NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

Unusual shape and size — A5 turned sideways, but the first half of the magazine is half that, to form A6 pages turned upright — which is certainly eye-catching.

The highlights of this first issue are a poem and an essay. The poem is by Ken Smith, TRANSIT:

	As ever too many ifs too many buts
	Imaginary conversations in imaginary English

Very sadly. Ken Smith died in 2003 as a result of complications brought on by the Legionnaire's disease he contracted while in Cuba. Tim Cumming's essay was written before this untimely death, but fortunately included the last published collection of Ken Smith's work, SHED. If Tim Cumming's essay helps to bring more readers to the work of arguably one of the best poets of the last 50 years, it will have more than earned its place in the magazine.

It's an excellent first issue, but be warned — the distinctly "adult" nature of some of the content makes it an unsuitable Christmas present for little Timmy or maiden aunt Vera.

An interesting small, stapled book. Well edited by Ian Dowson and Paul Summers and professionally produced.

This little gem helps to fill the chasm in the staid market dominated by traditionalists. My only gripe is that this particular issue is a little top heavy on the seedy aspects and depressing facets of life with both the prose and the poems concentrating on narrative, and in particular, storytelling. There is also the leaning towards socialism but I love the title LIAR REPUBLIC.

This is a refreshing read, with full marks to the students of the City of Sunderland College HND course in photography and digital imaging. It is a pleasure to see the work of good students being aired and they deserve all the support we can give them.

LIAR REPUBLIC contains an interesting mix of journalism, graphics, and other writing. Rich pickings indeed. Here is Tim Cumming, with his NO MAN'S LAND, which is dense in imagery:

	As the train backed away from the platform,
	we were soon in darkness.  There were sirens
	and lights under the iron bridge,
	new trains slowed and passed, carriages empty.
	I recall a harmonica solo, gestures both moving and futile.
	The air smelled of lavender and pine,
	rumour in the wilderness, horses on the hill,