Issue 10
John McAuliffe

MR10 Editorial

The Manchester Review is rooted in the city from which it takes its name …

Read More 0 Comments
Vincenz Serrano

Itinerary

You don’t really stay here; a hotel is a place at which you arrive and from which you depart.

Read More 0 Comments
Justin Quinn

The West Stand

The Fitzsimonses’ house, about the size of an English manor, was on the middle stretch of Avoca Avenue …

Read More 0 Comments
Alys Conran

Three Poems

They told you stand barefoot, the cool grass
spreading for the soles of your feet; weight

Read More 0 Comments
Peter Sansom

Two Poems

It’s not that he’s too old, he just doesn’t want it,
the practice being enough and sometimes
making the cut. Top half of the leader-board

Read More 0 Comments
Martin Monahan

Four Poems

This is not for you.

Read More 0 Comments
Michael Farrell

The Children’s Story

The Tree reading in the street: ‘The Frome children, who all even the boys bore the names of flowers, were making a trifle …

Read More 0 Comments
Richie McCaffery

Two Poems

Those spacious months when we lived
continents apart, pens were back in,
our letters made days more bearable.

Read More 0 Comments
Joshua Marie Wilkinson

A Song Called Forgetting

It’s alive now in you dreaming it

Read More 0 Comments
Conor O'Callaghan

Four Poems

Imagine you are this poem
moments before it is translated,

Read More 0 Comments
Janet Wolff

Colour (mainly blue)

My conversion to blue occurred in May 2005 …

Read More 0 Comments
Jen Campbell

Three Poems

In the cousins’ room the light bulbs crack.
There are limbs reaching out

Read More 0 Comments
Emma Martin

Visiting Edie

Pebbles shifted underfoot as Luisa walked up the driveway to Edie’s house.

Read More 0 Comments
Joey Connolly

Two Poems

Amateur musicians join me unexpectedly so
a kind of music I know nothing about –

Read More 0 Comments
Marli Roode

A Season in Paradise

I find him in Empangeni. My father lies on his back at the edge of the sugar-cane valley, one arm under his head, the other flung out, fingers plaiting scrub and yellow weed flowers.

Read More 0 Comments
Allison McVety

Two Poems

I find her tilted, head up
and listening, ear shaped for the universe.

Read More 0 Comments
Kathryn Simmonds

Two Poems

Feed it first
with mustard spoons,

Read More 0 Comments
Carlos Cunha

The Traffic Noir

The films were usually shown, where I grew up, in school libraries during the normal run of the school day …

Read More 0 Comments
Anne Compton

Three Poems

Even the words overcast December day have slack in them, a falling away sound.

Read More 1 Comment
Alys Conran

The Room

There is only the room.

Read More 0 Comments