Robin Cracknell

Last year I decided to cut up a book called ‘Misunderstood’ by Florence Montgomery. I then rearranged pieces of it in a set of ten poems (artwork, really) that spoke to my situation at the time.

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Robin Cracknell is a photographer and writer living in London, UK. His work has been widely published and exhibited including, notably, Eyemazing Magazine, The Michael Hoppen Gallery in London and a solo show at Sous Les Etoiles in New York. A selection of his notebooks is featured in the acclaimed 2014 Thames and Hudson publication, ‘Photographers’ Sketchbooks’ with further work from his ‘Childhood’ series in Thames and Hudson’s ‘Family Photography Now’ published in 2016.

Robin Cracknell’s work is in various private collections internationally as well as The National Portrait Gallery in London, The Victoria and Albert Museum, and the Fundacion Privada Sorigue, a museum of contemporary art in Lleida, Spain.

Found Poetry: Subtitles

Robin Cracknell’s poetry is produced by randomly shuffling subtitles from foreign cinema. By allowing chance to decide how dialogue is rearranged, a narrative of a particular film becomes a completely different story; identities erased, scenes re-sequenced. Somehow, a story about X becomes a poem about Y. La Jetée (original dialogue randomly shuffled) One day she […]

via Subtitle Poetry, by Robin Cracknell — Punch Drunk Press

People You May Know


Kristine Maloney

We yearn to see what people are doing
Are they successful?
Are we more successful
Than our bullies?
Than our ex-best friends?

People you may know
Some algorithm tries to figure
Who we still care about
And who we have fallen away from
Or who we wish would disappear

It was a normal day when his name popped up
There he was
Technology telling me that I should want to
Know what he is up to
I clicked

I wish I hadn’t

He lives his life day in and day out with no idea
Of how he impacts my life every single day
In a negative fashion

He may never know the extent
Of that night
Or the way that the words of Zig Ziglar apply to him

“just because someone screwed up your past, it doesn’t mean you should give them permission to screw up your future”

What a word
He will never know

Even computers
Ask for permission
Would you like to download this?
Would you like Google to save this password?

Technology has more sense than he did
And technology thinks
He is someone I want to remember

 ©Kristine Maloney, 2017
Kristine Maloney is an aspiring author based in Virginia. When she is not writing, she is working hard and spending time with her pets and husband. Putting her work out into the world is a frightening prospect, which is why she is currently employing a pseudonym until she grows in her literary confidence. Read more of her work at www.medium.com/@k.maloney

Found Poem

Nan Nickson

It was such a lovely night, the goats slept outside
under the stars in the grass.

Screen Shot 2017-04-19 at 6.18.11 PM

Painting by Erin Rae; erinraeart.wordpress.com

©Nan Nickson, 2017

Nan Nickson’s mission statement: ‘Running Rooster Farm is a live, organic, performance art project where I try to grow my own food wherever I am at.’


Ayala Hecht


A mummified cat sits above your head.
A man’s ashes trap time in the wall.
You say you crave life, will wrest it from this showcase
parlor of your mother’s house. Her gilt-laden fingers fashion
keepsakes, off-kilter veils, velveteen nooses
from skinned teddy bears. Go out the window.
Japonica flares, no one dares cut the tangles,
her garden bursting with belladonna lilies,
livid chartreuse iris, the zinnia called Envy, bleeding hearts.
Angelica gigas guards orchids engorged by aphids.
Somber purple persica, columbine and Queen of the Night
adorn the still beating mausoleum
of her heart. She has set you up
with options. Refuse her.

I plan for your arrival, sow green basil and apple trees.
My cannas grow fat. Choose life. Choose me.


©2017 Ayala Hecht

Ayala Hecht is a proud graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. She resides in Baltimore, Maryland. Botanical is her second poem to be published in Recycled.

Ode to Being Placed on Hold

Robert Okaji
via Ode to Being Placed on Hold — O at the Edges



Paper Telephone; Jennifer Collier

The music rarely
but I find
peace between
the notes,
and embrace
the notion that
I’ve been inserted
in that peculiar
capsule between
speech and the
void, imagining
myself somewhere,
floating, free
of care and
beer can
orbiting my head,
with bites of
pungent cheeses
and baguette
circling in
their wake,
a gift, you see,
like rain in
August or
a warm voice
saying hello.

©Robert Okaji, 2016

Jennifer Collier’s art can be found at http://www.designsoak.com/paper-art-jennifer-collier/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+DesignSoak+(Design+Soak+Magazine)


Bill Salter

Untrammeled, freed, set loose, released, let go –
I wander blameless where no one would know
the things I’ve done, or have not done, or do.
And best of all, they do not know of you.

Arriving here, where not a soul aspires
to circumvent the heat of my desires,
I make my old course in a country new,                        footloose
and fancy free. (Except I think of you.)

Loosed to create in any shape and size,
the things I’ve lost I find that I reprise
and shackle new found freedom to redo
the whole world that I built and lost with you.

For though my elder self pursues the new,
inside is my old younger self, and you.

©Bill Salter, 2016

Bill Salter “was born by the river in a little tent Oh and just like the river I’ve been running ev’r since It’s been a long time, a long time coming But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will…” [Sam Cooke]

Annapolis Poem

“The William Paca Garden is a two acre oasis of natural beauty in the bustling center of Annapolis’ Historic District.  Although many colonial Annapolitans had gardens, only Paca’s has been returned to its original splendor and opened to the public.  Intrigued by garden details in the background of Charles Willson Peale’s 1772 portrait of Paca, researchers were able to reconstruct the site from a series of archeological digs that turned up evidence of the garden’s former glory.”
-from the Historic Annapolis site:


Ruth Johnston







In Paca Garden, walled and dry
they built the Old World in the New,
and there walked girl and woman, I
with man and boy (remember?), you.

As if to keep all life at bay
and shut our eyes to hear a story
we dressed the truth in solemn play:
my quiet house of ancient glory,

linen and tea; your Russian home,
the dying count, a summons back
Were those bricked streets our sunny Rome,
or Paris?  You spotted in a crack

a flash of gold; I wore it round
my neck for days.  You wondered why
I prized the broken chain you found;
you feared and could not meet my eye.

We played pretend, but much came true:
our Old World gave us the refrain,
with words dictated by the New.
I have, but never wear, the chain.

Like faery queen and knight of old
we lingered in determined bliss:
a string of nonsense, trampled gold,
a small thing, but too bright to miss.

©Ruth Johnston, 2016

Ruth Johnston is a writer. See her work at ruthjohnston.com.