|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 4
___________________ _____________ ___________________
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Emergency Song (for Dungeness Power Station)
-----------------------------------------------------
If, all dials to the redline,
they gave the eight minute warning -
'Please exit this station, proceed
to the blue zone and seek shelter...'
would you run the distance with me?
This is the drill - 80 seconds
to leave the building, 380
more to reach the trench, take cover.
Could you vault the road and marsh in time?
Could you show the walkers and dogs,
children out on bikes brought up short,
the field's reasons why it falls
3 spade-dug metres, why it grows
a mile-wide arc of blue-tipped poles?
Possibly the heron takes your eye;
a hawthorn root wrong-foots you.
Anyhow you tumble. Bad timing.
We hug on, earth rolling back from
the sun, heron flapping box-like,
tide turning under the seagulls,
clouds settling a drift far out at sea;
our heartbeats bump at each other,
ventricles hump the seconds out.
Atomic noons irradiate
this sleeping chamber; photons bathe
your dreaming head. Going to be a
factor 25 day, and you wonder
why I shake you by the shoulder.
© Matthew Williams
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Joe Pretty-Words
--------------------
there's a fella
makes his home inside the small words
of reaching and touching and dance
on the footpaths and sidewalks
of sunshine and rain
tells stories to himself
and anyone can spare a second
if they want to
to listen
if they really want to
pretty words pretty words
like christmas wrapping
and ribbons
or flowers on the doorstep
he wants to reach out or to come inside your place
with his handful of pretty words
but who's going to listen can you tell me?
who's got the time
for touching and dancing and for reaching out?
nobody i know
no one that knows what they're doing
and anyway
what right does a joe with a pencil in his hand have
to grasp at a sky that flashes
with the twinkling of the masters
scattered across the spread of spoken words
in stanzas of movement and light?
he's only a trier coming up cheap and fast
passing from our sight like a shooting star
to burn without leaving a smoke trail
or a mark on the ether or the sky
to point out the way he went
he's just like the rest of them
so who gives a damn huh?
shhh…
joe pretty-words is writing again
wonder what it is this time
anybody want to listen when he's done?
anybody?
© FFF Faust
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Halting Napoleon
--------------------
We could have stopped Napoleon outside Moscow
Simply by marshalling on barricades of tables,
Second-best pianos, bedsteads, the heavier wardrobes,
A battalion of cats. I hear that he would pale
When a Siamese entered the salon. He would lean
For support on feline Josephine. So, imagine
At a quick command, every cherub-decked mirror
Swinging back, somersaulting cavalry reflections
And letting loose a fusillade of tabbies.
They would spring towards the vain cockades and claw
At outriders' mustachios, hissing at hussars,
Leaping after the whole retreating army,
Only pausing, with a sideways gamble, to groom their tails.
We never thought of it, frantically loading heirlooms
Into carts, as every available servant wrapped
The silver in velvet, while we struggled with the butlers
Trying to work out which clothes to take. So trying
To remember those rural details, out of season.
No-one was helping to pack books, choose champagne;
The children's tea was late; they glowered in furs.
And dear Tatyana, instead of sorting her jewels,
Was hysterical, shouting: "My darlings! We've lost the cats!"
© Martyn Halsall
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Haiku
-------
pond
…..of
……lanterns
…….drunken
…...koi
…swirl
…..through
…….my
……..head
© Debi Bender
___________________ _____________ ___________________
The Dry Spell
----------------
Such white that year! Chalk breeze
dimmed the cat’s-eyes road, the trees,
speckled the wrens’ eggs, dusted the field,
rotted the seams of the canvas marquee.
The rain, when it came, amazed
the streams by being milk; it squeezed
each grit and grain from stitch and fold
and ran the liquid chalk across my knees.
In winter snow I often dream,
transported to those white streams
that browned the tent in that white field,
when I was young and at my ease.
© Philip Burton
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Even though Rosie O’Grady’s has Blues
---------------------------------------------
There’s this guy at Cafe Lestat’s who makes the best Americanos
says "decaf or regular--whatever you want!" with a goatee smile
I say, "I’ll write a poem, dedicate it to you, if you’ll make me a good one
and he did…and it was...
So here’s this poem poured out on the page, with caffeine buzzing in the
vertigoic space of Poets gathered, guarding their words in notepads,
journals, typewritten sheets, chap books and memory--sometimes revising
as they go
Legs of cushioned chairs scrape across wooden floors, cacophony of
beans grinding, while chess players, well, they play chess
patrons, some with hands in anjoli, pause pensively between each poem
all this--even though Rosie O’Grady’s up the street has Blues
"Make me another Americano," I say, tipping him well; well-tipped, he
smiles, makes me another, brings it to my table, and I think:
If this were Rosie O’Grady’s, I’d be drunk by now, drunk and wondering
where I’d get a ride, but I’m safe here in the arms of the Muse
who’s got way too many prospects to take them all home
© Terrie Relf
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Man and Crane on Hida River
----------------------------------
Man has sat in these reeds
beside this river
for ten thousand years
with a rod and line
wearing a straw hat
against the sun's rays
in order to catch
some fish for supper
as the smell of cooking rice
drifts to his nostrils
from the house behind -
while the crane looks on
from its own risen rock
in the river. A flash
of silver as the crane eats
then returns to stillness.
