NOW THERE IS NOTHING NEW

by Eric Nicholson

Keir Starmer has announced that Britain will “fight for peace in Europe” with a generational increase in defence spending paid for by slashing the foreign aid budget. The move, just two days before the prime minister is due to meet Donald Trump, raised immediate concerns that he was pandering to the US president, and fury from aid groups that say it could cost lives in countries that rely on UK support. —The Guardian, February 25, 2025

Now there is nothing new,

The Minister of Fear has spoken,

We are vulnerable, we must meet force with force

And station Destroyers on the Thames.

Now there is nothing new,

We stand naked on the beaches, in the fields, in the hills

As icy gusts of fear whip across the seas.

Now there is nothing new.

Footsoldiers and tanks must protect our shores,

Drones and jets must command our air space,

Battle ships defend our coastline.

Now there is nothing new.  

Factories must go into overdrive,

Re-armament is good for Growth,

Our conveyor belts must convey security,

Fear must be assembled night and day.

Now there is nothing new.

Office windows must be blacked out,

Street lights switched off,

The London Underground prepared.

Now there is nothing new.

Rule Britannia.

Let the younger generation 

Fight the good fight,

MAD is might is right:

Now there is nothing new.

Eric Nicholson is a retired art teacher residing in the UK. He remembers protesting as a member of Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament in his younger years. He does not often write political poetry but in today's climate finds it difficult not to.

SELF-PORTRAIT AS A FRONTLINE WORKER

by Laura Sweeney

Portraits of the Pandemic by Steve Derrick of nurses and doctors who have been working strenuously in the effort to contain the spread of COVID-19 and aid patients with the virus.

The Frontline Worker never thought she’d teach  

in pandemic conditions. When she accepted her  

contract, after a gap year of self-quarantine, and  

a zillion Zoom conferences, she thought she’d be  

back in the classroom, sans face masks.  In the spring,  

things were turning around, the energy and activity,  

by May people out and about.  Eating ice cream  

in Uptown Circle, dog watching.  All summer she  

was movin’ & steppin’ & makin’ her way closer  

to home.  Glad to be employed. But by the end of July,  

the Delta variant rampant, the scramble was back,  

to shut down the university, or stay open? She was not  

equipped, not schooled in trauma informed pedagogy,  

but wanted to be part of the movement forward,  

in the trenches.  No, that’s not true.  Even up to  

the first week of class, when Nick the Tech Guy  

showed her around the desk, she braced herself.  

But as he coached her how to use the doc cam, projector,  

PC, “Small things help,” he said, to quell anxiety,  

then shared about his lung collapse. Suggested meditation,  

the Café Music BGM Channel.  That’s what got him  

through college.  The Frontline Worker tries not to  

think about her lung obstruction, or the millions  

of women forced out of the workforce by the care economy.   

Her care is here, a lighthouse for eager young minds  

more afraid of climate change.  And she needs  

the stipend.  Pandemic Unemployment Assistance  

was just enough to get to her first paycheck. The Frontline  

Worker prepares for each session while listening  

to easy jazz or bossa nova.  She wipes down the chalk  

on the keyboard and mouse, from the previous  

Frontline Worker.  The wipes are from the bucket  

near the door, when it’s not empty, set there by  

Environmental Health and Safety.  She spritzes the chair  

with Mrs. Meyers Multi-Surface Every Day Cleaner,  

Lemon Verbena scent.  Practices the mantra ‘get vaccinated,  

act unvaccinated.’ No way to ask students to show  

their COVID cards or wear a badge around their necks.   

And about the food or drink policy, use a straw, under  

the mask.  Anyone who refuses is asked to leave.  

The Frontline Worker teaches four days a week, in-person,  

sixty students, a hybrid model, synchronous/asynchronous.  

She’s socially distanced from them, sitting every other  

in their seats. A sea of half-faces not memorized yet.   

Though she wonders about those absent as she  

peers over her too tight N95 gear, picked up  

in the main office.  Her department distributed masks  

to tenured, tenure track, and NTT faculty, not  

instructors of record, or grad assistants. The Frontline  

Worker took three.  They only last five wearings.   

