Daily Archives: July 4, 2016

The Somme by Anne Marie Butler

I am not a silent poet

Consider how short an age is.

That a century could be measured

by the continuance of conflict.

Consider the fragility of well being.

That lasting peace is so short lived

and sorrow becomes its counterpoise.

Consider the dead.

That something immeasurable will follow

I’ve yet to discern.

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Telegrams from the 1970s by Melissa Jacob

I am not a silent poet

BARBIES LINE UP IN A ROW STOP KEN SCORES THEM OUT OF TEN STOP HE LIKES THEIR LEGS STOP HE LIKES THEIR TITS STOP WHICH ONE OF THEM IS GOING TO WIN?

It was the heyday
of Miss World and Girl’s World

women were educated
from the get go
to go get a man
bag yourself a husband
juggle double standards

be the debutant
be the sweetheart
be that plastic dolly
with a university degree
and a double D up top

smash glass ceilings
fight for equal pay
try to break the mould
but first and foremost
be a mother and a home-maker

and in this girl’s world
it was essential to remember
that He’s in charge

CHILDREN ARE MESSY STOP FAR TOO LOUD STOP WHEN DADDY IS DRUNK DON’T ANSWER BACK STOP DON’T MAKE A SOUND

Blackbirds pull worms
out of his head
in the blue light

he stumbles…

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Hands Across The Water – La testimonianza di Reuben Woolley

I’ve been interviewed by Mendes Biondo. Brush up your Italian!

RAMINGO!

Per continuare il ciclo di interviste dedicate al progetto Hands Across The Water, ovvero le testimonianze di coloro che hanno vissuto direttamente o indirettamente il Brexit, intervistiamo il poeta Reuben Woolley che vive in Spagna da 40 anni ma che non dimentica il suo paese e le difficoltà che ora sta vivendo.

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THE GLORY by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

For glories then, this filicide of flags
the sweet meadows cul-de-sacs
fellows marching home on skittish nags
the bulbous sacks their stories then
told to children in sodden sheets
face silken till the ragged orphan meets.

For glories then, the numbered hymns,
the quaint parish amongst the slums
victorious then those slumbered limbs
paint garish medals of jingoistic drums,
and Ha’penny flowers the war office sent
died on the typeface all withered and bent.

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Who Let the Dogs Out by John Mackie

I am not a silent poet

who let the dogs out
with a self satisfied smirk
and a thirty two foot
poster of people fleeing
from smart bombs, bullets, gas
the insistent red dots
of sniper fire?

these are the enemy now it seems;
people just like us
walking away from
violent death , rape
the stink of our burning faces
the final rattle of our children’s breaths

who let the dogs out
baying for blood for a chance
to swing back to supremacy
to a time when their heroes’
bite was lethal, baleful oh yes
far worse than their bark ?

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