A black man laid naked in the snow by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

To me you were never the hate crime
you were darkness in the fracture of snowflakes,
a man who loved a man who was white as a slave ship mast.

To me you were always the love crime
who melted in his white frame like blood into pure snow.
I thought of you last night when a robin drank from a stone angel.

Five days from now I will be forty-five
you would be sixty one and in another place we would be us,
I would read you war poems and we’d leave our skins on our shadows.

Man I never knew, I loved your death,
the flowers of fibula that covered your bludgeoned face
your beautiful face which conquered twenty-two blows of two men.

To me you were never the hate crime,
You were the eye-white snow that saw you and closed your eyes.
Tonight I will kiss my…

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ars poetica in my paintbox slips through the shithole by Debasis Mukhopadhyay

I am not a silent poet

i was not thinking of a lemon perhaps Lorca’s lemon endemic to our absinthe flesh / i was not thinking of that land where a white man walking a black dog has gotten to the bottom of a song / i was just greedily looking up at the sky turning my back on ars poetica / dreaming / the same dreams almost every day i live in /how i am naked / the weight of every dream above

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The Latest Chattering Class Agenda by Peadar O’Donoghue

I am not a silent poet

There, oh there,
dying a thousand mad deaths
decades after, centuries after,
they are all after,
John Clare.
Field hand,
mad man.

the jargon’s wobble hints
lack an atomic bomb
the certain lack of largesse n’oblige.

We, sisters, brothers,
mothers, fathers,
sweat-greased caps doffed,
of all shades,
black lungs
like forelocks tugged,
the mores they change
the mores they stay the same,
the middle classes fighting
for themselves,
the working classes,
defeated, conned,
subjugated, the best of us
fighting amongst ourselves.

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Memoirs of a Selkie Child by Joanne Key

I am not a silent poet

Windswept, Mam walked the shore

with her offerings: a chest full of gulls,

a numbness deeper than all sleep.

Wading into the roar

until she was up to her neck in it,

she’d slip off her feet,

shed her heavy sense of emptiness.

She’d wait forever for a glimpse of seal

despite the north wind slapping her backwards

and the fella who stole her skin

waiting up on the dunes.

Even moonlight died on him.

A man full to the brim with drink.

Most nights he’d beat the tides out of us

and threaten to carve his name on her,

button my lip with a fishhook.

After the storms,

we’d wander the beach or she’d reel me up

from sleep in the small hours to float me

in the gentle rise and fall of her grief.

Many a night I found her calling out

to the water in the same…

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The Shithole Countries by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

What makes a shithole country?
A hurricane with a white man’s name that voodooed Haiti and Orleans?
If I spoke Creole and something poetic would it re-home the numeric refugee?
If I un-spoke what makes us human would my tongue weave the word shithole country?

I read once that America was made by an ideal
The redcoat savages who spoke politely were defeated by an ideal,
The redskin natives were massacred by migrants, white as the wolf-skin moon.
I was read once by a woman from the Marshall Islands nuked by America sixty seven times.

Is this what makes a shot hole country, I am so confused.

What makes a shit person in a shitty world?
Is it when people are reduced to automated slavery?
Is it when the sacred land of its ancestors exhumes oil through bone?
I heard a girl called Malala once speak a whole world unto…

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broken stories by reuben woolley (Reviews)

broken stories has received some excellent reviews and features.

Ian Brinton reviewed it on the Tears in the Fence blog:

Jonathan Taylor‘s review can be found here:

Billy Mills reviewed in Elliptical Movements:

Jerome Rothenberg featured it on Poems and Poetics on the Jacket 2 site:

Jesse Glass said the following:

“Reuben Woolley has a beautiful new book out titled Broken Stories (Wales: 20/20 Vision). I’m still reading it and connecting dots but Reuben appears to me to be working in the Objectivist mode. What really connects Woolley with Oppen and the other members of this group is not only the form he gives his work but the absolute sincerity evident in the manner, the mode, and the subjects he chooses to consider in his writing. Congratulations are in order.”

Several readers left their reviews on the GWales and the Waterstone’s sites:

You can get it from 20/20 Vision Media Publishing by emailing Rhys Jones: