~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 2
___________________ _____________ ___________________
___________________ _____________ ___________________


Milton's Daughter

She guided him carefully, edging him into some shade.
"The wind has changed," she said. "It's bearing rain."
He grunted, said he did not care for Weather.
He asked her to read the Testament she'd forgotten.

"I'll tell the scene instead. The hedges- hazed-"
He passed a hand across his face, his eyes.
"The meadow is deepening and bobbing with clover flowers."
He said he could remember it all, Quite Clearly.

"The trees are layering with leaves, like a woman gowning."
He snorted, turned away. "There's a wondrous sky,
Frothing with greys and creams like a brewer's vat."
He sniffed, and said he liked his language Plain.

She offered to lead him further while the sun remained,
To the lower garden, where they could see if the mint-
He stiffened. "Anne, you know I never See!"
He tried to stride out, as if to test her lameness,

Then talked of gardens and their innocence.
She said: "The blackbird's scolding like a prelate!
And now the daffodils are almost over,
Beginning to shrivel like paper..." He ordered: "Quills!"

And began to dictate, about Eden and its loss,
The blinding of light; the subtle theft of goodness.

© Martyn Halsall

___________________ _____________ ___________________


A Secret

I know a secret
……..About our teacher
I saw something
……..I knew I shouldn't see
I know a secret
……..About Mr. Frankland
I went back inside
……..When the fire bell rang

I know the secret
……..About his coffee
I went to get my sweets -
……..Cos he'd put them in his bag
I know the secret
……..Of why his breath smells
I hid the bottle -
Left my sweets behind

I hid the bottle -
Left my sweets behind

© Jan Ashton

___________________ _____________ ___________________


Four Geese

Four geese sleeping.
A three legged dog.
Two men, one shovel.
No particular order.

© John Carley

___________________ _____________ ___________________


Paul

Crisp January light. Reflections from the red bridge throwing flames on
water; the pigeon on the lamp post turning this way and that for no reason.

One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock rock - an audience of pigeons on a
scaffold. Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock rock - their heads all
point in his direction. They are listening to his heartbeat - he remembers
how he loved her elegance, her poodle cut curls, the coat with the velvet
collar and those white, wedged, peep-toe shoes, the matching plastic
handbag. Four plump, crimson cherries for mother's ears.

……..A cormorant rises from the river.
……..Rises, dips, vanishes without trace
……..into water as cold as polar seas.

Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock rock - a stream of salt on his
cheeks. He smothered the stains with salt, with sel de mer fin, Balein.
Salt from the sea of the final summer - a small boy, sand, bucket, spade
and the lustrous sheen of mother-of-pearl. She said she would bring him a
book with words, pictures of birds. And then she vanished.

Salt, whisky and wine until his mind was numb with the drumming, the
rocking and rolling, the tick-tick-ticking of his heart.

These days he forgets his address, sits on an iron bench scattering bread,
rocking to a congregation of crows, remembering the roll of words
forgotten, lost lyrics found, old songs stirred and mixed to trace the
outline of a bowl of red fruit. Heartbeat, why do you miss when my baby
kisses me?

……..A black stranger crosses snow.
……..A glance, a smile, a moment of warmth
……..and then gone.
……..Only footprints, expanding in sunlight.

© Christina Fletcher

___________________ _____________ ___________________


Campsite Fragment

her kids -
full of tiresome interactions
as a stack of bikes -
put the young tin lid on things
maternal

pedals jammed in spokes
saddles meshed in brake-wire
all that yes you did - no I did
you did - no

she turns everso
ever slightly - courtesy-light
flickering

hands clench
imaginary brakes

time for bed darlings
she says

© Philip Burton

___________________ _____________ ___________________


David

We saw a cast of David outside the Uffizi,
bought a white cake of soap with his likeness
to put on a granite dish next to our Venus rising.

But we never saw David, instead went to bed
with burning throats and chests
to suffer the kennel of hungry dogs next door.

On the first day we amused ourselves
by giving out a howl to get the dogs going,
but by the second day we were plotting murder.

We never went back to find David.
It doesn't matter. I could feel what is, in the end, absence
from my bed in Sienna - each lack of slip of the chisel,

each way it was always someplace and somewhere else,
no matter how good the cold marble felt. How empty
when each hand, each eye, each rib had been perfected.

© W. Maier

___________________ _____________ ___________________

Cafe Maure (II): "This is tobacco!"

The blues and yellow of soft furnishings
Look fine behind the faintest film of smoke
And all is bubble, gurgle, bubble -
The slow enjoyment of tobacco
Fired by charcoal, cooled by water,
Flavoured with anise -
Drawn through an implausibly long tube
Fixed to an item of furniture
That is fantastic, yet undeniably here -
The smoke of dreams, and yet
This is tobacco.

You should have a go.

© Howard Osborn

___________________ _____________ ___________________


How I Still Hope

it's summer and
the breeze lifts my hair
just so, just enough to tingle a memory
of other summers where I
a young girl feeling hopeful
would don my hot pink or gold lame bikini
massage my youthfulness with Ban de Soleil
listen to Santana on the sand
so close to the waves that their rhythm coursed through me

I would roll over (to even my tan)
hoping that my bottom wasn't peeking out beneath my French bikini
hoping that it was
hoping that just one of the surfers -
just one of the guys I had my eyes on
preferred black hair to blond
olive skin to the creamy beige of my friends
surrounding me on the beach

and now, thinking
I must have looked like the dark center of a Magritte daisy
and they, petals unfurled, reaching toward, resonating with sun

I'm past caring about tans
full knowing that my bottom peers out from the edges of my (supposedly)
slimming black tank suit
past caring about surfers as the old ones have gone corporate
and the young ones, ah, the young ones are too young, too tan, too
gorgeous for words

so I don't dare even look for fear
that memories like these will surface from oceanic depths
and I will have to remember
and I will have to admit
how I still hope

© Terrie Relf

___________________ _____________ ___________________


Her and the Dog

Alice, washed-out inside
curls up to the store
her glasshouse bedroom
a doorless night
eyes glazed
like windows
empty like shelves
on a spent night
lantern moon
blown out
in electric air
blanket, dog warmth
protecting
soft hair to rough coat
cheek to jowl
thanks and fangs
for mean coppers
in an upturned hat

© Sally James

___________________ _____________ ___________________


Stanford Linear Accelerator:
Song of the Stanford Electrons

Electrons are accelerated by riding the electro-magnetic wave - like a
surfer on a water wave.*

We are the man, the board, the surf
the tide, the sun, the moon, the earth.

We bind the water to a mass
prevent its dissolution into gas.

Ours is the urge, the need for breath.
Corruption, the slow slide into death,

is driven by our desire, our spin
The illusion of matter, the space within,

is our domain, but substance of your earth.
We are the Universe.

Today, we ride your wave.


* Display Board, Stanford Visitor Centre

© Helen Clare
___________________ _____________ ___________________

Compiling Editor: John Carley
Associate Editors: Rachel Wiggans, Matt Williams
Editorial Support: Terrie Relf
___________________ _____________ ___________________

___________________ _____________ ___________________

We gratefully acknowledge the support of:
North West Arts Board & Mid Pennine Arts

Celebrating Year of the Artist
June 2000 ~ May 2001
___________________ _____________ ___________________