Dear Reader,

Welcome to our fortieth issue, another significant landmark in StepAway Magazine‘s meandering journey.

At the very heart of this issue sit two poems about two very different markets. The first, ‘Dream of a Market,’ by Buoye Oluwatosin is set in a Nigerian village market, while the second, ‘Indoor Market,’ by Ben Banyard, describes a visit to a local market in Exmouth, England. Both poems, in their own distinct manner, discuss the market as a symbol of community identity.

Very few of the past issues of StepAway Magazine feature poetry about markets. This is quite surprising, given that the marketplace has so much to offer wandering observers, such as ourselves. Plato notes in The Republic:

“A city comes into being because no man is self-sufficient; we all have many needs. … And so we gather into one place, many people to share with one another — and this shared place is called a market.”

Plato’s emphasis on sharing, at its most obvious level, describes the market as a space of economic trade. Yet, people share more than money here. Markets are equally about human interaction. From the the cavernous glass-and-iron arches of Borough Market, London, to the sprawling labyrinth of Addis Mercato in Ethiopia—one of the largest markets on the African continent—these spaces are more than trading hubs; they are locations where people share time, attention, and spectacle.

For the flâneur or flâneuse, the market promises the theatre of everyday life. It is lively, sensory, culturally rich, and unpredictable. It provides a space where commerce intersects with community, where ordinary objects gain deeper meaning, and where observation becomes an act of discovery. Strolling among stalls of produce, souvenirs, and curiosities is more than shopping — it is a form of urban exploration, an intimate encounter with the rhythms, textures, stories and history of the city. The marketplace allows the flâneur/flâneuse to engage in subtle social critique. Observing who shops, who sells, and what is sold offers insights into class, taste, and urban hierarchies. The wanderer’s detachment enables reflection: noticing how markets cater to tourists versus locals, or how traditional crafts survive alongside mass-produced goods.

Markets are also fascinating windows into a city’s past because they often carry layers of history, culture, continuity and ephemerality in a single space. When I enter my local market, The Grainger Market, in Newcastle upon Tyne, I step on a mosaic in the entranceway that reads simply “Waltons.” This is a reminder of the long-gone tailor store where my grandfather once worked. Beside it is a wooden hatch leading to the basement which my great-grandfather, a boiler man, would once appear out of should anyone rap on it to attract his attention. Years after their passing, the lifelines of my family remain visible in the very fabric of the building. And as familiar stalls, such as the tripe shop disappear, they are replaced by the new — the stand selling Chinese dumplings and bao buns or the chap selling sweet and savoury crepes. In this way, the market becomes a microcosm of the city, revealing its constant state of flux.

When Buoye Oluwatosin writes in her poem, “We are the market / We are the life that keeps the market existing,” truer words were never spoken.  The market is a dynamic, human-centered space, sustained by relationships, social life, and collective memory. And this sentiment can be applied more broadly to the city itself. All of the poems collected in this issue of StepAway explore how the “soul” of any city is human: its vibrancy, culture, history, and character all come from the people who live, work, and wander there. Buildings, and streets may provide structure, but it is the collective life of the diverse inhabitants that gives true meaning to urban space.

Finally, I would like to extend my gratitude to those of you who clicked the donate button on our main page. StepAway Magazine would not exist without your generosity.

Now it is only fair that I let the work of our talented writers speak for itself. Enjoy reading.

Yours faithfully,

Darren Richard Carlaw

editor@stepawaymagazine.com

Michael, I saw you crossing 28th street
your helmet under your arm as always–
the left arm, the right hanging at your belt
like a keyring, composing, in its inert state
chapter three of the Iliad.

The Wrath of Achilles, regular or footlong
with or without onions. Achilles
who spent more time eating than fighting
who destroyed footlongs
as though war were a dinner party.

Michael, you crossed 28th street, the Rhine
The Hellespont, the wine-dark city
where heroes are made to be broken like boytoys
and then reborn

in emergency rooms,
contagious wards, the ICU, the CCU
the infectious ward, the ward
which passeth understanding, Michael,
as you did.

Nevin Schreiner

She was recovering from an emergency
appendectomy and was wrapped in folds
like those always worn by the Mother of God.
Her almost raven hair aimed here and there
and her slippered feet looked big and fuzzy
but her smile, a bit happier than Lisa del Giocondo’s,
grew with an intent that was easy to follow.

We were between junior and senior year
of high school with nothing but two bus rides
separating us, that and differing views
on almost everything, over and done before college.
Yet, after we kissed that night, the exhilaration
that hit me is with me to this day, an exquisite
ecstasy reliable enough for me to hold onto,
a gift that is useful like a paperweight or doorstop.

Henry Kranz

steady within each stage of strong current
I arrange the Old Town through nouveau glass

Pier 7, Höch, iris, sweet vernal grass
Zwingli, dahlia, astilbe, chutzpah

Wasserkirche, alstroemeria, Limmat
catkins, speedwell, Ernst, september aster

rose dust, limonene lake, raffia laps
afterlife fizzing in the aura – if

anyone should ever ask me where I’ve
swum I’ll say Stadhausquoi, I swam with you

this shade of Zürichsee will always be
Mary green, Mary green, Mary green.

