We like crocodiles, we like being green. Run online by a group of strange, unhealthy young poets from round the world who are secret supergators at night, The Crocodile likes its poetry fresh and tangy, with a hint of lunacy.
Send us your words, no line limits. We like misfits, vegetarianism, nonsense and saving Patrick Bateman, the ultimate crocodile (no, seriously). We'll take what you got if it's crazy enough for our appetite, and no we don't bite unless you're after our leather. Read up and get writing!
Edited (alphabetically) by:
Ameerah Arjanee, Eleanor Coy, Beth Jellicoe, Joshua Kam, and Namita Krishnamurthy.
Submissions: crocodilemagazine@gmail.com - include a short bio.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

NEW SITE! :)

The Crocodile is moving!

Look at our beautiful new site: http://www.wix.com/poetryjournal/thecrocodile#!

New poems up soon!

Oh, and the email address is exactly the same, so submit away!

Thursday, 6 October 2011

National Poetry Day/'Today' by Catherine Hodgson

Happy National Poetry day, everyone!
To celebrate, here is a poem by an amazing young poet.
Poets young, old, short, tall, wherever you are from and whoever you are - keep on writing.
- Beth Jellicoe

Today (I am capable of your smile four times over)

Today is nothing to be afraid of.
You should gaze up to satellites
Like you did yesterday
D
raw pictures on the glass
Opaque by the restlessness of morning
You should read a thousand books
 
Say a thousand words
Hold your pencil to the paper
And show us how you'd like your life to be

Or just stop. Let your finger hover
on the window for a moment

And
think
If I just let go
Right now-
But does it matter?
Because we are just human
We are not superbeings or wonders of technology
We hold our hands out and ask for more, so
We cannot be the masters of time and space and everything
So just stop.
Think.
You are nothing more than me
Our eyes see the same earth, the same sky-
Your heart beats the same drum
And I do not think that
You should be crying today.

*****

Bio
Catherine Hodgson: "I'm a fourteen-year-old lover of reading, writing, photography and Brandon Flowers. I was a Commended Foyle Young Poet of the Year in 2010, and my love if writing has been encouraged further since then. I live in Sussex and have had two blogs for two years."

Thursday, 22 September 2011

'Colin-Maillard': by Agnes Marton

Quick note:  Thanks for the submissions everyone - keep them coming! We have a vibrant and surreal mix of poems here, from Agnes Marton's vivid dadaist writing to Anthony Adler's reflective poem 'Entropy'. Be inspired, and happy reading!

- Beth Jellicoe

COLIN-MAILLARD

higgledy-piggledy-hereIam-don'tcatchme-switchery-witchery-whereIam-can'ttellme-drowning-and-feathery-hereIam-don'tcatchme-crosswordme-puzzleme-jigsawme-freakshowme-addme-and-multiply-distractme-disturbme-solveme-and-dissolveme-confessme-destroyme-IDme-KOme-kidnapme-hijackme-rogerme-blackmailme-calmme-and-exciteme-tremble-and-easeme-and-fightme-and-enlightme-frameme-and-mirrorme-wholeme-and-fractureme-stream-ocean-riverme-poolme-and-jacuzzi-chimpanzee-pavian-lemurme-and-maki-ABC-do-re-mi-arctis-and-antarctis-layka-and-kontiki-orchid-and-rosemary-poppyseed-flavoury-swallowme-mallowme-mellowme-melonme-lendme-and-borrowme-pullme-and-followme-questionme-answerme-quoteme-and-floatme-and-rockme-and-shockme-and-shipme-worshipme-fleshme-and-flashme-and-flexme-and-fixme-rootme-and-trunkme-and-branchme-and-forkme-and-nestme-and-barkme-and-growthring-and-leaves-woodpeckme-wormme-and-warmme-ney-ney-and-eeyore-woof-woof-and-noch-nochme-hachoo-and-coughme-and-hiccup-belch-throwmeup-sanskrit-and-swahili-chinese-and-bengali-decipher-lucifer-nuptialdanceangel-solidme-and-fluid-maizecircle-android-K2-and-toubkalme-triglav-and-everest-twistme-and-riskme-just-upside-down-outside-in-temptme-and-sendme-but-don'teverhavearest-hauntme-and-raveme-and-lineme-and-zigzagme-curveme-and-roundme-and-flatme-and-hoover-and-vapourme-mazeme-and-pathme-and-cruiseme-and-diveme-zorb-bungeejump-klettersteig-dinosaur-cyclopsme-doldrumsme-toastme-and-butterme-salt-pepper-hotchilli-horseradish-mustardme-widenme-lengthenme-shorten-and-enlargeme-dipme-and-chipme-and-liftme-violet-magenta-turquoise-and-royalblue-nephritegreen-rainbowme-brainme-and-cicatrix-navelstring-trickleme-tickletheivories-mountainme-reefme-and-stoneme-and-pebbleme-airme-fearme-and-feverme-forceme-and-fireme-waterme-earth-windme-and-sunme-(la-terre-du-vent-et-du-soleil-moi-et-moi-et-moi)-and-rainme-and-stormme-and-snowdropme-marchme-and-mayjuneme-monday-and-thursdayme-fiveo'clock-middayme-hereIam-onetwothree-fetchme-but-don'tcatchme-hereIambreathlesslyfindmebutdon'tcatchme

*****
Bio:
"Agnes Marton: Hungarian-born poet, editor, linguist, translator. Regularly works together with visual artists, takes part in exhibitions and art projects in Europe, in the USA and in New Zealand. Performs in 5 countries. Her book: 'Sculpture/po├ęsie' with Mani Bour."

