NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

Issue 59 of iota is the first to be edited by Janet Murch and Bob Mee. The pair run Ragged Raven Press but stress in their introduction that iota remains an independent quarterly collection of contemporary poetry.

It provides only the occasional piece of ammunition for critics who claim contemporary poetry is irrelevant and pretentious. Lydia Fulleylove's MARGUERITA TRIES TO APPLY DEODORANT IN PUBLIC TOILET WITH ONE HAND OUT OF ACTION might well be cited in support of their view.

In the main though the contents make a strong case against these accusations. Of particular note is Stephen Clarke's CALLING which demonstrates an ability to write language which is as musical as natural speech:

	Friends, forty-three of our forty-five
	years, our parents still neighbours
	on that house proud council road,
	until yesterday when your dad died.

	And what's that?
	The Estate Agents' "Sold", another death-toll.

	I want one when I get home,
	I demanded,
	but all he gave me 
	was a cup of tea.

For our purpose the only important question is whether these pieces work as English language poems.

We very much hope that you enjoy iota. If you do, please spread the word!

This is a quarterly magazine featuring new poetry by 48 poets as well as reviews and listings. It is very well presented and it is as well to remember that presentation of work does affect how readers react to the content. Poems generally need space to be appreciated properly and the layout in this production is just right being clear and attractive. The work in this edition is exceptionally good and it is difficult to pick out one or two.

However, with no reflection on the rest, I can mention that Paul Groves' DANGEROUS ENCHANTMENT takes an honest look at the difficult subject of adulterous attraction and vividly illustrates the obsession with the object of desire

	At any hour she would arrive, flushed and breathless.
	Petulant wild child. Release. Torment . Yet she accused me
	of being all these things and more. I awoke:
	she lay beside me. I focussed: it was my sleeping wife.

	bloated face and beard,
	his affluent paunch disembowelled,
	viciously emptied of HO HO HO.

This is the first time I've seen David Holliday's magazine since Bob Mee and Janet Murch took it over. I'll just say that it seems to be ticking over very smoothly, is excellent value for money with its fifty-plus poems, brief but bold reviews which take no prisoners and don't pussyfoot, listings of events, and general air of being informed about what's going on. Murch and Mee also run Ragged Raven Press, and it is to be hoped that Iota and the press will keep each other afloat.

As for the poetry itself which is the raison-d'être of the magazine, it is largely domestic (i.e. British, in fact English) in origin, though there are a sprinkling of poems from e.g. America, Canada, N.Z., etc.; tidy and disciplined writing, if little to make the pulse race or the eyebrows lift; but also well worth reading. Donna Pucciani from Washington D.C. has an authentic piece WASHINGTON SQUARE:

	The walls, still painted pale green, cream, or
	institutional brown, hug lintels framing ancient doors,
	wooden desks blank and inscrutable as professors' eyes...

	...Expression and repression. Conventions
	conventionally observed. The Cote D'Azur,
	The Chelsea Arts, playgrounds for a little licence...

There is something for nearly everyone in this well-put together and presented magazine. With work by 58 poets it certainly gives value for money.

Very difficult to pick examples from such a spread, but ones that shout yes! to me included Carol Whitfield's HOW TO PLAY THE GUITAR (I speak as a fairly rubbish player myself...)

	Sand your nails with 600 grade paper,
	expect nine days of burning fingertips;
	your ears, pride will burn somewhat longer

	Forlorn in gaol, I stamp my feet
	as a distant war of sticks is waged
	by others, who yell across the frozen pitch.
	To wintering Midlands seagulls I sing Hey Jude,
	and worry about the size of my nose.

	In a quiet corner
	a memorial records a roll of names,
	speaks of the appalling wound —
	thirteen men from the village
	lost in the Great War.

	We are not a muse