© James Bell
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Dirty Linen
-------------
She's not like me, socks and knickers
….hang out of drawers
……..or lie, a question, on the floor
…………I never pick them up.
After she was born I hand-washed
….every day, loved the slop
……..of nappies hauled from the soak,
…………thudding on the draining board;
woollies itchy with powder, thirsting
….after suds, sparkled in the rinse,
……..chased shrivelling round the spinner;
…………outside with the basket,
matched pegs to wriggling babygrows,
….pinioned arms and legs of cardies
……..and tights, wind puffing out
…………her baby creases.
We' re out on the town on Friday night;
….she's in platforms, odd socks, crumpled combats
……..me a Wallis number she wants but wouldn't wear.
…………And I want to look like her.
© C Bousfield
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Heliconias
------------
wind, spit
mud and salt
the ants tell me the earth catches the sky on a pole
the earth lights the sun with a green stalk
the ants tell me we are ubaba's eyelash and see round everything
heaven's not more than a cup of rainwater
rain, drub
salt and mud
the ants tell me we furnish this caldera lake
bisect this pistil and stamen mire
the ants tell me the line girdles and grafts the world
the line eats nectar sweat by god
rain, crab
salt and mud
the ants tell me the fields will burn when the cane is cut
the weaverbird will eat what is rightfully his
not so, not true at all, just what does that damn bird farm? ants, huh!
what do they know?
the ants say catch the weaverbird if you can
wind, fit
mud and salt
the ants tell me you are blushing flowers
your hymens yellow thunder
the ants tell me you crack the wind and conduct the rain
your hands drum and the line dances
rain, cut
mud and salt
the line reports hibiscus tastes the ocean
your necks bruise but you stand
your eyes perfuse but you divide the clouds
the ants say rattle, heliconias, flush on the storm
blade, cut
salt and mud
stalks split,
ants drown
knife hacks you down
for 50 cents
© Matthew Williams
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Losing a Shoe
----------------
He was locked in a country which had no keys,
But sometimes the boy would spread on the floor
A paper map. He would stand his ground,
Then gently test with a stockinged foot
A step outside, dip a toe in an ocean.
Some countries proved too small for him
To make a stand in. He wondered why
Borders weren't ruled with neat, straight lines
But wandered and were wriggled like dried-out earthworms;
Why countries' walls were made of wire.
Money changed hands. He was taken for a walk.
During a journey over fields, at night
Somehow his parents lost their cases.
He remembered arrival as being wrapped in a blanket.
He stretched out his foot, found he'd lost a shoe.
Later he was asked in another language:
"Where is home now?" He replied: "Nowhere".
© Martyn Halsall
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Healed by a Word
---------------------
There is a Philip Larkin verse
where he deployed the verb ‘to cicatrize’:
to heal, skin over, mark with scars.
I was ill at the time, too sick to prize
the word I’d met: that small mark in
a leaf-stem where a leaf says goodbye.
Will the word stretch to the maculate skin
near a lager lout’s lapidated eye?
Maybe. The time had gone for Larkin
when words tore his innards; his diary
entries blanker. December. Humber.
Decision time. My joints are wary.
I reach for ‘cicatrize’. Have I the gall
to use the word at all?
© Philip Burton
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Cinquain: Salamander
-------------------------
to thrive
in searing heat
embers to camouflage
shimmering shades, slithering tongue
alive
© Joe Warner
___________________ _____________ ___________________
My Back
-----------
1
Ow!
It went
For no reason at all
2
Yes, you’ve a bulging disc pressing on a nerve
Given rest and relaxation
You can coax it back. In time
It will heal itself. Keep horizontal, be sensible
3
Turn up the welder to full burn
Bring in the pile driver
Acquire two RSJ’s
A lorry full of concrete
And some steel cable
Send for Laing’s and
Floodlights operational
Spend all night
Drilling, pounding
Scaffolding, shoring up
And then secure
The disc in place
4
Wear and Tear
Twist and Turn
In and Out
Up and Down
Back and Forth
Bend and Stretch
Wear and Tear
5
It will in time
Rest, relax
In time it will
Relax, rest
6
For no reason at all
It went
Ow!
© Janet Ashton
___________________ _____________ ___________________
___________________ _____________ ___________________
Compiling Editor: John Carley
Associate Editors: Christina Fletcher, Nancy Gandhi
___________________ _____________ ___________________
We gratefully acknowledge the support of:
North West Arts Board & Mid Pennine Arts
Celebrating Year of the Artist
June 2000 ~ May 2001
___________________ _____________ ___________________
|
|