Forge Zine #7 (Spring Equinox 2020)

Spring Equinox 2020 @ForgeZine @forgezine

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Forge Zine Quarterly

#7

FREE GIVEAWAY INSIDE

WH ERE IS

THI S?

NOW IN COLOUR!

WELCOME TO OUR FIRST COLOUR ISSUE! These times are exciting! I am so honoured not just to present our first colour issue (which has been our goal since we started back in June 2019) but also an amazing giveaway from GreenTeeth Press. Our very own James Rance has written his first poetry pamphlet Bagworm! Somewhere within this beautiful edition (if I do say so myself!) is the answer and steps you require to be within a chance of winning a Worm (of the Bag variety) of your very own!

Find the page of the Worm, like and follow us on social media then message us your answer! Please do not comment your answer on any public posts, no need to ruin the fun.

The life that could not un-be by Eleanor Hartley Smith

My theories aren’t shit they just don’t make sense My logic is flawless they are a mass contradiction I am not unsorry he is too apologetic Mission accomplished I’ve achieved that too many times Her brain needs more sustenance He is overweight Going to build a great wall like China’s Trump will become sane?

The world will crumble into melted plastic The End I hope not

Welcome

to

Spring!

Harriet Edwards

Three Poems by Poetess Tarrish Stone Me several bite marks a taste any body could experience you got to witness this paying for my mistakes through someone else's pain seeing me like seeing her what would you tell them when it's time to reveal the truth that I am the one Erosia deserving nothing but stone stone me... aged grapes mixed with your flawless harmony put every regret in your swing we produce the sweetness like bees bleed inside out a manifestation that you are the circle of life that can not be infestation that can't be cured unimportant who are you now when all the trust is gone & the only decision you your existence needed have left is to protect yourself your existence a gift not appreciated enough stone me... and here I am in the awe of you my muse leave these bruised bones shattering I am a reflection of ocean a yemoja somehow evolved into an erosia for I will rise again I don't mind the pattern because those can be broken but she will love though hurt is the reason what flows from this river they choose her because of this it wasn't intentional but I'll allow you to make an example out of me they will know every time that I was the beginning of this pattern that won't be so easy to break that those cracks in your voice when they ask has it ever happened to you? my name will utter from your mouth stone me can't say I don't deserve it

AALN

You will come in and see a note on the coffee table that says 'I've missed you meet me on top of the balcony.' You'll find me on top in your favorite color royal blue blending in with the dark sky stars among us shooting across the sky the 4th of July this firecracker heart beat exploding inside of me as you touch my left cheek to pull me closely say you love me let every breath-taking moment remind me to cherish this...i want to remember your scent as heaven welcomes us several decades from now...remember the arches in my feet, the softness in my voice when i say your name...the tenderness in our love..a hard see you later but the pleasure of being able to fall in love again if reincarnated I'll go through it all if i get to love you a time machine love each time better than before

The Man in the Cupboard Under the Stairs by Elsie Franklin

Picture her.

Picture her as she will be. Strewn across the kitchen table, pieces of broken crockery and this evening’s supper tainting her delicate features.

No, I know what you’re doing. Don’t cast your mind elsewhere. Don’t even try to get away from this. I know you don’t want to think about it. I mean, who would? But this is your doing, remember. You can hide here all you want, it won’t stop you thinking about it. It won’t change anything.

Gosh, Tim, imagine…

Imagine her as a doll carelessly tossed on the floor. Her limbs, lying crooked about her torso, broken and snapped from the shock, the devastating news which launched her from her feet. That blouse and waistcoat combination she takes the time to carefully pick out every morning, ruffled, damp and dappled red. Her face, that beautiful face, the face that brings such comfort to you, splattered with blood. Those blue eyes that turn green when she cries or yawns… empty. She won’t even bring herself to shed a tear.

The poor thing. Beautiful, perfect, love-of-your-life Jane. Look what this will do to her, Tim. LOOK. You were supposed to take care of her. You’ve as good as killed her. This will destroy her and it’s all YOUR fault.

And your children, oh! What a mess! Worse than her. Starved, deprived, ANNIHALATED! Sure as hell, they’ll never be the same again. They’re only children, Tim! How could you?

You’re supposed to look after them. You’re supposed to provide for them. You’ve ruined them. They deserve better. They deserve a father worthy of the title. A real father would never betray- HURT them this way.

Well done. Good job, Tim. You’ve really done it this time. You’ve royally fucked it, like you always do. You’ve as good as killed them. Best stay where you are.

“Tim…?”

No, no… shh… hide now. Just stay where you are. Try thinking of something else, if you can. Look at that mop. No, actually. Don’t look at the mop. Look at that bottle of washing up liquid. Look at the woman. She is smiley, pointing to her mop, trusting in the product’s quality.

There, see. Trust. That contented look is the same one Jane gave you when she trusted you.

