NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

An asset of this magazine is really good clear printing by MARC. Poems are mixed, some streetwise. There's simple, uncontrived 'open-heart' poetry which I liked from Rodney Wood:

	A BRIEF MOMENT OF HAPPINESS

	Mother, I breathe in your fragrance while 
	I travel on the train to London.
	The early morning sun strobes through trees,
	frost haunts embankments, the faces of commuters
	and you're next to me sitting on
	today's newspaper, hair lacquered, head to one
	side. I look out of the window
	and see your reflection, your full smile,
	glad to be near your son again,
	wanting to ask about your husband, grandchildren,
	East Enders, Crossroads and Coronation Street.
	To call you back all I have 
	to do is sit quietly, pretend that when
	the sun touches me it's really your hand.

	Your husband goes fishing
	He sits by the river
	With his sad rod
	And boxed maggots
	In all weathers.
	If he was suddenly drowned
	Everyone would be delighted.

	And there he sat
	amid a halo
	of raindrops,
	handling an acorn
	like it was
	fine bone china

	Whilst all around 
	towers collapsed
	Gods were beseeched
	and bombs and food fell
	like the acorn's 
	discarded shell. 

	Not for him
	the worry of poison
	by post.
	There are always wars
	but only so many acorns
	before winter comes.

There are many new names and some exciting poems in this issue of Rain Dog. The editors have made a careful selection of poems including new writers alongside established ones and experimental writing contrasts with more traditional poems. Although mostly from the UK there are contributions from Canada and the United States. The poems fit easily on the page, with one or two poets represented by more than one poem. The font is clear and easy to read.

For sheer contrast in styles here are some lines from Jan Hadfield's prose poem STRATH OSSIAN:

	So on down the strath a dark hill and a bright mountain and
	between the two that old dervish is stirring up clouds

	Call me Fuckitt, she cried.
	Anne is cold and someone
	called me that once.

	 . . . I'd trill her if
	my flicking tongue were not tied down
	by the violets held in my bill.

	We went north for mushrooms —

	Spring has sprayed the garden with topaz — shocked,
	each grass blade
	stands changed.

	I am trying to scribble this postcard
	but the wind has taken the island
	to extremes — flailing palm fronds,
	shells moan, seagulls
	hide in their feathers.