'Ode to an Ex-Tree': by Thomas Williams

Ode to an Ex-Tree

Long and square and flat and wood,
carved with ink and pencil blood
that flows and scrawls across white page –
the letters burn, the drawings fade.

Upon its varnished surface gleam
a thousand names, a smudge, a sheen,
and stuck to its belly, like limpets on a rock,
a plethora of chewing gum has flocked.

Upon four legs it stands so proud
within its pale brown coffin shroud.
And on the carpet’s head
the mutilated tree squats, dead
as a doornail, cut down, chopped up,
sliced from growing limbs, a living cup
emptied for a wallet full of stones.

No more a tree, no more a free, green god,
the ex-tree – now a table – creaks, moans.

Is that so odd?

*****

Bio:
My name's Thomas Williams, and I'm an 18 year old student studying English. I don't know when I started writing, and I don't know when I'll stop; so long as the ideas keep coming, my pen will keep going. I've been published in the British Fantasy Society's journal twice, and have a published poem in a new literary magazine called Unspoken Water.

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

'Entropy': a poem by Anthony Adler


Entropy


You fretted that your house would burn down in the night,
or that the sudden heat-death of the universe
would happen first and everything would stop. Your
father demonstrated how this worked using
two different kinds of sugar but forgot
to say how long it took: he just dissolved
the gritty static into pitch-black

grown-up coffee. It stayed with you. Then
you learnt how to spin fire-poi
in someone else’s garden, went
to parties in a field (near
a river you fell into on
a number of occasions)

and a little while later
gave me cigarettes down by
the lake at midnight. The lights
from the city smudged the stars out.
Look, you said, breathed in until

the flame caught under your
cupped fingers, watched it glow
towards the filter. Look.
It starts like this.

*****

Bio:
"Anthony Adler was a commended Foyle's Young Poet in 2007. Since that time he has battled damsels, rescued monsters, and been published in print and online. He lives not quite in London."

Monday, 19 September 2011

poems by Lenni Sanders


Poor Circulation

My handsome, my hands
are always cold.
If I was to tenderly touch your back
or your face
while you are sleeping tonight,
would you think the Grim Reaper
had come to sniff-snatch away your warm breath
in his bony, lonely nostrils?
Then roll over, lover,
and hug me closely,
make sure my blood keeps rolling,
and we’ll make such a sheet-time equator
mortality won’t have a look in,
and anything but NOW
will faint and wilt and melt.
Kiss me now, live forever,
keep us from the cold.

***

Mu and Lemuria

Scientists chew on their pen lids
and laboriously conclude
that they’re certain the lost continent of Mu
never existed;
neither Lemuria.
At great length
they put thermometers in the sea,
tippy toed right up to the mouths of caves
in their smart coats (careful not to muddy them)
and did a gastroscopy.
They took the petals off
the flowers that eat men
and smell like manna
and took them back to laboratories,

where now they conclude
that wild and uncontrollable places
where there were never television sets
to eat your tea in front of
never disappeared under the waves,
never existed.

*****

Bio: "Lenni Sanders is a messy child who scrawls in all her
notebooks when she should be writing neatly and nicely. Aged 18, she
was a Commended Foyles Poet in 2010, and has been published on paper
(North West England anthologies of youth writing) and in cyberspace
(www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com)."

Monday, 5 September 2011

good morning world / poems by Evie C Ioannidi

Quick note: Welcome to The Crocodile, everyone! Thank you for all your support so far and your excellent advice. If you're interested in submitting, drop us an email - crocodile-magazine@gmail.com, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.
Especial thanks goes to Foyle Young Poets winner Evie Ioannidi. Evie was the first to submit, with three vividly imagined and beautifully phrased poems.
We hope you enjoy reading her work.
- Beth Jellicoe

***

Because Backstage Is Much More Fun

You found out
That the meaning of life
Was overrated
And that you’d
Already heard meanings
Far more interesting
Than that.

You were the fairy-tale
Lovechild
Of a rich taste
And a poor resolution
But really
That was your first step
Towards a happy ending.

Yet you wanted
To do something
Spiteful.
So you cleaned the house
Without telling them,
Knowing they
Would do it
All over again.

And it doesn’t really matter
Anymore,
Because you’ve
Moved on since then.
But it gives you something
To talk about.

***

'Tis As Easy As Lying

I love your smile
When you're playing
With hatred
And the sound
Of your happiness as it
Torches through the room.
 
***

The sound of (s)laughter
The match strikes itself
For an inferno
In the shape
Of a crooked grin
And a vacuous stare
Where our most
Innocent of weapons
Is carefree deceit.

And who can tell,
If the body in the kitchen
Was here all the while
Or if it just
Came along for the ride?

You know, you never saw it coming
When my teeth transformed
Your beating heart.

I said my bark was worse than it,
I never said I didn't have one.

- Evie C Ioannidi

*****

Bio
"I was born in London but moved to Athens, Greece at the age of eight. Since then, I have developed an interest for theatre, hobbits and, of course, poetry. I was one of the top fifteen winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year award in 2010 and that gave me the push I needed to consider writing a real option for myself. Next year, I hope to be studying English literature back in England." - Evie C Ioannidi