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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 10
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A Fate Worse Than...
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Does this please me - jokes and humour?
Take it as a no. Your hearty laughter
and spluttering lips, do nothing
for my appetite. Heal thyself, doctor -
feed me the slop and stop
trying to hide your obvious discomfort.
Your silence is refreshing. Now take me outside -
not through there - the steps, the steps -
God in heaven - what is the matter with you?
Must I tell you every little detail? Your slinking
enrages me - you find no pleasure in my company.
Don't act surprised - you feign more than you desire to show.
But where does that leave me? Where?
Rocked in an ambulance, anaesthetised, pierced, stitched -
laid like a slab - the living dead, on wheels.
Are you pleased with your creation? Does it mock you now?
And well it might. You should have let me die
The breeze is fresh - bring my blanket
and smother me with more good deeds.
© Laura Sheridan
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Collateral Damage
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We came upon them at dusk,
soporific about their hearth,
gorged on flesh from heaped-up bones.
No rebellious mob to put down.
No barbarian menace at the empire's edge.
Instead a red-headed rabble, half-naked,
clad in animal pelts and stench.
And for this we had marched a night and a day
through mud and flint-sharp rain
that slashed our tunics and rotted our feet.
Were they men or beasts, these dull-eyed creatures
snarling through bloody teeth as they backed
away into the forest?
At dawn we found what was left
of their larder - one blind woman,
a fat old man with one arm missing,
a hump-backed boy-child -
which on the orders of Marcus Aurelius
we killed.
© Ted Slade
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Tetractys: Blown Away
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one,
two, a-
one, two, three.
my happy feet
dance away the night under stars of jazz.
© Chris Ziesler
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New Age
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In some cultures widowed women cut their hair,
hack through those fabled glories, tress by tress,
a frenzied near-scalping of themselves -
the uneven stubble their display and proof
of grief's all-consuming mood of craziness.
Just before you went away, I sensed a change
and, prepared for what was coming,
followed suit - stood at the bathroom sink
and watched curiously distant scissors chop
medium mouse-brown tails,
dropping where they coiled, twisted soft into
a flimsy nest inside a plastic bin.
It seemed an act of purging at the time;
a forfeit for dare thinking things would last;
a prelude to a close impending loss.
Now my skin shows white beneath the red-dyed tufts,
symbolic, smooth as river between reeds,
a different look, a wildness meant to mark
by pruning back dead wood and setting free
last year's ghost and what remains -
the still-growing part of me.
© Jean M. Harvey
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In the Shadow of the Hollow Men
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fifty miles of muddy water
fifty miles into the darkness
chasing ghosts and chasing devils
to the land beyond the sunlight
into lives of shattered silence
into days in dreary circles
from the chest constricting madness
from the land of milk and honey
from the greedy smiling faces
from the hands with silver daggers
to the temples filled with shadows
to the nameless headless horror
slipping through the murky water
sliding through the pools of sorrow
face to face with hollow minions
eye to eye with straw filled puppets
till I find myself among them
till I find my eyes are empty
fifty miles into the darkness
hidden from the waiting world
© Mark Ashley
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How I Still Crave Flesh
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I understand sad-missing-you music
Play it again while I recall great
grandmothers gnarled, gentle hands
How at last she didn't wipe my tears
How I watched her die, so alone together
How I was ten and crawled in with her
How I shed my tears into a cold silence
How now I'm a grandma I know spirit touch
How I still crave flesh when my heart's broken
© Calaya J. Williams
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in hell
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in hell they turned me inside out
scraped my guts with strigils
scrimshawed from yellow horn
festooned the ceiling with
ribbon loops of ileum
swags of duodenum swaying
in the dry red breath of furnace
the orbits of my eyes
pierced for shiny gewgaws
my tongue tallowed
for a solitary flame
demons sucked my brains
like oyster, live and moist
on the walls the roadlines
of my bared nerves mapped
the kingdom of my pain
my flesh was transfigured
by cauldron rites and curses
now
you think
you can hurt me?
serpents are secreted in my smile
© M. A. Griffiths
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Abraham of Ur
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I.
"Abraham, look after the idols
while I take a leak."
So his father left
and the son glanced about
There were figures
big ones little ones ugly and pretty ones
He peered at their variety
The female goddesses with
their pendulous breasts
and pregnant bellies were
giving him their come-on look
He could feel himself harden
with pleasure as he watched
their legs spread apart
Yesterday the sky and the earth
had untangled mysteries
He named God and was pleased
Today he sat staring at his father's
creations works of art true
but mere statues made of clay for display
"If the universe is God then who
are these from my father's hands?"
