Daily Archives: December 16, 2016

Pleis-to-cene by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Noun or Adjective: the Pleistocene or the system of deposits laid down during it (~2,588,000-11,700 ya)

Stevens said beauty is born of death, but isn’t Physics
what we seek in darkness? What use had an orchid
to a meteorite’s mass (M) while Triulzi faced

a banking crisis, and Turkey mourned explosions
in Istanbul—suicide bombers killing 37 after
meteorites barely missed Earth? European rugby was

winning, and genes explained differences between men
and women, and a mother said Clean your plate.
Children in Aleppo have nothing to eat. Leaf-cutters

crawled 3 meters up an Andira while jaguars climbed
higher—reaching monkeys sunning on wet branches.
Meteorites are older than nucleotides since heat causes

flowers to grow in the Smokies older than Tetons forged by
glaciers in the Pleistocene when Homo appeared at Olduvai.
Everyone is a publisher engaged in common work

though subalterns lead where markets can’t control…

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etc etc etc by Peter Adair

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Remember, this is now.  We’re moving on,

retired combatants, the hierarchy of corpses,

the bloated crematorium.

The past is a bombed-out city –

we don’t go there anymore

etc etc etc

Remember, this is now.  We’re using our talents,

pushing the process on, post-conflict, post-grief,


The past is a bullet-riddled body sprawled in a street.

We’ve ploughed our guns into glossy pamphlets

etc etc etc

Remember, this is now.  Sharp suits, sound bites, PR,

a complacent amnesia and a perilous peace.

The past is a regrettable incident, a bomb

that went off early,

a phone call that never got through

etc etc etc

Remember, this is now.  There’s no going back – get it? –

though some (we acknowledge their grief) are left

behind.  The past is decommissioned, buried

in a bunker and we only fire popguns

at presumptuous hacks

etc etc etc

Remember, this is now.  Don’t live…

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Minor Poet, Unemployed by Peter Adair

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

In the seventh chamber of the dead

where Osiris crouches on his throne,

a young man shuffles into line

and hears through marble walls

precise beautiful words –

Hardy, Eliot, Yeats –

words to comfort a damned

soul.  But what price today

apost-colonial reinvigoration


of a dying tongue,

anecocentred debate

on modern pastoral, the periphery


of the ascetic?  All that balls

he studied with excess of love.

Mythical allusion, the oblique


lyric…At 9am on Monday morning,

half-crazed, he recites it in a verse,

laughing at the end of the line

while Anubis weighs the scales

and Thoth inscribes the fate

of half the youth of Europe.


I live in Bangor, N Ireland. Poems have appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, FourXFour at poetryni.com,The Stare’s Nest, Snakeskin, Panning for Poems and several other online magazines.

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Is this Freedom? by Andy Brown

I am not a silent poet

I am strength in surrender

I am roar inside whimper

I am acceptance of hate

I am blind in sight

I am numb with feeling

I am safe in my nightmare

I am voice in silence

I am cheek that accepts

I am bruises of your love

I am knowledge of doubt

I am laughter in misery

I am escape by closure

I am sure in uncertainty

I am pain when you smile

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For Archbishop Plaza: A Response by Abigail Elizabeth Ottley Wyatt

I am not a silent poet

When my husband used to beat me
it was hardly ever because
I had been disobedient.

I was rarely so angry
or so downright foolish
as to question his judgement.

No, I would see the rain
clouds come down,
smell the gathering storm.

When his eyes narrowed
I knew well enough to keep
my smiles only for him.

If there were people
I would send them away.
Like Macbeth, company enraged him.

In the end it didn’t matter
what I said or did the insults,
the blows came raining down.



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