Waving Hate in Our Face by Rose Drew

I am not a silent poet

The Confederate Flag flies over the State Capitol of South Carolina, scene of June 17’s massacre of 9 African Americans by an avowed white supremacist. The murderer depicts this same flag on various social media sites.  

 

An angry X calling for secession:
at its most benign a cry to rip a nation apart;
at its most visceral
a demand to maintain slavery,
continue building wealth for a family
on the bodies
of other people’s children.

How can this be justified
in a land that proclaims
brotherly (not sisterly but I digress)
freedom, right to pursue (if not claim) happiness,
equality under the law, if not in front of a cop’s gun,
(or beneath her neck-squeezing fingers. sorry. digression)
and the right to pay tax, die in war, go to school.

This is, one hopes, America,
the World Cop,
the Nation Builder,
the bringer of Peace and Weapons of…

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Childhood by William Anthony Hatchett

I am not a silent poet

The large house was silent and cold
I let myself in with a latchkey.
Rarely chastised, I did what I was told.
There was no lively clamour at tea.
Father made it clear that I
would never meet his expectations.
He never praised or encouraged me.
We spoke ill of our relations –
we preferred it if they stayed away.
We played no part in our community.
We were a middle class family.
We conducted our lives stoically
on our glaciated isthmus
like ice statues, exchanged cards at Christmas.

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After Charlie by Mandy Macdonald

I am not a silent poet

 ‘Across the planet 300 million men, women and children are looking for work in order to have the minimal means for survival. The Tramp is no longer singular.’ (John Berger on Charlie Chaplin, Sight & Sound 25/1, Jan. 2015)

Behind the Little Tramp there tramp
and trudge three hundred million more –
all the colours of the earth,
………….all the colours of poverty,
…………………….all the colours of starvation.

Women, children, men
tread a grey Calvary through
the glistening, oiled world of the rich,
its golden doors that are closed to them
except as servants
………….except as slaves
……………………..except as currency.

In the desert language of economists
they are called human capital
people are profit on the hoof
walking money
driven to market

until they stampede

flow like sand dunes, rise like floodwaters
around the feet of the crystal palaces
press on the monstrous glass prisons
with the countless…

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favela blues by Reuben Woolley

I am not a silent poet

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Protect and Survive by Sharon Larkin-Jones

I am not a silent poet

At the height of the Cold War
while others were learning
how to tape paper to the windows
and squat under a table
in the event of a blast,
I learnt how to erect an invisible probe
to sense the atmosphere,
predict fallout, assess toxicity,
calculate direction and speed
of incoming missiles,
especially the trajectory
of hurled plates.

The way I learned to read situations
was to creep downstairs,
slip into the living room and listen.
If saucepans were banging around
I’d wait for things to calm down
before sidling into the kitchen
to find a cereal bowl.
If it was all quiet in there
I’d play pretend –
that she was five
and I was the mother.
I’d peep through the crack in the door,
check the oven was shut,
the knife drawer closed,
breathe a little more easily.

She hated scales,
taught me how to make
jam tarts…

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Anything by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

said
written
even thought
in anger is
only back coin side
of
fear

all
we
all
need
is peace
safety
health
length of days

my surrender flag
is full staff
today
drove my self crazy
no road needed
driveway long
trip
forgive or forget
one or the other
or
both “pass not here demon of fear”

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DAY FORTY – Ian McMillan

new boots and pantisocracies

News From’t Northern Powerouse

Gorron’t train. One o’ them old unz
Squeaked like a bugle. A lot gorron
(Voices like tinkling dreamcatchers

At Wombwell. An it were that early
Moon were still chunterin’ in’ sky
One of their coins fell

Abart ar late it wor. They were all
Gunner work pickin and packin.
To the floor of the train

Zero Hour for them zero hours
Tha could call it if tha were bein
And rolled, rolled, a moon

Clever. No need for clever round
Here no more. Nubdy sed owt.
Tumbling from the sky

Silence breeds compliance.
Northern Lean-to. Northern Shed.
And landing at the feet

Northern Outhouse. Northern shithouse.
Northern rented house. Northern Shared House.
Of the future

Northern half-demolished house
Where I have seen the shadows
Of the dispossessed

Gathering around candles.)

Ian McMillan is a writer, performer and broadcaster. He presents The Verb every Friday night…

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Played by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

like an
ole upright
cracked key piano

time money wasted days
so
if my ole
pal is alla time
tellin me//[]=+-/
karma work out
push in…roll over
play dead
never accept any blame
or call out
what is passing as
tenderness is really
getting worked at the carnival
of depression glass n Kewpie dolls

balance point…one hill climbed
another slide down….just maybe
(spurious arboreal canine vocals)
spot me two
Lew
till I see Benny
slap me five no jive
hamburgers today
paid for next Tuesday

or….skid marks on the road
marked
get the fuck outta here

— with Gerry Follett.

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“america in all lower case” by w.r. green

I am not a silent poet

there’s a giant dog in my neighborhood

living under the deck, 4 houses down,

on the right, behind that white picket fence

faded now, but still standing guard.

well i think that’s the house.

i only know because the lady

down the street

told me

about him,

and though she drinks a bit,

well maybe a lot,

she sits by her window

all day

and all night

singing a song not played

on the radio

in ages, not since the radio was

america’s voice,

waiting, for what

she will not say.

she points out to me in her

whiskey hushed tone

the absence of life, in

or around

the overgrown houses

paint peeling, cars melted into the asphalt.

he’s there, she assures me

a cigarette, no filter, bent from the pack,

pointing to no where specific.

we both stand in her yard, watching in vain,

the sun playing tricks

the…

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Sheree Mack – The Dark Landscape Within

One of the cases of plagiarism!

The Stare's Nest

Since this poem was first posted, it has come to my attention that it bears a very striking resemblance to John Glenday’s poem ‘Undark’ (which you can read here), such that it cannot be considered Ms Mack’s original work. This is one of many examples currently coming to light of this poet’s wholesale plagiarism of other people’s poetry. Our submission conditions stipulate that all poems submitted to the Stare’s Nest must be original new works. Editors take it on trust that poets have some kind of integrity but sadly it’s not always the case, and simply running the text through Google generally does not pick up fraudulent submissions. I apologise to our readers and to Mr Glenday that this has happened. I’m leaving Ms Mack’s ‘version’ here as evidence of a creative crime, and as a warning to other poets that sooner or later, your sins will find you out.

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