer


Cover Art:

Allisa Rosales






Bopape Jessica 


It be not the dark out

Nor insomnia as he holds me to my mind

As he seeks for that last breath

He feels I owe


It be neither the wet noise that

I allowed that night to drown

The house along with me

It may be the hope for hope


Be it the voices?

Voices I fear to listen to,

They that cause me to befriend her,

Insomnia and they, they that drown me all night till dawn,

And night again.

They that try to steal from me that which I would willingly

Give away with my last breath, for they all fail.


It be the voices that I fear in the silence of the night

And not its dark, making me fall for he that

Helps me keep wake at night,

And they that drown the voices in my head,

Along with me.

For I would fall for all the evil in the world

To keep the evil inside of me in silence.






My mistress

Bopape Jessica


Fickle image he began being

Fickle until real enough to be real

No longer born from his mother that bore him,

The mind and his father that took pride in

All that he did for as long as it were him,

The imagination.


Blessed cursed wishes by the parented

Soon it dawned on them

How ungrateful they were

Full of pride they made him and

Full of pride he became, not their pride as hoped


Image of an imagination

And mind he ceased to be

But faded memory he now was

As real as he prided

He drove her to insanity

Believing he was but a soulmate of her.

As well as he a mistress to her world


Is as well as he forgot he be only

From an imagination, making her forget

Beckoning her, now to find him.






Black growing

Bopape Jessica


I never knew how commonly common

How common was I

Dusty, cracked gravel roads

Bringing about my playful imagination

Coupled with tiny rocks stomping

Softly through my tales

May I be one with them

As dusty as we want to

Growing, growing, growing

Unaware of how poor

How grey, how black

Black growing

Seemingly to the others poor

Little would they ever know

How richly happy were

We really were

Now that we grown black

Rich even to them

But poor now that we lack

That which we had

Took it for granted while black growing

How happy we were








Bopape Jessica


Her small mountain stood gracefully

Two villages away from her

with stars that stare at you at night,

She breathes dusty brown through the winds

That love feeling her flaws

Her green oasis stretched long

As the only fresh streams

That keep cool her bosom


Nurturing beautifully her children

That call to her by her name


Scorching her tough love

Her field feeding they

They that reap that which they sowed


Her intentional corner earth

To make hard for her children to leave,

Forget her, their roots

That stood deep in her heart

Being the very life that she has.

A mother’s love for her children

Nurturing them through life and

Holding them tight to her bosom in death.






My Name Day

Nina Marie Dunne


I was an unwanted present that year

A stowaway on Christmas cheer

As my hostess hid in a harbour town

Pining away by a pine tree

Barely decorated

Nervous and fearful of my arrival

A big bump with a bigger kick

New Years Day felt like the right time

To burst out of hiding


I snuck in during a dismal afternoon

I intended to erupt but I lost my nerve

Why make things harder than they already were?

A baby of the state

No name, one date

Months passed without event

Valentine’s Day was as romantic as Lent


Until one day I was collected

And given a name


Named after St Nicholas; Patron Saint of Sailors, Thieves and Children.







Callum Beesley



From pillar to post

One minute they want me

The next they’ve forgotten

Where they’ve laid me down.

Dark, always dark

Away from my cousin –

I haven’t seen him in years.


Sometimes they want me back

At least I think so

For a moment

Until I realize they’re between

Serious relationships

And want me for

A quick mind fuck.

They take me

Hover me in front of their faces

Like a mask

And pretend to all those prospective

Lovers before them

They’re the same sweet Sandra

The same funny Flo

The same curious Callum

From High School

I know they are not.


Why do I put up with them?


Because every time they hold me

Every time they bring me up to

Their faces and I look into their eyes

I think: this is it

At last they recognize me

This time


They’ll kiss me.






Our Moment



There are a thousand poems about

a thousand forbidden kisses

 capturing thousands

of moments.


‘Time stands still’ they say.

A timeless description

perfectly fitting our moment

that lasted a lifetime.


They say ‘it feels so right’,

so why is the weight of

our secret

crushing me?


They say a forbidden kiss

seals our fate

but not us.

We go on

in silence as if our forbidden kiss

never happened.






