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This issue doubles as issue #106 of Purple Patch, and both editors, Martin Holroyd and Geoff Stevens, write brief introductions.

It celebrates the 50th anniversary of the death of Dylan Thomas. As might be expected the poems include the usual parodies of Dylan's words, works of pilgrimage, solemn eulogies extolling his poetry and acolytes forgiving his drunkenness.

Yet there is a good variety of styles. Among my own were favourites were pieces of Trish O'Brien who in A CASE OF THE D.T.'s searches bars and cafés in vain until

	I followed my nose
	to the sea, the tide far out,
	bleak; monotonous
	waves, flat ribbed sands and the Welsh
	winds whispering "Am
	I the one you seek? I just
	looked around and he was gone.

		... "Why was this
	his favourite?" ...
				... "It's
	nearest to the station to London" ...
			... I wondered was
	it getting away time enjoyed most a rushed
	drink to savour imminence of escape or that
	leisured first safe back the journey done ...

	Little has changed here
	in this small park on the hill —
	rain still burrows through the shrubbery,
	birds shake out their tired wings.

This 28 page booklet contains single poems by 27 poets. As we have come to expect of Poetry Monthly, everything the editor has chosen has an interesting topic, is well written and technically excellent. As far as possible each one has its own page, with a bold title and is complete with author's name and location. Just one small criticism, it would be nice if these latter details could be printed a little larger in future please. Subjects range from a Sutton Hoo Helmet, to recollections of childhood, from a talking typewriter to Eugene Shoemaker.

SKILLS by Peggy Poole is an affectionate tribute to her father's hands. As you would expect from this great poet, there's nothing mawkish here:

	They helped your Jack Russell
	when, after arrival
	of three healthy pups, the fourth
	breached, needing rescuing.

	His hair, jet black.
	Cropped, Brylcream slick.
	Blue bomber jacket.
	Hint of tobacco.
	Hoisted me onto his shoulders
	whenever I got tired.

	One coral dawn like this
	I saw a water vole tow
	a curtain of lacewing ripples
	across the canal.

	One hot summer, distracted, you
	walked into the flypaper, flew

	into a rage, became more
	entangled. You cursed our

	marriage. I tried to pull
	a comb across your skull.

	As things got worse
	I left you alone with the scissors.

	I wonder about your legs,
	your ankles and I longed for you
	to remove that long black raincoat
	and those tall black boots.

	her tales of endless samples taken in endless jars;
	and is no sooner in the door than there
	she sits with the Medical Dictionary,
	moving her fingers lovingly across its pages:
	Colostomy, Phallectomy, Bubonic Plague,

	This is an exact replica, one
	Tenth the size of the Turner Prize winner.
	Keep the glass cover on
	Especially when you have guests
	Who may otherwise handle the keys
	And depracate your valuable investment.

And finally, a few words from John Andrews true story about Eugene Shoemaker, the man robbed of his chance to become an astronaut because of an abnormality in his genes [ironic really, given his name]:

	They put his ashes in a craft which flew
	Until it crashed into the Moon. And there, eternally, they lie,
	Dust returned to dust. Go out tonight
	And look into the sky,
	And know that you can see, at last,
	A dream come true; a man, in peace, at rest.

This is an inexpensive twenty-eight-page chapbook, with an intelligent, generous and informative framework of editorial comment, notices and advertisements. The approach taken throughout is genuinely open-handed and encouraging to new talent and new ideas. The artwork is imaginative, colourful and adequately reproduced

This particular issue contains the work of twenty-two poets, and it may be aberrational that on this occasion, much the writing here seems self-consciously 'poetic' and wordy. There are exceptions, like Anne Lewis-Smith's MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT, and Al Seed's CROWS, but the most impressive piece is clearly Martin Gray's IN TONDO. This poem is accompanied by a colour reproduction of Jackson Pollock's circular painting of the same name, with which the poem engages, and the pairing of words-with-image here is very successful.

	too whole to divide
	in form a living cell
	...
	an in-turned unity

Although the contributors to POETRY MONTHLY represent every region of the UK, Holroyd's enterprise deserves wider subscription among writers able to utilize his willingness to experiment, especially with new interfaces between graphics and poetry.

I haven't had a copy of POETRY MONTHLY in my hands for a long time, through no fault but my own, and it has been a pleasure to renew contact. It is looking a lot smarter these days, has reduced the chit-chat and extended its brief to "occasional graphics". The front cover photograph by Peter Watson of Norwich cathedral reflected in plate glass is intriguing and beautiful. Inside, editor Martin Holroyd has printed a glorious autumn study of red and yellow leaves.

I don't suppose Martin consciously themes his volumes, but there is a good selection of poetry here with a sense of history: THE TATE THAMES DIG by Helena Michaelson, SONG FROM THE HALLS OF VORTIGERN AD 425 by Brian Spink and especially MEDIA by Peter Watson, which considers the centuries record on war:

	The century opening like a wound,
	black congealed on white, newboys — no older — 
	papering the cracks, crying the field of fight

 
	I'd taken some time in from the whole thing, 
	Pulled the blinds on seasons and their dull revolutions, 
	Slammed the shutters on the clanking rust of hanging chains.

	You can barely say those words, 
	A tiny locked fossil in the throat.

 	A small girl's voice trapped in a violin

By the way, I saw in a previous review that someone called for larger print for the origins of poets. Is it really necessary? I wonder what difference it makes to a poem that the writer lives in Wales, France or the North Pole. The poem should stand up for itself, shouldn't it?