Poetry Contributor
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who lives in the woods. Her work appears widely in journals, anthologies, and seven collections. She is a Contributing Editor to the online journal Verse Virtual. Website: triciaknoll.com
D.W. Baker
summersong
hatchet fall
dead wood
flicker tall
ghost light
scattershot
warm wind
yellow spot
smoke ring
ash cloud
everything
out loud
slow blink
earthbound
Poetry Contributor
D.W. Baker is a poet and teacher from St. Petersburg, Florida who writes about place, bodies, belonging, and the end of the world. His work appears in Gastropoda Magazine, Green Ink Poetry, and Modern Haiku, among others, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He is a poetry reader for Hearth & Coffin. See more at linktr.ee/dwbaker
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up our latest issue of Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine! With summer heat surrounding us, and hints of autumn creeping in, we’re grateful to embrace this season’s theme, bonfire.
Whether through pop culture references or your own experiences, you surely have a fiery image come to mind when you hear this issue’s title. I know I certainly did! Unsurprisingly, our incredible contributors brought just this life, alongside so many nuanced interpretations of the theme.
For this theme, we gave submitters the following prompt: “The crackling wood and the warmth of the flames fill the night air. We sit around at the beach, or maybe the first football game of the season, watching the embers glow in the darkness as the flames lick the sky. Send us work that speaks to the primal allure of the bonfire or reflects on the tales passed down through this timeless gathering.”
From Mahaila Smith’s “Wildfire” and Emma Wells’s “ Autumn Camp” to Pushpanjali Kumari’s “The God in the Hearth” and Kaitlyn Dempsey’s “Fiery Times,” you’ll feel theflames and smell the smoke as you page through this issue.
As always, thank you to the N&S staff, submitters and contributors, readers, and other supporters who make this issue and all we do possible.
Take a seat around the bonfire, and enjoy.
Juliette Sebock
Editor-in-Chief, Nightingale & Sparrow
Emma Wells
Crisp leaves orbit in hypnotising flares of gold, crimson and velvety brown. They form carpeted forest floors at my feet. My favourite time of year: autumn. Autumn always outstrips medals from the other three contesting seasons, without fail.
It is the sensory overload — the chill breeze that cools after heady sun-filled August days. Its tones lace around wrists and ankles like whispers, building momentum until there are splashes of life everywhere, like a messy canvas. Its hues are sublime, phenomenal, enticing me with elfin charm.
It is a love that endures with each changing fragment of the season: its individual selves that I’ve come to know, cherishing them like the changing faces of loved ones across a lifetime.
So I wondered how best to enjoy this praised, highly favoured season. It came to me relatively quickly: to camp, drinking in autumn’s mead-like scents. Keats and the Romantics had devoted years wondering at its magnetism — its ebbs and flows, its bounties and pitfalls. Inspired by the poets, I too longed to spend more time getting to know this fiery, auburn-haired sibling of summer.
I was joined on the camping trip by my husband, Alistair, and daughter, Molly. Our newly bought tent from Mountain Warehouse is our next challenge. Droplets of rain start to patter. Molly hates getting wet. I actually find it refreshing. My favourite time to run is in a light shower — so much better than dry, hydration-draining heat. I was definitely more of an autumnal creature, at one with the russet squirrels and caramel-flecked hedgehogs scurrying to cool dens.
A few hours later, and with the tent assembled, we make a campfire. The smell of toasted marshmallow is warming. I cannot stop staring at the toffee glimmer of the marshmallow’s skin. The crack of wooden logs splintering causes Molly to jump. She hears each crackle as a mischievous dragon roar, and springs from her seat in anticipation of every adrenaline-filled sound: the splintered-selves of the logs forming new identities.
Chargrilled bbq burgers follow, the reverse of a normal dinner; marshmallows are a quicker fix. Stomachs full, satiated, we began to doze into the lure of the hypnotising marmalade flames of the campfire; its climbing tongues near to licking the tree edges.
The sky ebbs to dusk — a wholeness which proceeds to fall above the downturned heads of the trees, ready to slumber. Drips fall from oversaturated leaves, over-spilling splurges, bouncing on the blue pyramidal sides of the canvas tent.
Woodland twittering builds in waves as creatures borrow boldness from the velveteen black cloak of night. In the cover of the dying light, hedgehogs scamper to new ground. They dare to tread a little farther, climbing to new earth, scourging for jewel-like morsels.
I tell Molly a few fireside bedtime stories — her favourites. She succumbs to the sweetness of rest and nods off, snuggling into me. I carry her gently, tucking her into her sleeping bag, cosy as a bug. As I stroke her hair, sleep pulls her deeper into the forest’s quilt-like eiderdown.
