~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 6
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Origami Love
-------------------

lying flat, slightly glossy
I face you at an odd angle
1-sided, yet 2-dimensional

you fold me into

whooping crane
boat without sail
leaping frog

pause

then select a more colorful pattern
a less textured finish

winged butterfly

with boyish glee
water balloon splashing

you leave with

wallet
picture frame without image
neatly folded shirt in box


© Terrie Relf

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string
--------

Under Waterloo bridge is heaven
take up your violin,
put up your bow and play

You double-stop blood oranges and oleander.
Desert crushing the sea, tongue crushing the flowers.
Too much the sun and tide or too few the grasses
or your pulse too sharp? Slight held, quick and never on
the quiet, you take the pressure off your heart. Bruise boy,
now you shred your zest, and skin us a little.

sun minus 1 degree

You waltz the spaceships down.
You were Welsh once dad, now you're a cider drinker,
lied your way through England for work, lied
your way through all those girls. Spaceships turn,
who knows that silent space? Age 7, best friend spiked
on the park fence one night, who knows that silent space?

sun minus 1 degree

Breathes in. His heart runs faster. Breathes in. His throat locks.
Now, boy, harder. Hard on his lungs. His body stiffens.
You go limp and run. And the deal is the copper's
bent, the government's bending so hush, boy, hush. But
some git bilking raises the dead. Shake this gent's hand
and go. Its Guy Fawkes night and the crowd's looking skyward.

sun minus 1 degree

The tv's silent, snowbound. Still the balalaikas soar.
Locomotive and horses steam. Nib scratches. Where am I going,
comrade? A child thought in the water tank: that child is ill,
doctor, don't you hear it? Nib scratches. Ambulance takes.
Your hopes and fears are met by deep and dreamless sleep tonight.
Watch the windows steam. Listen to the gas fire carol.

sun minus 1 degree

Baby pate, you are a moon in your firmament;
swaddling beard, your are a cloud travelling.
Bum balances your bow; hams string your violin;
eyes expect your elbows. Your tune turns the tide, weighs
a breeze to the scarf about your waist, love you sailed in
the sheets again. Rosin sheers windward, dusts away.

Under Waterloo bridge is heaven
stand down your strings
put up your violin and bow


© Matthew Williams

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Sweet Fuchsia Blue
---------------------------

I'm not done yet, with you.
I favor fuchsia boy blues.
I don't swelter or sway this way
for no cowboy, no plough-boy,
no cannibal, no cop. Don't bare
over bend while we howl oh
don't stop. At blood tide or
blue-eyed moon boy or tune
in radio show, I shiver, I shimmy,
I shake nice and slow

it's gonna be another scorcher
don't you know. Here's
Bonedaddy Jambalaya
with your blow baby oh

baby no, I'm not nearly done yet
with you Sweet Fuchsia Blue.


© Maryann Hazen-Stearns

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Trapped
------------

late afternoon in the dusty staff-room
sunlight, marking books, elbow to cold tea,
strangling monotony of education and
he doesn't believe he belongs here, doesn't
feel part of anything - he is a fragment
in space, a lost satellite, orbiting
round and round without knowing why,
unable to escape from the gravitational pull, he gets
queasy up here, wishes someone would shoot
him down, let all the burnt-out pieces fall
into the sea.


© Laura Sheridan

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from
…….jazztanka
--------------------


charles mingus -

dreamin tequila
& lime & strippin ..big hands
fudgin strings & thru
dizzy intervenin street
beat moods ..mingus lingers still


carla bley -

yr callin a bluff
yr makin the slap stick yr
question markin more
apocrypha ..yr hard re
workin ..songs ov the fallen


..miroslav vitous -

…………ensnarin ..circlin
.. .. ..the circle closin ..bass end
…………....lines yr low slow
whisperin campaign ..yr prague
..springin ..vitreous ..victorious


© Sean Burn

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Patterns
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The day is a dropped stitch
undoing itself —
a hole in a tight-knit life
unravelling, faster, faster...

and nothing fits —
what used to slot,
fall into place,
doesn’t match
or mix
and colours clash,
run, slap-dash,
random now, illogical

patterns change,
shapes distort,
edges fail to touch
and gaps in the fabric yawn
where the neat and reliably regular
have mutinied
revolution rules
and chaos is the new routine —

reality has flaws
too big to mend.


© Jean M Harvey

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Quilt
-------

I tried to piece us together
scraps held by pins
sliver of purple
marigolds against green
clownish polka dots
softly woven knits

and again,
sliver of purple
hexagon of purple paisley

marigold strip without much green

a pin drew blood before it
pierced cloth, before
thread held together, before
she left you or you, her...

sometime before you came, "undefiled by her scent," you said
but back to me...
wanting
a new quilt to warm you, which I

had already begun


© Terrie Relf

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Past Presence
-------------------

Last night I left the blinds drawn,
sitting out the night, waiting for dawn.
My little girl neither cried nor spoke,
rewinding those muted moments
wishing only to hold her last breath.