Hah! Not now. You have fucked everything up now. You haven’t even tried to fix it, you’re just sat here, like the coward you are.

Stay here. Stay in the cupboard. Nowhere else is safe for you- wait!

Oh, shit. Listen, what’s that?

Oh god, a knock! Someone is knocking, Tim. She’s found you. Ha! Jane’s found you!

“Tim?” You’re pissing yourself now, Tim! You loser. What are you going to do Tim? Huh? “Tim, are you in there? It’s me.”

Well, you’re going to have to come out sometime. Go on, I dare you.

“Honey, what on earth are you doing down here?! What’s wrong? What happened to you?

“I’m sorry, Jane. I am so sorry. I failed the tests. I… they can’t accept me.”

“Oh, Tim… not again…”

Well done, Tim.

Artwork by Alex Appleby

"Alex Appleby’s practice interrogates the line, considering Derridean ideology to further the exploration of the capability of the trace. Appleby regards her practice of drawing as an expanded activity, often combining multiple methods of making; printing, painting, photography, film photography and traditional drawing methods – but ultimately all considered as drawings. Contemplating the process of mark making in its power to act both as a gap and a bridge, a negative and positive, as a constant shift. All the while deliberating how the works speak of time, space and memory."

The Rite by James Rance

Two Poems & a Collage

by James Rance Urticaria

Vulparia

trees ribbed, veinlike and splintering veinline running down we are running down the water, made apocryphal: a woman is standing in the road and her shadow has become water.

sweet nectar of round, calm face: yellow drip from your bright eye, warm and mucousy cleans its i reach down into way into your tear ducts the mire and find a and drips upwards. nettle - flowering, look how you've grown white you are a prophet of my own feelings! explosive as if you can sense the hoods uncurl, leaf, the twig about to be the head of the placed on the stack, dog of the monk you take your place and touch it, not on my lap not with fingers but with light but off to and the light the left somewhere, is split apart by the mud close but distant and the water, there, right there! the bright land and the woman's shadow, there is where the and it is scattered sleep turns to walking, like the ray-arms the twang that nobody of the tree. else can feel opens outwards and blooms like the colour of a cats eye, the yellow prong of vulparia,the syrup-haunt on the air.

NEW from GreenTeeth Press: "In his first poetry pamphlet, Rance challenges form and narrative, while disturbing the senses and subverting expectations. With rich visuals, he examines nature and conflict with a psychedelic tone."

"If you're interested in surreal, trippy dreamscapes, astral projection and like worms and stuff give it a read! If you can't read I will come and narrate it for you."

- James Rance Available to buy at greenteethpress.com/shop or test your luck and enter our free giveaway.

The usual suspects...

Two Poems by Paul Whelan Returning Again to Some Unbearable Memory

Maybe you’re walking along under a spire And you dress a lot better than you used to As friends you once loved grow increasingly crass.

You enter the supermarket and recognise How it’s all changed Since you once went weekly Which now makes you certain You were keeping the world in order back then.

Midway through shopping, you have to Call the partner up.

What have you forgotten?

And you lug your basket of shopping to the Jammed tills where a man before you’s Buying dog food, The woman behind, brown bread.

And the fat old woman working there, She’s coughing up her black lungs As she peers right through you From her yellow-tinged, liver-spotted skin.

Then you’re on the tree-lined path, Stomping behind two bobbing bald crowns Encircled by wisps of white tufted fur.

Their backs bulge out beneath beige coats As you shove ahead in front to take the lead.

Just as the evening is starting, Your brain fills with a deep, excruciating pain.

- York, October 2018

Not Me Some people would rather watch Others fuck than do it themselves.

Some sniff armpits in unmanageable fright At the chance they might stink for carnal company.

Others tear up the carpet the second They enter another’s home.

Some people wear large black shoes;

They go out and dance down long hallways.

People of all descriptions can drain on An individual’s mental fortitude.

Others visit bedrooms as early as 8pm, This has been demonstrated and documented Snuggled in their pyjamas and emptied of piss.

On a daily basis.

Some people are better left alone; Some wilt in armchairs under the lover’s yelling, Others can be OK. Without feeling and holding a drink.

Some people smell bad from consecutive days of not washing, Instead roaming the streets of the world in unrepentant joy.

Some wear their hair as a school shooter would, A school shooter grown old, grown calm, grown fat.

Others start boat engines gurgling and ride out Into terrifying valleys of coal-caked clouds.

Some assault unwary wanderers in the later hours Who stagger down dark roads with possessions on show.

Some exhibit every sickly trait common of preachers, Performers, teachers and the unapologetically wealthy.

Others bite down on their tongues in appreciation Of the iron-rich blood that ensues.

Some recline on their beds spreading twig legs In expectation of phantom partners.

Some people cower in thriving dreamscapes, rarely emerging Into the horror show we regret is reality.