The sun fires the sea

Joel Fisher


The sun fires the sea

A thousand embers sparkling

You cannot see

To where it ends

But wade in regardless

Cold heat in your legs

Then waist

Then shoulders

Until you plunge your head

And you are in the waves

The flames, the water

Burning at the wonder

Of it all

Fergus the Dancing Fox

Mel Glazer

Bopape Jessica
Nina Marie Dunne
Callum Beasly
Joel Fisher
Mel Glazer

Photo Credit: Francisco Moreno


I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

Down Stationhouse Street in crepuscular light,

slinking sultry and slow I stealthily go to dance a fandango

at night.

I dance in those homes with their kitsch garden gnomes

‘cos dancing might give them a fright.

Holding a trowel I’ll screech and I’ll howl much worse than

an owl

or banshee preparing to fight.

In great desperation and foxic frustration

I’ll bury that gnome congregation

along with their leader, the plastic bird feeder

painted to look like Snow White.


I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

At house forty-two I’ll chew the washing line through

then Charleston on knickers and socks.

I deliver my rants on their bras, vest and pants

Then bury them all under rocks.

With sinewy ease I go where I please in places that nobody


For a bit of a sport and when I’m caught short I’ll pee on

anyone’s trees.


I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox

I can slip next door at house forty-four regardless of fences and


There’s a greenhouse and store, quite warm for the paw,

As one cannot ignore the bore of rain and loud thunder,

In such it’s no wonder, I’ll prize his greenhouse asunder to rhumba

with prize peppers, tomatoes and pickerling cucumber.


I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest,

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

I am amorous and glamorous boasting big bushy tail with white


Often quite late I meet my vixen called Kate

and we sip sloes and gins by the bins.

She’s vivacious and voluptuous and rather rumbustious so we go at

the tango ‘til late.

Then we engage in yowling canoodles, like two overfed poodles,

and roll on the plants in a state.

When they’re all squashed and flat we blame next door’s black cat

who’s lazy and much overweight.


I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest,

Prancing, tap dancing fox.

I tramped through the flap of that overfed cat,

found the log fire, food by the drier, along with a well-heated mat.

The cat sadly saw me and started to paw me and hissed ‘we’ll have

none of that.’

As the moggy descended I was poorly defended and believed,

maybe that’s my lot.

But as I held her so tight all was all right,

prancing and dancing a fairly, fine, feline foxtrot.


And it is just for me that the entire street is free and I need no aids

nor no props,

I am the trickiest, niftiest, white paw slickest

Prancing, tap dancing fox


Bernadette: Her thoughts on being a spider.

Translated from Spiderish to English by Mel Glazer


Photo Credit: Егор Камелев


With eight legs, multiple eyes and saucily dressed

it is no less,

my duty to stress that

for beauty we spiders are the best.

As thin as a pin

my waist is trim, so silk spinning slim.

You’ll inevitably find,

my superb design, pre-dates all mankind.

I must add as a rider …

I am one glorious, gorgeous spider


Often told is a gory story,

In which it is said I am too preda-tory

It’s true I do welcome men,

and now and then, like

eating them. Amen!

let it be

‘tis much the best way to keep us women free.


I strongly spurn, those long black laid-back spiders

who refuse to earn and yearn to hang from their web, by just one leg

each sighing in turn

whilst relying on languidly trying

to web trap any damm thing flying,

My dear, they’ve no taste, no vision –

I mean who’d eat a bloody pigeon?


But as tutor I feature as preacher and teacher to my one hundred brats

I make them aspire to something higher than gnats.

After all, you’d agree having so many legs free

they should learn to write poetry, proper like, like me

I kick, cuss and curse coaching in iambic verse.

They’re a bit put upon and before they disperse

I say to the most ‘write a sonnet or you’re toast!’

Regarding verse I can be terse ‘cos I’ll bite their heads off should they,

err some different way and my goodwill betray by using trochee.


Of those remaining, should they commence complaining,

Moaning, sighing and implying

Ingratitude, I reply with platitude –

‘no pain no gaining’,

then I’d wave me legs and laugh ‘cos that’s a spider’s craft

and daft as it may be, I like it … see …

Beats aphid, blackfly, ant, or flea.

bottom of page