Julie Hogg

And the lane sneaks down the hill
The deep village shadow-wallows
Somnolent in soft cascade echoes

Standing on the lower bridge among
Mills towers gloom-trees you lean
Over to see the river’s purling

And bats’ flit and swirl anonymous
In obscure hunting fervour above
The ripples you turn and reascend

Enter the West End’s level figures
Dawn-quiet geometry Georgian greys
Sober prospect of three-spire Saint Mary’s

Sleeping consulates and limp flags
Chimneys rake the sky with pot-rows
Gap-toothed in their unemployment

Work down the wide coach-way pavement
And find a pale crossroad square
Benches attendant around a statue

And sit in milk-light to wait for nothing
Day’s beginning an eternity away
A gaping pause in the city’s patterns

Martin Potter

mk zariel

Day 1.

On day one you will exit from Liverpool Street station by a
Door you do not know.
It is on Sun Street Passage.
Do not read into this.

Two things will happen.
Firstly you will try to walk the places you loved
When you were loved.
You will pass the Mondrian, where you remember that last night
As a couple, with Ryan and Clara
And a late-night goodbye,
Smiles and waves and undertakings
Until the next time
That now won’t be. You will fall

And re-awaken on the
Corner of Curtain Road.

Secondly, later that day, on your next try,
You will come upon
New Inn Yard and
Dysart Street,
Known to you already but these are places in your father’s
Land and your grief for his death six months ago will understandably Collide with the loss of love, and you will fall again.
Do not be discouraged. This is not normal,
But it is typical.

Day 2.

In the morning you will feel like you cannot go on.
You will search Ryanair return flights and be annoyed that they are
Fifteen euro as you were hoping they’d be too expensive and take the
Decision away from you.

At 1.20pm you will be unable to see a future.
The future however is purely a construct.
You will walk in the rain and find a
Vegan cafe that ordinarily would annoy you but today it feels like a
Hug. You will write.

Day 3.

Day three will start at midnight, as standard.
By 5am a bearded overlord from Azerbaijan will tell you,
As he strokes your cheek,
That you are beautiful, and how could anyone give you up.
You feel that he means it and you will say thank you.

You will wake up stronger, at 11am, but caution:
The feeling is fragile.

Also on day three, a man with a cat on his shoulder will
Walk into the Common Space Bookshop and Cafe.
This doesn’t necessarily mean anything
Except that a man has a cat on his shoulder.

At 7pm you will enter the studio of Hormazd Narielwalla on Old Street.
He will show you his work, and please, be prepared:
It is art
Story
Execution and
Intent.
It is beauty and meaning you are not prepared for.
You will be moved and you will cry
For all that you’ve denied yourself
In the pursuit of another’s happiness.
But Happiness Forgets,
And you will take him there.

Day 4.

On Rivington Street you will see a postcard of Bette Davis and
Paul Henreid in the window of a vintage shop -
The one where she doesn’t ask for the moon
Because she has some stars.
You will reflect that God showed no such timidity,
And on the fourth day, perhaps a day like today,
He created the entire cosmos.
You will feel a clarity in recognising the delusions of classic romance,
And you will be keen to understand how a universe
Can be built in a day.

Take note of your feeling of interest. It is indicative of an approaching corner.

At 12.34pm you will receive a message.
He is ready to talk.
You will not be, or rather you will not be ready for
The End.
You will still not have prepared, at this point, your classic last line.
You will decline the invitation to bring forward your
Expiration, despite that more time in the pain of the unknown
Is a cruelty you are delivering only onto
Yourself – and you will know that you are trading,
Choosing one form of torment against another.

Please be warned: no-one can save those who negotiate with fate.

Day 5.

On the morning of day five you will depart for the execution,
As planned.
And while the axe will sever all sense
All hope
All joy
All tomorrow,
In the comforting low greys of East London
You are less afraid.
Somewhere between Leyton and Leytonstone
You will feel what feels like a beginning, within.
Do accept this feeling, if at all possible.
Why, if
Lust
Jealousy
Envy
Anger
So easily thrive in you,
Should not this also?
It is, after all,
The first green shoot of love returning, at which you are
Excellent.
You will then emerge from underground,
And go to your reckoning.

Good luck.

Remember, he will not choose you,
But you will choose yourself.

Joseph Hoban

Nida Sajid

then I think of this time of upheaval
where people on Any Street
can barely live together as one
and my heart pounds
not in fear
but sadness
that this is what we’ve become

then I watch the news of the LA fire
and see everyday people
not movie stars or billionaires
regular folks living side by side
working side by side
with garden hoses and shovels
in the spirit of every one staying alive

Marc Swan

Buoye Oluwatosin