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Bindweed Issue 8 is now available in print

Despite personal setbacks in 2018, Joseph Robert and I have managed to get Bindweed Magazine Issue 8 into print almost a year after the online publication schedule finished in April last year.


It’s finally here. Hurray!
The past year has been a whirlwind of going back to the dayjob after maternity leave, coping with a sick baby, moving house (again!) and a family bereavement on top of all that. The setbacks delayed our publication schedule, but true to the nature of the convolvulus weed itself, Bindweed Magazine has managed to bounce back from the brink…essentially I have kept our little zine going through tough times. So thanks for bearing with me and here we go:


Print copy via Lulu Publishing


There’s a 20% discount with the code TWENTY19 (case sensitive) before February 7th, I believe.


Hope you enjoy it!


Leilanie Stewart 🍃

Sharon Phillips – 3 poems

An Incomer


huge numbers of Roman coffins, human bones, querns and pottery were discovered, indicating a Roman occupation site – Encyclopaedia of Portland History


Winter among burial mounds, faces wind
-scoured, clothes mud-clogged, besieged


by low cloud, in our bellies an ant-creep

of fear. The mist came alive as it poured

past our camp. I feared it was witchcraft.
Some called me a fool. Summer is worse:


stuck at the world’s edge, I dream of home
where sunlight dazzles off white stone,


and wayfaring trees are in milky bloom;
where linnet song trickles, alexanders flower


green above the thin scurf of grey soil
and startled lizards jitter into the shade


of spurge or fennel, so quick there is

no knowing if they were there at all.



My grandfather’s garden


Slabs of privet clipped foursquare,
soil corrugated by hoe and rake,
rose bed bisected by a concrete path


and tea roses in decorous rows,
each the proper space
from its neighbours, pruned
in the correct season, they bore out
the catalogue’s promises
of shapely blooms and upright growth,
good health and glossy leaves.


Masquerade. First Love. Garden Party.
Home Sweet Home. Peace.
And a memory of my mother’s voice:
your gran and granfer weren’t
on speaking terms for years.





Schrödinger’s poem


the cat sits on my desk watches
my hand scuttle over the page
flicks my pen prickles my scalp


licks right paw wipes right
licks left paw wipes left waits
flicks my pen prickles my scalp


don’t let him you’re too soft
the cat sits on my desk where
my poem is stuck in a box


it can’t move lid’s too tight
no air wheezy purr of the cat
who scratches himself


he watches me write he prickles
my scalp he purrs he yawns
th-thunk he jumps down


to sleep on my bed my hand
scuttles over the page but
my poem is silent inside its box.
Sharon’s poems have most recently appeared on Amaryllis, The Poetry Shed and Ink Sweat and Tears, and in Picaroon and Sentinel Literary Quarterly. In 2017 she won the Borderlines Poetry Competition with her poem ‘Tales of Doggerland’ and was also shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.