Kalyna Review

Rob Yates

Call to prayer on the Sumbawa crossing


I am there when the call comes up

the men soak their feet and arms

to pray with their faces and the women

seem still to be sleeping.


I am gutting on the deck

with my own dirtier sole

and the boy next to me is young and cheer

the madrigals shimmering in the rigging

but I have not slept on soft for thirty-six hours

only on the gunfloor of the van rutting

between holes and mountains in the crust dawn

or better on the rust stomach of the tugging ship

and it has all kept me gliding

but in bad health-and-mood

I cannot return the child’s unencumbered joy

or his bright mute god somewhere inside

can only dullwavy and stubbled sit

ringing out the suds

as the call comes up and the stream flicks on and off.




In Paga


Don’t go

all Bodhi-tree Buddha on me

I’ll yogi when I want to.

At the moment that dizzy buck of sand

and the rock buffs lipping it look just fine,

with a beer in the hand

and a few in the belly,

a bird nuffing about in the sky

stretching back its nothingness

into the eternal nothing,

a lazed thing.


Two tourists have appeared

- that makes three of us tumblers –

one is wave buffooning

and the wife is photohappy and mute

regarding her husband’s paunch.


I will catch fish in my teeth and breathe

deeper than a pearl-catcher and sharper

than the ripping sticks of the fishermen.

I will cough myself up

a shack on the surf

and dream bubbly about sailing into the ever,

then when the sea hacks back leaving the reef

exposed, I will marvel at its tendency to cut

and worry about the beauty in its damn bright colours.

About the author


Rob Yates has recently returned to the UK after nearly 2 years abroad, which he spent moving and living in Indonesia and New Zealand. He has work forthcoming in Agenda and has had poems appear in various online magazines.

Huff tries something


Huff has tried the straight path

but then gone bunked and bloody

he is all mutterdog braying little

and now with the conch blinging in his drums

the goats flabbering on the coast-edge

the great fig trees with their roots up in the air but

earthed and pumped too too deep in the

soil oh that lovely soil yes

he is blessed and ready to floatsam further

than the Oriental fire-breeze and the flimsy markets

his pennies all chapped and dribbled into booze feathers

feathers because they lift and utterperish

a very sad and expensive thing

he has licked the citrus tickling of the loneliest planet’s

crust and trail

and spent more killerdollars than the Mother in the sky would like

yes he has don’t blame him he is

still young, he hopes, and potentially fruitful ‘midst the

bats and the gnarled waves and the West

golding up on popular coasts and regretting

his fizzing infancy.