July 2000
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Gulls at Lerwick
Blue day, and beaks at the nets.
and the herrings a harvest river, spilling over,
and the men with horn hands, and the silver
quiver of sun on scale and sea,
The maas in the air are a white mewing,
and the wings in the air are a white wheeling,
But the beaks at the nets are a brute tearing
scattering sisal and scales, scrabbling, clawing,
through the knotted rope cage to the glinted silver gleaming.
© Vera Rich
first published in 'Skipper'_________________________________
Even You Are Not Immune To Change
As dawn breaks through the window, collapsing onto the pillow with the grace
of one who has only just fallen asleep, you become the beat and the urgency
that leaves everything else trailing behind it. You become the reasons
sought in hindsight by researchers and speculators. You become Einstein in
an age of Newton. You become breakfast conversation and the Nation's
Favourite Quotation. You become thirty year old letters delivered by a
Postman who has a guilty conscience and a lump in his throat. You become
the explanation and the exaltation after the event.
As I watch from across the table or across the road sarcasm becomes you and
you become something slightly less than before. You become the warning sign
beneath the snow. You become the sub-vocalised "I told you so". You become
the breath that carries with it every "I just don't know". You become
everything that goes wrong in flight. You become the red alert light that
glows white. You are the silences during the night. You are always and you
are often right.
Sarcasm becomes you and you, perhaps, in time, are diminished by its touch.
You become pale before the fire. You become the ghost supported by
particularly visible wires. You become less and less until, finally,
sarcasm becomes you.
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Worlds End
Yesterday I turned the world off
It fizzled like a damp squib
Then popped.
Today I will blow up a new one
Throw it in the air
Wait for tomorrow
© Sally James
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The Circle
© John Carley
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Future in the Balance
For once the teacher's tongue is dumb,
bold Roman letters on quarto paper declare:
The air is filled with putrid sick, fresh sawdust
and I detect another orifice.
I'm adrift on a sea of ten-year-olds,
islands apart on leaky wooden rafts,
riding a current of dry questions
on the most important journey of our lives.
English, always my pet subject:
read the passage, answer the questions,
this time on tea-making, a topic I know well...
what follows is an unmapped ocean.
Complications of high ritual
procuring fresh water,
heating the kettle on a drawing-room Primus
warming the pot, small box of precious leaves
pedantic infusion techniques
pouring the liquor into delicate china cups
finally, a soupcon of cream;
incomprehensible in today's world of perforated bags.
Confusing then, for this ten-year-old
who frequently made 'the perfect cup'
in Melamine for mum.
To this day I re-run the recurring nightmare:
hotly, I slash my pencil through
the patronising waffle four, five times
then beneath my crossed out answers
I add a terse comment:
This is not the way to make tea.
© Steve Anderson
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Two poems from the Fibonacci Series:
Alyssum
she
leads
him through
copse of trees
he closes his eyes
sweet alyssum , eucalyptus
she lifts her arms, spins in circles, sings with joy--renewed
Touch
I
feel
your touch
at the nape
of my neck, caress
my breast with your hand, with your breath,
with your mouth while my hand reaches for you in the dream
© Terrie Relf
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The Music of Silence
My brothers, sisters, when evening paints the canvas sky
listen to the silence of the stars,
hear them glorify their Maker;
cosmos on cosmos ablaze with sound
which only spirits ear can hear,
tuned to timeless harmonies.
And you, great labyrinths of rock,
silhouette-stark stood against the sky,
sing out your praises, too.
Blend your primeval harmonies
with those above.
Canyon sing to canyon
granite oratorios by day and night
in praise of Him who made you so.
..that from their atomies you came,
..made flesh and blood from formless void
..through aeons of the Eternal Mind,
..which was from the beginning.
Seek God in heavenly silences
and on the earth beneath.
Seek him in the planets round
and music in the desert place.
Then seek Him in your hearts
and in the love He made you.
..Seek your Father there,
..for from the dust He made you His,
..made flesh and blood from formless void,
..made you of the Eternal Mind,
..which was from the beginning.
Seek Him, man and womankind,
seek Him in your souls.
© John Waddington-Feather
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Elder
It could have been a curragh or canoe
Hoisted above the children's eyes, but steady
On the stream of even paces, tall men's shoulders.
The children followed, wondering and wide-eyed,
Oblivious of their mother as she towed them;
Or the fanning wake of followers, like a nightfall.
The rest was hidden from them, the white spray,
Their father, who was sailing high above them,
People behind them with dissolving faces.
Looking back they would see them, every year,
That date which never lost its drag or echo
Of losing, in mid-June, during long light.
And round them, hanging on the evening air,
A froth of elder flowers; their salted musk.
© Martyn Halsall
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Giving up
O bugger, bugger, bugger --
the whole world hates me
and I loathe everybody.
I'm going to kill my neighbour
(the one who plays the organ
and makes my study tremble).
I'd like to knife McKafka,
my cyberplaymate,
who writes, 'Just suck a pebble.'
It's really only Teddy
who understands me
but he's so old his stuffing
is falling out...
© Christina Fletcher
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Associate Editors: Sally James, afharrold
Editorial Support: John Carley
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