JON STONE

Photograph courtesy of Jon Stone

Jon Stone is a Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at Anglia Ruskin University and an editor at Sidekick Books, where he is jointly responsible for the 10 Poets series. His poetry has previously won a Society of Authors Eric Gregory Award, the Poetry London Prize (twice), the Live Canon International Prize and the Sarabande International Chapbook Prize. His latest book is Instar Hotel (Sarabande, 2026). He has also published a monograph, Dual Wield: The Interplay of Poetry and Video Games (DeGruyter, 2022), and serves on the editorial board of Game Poems Magazine.

Sudeep Sen

Iberian Water Frogs

The surface dull but for one oiled brass bearing
you figure for an eye. Though is that… yes:
a second pair – the faintly flashing keyring
of a body squatted, cloaked in its own gloss.
In fact, there’s four, five lolling on the pads,
in sixties pinstripe – lime, with golden piping –
another three among the border weeds,
and more – a good half-dozen – gently steeping
in water which, eight lines ago, was still.
Or so you thought. You’d filtered out the racket
of this model village glam-folk festival,
the leather-liquid girls and boys who rake at
strings, skins, zips – who wink their sequinned frock-coats
off, then on. Now, watch them glide like rockets.

The Affair as Cooking Instructions

Toss the heart. Debone the heart. Boil the heart in a pan of salted water until tender. Beat the heart. Braise the heart. Wilt the heart. Using a sharp knife, score a diamond pattern into the heart. Knead the heart into crushed glass. Strip the heart. Rub the heart with petrol. Spend 8-10 mins searing and turning the heart with tongs until it’s well browned on all sides. Hold it up to sear both ends as well. Press the remaining coals from the fire into each breast. It’s not summer unless you’re spiking just about everything with bourbon. Bubble the heart in vinegar. Butter the heart in bile. Grill the heart. Grease a small ribcage with a little of the blood. When the heart is ready, it will be easy to pull apart at the edges. Hole the heart. Skewer so the heart lies flat. Half the heart. Thinly slice the heart. Roughly blitz the heart into chunky mince. Break up the heart with a spoon. Fry the heart chunks in batches. Divide the heart between two plates. Mash the heart. Ruffle up the heart with a fork. Thicken with muck. Batter the heart. Strongbox the heart. Season well.

The Thrall

That dream – of something smooth and wonderful
behind the tantrumming wild waterfall,
which wears the misty spray as stole or shawl
and waits for the approaching interval,
for me to come, all weak and woundable.
I creep – I do – along this slickened wall
to where I sense, through holler, howl and squall,
its flashing hotter than a thunderbolt,
can touch its blurry whine, can taste its salt –
the dancer missing from the curtain call,
the empty vault within the inner vault.
I tighten like a crossbow round its quarrel,
My arms shake with the strain. My fingers crawl.
The almost, almost, almost of it all.

Lines from Jinty (1974-1981) Stripjacked to Produce an Automaton
I want a name, I want
                                        the spell of the spinning wheel
drifting uneasily,
                               a voice
                                            flickering
beyond the professor’s
                                          cold, gleaming room,
that dream, the same as last night,
spirited like a dancing flame,
                 and the night-shade
                                                        not going anywhere.
There are many sounds
                                               away in the mist,
                            hustled roughly to the basement,
into the oldest, darkest part of
                                                        my wish.
I want so much
                            while the window keeps rattling.
Just a turn of a key
                                   in the uncertain light,
a fine afternoon
                            to make my
                                                  mechanical
                                                                       own,
the books,
                   the boutique,
                   the butterfly bush.      But most of all I want to be
                                                 one of those gorgeous apples,
completely smooth,
                                    blank
                                               as a ballerina.
The skin, those eyes, 
                                      strong as any boy,
                                      bursting open
                                                               through the telescope.
I want
the feeling of space
                                    all around:
stupid, unthinking, dangerous.

Sudeep Sen is a widely recognised contemporary poet, described by the BBC as “one of the finest English-language poets in the international literary scene.” His prize-winning books include Postmarked India, Rain, Aria, Fractals, EroText, Kaifi Azmi: Poems | Nazms, Anthropocene (2021-22 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize winner), and Red (2023), with Blue Nude and The Whispering Anklets forthcoming. He has edited several influential anthologies, and his work has been translated into over 25 languages and appeared in major publications worldwide. He is editorial director of AARK ARTS, editor of Atlas, and has held residencies at the Nirox Foundation and Museo Camera. The Government of India awarded him a senior fellowship for outstanding contributions to culture/literature, and he was the first Asian to deliver the Derek Walcott Lecture. Red is available at all good bookshops.