Still, by March the state is lifting the mask mandate.   

She wonders if there’ll be another surge, another  

shutdown, despite the CDC saying Omicron is abating.  

Meanwhile 43 million children have not yet received  

the vaccine.  Faulty logic. To delay in-person classes  

after the winter holidays, only to go mask free  

by spring break.  But if she speaks up, she’s scolded,  

told to stay in her place. Or moved. She has no authority  

to mandate mask wearing.  Symptomatic.  To focus  

on learning outcomes instead of health and safety.  

So, she ignores the mask wars, relies on her Pfizer  

booster, and a supplement cocktail: vitamin C & D,  

echinacea, zinc, fish oil, a soy protein shake.  More  

concerned about Russia invading Ukraine.  Refugees  

fleeing.  Chernobyl.  Inflation.  The highest in her lifetime.   

More gas and food hikes.  She’s already subsisting  

on a shoestring.  And understocked shelves. Spring break?   

Maybe she can make it.  She needs time for self-care,  

exhausted from pivots & pivots & pivots. She takes  

more naps than usual, fed up with politics & fear  

mongering & propaganda machines. Tired of shenanigans,  

smoke & mirrors, dog & pony shows, window dressing.   

Three semesters she’s taught through this pandemic.   

This semester, two blizzards.  But maybe this is the end?   

As Covid turns endemic. Who knew she could make it  

through Covid-19?  20? 21?  22?  She’s kept herself  

and her students mostly Covid free. Took that spit test  

at Student Health. Not a nose swab, thankfully. Though  

this lighthouse flickers, she’s kept calm and taught on… 

But in this moment, the room is hot. Her words halted.   

Sweat beads her lip. She fights the urge to wipe it. Or  

adjust her mask.  Her voice in abeyance this eighth week  

of classes.  The window’s open a crack, though its chilly.   

Enough to hear the first Tuesday of the month  

all-hazards siren wailing.  To be honest, she wonders  

how she’s not gone mad in these days? She’s trying  

not to go mad. Too tired to go mad.  Is mad.   

Laura Sweeney facilitates Writers for Life in Iowa and Illinois. She represented the Iowa Arts Council at the First International Teaching Artist's Conference in Oslo, Norway. Her poems and prose appear in sixty plus journals and ten anthologies in the States, Canada, Britain, and China. Her recent awards include a scholarship to the Sewanee Writer's Conference. In 2021, she received an Editor's Prize in Flash Discourse from Open: Journal of Arts & Letters; Poetry Society of Michigan's Barbara Sykes Memorial Humor Award; and two of her poems appear in the anthology Impact: Personal Portraits of Activism, an Indie Book Awards finalist. She is a PhD candidate, English/Creative Writing, at Illinois State University. 

LONG LIVE THE LAST KING

by Mickey J. Corrigan

People are saying it’s the biggest

the greatest, the best crowd

this shithole has ever seen

sleek limos slide through, his face

at the bulletproof window 

mouth open, golf cap tight

on his oversize head

People are saying

the crowd's as big as Lincoln's

and everyone wept, even Jesus

the fans wild with joy

racecar thrilled to see him

to be seen by him

the man who would be king

People are not saying

he took an appalling strut

across the world stage

that ended in folly, farce

reflecting internal unrest

bubbling anger, belligerence

and distrust of everyone else

People aren't saying

he was a mad genius

skilled at detecting weakness

in a narrow human range

of emotions others feel

absent in his lurking bulk

under the ruby crown

the bloated expression

of abject fear

People aren't asking

why the devout followers

of this crazy cult

still willing to sicken 

maskless in the face

of scientific evidence, millions

of facts like corpses piling up

vowing to win at all costs

or die trying

 

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan writes Florida noir with a dark humor. Novels include  Project XX about a school shooting (Salt Publishing, UK, 2017) and What I Did for Love a spoof of Lolita (Bloodhound Books, 2019). Kelsay Books recently published the poetry chapbook the disappearing self. Grandma Moses Press will publish the poetry chapbook Florida Man later this year.