Taking up a big stick Abraham smashed
them to dust from dust they came
II.
"Abraham,
count the stars,
count the grains of sand,
these will be your generations.
I am the Lord your God!
But first you must show
a sign as our covenant."
Now Abraham wasn't born
yesterday and there was
a strange ring to God's voice
something to suggest I've got
the upper hand as always
"You and all the males in your
household will have your foreskin
removed as a reminder of our agreement."
He reminisced about the seductresses
in his father's shop with their sex
tattooed on slick surface they asked
nothing of him but casual response
Yet he did not argue
with the Ruler of the Universe
"Lord, your will be done."
He went to his wife whispering
his needs daytime coupling
being a luxury Though a rich man
still he possessed little leisure time
Sarah laughed She liked to laugh
She laughed when he told his tale
touching the amulet secretly
made for protection against
that which is unusual
A servant was called
the rest history
Sarah's daughters still laughing
© Ryfkah
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Collecting Molehills
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Their house was built on rock; retirement plans
Demanded firm foundations while they waited
In this deserved space, owning a holiday view.
Their history had been gathered and transplanted
To soils thin as rind, short growing seasons.
They came from England; tried to root their accents,
Found language changed when they became the subject.
They learned not to look back. One thin-stemmed road
Led to their last house, sheltered, quite detached,
Circled by the bloated peat and balding stone.
Their plant pots lined the wall on which gruelled cloud
Might spill occasional sun. Instead of novels
They read the weather vane, its threatened terrors
To skittle pots, turn leaves to mourning drapes.
They grew geraniums, as they had before,
Travelling across the island when sensing Spring,
Beyond the rim of eyes, where softening verges
Had sprouted molehills. Quickly they scooped the tilth
Into unmarked plastic bags they'd brought from Surrey.
They emptied them at night. They kept them folded.
Dark spread across the island, spoke of ocean.
Odd cottages and farms with riding lights
Steadied, as at anchor. They wiped their trowels clean
On Scottish newsprint. The radio's English voices
Reminded them of rail strikes, murders, friendships.
© Martyn Halsall
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Playing by numbers
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You marked their fall like sparrows. Every card
accounted for. I thought it was a trick.
That, once removed, your empty glasses stared
round corners. It might as well be magic.
Those numbers, always straight with you, were hard
on me. You scored a narrow path. I took
a broader street whose coastal cobbled words
mislaid eternity. I couldn't look
behind your mirrored certainties. You'd seem
abstracted if, irrationally, I asked
what made you tick. Do mathematicians dream?
When time subtracts is algebra unmasked?
Identity inversed, I let you go.
Infinity breaks down beyond zero.
© Terri Eynon
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Days of Water
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(i)
The bright syllables of water
arch and fall back,
following curves of air.
Bent words splutter back to life
in the dust and leaves gathered in the corner,
where sparrows tread and the gilded fly
all, all consummate, but not us.
You are there, alone,
with the doves
their muted sooth,
rue, rue, rue,
and swift, soft movements
of their necks and eyes.
From the secret shadows
of the place, I watch
falls of light
on your hair, spilling
over your shoulder
and the bloom of your breast.
The patterns
on the courtyard move
true to the ancient guidance of the stars,
as from my secret place
in the deeper shades,
I reach to caress your slender silver soul.
My lady of the water and the day of doves!
(ii)
Here at the year's turning, in the darkest time,
earth stunned with cold,
when birds fall unheeded in the night,
I seem now at the end to which I've always moved;
when the fountain's tongues are stilled,
doves croon for warmth
and snow drifts into corners of the yard
I look back across
the bleak atlantic reaches of my life
to remember the desolations of before
but see only the sunlit miles
of snowfilled shires fulgent
in the long low winter light.
© Arthur W Seeley
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Worm 10's special guest is the British Asian poet Anjum Malik.
SNAKING FLAME is dedicated to the four Pakistani women of Bradford who died so called 'accidental' deaths in kitchen fires during 1985. There have been
many more before. And since.