Others spit bottled water off of rooftops, despising All who walk by and wishing for rain.

Some bear grudges against all who Undoubtedly bear grudges themselves.

Artwork by Teri Anderson "Shadow Play" #1 and 2 "Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to her heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this Teri proposes an art practice which incorporates craft based techniques into the art based discipline of installation."

https://teriandersonsite.wordpress.com @teriandersonartist

@tinyteri13

FREE GIVEAWAY

Get your FREE copy of Bagworm (shout-out to GreenTeeth Press!).

Ensure you're following us on social media and answer this one simple question for a chance to win your FREE copy of Bagworm. Message us on each social media for multiple chances to win!

QUESTION: What name does Satan use for his disguise as a professor of black magic in Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita?

Spring Crossword 1

7

5 6 3

2 Where is this? (Nov 2019): Guy Fawkes Inn, High Petergate

4 8

DOWN ACROSS 1) The Rite of Spring ballet premiered in this major city in May 1913 . (5) 3) Another term for the spring equinox, meaning "fresh" or "new", word starting with a V. (6) 5) Ancient symbol of rebirth, believed to represent spirit of fertility, frequently appears in churches. (5,3) 7) The Rite of Spring is said to have caused a ____ on its opening night. (4)

2) Russian composer of The Rite of Spring. (10) 4) Wiccan festival celebrating the spring equinox, shares its name with pagan Germanic goddess. (6) 6) Spring is considered to be the season of _____. (6) 8) Spring equinox festivities are generally a celebration of _____. (6)

Artwork by Harriet Edwards "I’m a current 3rd year Fine Art student at YSJ. My practice is abstract art, mainly expressionist, using paint as my medium. I do experiment with other miscellaneous materials such as shaving foam and food colouring... I like fluidity and the experimentation of colour. I am heavily inspired by Elizabeth Neel's work and Alexandra Levasseur’s palette. Both are abstract artists. After university, I plan to build my portfolio and look into finding a Lino-printing course."

Vampire by Errol G. Harsley You ask me what it is like to be what I am.

Painful, true agony of which you will never know.

SPLIT ENDS by Lucy Hurst "i’ve forgotten how to communicate effectively (unless its text-speak or a cv). i have a note in my phone titled ‘repercussions’ & i regret opening it every time. there’s too many words to choose from; i just want to tell you that i hope that the red man turns to green whenever he sees you."

A terrible, gnawing hunger clawing incessantly at my insides.

I could chew into your neck and drain you dry leaving your corpse in the gutter for anyone to come upon.

And still I would be starving.

I have not been blessed with everlasting life. I've been cursed with insatiable hunger.

Paludarium by James Rance

Poetry by Mark Coverdale The Skrike

How is it possible that i might be in two places at once The comfort buzz of the oven and, in both of them, be about to die?

The pebble shape of The Hand that whisks The earplug trying to find the land is longer than it was The floor he found the floor before, The glasses the noisy bastards moving through the storm The noise the sign the skrike shredding up The sign he drew he cannot see soil and leaving worms, Assumes it says struggling, exposed under humid sunlight.

Welcome to my life Do you know what this is?

It is not an image, certainly.

It is two deaths at once, and a song spluttered out in one breath to the two who saw.

Drowning, am I? in velveteen tails of the hanging philodendron, or in something a little more - Life Drawing Double Tanka* less?

Like a comforting brown river, See and seize are fine its pondweed done away with by winter's cold Applied by flick or stroke or Or a wide sea, its mouth Finishing polish foaming with beginnings and with endings, To the chicken mesh net of with eels and fish and bubbles.

Artistic moment success No, I am not drowning, or being pinned, Not the studied mess or being forced to dance until i drop dead and the Of mind over under stud Spring is welcomed in, Under garm under no, I am not.I am only dying Duress possession stress per in two places at once.

Formed cast upon strangers' flesh

*A tanka is a form of Japanese poem consisting of 5 lines of 31 syllables, which aims to construct a complete image of an event or feeling.

Paintings by K. Eliza

Whatever shall we do?

Nothing.

Due to the unprecendented threat of the virus that shall not be named, everything is cancelled (or probably should be). We suggest stocking up on booze, books, and whatever else you need and staying inside for the foreseeable future. Until then, stay tuned for updates on Forge Zine, GreenTeeth Press, and obviously the general state of the world. In the meantime, keep writing, drawing, painting, working on your art. Please stay safe and happy. We look forward to seeing you in the summer.

Want to see your work here next solstice???

Find us on all the media of social (step one to your free Bagworm)! We're more than happy to answer any questions or queries you have. And of course please send us things to print! theforgezinesubmissions@gmail.com

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We welcome all forms of work, traditional or modern (as long as it's your own!)

Everything from poems, flash fiction, drawings, collages, anecdotes or opinions are encouraged!