north of oxford poetry

2 Poems by John D Robinson


Awaking as Lovers
I was going to write of
waking up at dawn in a
bus-shelter, robbed of my
money, jacket and shoes
and walking home bare-
foot and fragile but it
was a poem of beauty
and tenderness, like
when Carmelina and I
first awoke as lovers
in my studio-room,
sparsely furnished,
bleak but friendly:
I made some coffee
before she awoke and I
looked at her sleeping,
I still do that now,
over 3 decades later.
Never really got with
William S Burroughs
writings and found his
life far more enthralling
 Billy Burroughs Jnr
that cursed at birth
poet who drank himself
to death following a
liver transplant aged 33:
following footsteps can
be easy,
creating your own
John D Robinson July B&W portrait
John D Robinson is a UK poet: ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016) ‘Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Publications 2016) ‘Damned Dirty and Dangerous’ with Ben John Smith: (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2017): His work appears widely in the small press and online literary journals.

2 Poems by Edward L. Canavan

form and fade
playing the part
if only for now
in her
as it dances
across the space
of my mind
i am swept
by her wake
to the deepest
things disappear
somewhere behind the mind
a junkyard of bits and bolts
as we pretend
the incessant rattling din
is nothing
and go on
about our
ed c
Edward L. Canavan is an American poet whose work has been published
in Bleeding Hearts, Ibis Head Review, Burning Word, and Oxford Comma.
He currently resides in the burning cauldron of hellfire known as the
San Fernando Valley, California.

Leave by Tony Walton

IMG_0340 (3)
In Brighton, a suburb of Denver,
at  6:03 pm on a Tuesday, a woman
in dark shades is seen careening through
a yellow traffic light turning red,
grinning straight into the windshield
days rerunning behind her:
41 Christmases, 3 mortgages, 4 cars, 5 dogs
7 expired drivers licenses
2 slippers under the bed
Days fill
Nights fill
Glasses fill
Calendars fill
Beds fill
She never fills
But what life did she expect?
An ant is crawling across the
knuckles of her driving hand
He knows the answer but
he’s not telling her
Radio rising, orange tip of a
cigarette sparks the dark
out the window
a light beer in the cupholder
she eases down on the pedal
humming rubber on white concrete
going somewhere:
factories without smoke drowse soundless
ships sail from distant harbors
cars run silently at highway rests
numbered seats fly across time zones
the world continues to
be the same
without her.
tony w
Tony Walton is a Caribbean writer living in the Cayman Islands. His work has appeared in Storyteller Magazine, Moonkind Press, Wilde Magazine and others. Tony Walton

Call by Gideon Tay Yee Chuen

s window
I am
Called to be
a Change-Maker
a Trail-Blazer
a Strong Leader.
to move Mountains.
I am.
Excitement, exhilaration, anticipation.
I can’t wait to start
Yet I start to wait
For something—
To happen
To appear
To start.
Nothing came, so I stood
Then they called out:
Faith without action is
Gideon Tay Yee Chuen is a Singaporean poet.

Call for Poetry Submissions

Burholme Park Sled Hill 2


We are pleased to announce we are bringing in the New Year with an open call for poetry submissions. We are currently caught up with future editions and are looking forward to receiving your best. We carefully read all submissions and strive to provide poets with a timely response. Please read and follow the guidelines when submitting. You can find our guidelines here:

Best Read Poets at North of Oxford – 2017



Unrequited forester contrite with sunrise by James Walton

Late, Almost Morning by Lucas Carpenter

Phoenix by Jane Rosenberg LaForge

Finding Center by Abbe Mogell

2 Poems by John Timpane

Revelstoke Mountain, 5am by Julia Wakefield

2 Poems by Judy Kronenfeld

2 Poems by Tony Rickaby

2 Poems by Peycho Kanev

2 Poems by Annie Blake

Fauna by Stephen Page



Satyr, Wounded by Stephen Mead

satyr 3

Head Of A Satyr by Michelangelo

Satyr, Wounded
You remind me of that,
one of Michelangelo’s kind
but smaller in frame, pain’s
thievery, the disease, taking,
twisting muscles until
only the eloquence of sleep
realigns the pure curves,
the beautiful bones.
Mother Morphia also clears
your plate, the eyes of bitter blue
pale inside the tired crags
returning warmth from some
gibberish battle to your voice
of whiskey.
I see old lovers in you, fallen warriors all
turned to the saints of tortured
children, their tattoos & piercings
clues to that fate there on white sheets.
Coming to we do not speak
of the darker phase.
We give the wounds to amnesia,
the tears for Mom to release, necessary,
& love you any way with the bait
of empathy.
You ask for a soda which I pass
to touch hands & there’s a memory
for dance in the club of our blood,
you & I testimonies smiling
for our tribe’s scriptures.
self headshot merge square
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published Outsider artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads.   In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place:  Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead