NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW

Current Accounts is the journal of the Bank Street Writers, based in Horwich, Bolton in the north west of England. Many of the contributors are local but writers from USA and Spain also feature. This issue is largely given over to the winners of the Bank Street Writers Short Story and Poetry competitions, along with interesting comments from the adjudicators. The prize winning entries give a good idea of what this journal is about — unpretentious writing about ordinary life. I found the short stories more engaging than the poetry. The first placed story: THE GOLDEN VISIONS OF BRIAN THE BUILDER by Alexandra Fox is a beautiful story of a man who can see into the heart of things and visualises the connections between people — sadly this is diagnosed as mental inbalance and he is taken away to be 'cured'.

As well as the prize winning pieces, this issue is full of

the usual mixture of new work produced by writers locally and worldwide.

From the rest of the pieces, my favourite was J H Yonce's JUST THE JOURNEY, with its eerie evocation of travelling in the dark:

	Only the rumour of anonymous land
	And a wet road seen slickly
	In the reaching headlights' fans.

 
	Then the moose swung,
	its dark back lifted
	against the cold sky,
	leaves and brittle twigs trembling.

This is a plainly presented magazine, and a fair proportion of the poems in it are plain. The language in most pieces is perfectly decent, but fails, in the main, to lift words off the page. CURRENT ACCOUNTS is by no means alone in this. Magazines lofty or otherwise share, what could be called, the English disease — caught perhaps from attending too many writing classes? The compelling personal 'voice', rhythms within rhythms (that can persuade a reader to return to a poem again and again), is so often missing in contemporary magazines.

There are exceptions: the short poem, HEADING HOME, by Tom Kelly works well — has a bit of that 'it' in it (first stanza):

	It's been a long day,
	technically the longest;
	car lights flutter
	down the valley and houses
	race into the sky.

	I always thought that I would grow
	into my mother's face.
	I wanted to see what God
	intended me to look like,
	more out of curiosity than anything else.
	I hope he appreciates the joke.

CURRENT ACCOUNTS is very good value at only £2.00.

This issue of CURRENT ACCOUNTS features the winning entries from the Bank Street Writers Competition 2005/6. The judges Sue McConnell (short stories) and Pat Winslow (poetry) give reasons for their decisions.

A large percentage of the poetry in the journal emanates in the U.S.A. and the best of it comes from the quill of California's Steve DeFrance, always an elegant writer, and often reminiscent of that great scribbler of the American yarn O. Henry. In his stylish poem GREGOR'S WINGS Steve DeFrance tells the story of one of the army of faithful servants, the keepers of the ledgers:

	The imperial bank doors swing open.

	...

	I take my post in the metal counting cage.
	I sharpen my No. 4 pencil.

John Lavan's poem EDEN begins:

	A raindrop, unaccountably round,
	Plunges into Mallerstang

	Tonge Fold
	licked by dark
	lodged between a brook 
	and the submerged river

	He is:
	The tree with one branch
	The first
	The last drop of rain

	For a couple of seconds, there I was,
	travelling in the opposite direction,
	hands gripping the wheel, eyes staring straight 
	ahead

It's a sad fact that a great many poets do not read poetry magazines or even borrow poetry books from the public library. Fortunately there are poets who do. The difference in the quality of their work is obvious even to the untrained eye. Perhaps many new poets, retirees taking up the pen for instance, are frightened off from reading by memories of doggerel inputted years ago by chalky schoolmasters. To them I'd say put it all behind you and begin by reading a lot of what's being written today — Steve DeFrance in issue 22 of Current Accounts might be one place to begin.

There are some sparklers here — especially the last page with Jane Owens' VERMEER DAYS, REMBRANDT NIGHTS. (The title alone is a subtle poem in itself.) Thirty lines of colour, texture, thoughts — it could go on forever. There's action too, verbs galore:

	Afternoon burns the iron doors,
	flames through museum windows, warms my skin .
	apricots on a windowsill, bread, brown from the oven.
	I drift down the granite steps,
	fastening a black jacket against the dampness.
	Lamp-lights ride the rippling canals.

the clammy, suffocating heat of the engine room at the start of the working day.

Never was there the same ethereal, intoxicating blue. He grew aware of a deep longing. 'Whit's aa this about looking for a colour an that, anyway?' said Sammy, the shop steward, 'Whit kind o thing is that for working people to get concerned wi?'

	My hair is pink
	I am me
	I am small
	But I am smart, I am.

	Redefined red-lined Rick Steined Patsy Klined
	woodbined colourblind nevermind the bacon rind
	porcupined grapevined bottom lined and much maligned.

	Permission2
	West Highland Guardian
	2 publish.
	c2morrow's  spcl edn.

The danger with open magazines is that like a party, the guests in the corner may take over. Bolton writers, like good hosts, manage to keep ahead, yet more examples of local writing would give a stronger identity.