It's not her that I fear
nor her stilled brother
cold and unnamed.
Both now defined in absence,
updated in weak storylines
that never quite make it
on
or off the page.

Sunlight drives me to clean,
to wash away silent tears.
Tears for my sleeping twins
split at birth by a few
unlucky breaths in the night.
Its hard to say, which one I miss the most,
but then I no longer say anything;
about the life that's past, the lives I lost.

Baby boy that never breathed,
little girl snatched as hope dared to rise.
One white dress from a drawer
packed with bright cottons and warm woollens,
was all she ever wore.

Outside the street is breaking into life,
school children gather for the bus.
Through open windows I hear youth's secrets.
Later, facing them across the desk,
smile almost real.


© Joe Warner

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Soon,
--------

we must scatter your ashes.
We'll do it together, alone
on that grey coast
where sea and sky
paint a flat, dry canvas.

I remember your story about Opa
walking all night
to steal field potatoes;
and Oma: how she taught a goldfish
to take food from her hand.

Tell me the colour of your dress
in this faded photo.
The old aunt in Amsterdam:
what was her name?

We forget to feed your birds.
When spring comes
the blackbird won't nest in our garden,
bring fledglings to your kitchen.

Every day there's a new, small death:
I unfold your letters,
open the lid you closed,
add the last grains of your salt
to stale, tasteless food.

The quilt you stitched is torn
but I can't repair it:
my fingers are clumsy,
my eyes blur.


© Christina Fletcher

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Child Sometimes
-----------------------

i am like a child sometimes in the morning
when i wake to the bright of day
and imagine sun will shine on and on
with warming care and touches i can feel
when i close my eyes and open up my skin

i am like a child sometimes in the noon time
when my sandwich takes me home
to the grease proof wrap that my mother used
and the brown paper package of lunch and love
so real i could taste it when i closed my eyes

i am like a child sometimes in the afternoon
when all i care to do is play with you
and let the dizzy day play around me in it's turn
while we occupy a space oblivious
in the midst of a tumult of ordered chaos

i am like a child sometimes in the evening
when i growl with ravenous hunger
and storm through the impressions left
upon me by hours of slog and battle
searching for quiet to balance inner noise

i am like a child sometimes in the night
when i wake in darkness disoriented
and draw sharp shock breaths
before i realise where it is that i am
and who it is that lies beside me


© FFF Faust

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Clutter Blues
-----------------

I long for things to be tidy;

……for wires untangled and hidden
……out of sight, for clothes in drawers, books
……on shelves, laundry unhampered, beds neat
……with coverlets, places for the hoover, golf clubs,
……hundreds of pairs of shoes. Did ancient man
……suffer from this clutterscophy? Did they trip over
……discarded mammoth tusks, char their soles
……on scattered coals, leave their hides
……all over the place and never put their
……bits of flint away? Is it a human condition, pre-set
……by some interfering little amino acid lurking on the edge
……of the double helix and - oh God help me - why do I feel
……the urge to gather it all up in one huge pile and
……set the whole damn lot on fire?


© Laura Sheridan

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laptop poet
----------------

i’m a laptop poet
with a virtual life
i’ve got push button manners
and a disposable wife

i’ve got a….I’ve got a…. I’ve got a…..
digital memory and a pay per view smile
i can email god
and save miracles on file

i’m a fantasy surfer
with a mobile erection
i’m a wired up junkie
with an lcd addiction

i’m an imaginary icon
with mega love bytes
i’m an electrical superhero
faster than speed of light

i’ve got cd rom infatuation
and a worldwide brain
i’ve got a microchip skeleton
to protect me from acid rain

i can look into the future
i can see it all on screen
i can tap in all the nightmares
that keep whirring through my dreams

i’ve got an internet fever
and a virus in my heart
i’ve got gamma ray overload
tearing my words apart

my hardware’s vibrating
my cursor’s going soft
i’ve clicked…fatal error
all my discs have suddenly flopped


© Adrian Tissier

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………..The poem below, Keys, appeared in issue 5. It drew a response.
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Keys
-------

There was this film about a piano
on the beach
I loved that image,
knew exactly how it felt
an outsider, standing silent
while the waves taunted,
their voices fiddling small,
stones percussive, breeze a cool bassoon,
while the lone keyboard ached,
passionately mute.

I’ve loitered on that shoreline half my life
waiting for someone to play me.


© Jean M Harvey


Dear Piano,
-----------------

You fling silent notes
from a far shore --
tossed on ambient dreams,
lost hymns found in moods
that pass through you
as moonswept tides.
How your song moves me;
You are the circling gull,
rising sun, salty tears in rolling surf
where mute fingers touch.

Did you know you hold all the music
that ever lived inside a soul?


© Debra Woolard Bender

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…………Compiling Editor: John Carley
…………Associate Editors: Janet Ashton, FFF Faust
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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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