SNAKING FLAME
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..© Anjum Malik
the hiss made her head turn
she saw the flame travel towards her
it came snaking across the kitchen floor
no sound just a quiet hiss
it was meant for her
three years of hell
in this strange cold land
no mother no father
no sister no brother
no friend no hope
three years of hell
in this cold strange land
a husband to cook, a husband to lay for
a saas* to slave for (*saas... mother in law)
a saas to lay down for
her home a prison, backhome just a haze a memory
three years of hell
in this strange cold land
a child born from her womb for every year
a child fed on her breasts and taken from her every year
her children strangers, her life a living hell
the flame hissed towards her
it was meant to catch up with her
they in the next room
thinking she had not known
of their hatching, their plotting
three years of hell
in this strange cold land
no last farewells
to her children, to her family backhome
she turned towards it
she turned to face it
she stood head on
it snaked towards her
like a flash it travelled
swallowing, engulfing, burning live flesh
NEWS FLASH
Another Pakistani wife in a kitchen accident, must have been her dupata*.
(*dupata.... veil)
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Wherein We Speak to Teddy Bears
of the Party for Their Naming Day
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Lannie will bring colored parchment
to make an admirals hat to set
upon your ears and origami cranes
to tie from the ceiling fan.
You will lift your button ears
and remember the sea rich
with silver swordfish and sardines.
If I could, I would
fold you a paper boat
sealed with jelly jar wax;
we would sail along the river bank
until lily pads nod off to sleep
and cattails bow good-by.
Annie will bring her crystals
and drop colors upon your walls
to paint your house with rainbows
and decorate the ivy.
You will lift your furry arms
and remember the sky ripe
with gray geese and blue pigeons.
If I could, I would
snip and rivet you a spaceship
powered by bottle rockets;
we would sail along the stars
in search of iron and opals
until Venus unfolded her arms
to play the tambourine.
Beca will bring Chinese checkers
and let you win again and again
though she will never cheat
and you do not know red from black.
You will lift your crooked smile
and remember the land plump
with golden grain and freckled girls.
If I could, I would
weave you a crown of daisies
and lay it upon your brow;
we would lie among buttercups
in the sheeps green meadow
and count four-leaf clovers
until all the clouds turned to camels.
I will feed you almond shortcake
and marshmallow wine
until the dishes are put away
and floor neatly swept.
We will let fireflies flit about our face
and dance among the mulberries
until the rain stops.
© Gary Blankenship
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Wired
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They've burrowed into my brain,
wired in their devices
- if you don't believe me
open up my skull.
In the left hemisphere
an extracolator
siphons off my dreams,
flushes out the poems
that fester there.
In the right hemisphere
an intropolator
introduces thoughts
of mayhem, images
of drowned corpses,
a plot to kill
the President,
which I've pencilled in
for tomorrow.
Yesterday they spoke
to me of love,
gave me advice
on the use of firearms,
and taught me
the art of dissimulation.
They really are
very kind people.
© Ted Slade
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Dust
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why did you do that
why did you strain against my love
to run through fields of barren mud
why did you fly
into the face of the sun
and whisper
into the driving rain
the names of the dead
that litter your bookcase
and on the black road to hell
you broke my back
for a cheeseburger
and a lukewarm coke
while I sat in the dust
and admired the perfection
of a glowing buttercup
while I murmured of mountains
and the terror
of deep waters
you scattered papers
across my smile
and scraped my kisses
from your estranged face
and in the burning
of a lazy afternoon
you closed up your life
and boarded the last bus
to nowhere
while I sat in the dust
without you
© Mark Ashley
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Just Outside the Frame
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This picture has no story. It casts two women
Quite still among shifting trees. Across the river
The only house is shuttered, water and sky
Define no particular place, are always waiting.
A shower has just passed through, the remains of cloud
Are sieved by an April gale and drawn to the border.
Grey air is flecked with pinks by wristed brush strokes.
The painting seems to lean, its cherry trees falter.
The women have learned to be still, though their gaze betrays them;
Their heads angled to a movement, a sound that's just
Outside the frame, against the prevailing current.
They wait in case it brings the danger of movement.
Perhaps there's no cause for alarm: some sheep through the fence,
Or a small boy falling from a tree, or riders calling
For directions. The accents shift in the south-west wind,
Altering the drift of meaning, shuffling cadence.
Or perhaps it's a distant shot at a squall of rooks,
Or the start of a race, or a sick horse being felled,
Or the first crack from a fire, that pause between
The recognising gasp and churning footsteps.
They might feel it is wrong to be still on this changing day,
Which started with the first slack petals in a loosening sky.
Perhaps there was just one order, the artist's voice:
"Look into the distance, ladies, if you will;
I will not include the firing squad or the hangman."
© Martyn Halsall
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Compiling Editor: John Carley
Associate Editors: Grasshopper, Ryfkah
Editorial Support: T H Donald
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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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