Daily Archives: August 9, 2016

Saltwater by Antony Owen, Reuben Woolley and Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

            He harms himself who does harm to another, and the evil plan is most harmful to the       …………planner.
……………………….Hesiod

For babes in skin-blue waters,
this sea shall only age for you,
let the wrinkles of this ancient empire conquer our hearts,
lay flags made of ragged clothes,
cup hands with unblessed water
wash ourselves unclean as night.
This happened this day our daily salt may we forgive those
Who trespassed towards us, may we forgive those who float, they
in salt- eyeballs,
drown in them.
Drown in you
Float on land
In Mother’s
We floated
In salt
come

& see
it
come
……….on stones

come
with pale
flesh
in its hands

……….& the years
don’t advance
……….time
……….fully
in their eyes

…………the tears
…………are not theirs
are grains to grow
…………in wooden boats for soil
………………….more…

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Two Tricks by Lana Bella

I am not a silent poet

it is like the sickness of vanity:
each of my stirring is wired in
a storm, with the hot throb of 
sins and drips of morphine, I 
find there is never a right time 
or candid reason for contempt, 
so I drink the bottom-shelf wine,
smoke the smooth of Winston
cigarettes, caress the lithe form
of a French doxy, then slide into 
the warmth of darkness’ embrace,
until sunrise crawls up the stairs 
of my heavy eyes, while the two 
tricks of bottom edges of nostalgia 
lay naked and damp, one breathes 
sounds, the other, struggles to rise

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The Sugar Idea by Lana Bella

I am not a silent poet

She stares 
at her tea cup, 
pristine and 
porcelain stemmed; 
where chamomile 
sits on honey, 
and she mulls 
the day over.
 
When an idea 
pours down 
her throat, 
a runnel of warmth
shapes her anguish 
into melody.
She chews its fibrous, 
sugar-coated body 
inside cheekbones
like puffed up moons.
 
As a woman 
who is always late
to be taken in 
by new ideas, 
she let this one marry 
with flowing saliva, 
cloying and broken piles
of perfect slippery things.

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Disunion Jack by Barbara Donne

I am not a silent poet

once
we bled
the world,
turned
the whole map red
now
one dog’s brexit
barking
over the airwaves
claws back
reciprocal hope
but not in my name
I,
sans frontières
spill Welcome
on my mat
where the cat
sat laughing
at
strident
and vainglorious strains
to hold back
waves
when
Cnut couldn’t
where
truly
disunion jack
is hoisted with his own petard!

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You Lie Beside Me And Ask Do I Still Dream by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

Tonight, I wake the early hours,
and ship out to Al-Madina.
Medieval square and lost alleyways
teem with countless bodies
selling wares, or wiling time
on cards and pungent teas,
the smell of spice urgent and alive.

In translucent sky so blue it hurts,
a hunting hawk-wing hurtles down,
edges the sun, shits its load.
I blink, and in that eye-dark click
the ancient souk explodes,
and time and heaven hold hard
as ears shock of burst drums.

I kneel above the rubbled citadel.
Smoke burns, heaves me sick.
Sound returns in the mouth
of a screaming legless dog,
Its hairless torso dragged,
still chained and fire encased,
from behind a block of brick.

A man, reduced by a femur, a tibia
with tatters of a leather sandal
that had not escaped unscathed,
cries, and one bright patterned shirt
mourns, forlorn, an empty space,
as it molds into the molten…

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My Body, A Hospital by Natalie Crick

I am not a silent poet

This is not as I expected.

In this mess, you shall not miss me,

I have decided.

Ready for war,

Such fireworks, they upset me.

Blood falls down.

 

Oh, how I envy you!

You are always there

As roots cling to Earth.

My Nurse,

With hair and wings.

I pass out and let strangers touch me.

 

A nest of eggs.

White ovaries crowd inside like pale globes.

I hatch one out: a dirty chick

Crouching yellow in the corner. I catch the drips of

Black blood.

Filthy Witch, I am chasing stars.

 

Bastard. My vagina opens like a wound.

The red sea parts and you run to me.

Wild ghost,

You have found me out!

Fireworks dive through my fingertips.

I will cut your face clean off.

 

Blame teases your breasts.

My shame is stuck in the air like rape,

Alone with God and

Turned out…

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Spilt Milk by Natalie Crick

I am not a silent poet

There is no use
Crying over
Spilt milk.
The secret is out!

The voices came first.
Eat your words,
Eat your words.
She had eaten it.

Now she needed to get it out.
The thought of it was the most disturbing
Of all.
The hunger game.

This time I will not.
Will not.
How clever they are,
Making her so miserable.

Why are you so quiet?
What are you hiding?
Locked in her dark room
Like something gone wrong.

That was the first time she hated herself.
It sent her reeling
Upstairs and downstairs.
Sending herself off to bed.

The faces came.
Nice to meet you.
She tried not to think about it,
Looking across the table

At the other two.
And learning it off by heart.
“Oh Mam, Oh Mam, Oh Mam”
(Silence).

You should go out
At times.
You keep making mistakes.
Now you will always be that…

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