~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1
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Now is the Time of Smaller Things
hearing pitches in the rust-scratch
of the gate
as I pull it closed
reclaiming windfalls from the slugs
cutting out invaded flesh
and relishing what's left
watching ants hollow their ground
by the kitchen wall
grain by grain
shrinking from the cloy of blackberries
rotting on the branch
shrivelling
feeling for the quietness of my pulse
through sirens children birds
my cells mutating
© Rachel Wiggans
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Asleep
I watch her breathing,
Her mouth at the pillow.
I watch the blanket,
Rising to the smallness of her form.
I am her shadow,
Warming her with stillness,
Drifting with her
Through the dark breeze
Of her falling breath.
And at the sunrise
When she wakes
And takes the world on
As her plaything
I'll be here for her,
Waiting for her,
Sleeping.
© Tom Bubblefish
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Making New Materials
Take solution [A]. Decant
into beaker. Flirt
with its chloroform fumes.
Watch it swirl, sluggish
in dragon breath curls,
colourless clear
on colourless clear.
Add [B], aqueous, hear
its lighter fall. Watch
it skate across the surface,
settle. Take a glass rod.
With the vertical stab
of a tailors stitch,
plunge through fluid
to the partition
of [A] and [B]. Lift
straight and true
the way you lift
a paint-oiled brush.
No drag. Slowly.
Something has congealed
like custard skin
on the rod. A line
leads to the source
between liquids. Balance
the rod on beaker. Twirl
between thumb and finger
like a magician's wand.
Steady. [A] and [B] constantly meet,
react, are drawn to the rod.
The thread winds even, smooth.
This is nylon.
© Helen Clare
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Eating Crow
first catch your crow
pickled salt flung from a
size nine catapult
pick, gut and clean
decapitation is optional
baste with fresh butter
and crumbs from a loaf
of wholemeal bread
roast on a anthracite fire
but only in November
when cooked
serve on a bed
of aubergines and salad
eat your lover's crow
until the earth moves
if she does not come
throw the roasted bird
to the dogs
the cat will lick butter
© Gerald England
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Lil
Not much to show:
one strong drawing
'Lil Screaming'.
Not screaming really:
keeping her mouth open, rigid
for an hour at a stretch
tasting pain to feel alive.
'Break, Lil.'
Lil naked
puffing bull-like
shaking out the stiffness
warming raw, chewed fingers
on a mug of sticky-sweet tea.
Lil and Billy in a squat
feeding fire with cardboard.
'Best meal I ever had
was from a bin
at the back of the Savoy.
All sorts. I thought it was Christmas.
Everything all mixed up. Lovely, Lil.
Wish you'd been with me, girl.'
Lil laughing
showing her palms to the flames
coughing up paper smoke.
Everything, all mixed up
laughter from a toothless mouth
smoke through a dirty straw
firelight on scarred wrists
Lil screaming.
© Christina Fletcher
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Apples
Five apples, red and green,
Swelling with summer sweetness,
Because the crown was plucked.
Because the crown was plucked,
Five apples, green and red,
Swelling with summer sweetness.
Swelling with summer sweetness,
Because the crown was plucked,
Five apples, red and green.
© grasshopper
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Elegy for a Northern City
You see them huddled downtown,
the city's idle bastard sons
and disinherited daughters
begging cigarettes and quarters
with useless hands defenceless
against uncharitable winter.
Muted factory smokestacks
stand erect like tombstone statuary.
Geese and commerce migrated south,
left no forwarding address.
Postal workers do not deliver
to empty mills or homeless men.
Industrial hypothermia
ices the soul of the populace,
slow and prickly painful death.
All the corporate arsonists striking
all the matches in the world
will not ignite a spark
in ashen eyes of urban orphans.
You wonder who will shovel corpses
off the sidewalk
come the thaw of spring.
© 1998 Stazja
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Never...
I never saw you eat a pomegranate
pearl by pearl with a safety pin,
nor cucumber which never liked you,
not even Flora or unleaded beer.
On the other hand you put together
good curries from Vesta black boxes.
And you never dared the water on holiday
but lingered in the litter in the corner
of the sands, scowled at the sun and
went redder, till they dragged you off
kicking and screaming to The Cod.
But you boiled lemon jelly flakes for
Sunday tea with Carnation. And told
us the riddle of marmalade eggs at
the table, not to mention the problem
of the hen and a half who got laid.
Wish you were here.
© Christine Bousfield
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Areas
Today we will learn about areas.
You remember the definition? Length times breadth.
Length, of course, can also mean time
And breadth the scale of things, as in their purpose.
I am talking purely about numbers.
So if something is nine units long
And three units wide, its area is twenty seven square units,
It's as simple as that. I will put on the blackboard
A few examples. You will copy them down,
Work them out, add square units. It is always like this.
Later we will learn about politics.
You remember the definition? The art of civil government.
Civil, of course, can also mean polite.
Government is the way we are ruled, or conquered.
I shall then distribute daily newspapers.
I shall also give scissors to each of you.
This week our topic will be suffering. We will do love last.
I will ask you to cut out stories
Illustrating inhumanity. Often they are published with pictures
Of people crying, so they are easy to spot.
Any questions? Yes, most of the stories
Will have straight sides. Yes, in theory it is possible
To calculate the area of suffering.
I do not recommend it. The shapes of nations are irregular.
Boundaries change. It becomes complicated.
© Martyn Halsall
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Short Poems for May
.
..#80
.
.cats sing
and birds fly backwards
..dandelion clocks
count the hours
.
#81
.
a sunlit glade
scents
.the strange geometry
of butterflies
.#82
.mouth agape
gawking at swifts
a green fly wanders in
aghast
© John Carley
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Karumegam
karumegam
drank pesticide
put on his best clothes
lay down neatly
slim small dark
outside the gate
we inside
heard a clamour at the window
his pretty wife ugly
screaming
we carried him
so light
to the car
he began thrashing I tried to hold him oh god
choking sound
so that's what it means
death rattle
© Nancy Gandhi
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If Teresa of Avila had Chosen a Secular Life
I've never been one to pray -
a mother's life is busy. But I do go to church,
and last week, kneeling there, my older boys fighting,
the baby tugging at my skirt, it happened -
doors and doors around my heart opened,
and God came in like a lantern at the center.
Since then it's happened every day.
My eyes and God's eyes meet, without warning,
while I'm bent over the laundry or hoeing the garden.
I gave up ale but it keeps happening.
It's as if he paces up and down my heart, stewing,
waiting to bind with me and bring us down and in,
shutters slapping in the wake of our descent
to the light in the innermost chamber.
It's exciting but a bother when you're trying
to gather eggs for dinner and you swoon like that
and come to later with feathers in your hair.
Still, lightning strikes me all the time
and I am growing used to dying, pointlessly, gloriously,
knocking over the ashbin sometimes,
coming back all covered in white like a bride,
a string of drying apples tumbled down like a wreath in my hair.
© Wendy Maier
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We gratefully acknowledge the support of:
North West Arts Board & Mid Pennine Arts
Celebrating Year of the Artist
June 2000 ~ May 2001
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compiling editors: John Carley, Helen Clare