I return to the fireside, rekindling myself with a large glass of Shiraz in a plastic tumbler. Its warmth creeps down my throat, helping me to relax. Alistair joins me and we reminisce about camping trips as teens. The silly pranks, late night shenanigans, muffled laughter, sleepless dreams, and for me, most poignantly, the elf-like charm of the woods.
I am embedded within its roots; tendrils of me lie within the spongy, dun-hued soil, and percolate like ground coffee to its stony depths.
I muse back to childhood, recalling vivid, hallucinatory dreams. They were the best part of camping. I never slept like that at home. How strange. Why had I forgotten those dreams? Had I pushed them to one side to make way for motherhood?
Alistair holds his cup to mine and they gently clunk together. We toast to more woodland adventures. I don’t mention the lost dreams. I keep them close and locked away like personalised, prized treasures. Instead, we focus on camping trips in the future; we have all the kit now, so no excuses.
Made drowsy by the dancing flickers of the campfire flames, and the heady influence of the Shiraz, my head starts to tilt. I nod myself awake. The soft skittering of wildlife alarms me, reminding me where I am. I wander to our shared tent, unzip the closure slowly, so as not to disturb Molly. She rests — floating upon downy feathers.
I snuggle into my caterpillar-green sleeping bag, feeling like a chrysalis waiting to bloom. I wonder if Molly dreams of The Hungry Caterpillar and its mountainous realms of food as she snoozes in her sage-green outdoor duvet.
After reading under torchlight, my eyelids droop. I allow myself to sink beneath the edges of sleep’s silken folds. My limbs start to numb, letting go of camping-induced adrenaline and the novel buzz of the first night. I lightly touch the canvas of the tent, running a finger across it, sensing the cool air beyond. Sleep slowly envelops me into its drowsy, honeyed nectar.
“She’s asleep,” whispers Greta. “I can hear her breaths through the canvas. It is the same as when she was younger.”
“Let’s make ourselves comfortable, quietly so,” replies Handel.
The fairytale wood-sprites enter my lucidity; I hear their soft, dulcet tones, vibrating nostalgically as my brain matter reminisces to childhood. I know and warmly recognise golden-tinged voices, magical like potions: a witchcraft.
I reach out to hold Molly’s hand, a motherly instinct even in sleep, to check her safety. She gently squeezes my hand in recognition, her fingers knowing. I see, in my mind’s eye, a playful smile quiver on her lips.
She hears them too, breathing in their phantasmagorical magic.
Tricia Knoll
Scritch of metal tines on concrete called
our gang from the fort in the woods.
We abandoned paint-can seats,
acorn cups and mushroom-rotted logs.
Fathers in padded jackets and duckbill hats
raked oak leaves in low October sun.
Scritch of rake – we brought twigs for treats
as fathers whooshed up fire with a little gas
and much damp smoke and shifted us
from one side to the other as the wind eddied.
No one thought of air pollution, climate change
or carbon sequestration. This was ritual,
pretend cook fires on the oxbow of the Platte,
banks of dry waving grasses, tribes circled.
Smoke trending to pale. From the smackling
of a burn pile, this taut smell was fall,
going toward Halloween and shorter days.
Liquid fire tongues leapt. If the men
talked politics, we didn’t listen
as they broomed strays toward the bonfire.
If this was a playdate, we didn’t know it.
If the future would yield up yard debris bins,
we were too deep in rites of fire to imagine it.
When the heaps were ash, we ran
back to our fort, sugared up
on ashy marshmallows,
a wild smell of char in our hair
replacing summer’s mowed lawns.
We’d seen the dragon,
heard it cackle and expected fall
would always be the same.
Fathers. Rakes. And fire.
Hello, dear readers, contributors, submitters, authors, and anyone else who supports our little literary corner. Now that we’ve entered the second half of 2023, I wanted to take a moment to share some personal reflections and provide insight into the workings of all things Nightingale & Sparrow.
First and foremost, I’d like to express my deep gratitude to each and every one of you who has been a part of our journey since the very beginning. It’s incredible to think about how far our little corner of the literary world has come. Your unwavering support and passion for our magazine, press, and imprints have been the driving force behind its success.
However, I feel it’s essential to be transparent about some challenges I’ve been facing, which might impact operations in the coming months (if you’ve been working us directly, you may know it already has). As you know, N&S prides itself on nurturing and showcasing exceptional literary talent, but life sometimes presents unexpected hurdles.
Over the past few years, I have been dealing with various health issues, ranging from chronic diagnoses to more targeted crises. These have, at times, caused delays and challenges in maintaining our publishing schedule. It’s been a difficult balancing act, but I want to assure you that my dedication to Nightingale & Sparrow remains unwavering.
