Issue 40


Dream Catcher 40 is boldly introduced by David Baumforth’s Sunrise providing a dramatic opening for a dramatic issue. Dream Catcher continues to receive a high quality of work from both familiar contributors and many new names: with such a range of ideas, from the heart-breaking to the bizarre, the magical to the uncompromising truth about the world we live in.

This time around we have included more prose, which, coupled with the fantastic poetry we have received makes for a solid, engaging, stimulating and, as ever, varied issue, with work from all around the globe.

David Baumforth is widely known as the ‘Turner of the North’ and we are privileged to showcase some of his work.

Former Art Critic for the Financial Times, William Packer, has written of Baumforth, ‘(He)… is a painter of sea and landscape who stands foursquare and unapologetic in the Romantic Turnerian tradition, but, as his powerfully evocative works make clear, it is to the later Turner of the near-abstract, apparently unfinished canvases and the rapid free intuitive watercolor studies, all mist and light and spray, with strange forms emerging from the shadows, that he is always looking.’

We hope you enjoy reading it half as much as the Dream Catcher team enjoyed putting it together.

Enjoy your journey into issue 40 and we look forward to hearing what you think.

Up on the Fell

This is where the skin of the earth
wears shiny over knuckles of rock,
shredded by sinkholes. Here and there
thickened fibres set deep, lumping
into a mass. You can slip on its wet folds.
Listen to the dark echo beneath the rain
as reed and water stream together:
it shoots the brown birds up and out
at the push of a relentless beat.

You walk fast on the fell,
scrambling for each step,
as if keeping up with some beast
heaving a loaded transport,
something with a grip on time,
trudging each gully and knot before
a swatch of earth rolls up and off, before
the beck switches its run, the wall crumbles
and the broken ash tips over, roots unlaced.

Pamela Coren

The Cart Pusher

They are taking forests down,
digging the bowels of the earth,
moving the course of rivers,
strewing debris in the exosphere,
littering all that can be littered.
They think it is their right to do so,
and there is no one else’s right,
neither present nor future.
I keep walking my own path by night,
as insignificant as a speck of dust,
pushing my little cart along,
only stopping every now and then
to pick bits of land for my collection,
watching the sky all the time
to check if the moon is still there.
Feeling as guilty as them.

Allessio Zanelli

The Fight

When I wake
I go twelve rounds with myself
Just to leave the bed
When I dress
I must catch the jab
And counter with a straight
I must grapple
To leave the house
Ground game is key
Blows are landed
Blows are missed
David had sling and stone
To beat Goliath
I have only my Fortitude
I slip the right-left-right combo
My demon throws
And counter again
When I wake
I go twelve rounds with myself
Just to leave the bed

Mark Anthony Kaye