HeyJaredA NEW MOON
Humphrey ‘Huck’ Astley is a poet from Oxford, UK. His poems have appeared in various journals including Agenda and The London Magazine. He was founding editor of The Crank. 'Poets are queer fish who must be allowed to go their own way.' (Marx)
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 28, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 5, 2026
Latest issues
The Promise (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThere is this screen the size of looming clouds the other side of jungle, close-knit jungle, in desert where the birds have flown away indefinitely... The screen is both the promise of vistas and the vista—floating like the rainbow covenant a god once made; and every colour fills the frame, but ground into a grey-brown haze that mocks the sand at dusk the way chameleons mimic stone. Conclude your fade to black or white, fine
Clean (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published(after Mark) At dawn, they entered the open tomb and found a young man sat there alone in garments that were flowing, clean; and the women were afraid of him But one of them (once a courtesan) remembered hearing of how that night in the garden, a strange young man was caught and stripped of his only rag—and ran And as the vigil-keeper shared the news with them, she thought of all the times she too had been stripped; and fell
The Cleft (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe orange of the insides of the branch— an orange like tequila mixed with blood— it radiated up from where that limb lay open in the February rain, a rain whose leaden gravity made all surrounding colours not just deep, but abysmal... Yet in that sinking scene there shone this seam of lava where the branch exposed its shock of ochre. And as if recognised, I turned my face away and hurried past; except the limb was already s
Decagon (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedMaybe if I could sleep, could dive so soundly as to make the depth unfold its silent field, the dead would look no stranger than the live There each would tend a plot, a stone they burnish and dust; though none of them would bear an epitaph or name... only a pitch-black decagon And hypnotised by one such grave, maybe I’ll find its disc is no decaying sun or pyring coal— but the next pool that I must dive<div class="subscript
Doubt (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedPerhaps it took the form of shadows for ancient selves—to whom the gods were real as air, true as the birds’ high noon, the deepest breaths of bellows And when the owl sighed in the trees and hearths were either distant or cold, they’d patch the hemispheric cloud of doubt with looming deities Today the patchwork’s done, complete and thrown atop a standing blaze— from which I have to turn my face in doubt, doubt in the form o
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