As much as I wish I could personally handle every aspect of our front-facing work, it has become increasingly challenging. Please know that I am doing my best to manage our outstanding projects and backlog while ensuring the highest quality for each publication.
When I first began Nightingale & Sparrow, I was the only one doing every possible task behind the scenes, from formatting our publications to promoting titles both new and from our existing shelves. I’ve been so lucky to have some amazing team members join the lit mag and, though on a more limited scale, a few helping hands with N&S Press.
We’re actively working to intitiate a new round of recruitment and have some more volunteers on board. Like so many others, 2020 and its aftermath threw us into disarray and led some members of our team to need to move on from N&S. For context, we have myself and our lit mag editorial team handling all aspects right now, including production, communications, and social media
In light of my health constraints, I am actively exploring ways to optimize our processes and maintain open communication with our wonderful authors and other “birds in our nest.” I want to ensure that every project receives the attention it deserves, even if it requires some adjustments to our timelines—as some may have noticed, a few of our early 2023 titles have been waiting in the wings for their times to shine.
All this being said, thank you for being an integral part of our literary family. Your presence and appreciation for our endeavors keep us inspired to shine even in the face of challenges. As we journey through the rest of this year and onward, we’ll strive to keep our spirits high and present you with outstanding publications that resonate deeply.
Juliette Sebock,
Founding Editor
Publication Date: 21 March 2023
Nightingale & Sparrow Press
Genre: Poetry
M.E. is arguably the most stigmatized illness of this century! It stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis which means inflammation of the brain and spine with muscle pain Prof. Malcolm Hooper). It is a neurological-immune disease comparable with MS and polio Dr Bryron Hyde, Nightingale Foundation Canada).
However, a lack of research and funding have caused this biomedical disease to be stigmatised as a psychological/ psychiatric disorder for decades by some members of the medical profession, until research in recent years has begun to substantiate the organic biomedical nature of this disease for which formal recognition and policy changes were gained in 2015 (USA) and 2021 (UK).
I have dedicated this collection solely to raising awareness of this disease through my own journey and personal experience, in the hopes of shining a ray of understanding in to the metaphorical and literal darkness associated with this disease. It’s my most fervent aspiration to contribute to the paradigm shift regarding perception and understanding of this condition. While policies and clinical guidelines have formally changed, attitudes and perspectives have not yet fully caught up on a mainstream scale. This is a necessary breakthrough if patients are to have the medical, social, and community support they greatly deserve and require.
This collection is a labour of seven years. I began writing these poems in the dark while I was blind and paralysed in a nursing home, memorising them, then dictating them letter by letter through tracing on my carers hands over weeks, sometimes only managing a word a day. Sometimes with weeks of rest in between. To have them now in print to share with you is nothing short of miraculous and I’m truly grateful. I hope you find value, insights, and understanding in my creative offering.
Eira Stuart is passionate about social justice and has written extensively in support of M.E. patient advocacy as guest writer for the M.E. Association. Her article M.E.; A Conundrum in Care has recently been published in nurse Gregg Crowhurst’s (a well regarded advocate nurse and expert on M.E. care) guide on M.E. care: More Notes for Carers.
Eira’s recent literary publications include featured micro poetry in Nightingale and Sparrow’s “Heat” issue press release, publication in an anthology entitled Screaming from the Silence, in support of victims of domestic violence (Vociferous Press 2020), But You Don’t look sick, an anthology to raise awareness of invisible chronic illnesses such as M.E. and Fibromyalgia (Indie Blu(e), Jand a nonfiction series of reflections on unity conscious entitled Eudaimonia. She has two published poetry collections: Sophistry (2012) and Metanoia (2020).
Eira has been nominated for Sundress Presses Best of the Net Anthology 2020 and short-listed at The Brit Writers Awards 2010.
Publication Date: 4 June 2024
Nightingale & Sparrow Press
Genre: Poetry
Accumulating moments that force the speaker to reconsider her childhood expectations, Bough Break attempts to maintain a sense of kindness toward the delirious grown-up world and the strange, sharp people who stay long after they make their impressions. Through the confluence of memory, media, and the meticulous eye of the speaker, each poem disturbs a moment of calm in a young girl’s world—a disturbance that creates a sudden overwhelming awareness of the delineation between self and other, care and apathy, dependence and separation. These are the moments right before the cradle falls, when the baby realizes she’s in a tree and the branch beneath her is cracking.
Jessica Hudson received her MFA in Creative Writing from Northern Michigan University, where she worked as an associate editor for the literary magazine Passages North. Her work has been published in CHEAP POP, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, So To Speak, and West Trade Review, among others. She currently lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she writes and reads creative nonfiction beside her snoring black cat. Read more of her work at jessicarwhudson.wixsite.com/poet.
