NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

This issue boasts 89 new poems from 26 international poets. There is also a review of the Cork International Poetry Festival 2002, with photographs of some of the poets who attended, translations of work by Jorge Luis Borges (tr. William Baer), Egon Schiele (tr. Will Stone & Anthony Vivis) and Miriam Van Hee (tr. Judith Wilkinson). Adrian Clarke is interviewed by Scott Thurston and there are ten other reviews mostly about work of other poets included here. To round out this thick magazine of 194 pages, is a healthy section of short biographies of all the contributors.

It's good to see the constructive poetry reviews, complete with book lists, often with cover illustrations, with important details of where to buy them (particularly for those not able to access the internet).

Poetry topics sweep from the Paris Metro at midnight to a damselfly, harvesting salt, body tourism, even interviewing Dr Frankenstein, with many journeys beyond. Standard of writing throughout this issue is meaty, technically superb and very broad-reaching.

The section on the Cork Festival, outlining its origins back in 1997, provides some fine examples of fascinating and inspirational cutting edge work. Maurice Scully is a case in question. His 178 line poem TIG, PART II has got to rank as one of the most unusual I've ever seen. Read aloud it makes perfect sense but then look at the page. How often have you seen a poem daring to use "&" as a single line, or words such as "black" or "sand" standing alone to form a complete stanza? Scully has the bottle to do it loads of times...but does it work? Is it technically correct? In my opinion, when in perfect context as is achieved here, the answer is: definitely.

Some really enjoyable moments include Rupert M. Loydell’s poem THE REST OF THE SPACE IS DARK (in memory of Tony Charles) which is deceptively simple yet profound:

	There are always clouds outside
	the windows at funerals

	always crowds of strangers
	who knew the deceased better

	and a huddle of others adrift,
	awkward at the edge of things.

	   Soon the kite was so high it no longer looked so big, so pretty,
	and my father let me hold it steady. I could feel its power
	     tugging at my hands, fingers, a way something you love pulls so.

	the way she eyes herself 
	suspiciously in shop windows
	and imagines how others
	perceive her, the way she stumbles and refuses 
	to be comforted and always

These lines come from INTO WRITING by Richard Martin which devotes its soft-flowing energy entirely to detailed examination of the markings on a snail's shell:

	then, grey concentric rings, sometimes brown,
	against a creamy ground (not the cream
	of milk, but more the white of wild orchids,
	but then, more the pale white beige of hewn stone,

	He dips his head
	in the holy river
	sucks in a mouthful
	of murky liquid
	swallows

	A half-cremated body floats by.