Horizon - Issue 01
The Horizon Magazine is an artistic and literary journal that blends mediums of poetry, prose, art, and photography into a magazine that strives to make its form as beautiful as the content it contains.
Print editions of the magazine can be ordered free of charge here: https://thehorizonmagazine.company.site/
If you wish to support the magazine, please check out our Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/TheHorizonMagazine
https://linktr.ee/TheHorizonMagazine
The Horizon Magazine is an artistic and literary journal that blends mediums of poetry, prose, art, and photography into a magazine that strives to make its form as beautiful as the content it contains.
Print editions of the magazine can be ordered free of charge here: https://thehorizonmagazine.company.site/
If you wish to support the magazine, please check out our Patreon! https://www.patreon.com/TheHorizonMagazine
https://linktr.ee/TheHorizonMagazine
SAINTS & MARTYRS[poem] by Tabitha Carless-Frostbelowself portrait on my bedroom wall by Mia King[19]
Behind the honey-shadow of a sneezeOn the other side of sunlit particles,Over cracked faces, yesterday’s light lingers,Gleaming over your little saints and martyrs.They, unsure of their pure shapes,Stand still with bent heads and necks.Not furled to nothing as ferns are at dusk,But quietly coughing up the afternoon’s dust.They send up prayers with downcast looks,Warnings about wanings, how youPressed your skin too thin into books,Wilted yourself for nothing andUnbraided your veins into one long tendrilThen wound it about your eyesTo cover over up all that low, sticky yellow:Light of tobacco and flat cloud.You look like imminent organ failure,Eyes in body bags,All raw and yawning for lavender.At least by now you are well learned in weeping.Scheduled lamentations for weeknight evenings,Practiced prostrations, each a fresh mask of clayTo adorn your little statuettes.Because other people are quagmires,Made from the scent of stale smokeAnd patched together with damp leaves.But the odour of burnt coffee lingers higher,Thinner notes through thinner air,Like the tone of a migraine ringing.Burnt and muddied liquid,None spilled but stagnant —Brown rivers never reaching the sea.(20)
- Page 1 and 2: horizonliterature art photographywo
- Page 3 and 4: for writing on the horizon
- Page 5 and 6: Frontmattercontents · iveditors no
- Page 7: Welcome to the inaugural edition of
- Page 10 and 11: OCHILS[poem] by Autumn StilesEDGEbe
- Page 12 and 13: above the sea by Cate Fraser35mm Il
- Page 14 and 15: THE STARTING POINT[poem]by Carl Ale
- Page 16 and 17: A HALF-EATEN BREAK-FAST IN CAITHNES
- Page 18 and 19: Pppurroww.— Aw wee Stumpy stumps.
- Page 22 and 23: SUNDAY[poem] by BeeMO(U)RNINGbelowb
- Page 24 and 25: A S K E W[and other poems] by Lizzi
- Page 26 and 27: — ° ¨¨ ° —— ° ¨‘ ‚
- Page 28 and 29: ¨ ° —‘ “ ‚— ° ¨You•
- Page 30 and 31: lumps of lonely metal singular inth
- Page 32 and 33: In writings of culture, cooking alw
- Page 34 and 35: WATERBOARD[poem] by Ilyas KassamSUI
- Page 36 and 37: E C O T O N E S[poem] by Helda Anne
- Page 38 and 39: MY FAVOURITE TRIANGLE[prose] by Ily
- Page 40 and 41: TWOPOEMS(ricordi & nicola)by Erika
- Page 42 and 43: M A R I A N A[short story] by Tom G
- Page 44 and 45: They fought that night. Eric looked
- Page 46 and 47: corner of the living room. The reco
- Page 48 and 49: ¨ ° — ˚ • —maybe you are s
- Page 50 and 51: ¨ ° —can you see themonthehoriz
Behind the honey-shadow of a sneeze
On the other side of sunlit particles,
Over cracked faces, yesterday’s light lingers,
Gleaming over your little saints and martyrs.
They, unsure of their pure shapes,
Stand still with bent heads and necks.
Not furled to nothing as ferns are at dusk,
But quietly coughing up the afternoon’s dust.
They send up prayers with downcast looks,
Warnings about wanings, how you
Pressed your skin too thin into books,
Wilted yourself for nothing and
Unbraided your veins into one long tendril
Then wound it about your eyes
To cover over up all that low, sticky yellow:
Light of tobacco and flat cloud.
You look like imminent organ failure,
Eyes in body bags,
All raw and yawning for lavender.
At least by now you are well learned in weeping.
Scheduled lamentations for weeknight evenings,
Practiced prostrations, each a fresh mask of clay
To adorn your little statuettes.
Because other people are quagmires,
Made from the scent of stale smoke
And patched together with damp leaves.
But the odour of burnt coffee lingers higher,
Thinner notes through thinner air,
Like the tone of a migraine ringing.
Burnt and muddied liquid,
None spilled but stagnant —
Brown rivers never reaching the sea.
(20)