Daily Archives: September 16, 2015

If by John William Brown

I am not a silent poet

If you use bombs that when exploding spray
A thousand darts called flechettes, overhead,
Knowing that such will obviously flay
The skin from flesh of children who have fled
From homes you phoned to say, “Go! Run away!
We’re targeting your house but can’t say why!”
If you wipe out whole towns within a day,
Destroy civilian lives then spread the lie,
That you can’t help it, they were human shields.
Then you’re less than the swine that you don’t eat,
More led and less than sheep within your fields,
More stupid than the slogans that you bleat;
If you herd people, trap them in their lands,
Denying them utilities and aid,
Then you create a debt you never planned:
Blood money’s interest, accrued and paid;
Destroy your hearts while you destroy their wells,
Or, knowingly bomb their schools and hospitals,
Then bring upon yourself your future hells
That will…

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Antony Owen

Writers for Calais Refugees

Love Poem for a Migrant in Open Waters

I mourned her in a youtube pause when migrants drowned,
and I liked to think throughout that storm of a gentle calm
that your arm rowed back in journeys of intricate henna;
to the unnamed home without an empire that migrants dig,
then go home to loved ones and connect without wires.

Maybe their daughter plays in last seasons Ronaldo top and
teaches moon how to grin when darkness swallows it.
Maybe the universe is a huge black ocean and the moon sinks
into earth with it’s white mast crumpling into eyes of lovers,
lovers like rich people and migrants who lick the same spoon.

Yeah this is a love poem for a migrant in open waters who
died in the empire of a thirty foot wave and was free for a while
like celebrities before they discovered the new world of…

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DAY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE – Nicholas Murray

new boots and pantisocracies

Calais

This mud is different.
Were I writing home
I should struggle to describe
its darker pigment,
how it runs into nothing,
seems to nourish weed,
creates a long, slow slide
where boots lose grip.

Under our sheeting
we listen to the rain
in this cold country.
Traffic on the near road
lets out a groan, a hiss.
We have learned the art
of slow patience,
of being still endlessly.

There is always tomorrow,
always the chance
that out of this will come
the promise of movement.
Today we cheered
when someone’s phone
showed a man walking
out of a tunnel’s darkness.

Winner of the 2015 Basil Bunting Prize, Nicholas Murray’s new collection The Secrets of the Sea (Melos) is published on 8 September. His verse diatribe against the 2010 Coalition Government, Get Real (Rack) was published in 2011 and he is a contributor to the recent Poets for Corbyn

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.square foxes.

sonja benskin mesher

slow down when squirrels cross.

nut shells rattle the mower blades, so we
look up at the acorns growing. all is well
at oswalds tree.

she carried the cake, to and fro, it diminished
at each turn, a victoria sponge. while all the while,
the bodice remains private, linen buttons tidy.

the roads here are winding, the leaves are changing.

best not to bang the teapot down on serving, best
to tell the truth.

this is not cross foxes. we will go to new places
again. i will show you things.

sbm.

fox

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