Monthly Archives: January 2016

#shallow by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

thought nothing deep recently,

mostly tapped the new old typewriter,

the splendid machine,

wrote badly to friends, family.


walked the lane to see the flood

water,  sheep on higher ground now.

watched  films on those that flee,

suffer and drown.

just wept, pretty shallow

here really.



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Bunch of Migrants by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

“They met with a bunch of migrants in Calais, they said they could all come to Britain”

David Cameron


I have seen a bunch of tulips bow in a sea of petals

and placed them in my wheelie bin on top of dead grass

but I’ve never seen a bunch of migrants where I live.


I have seen as a child polluted stars above Calais

and they still looked beautiful in the black lace sky

I heard the weavers used to sell them in bunches.


I have seen cancer grow in bunches on a friends breast

but never saw a bunch of migrants outside hospital

and when cancer waited at the gate they both left at will.


I have begged a bunch of lads not to kick my head in

and when they did I ripped bunches of condemned grass

that now houses bunches and bunches…

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sonja benskin mesher

it is a simple thing.

we hope for independance, privacy.

so we google, ask advice and listen.

take our time, let the thought wander,

heal ourselves.

we can even mend the  typewriter,

gifted by a friend, now there is a lovely


soap cleans the ink away;  wind will

blow the water, dry the chimney,

clear the floors.

we have kept the old ribbon,

in a box.



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New poetry book, skins by Reuben Woolley, out soon . . .

My coming pamphlet of poems about the refugees!

We’ll shortly be publishing skins, a perfect-bound collection of compelling and emotive poems on the theme of refugee crisis by Reuben Woolley. Front cover artwork by artist, photographer and poet Sonja Benskin Mesher. All profits will be donated to the Refugee Centre in Calais.

More details to follow.

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A few notes

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

I’m going to take down the email subscription which lets you know every time there is a new post. Each poem in an issue is a separate post, which means that when there is a new issue, those of you who are subscribed get flooded with emails: 73 in 30 minutes on Saturday!

Fuller information about submissions will also be provided in its own folder.

This is a new venture so please put these things down to teething troubles. I’m solving problems as they arise but I haven’t got a magic wand or all the time in the world.

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Caillte (Lost) by Patricia Walsh

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Nothing is enabled to search for you,

after such a long time, a phone call misdirected.

Interrupting your company, a satisfied life,

not understanding literature, seeking refills.


When you flew, you flew far.

Eschewing an invitation to sit with me.

Navigating through the lost exam, intelligence trumped

but not to click with me, wasting decency.


After so long, I state my case.

Not expecting absence, or squared existence.

Children rising and calling you blessed,

a price to pay if I am eventually right.


Burning bicycles in the heat.

Bus in the exact destination trundles on regardless

of five, ten minutes, none of my business

forgetting disks, unlike my demeanor.


If things were favorable, I would

break your domicile, satisfy my ambition

stalled for so long, fearing another

injection to the heart, numbed to perfection.


Waking in the morning sun, settling scores

in the…

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Paint Stripper by Patricia Walsh

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

This corrosion, for better bearing,ended ,

stench of solvent above the flower box

flavours distended, unwatered, to demise.


I once feared being pounced on,.

people doing other than eating.

Minding their business, chatting to content.


Esoteric art hangs on the wall.

Selling for an orchestra, singing well,

enjoying the radio mumbling overhead.


Looking out on the cycle path, saying prayers

against the river’s deluge, a fractured coursing

still only in one direction, catching fire.


The sun dances on various monuments,

sinking drinks al fresco, eating ad nauseum,

memoirs of the stony dead staying regardless.


Sweet wild flowers inhabit the tables,

scent bred out for better bearing

allergens eaten to hold for dear life.


A portmanteau life, an ersatz existence,

eat and somehow leave, bereft of information

imparted, sightseeing for dear life.

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Keyhole Surgery by Patricia Walsh

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Invasive in the least, a desired reckoning

transgendered allowance scalds my thighs

confusing the enemy, a silver matrimony

sinks suitors before they even arrive.


Complicated delights undo the best of us,

explanations sing over alcoholic joy

early morning questions call it a night

following necessities of reputation, adhered.


Each one is better than the last.

Whittling the pencil down to the stump

scouting for erasers, inexpensive

at most, on the mercy of the giver.


Periodic bollards did work, once.

Punctuating railings for our own safety.

The white decrepit house miraculously stays

come heaven or high tide, a desired building.


Elephant in the lobby.  Limestone plinths

remain, among hanging baskets, decorous.

Sweeping awards where none was intended,

resting on the street among the skater boys.


Deep as humans can be, I concede defeat.

Writing out of existence, boredom, stalled,

paid to fight the presence of indifference,

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