'Anthems' by Sawsan Khalaf

The same way pink-faced college kids
Yelled at the President, the war, the country
The same way the hipsters stood and said
“What the hell” to America with cigarettes
between their teeth
The same way us Bahrainis scrawl graffiti over
The rulers' heads, amputated by headshots
In their glorious photographs
The same way they said we ain’t standing for this
Only in Ikea couches and in a
soft voice
The same way I lie in bed at 4:26
Turning the pillow to the cold side and
Watching the city through dirt-stained
Glass panes and wanting to break though
To that cloud up near the Grand Continental
And deliver the world’s message
To you.

This particular poem was the International Winner of Foyle Young Poets of the Year 2008.

'Things Of The Mind / Things In The World' by Jim Dolan

after that storm in june

bradford pear tree
heavywet the

black boy on his bike that's
too small sirens
swarm like bee's from a nest

the

front porch bedecked with
geranium begonia impatiens
enough latin for a mass

concrete driveway dark and
slick
filaments of current slice

the sky

these gnats swarm
my ears
they bother me

Jim Dolan is part of the Oak Cliff Circle Of Poets, a group that used to meet weekly (and may continue this tradition still) in Oak Cliff, Texas. You can visit their website, here.

'In The Car Passing A Park' by Anando M Sexton

The trees drove to
morning.

Stop signs
went with the cars
to the park
in Dallas.

The black building
fell apart
in a different park.

Anando is actually a child, whose spoken word is transcribed by his proud poet father. Surprisingly, he has performed at a wide variety of venues in and around Dallas, Texas.

'Owls' by Sarah Westcott

I carry the owls with me
deep in my pocket or tucked
in the cup of my bra: they doze,
bills dipped in a bib of feathers,
turn janglesome if I forget they
are there when I run for the bus.
They come with me to work:
warm-blooded and tickly as fingers.
We sit in the road, the owls and I,
lost in the dwining day, the failing
sun a shinicle over the town.
I carry their flight over dreaming
hills, hollow bones lifting and keening.
They gowl for slumgullion,
cagmag, fresh mice: get shifty
as we reach the back country,
tear through my blouse,
glide over the spinney, searching,
searching -

I carry the owls with me, still,
in vellum and in sepia. I carry
them on my tongue and I feed them
to our children. May they carry the owls
for us all, their darknesses, their eyes.

Sarah Westcott lives in London working as a news reporter and editor for the Daily Express. Her work has been published in various anthologies and magazines.

'Destinations, IV' by Nick Courtright

Even after I died, I could not close my eyes
as the tiny empires

pile up their bodies. Four quarters for a dollar, the playground leaves

make small tornadoes of possibility, and at the waterfront
the poor are music as they wash
their pants. Their song and the wind, their song and the wind.

At the waterfront, the slovenly boat comes in and on its side
scrawled in stenciled block letters
is the name of our understanding—seven black-faced laughing gulls call out
the ship’s name in staccato, and it’s true

the water is cast-iron deep and the groan it makes
sounds like what it is: children.

Even after I died I could not close my eyes, not even after I died.

The weather makes crude maps of our emotions, the currents of the sea,
but only for so long. Sometimes, wind moves
so quickly across the bay it’s as if it’s holding it down.

Nick Courtright lives in Austin, Texas, where he dabbles in music journalism. His poetry has been published in a variety of small publications. To read his blog, click here.

'Leaves In Autumn' by Kieran Corcoran

Floating forth from father-branch they came,

The same in form as friends before and after,

Riding rafters, racers round roads unknown to crafter;

Thrust by breezes' laughter, building Autumn's fame

Came the tree's debris set free: these falling leaves

Bereave the ageing year's near neighbour:

To restore from hoar the life before is but lost labour -

Winter's ways won't heed reprieves.

So we see the panoply of season's shrinking,

Driving death's breath down through the world;

Hurled high to lofty ledges too.

But through the bluster bursts Spring's beauty winking,

Knowing the notion now to be unfurled:

Nothing tires that time cannot renew.

Kieran is an undergraduate studying English at Cambridge University.