Monthly Archives: January 2017

.dead. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet


we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place.                          got to thinking.


it comes as no suprise. often ill they die.                                   it is the way.     it is not sad.


we are sensed with  loss.                                                                                 that includes you.

he says that’s where the wind comes from,                                       to go most everywhere.


probably do not miss him.                       he was not around us much, well  not at all really.

he buggered off.   no inspiration then.                                                   yet.   he was my dad.


some day i will carry the bones inside.


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A DOLPHIN’S PROSTHETIC HYBRID// a reflection by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Never wanted to be a victim. Yet i’d sit on the winding balcony jackknife and lighter in my hand with other women and men supplicating wounds by engendering more wounds. It was a way of being for to a point like deathrow dogs or human innocents we had been gutted: of the organs from which voice sourced its grit of cattail pain gathers on roadside.

But never wanted to be seen as victim by self by other. We told. Some compared; what’s that i’0d say. Doesnt matter how many pounds the corrupt hours or minutes or eons seen passing from padlocked closets — the cargo will snap more than a hunt’s fox.

You’d given up on the world a man said. Later. Lazarus. Wheelchairs of the heart. You thought the world had given up on you. Do you know what it means, to fill your body with rusted stopsigns inherited…

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on boundaries by Fran Lock

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

‘The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams’- Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space.

in rooms tumescent mirthless heat. time skew. missequencing. omen formation.
the boundaries we make with ritual. the boundaries we make with meaning. we
like to think we are free. it is dark. being blind is like being naked. clear a space.
white spire of flowers we crush a silence of  varieties. missequencing in broken
windows. small discords experienced as whispers. intrusive thoughts. dyslexic
lobes will part the light like lips. your lips. a kiss. a torch. circles of influence,
love’s impatient centrifuge. hold me. by which you mean synchronise. small
buoyancies displace the dark we sink the candles into. in rooms. time skew. this
was our house. omen formation, rarely seen in adults. omen formation is a belief.
there were warning signs that predicted the trauma. it is a…

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The SS Call by Marc Woodward

I am not a silent poet

Good morning. We’re from the FSS.
The Federal Sensitivity Service.
Mr Blake? Do you mind if we come in?
Great home you have – a real writer’s pad.
Shall I remove my boots? They’re a bit bloody…
Ha, just kidding Bill!  Can I call you Bill?

We understand you’re a poet?
And you’ve written about the President?
“Scrawling on the Mexican wall.”  Funny.
We’ve seen the poem. It’s awful by the way.
Everyone says so. We have critics who know.
English teachers, lecturers, the best guys.

Now we’re all for free speech you understand.
But you’d agree it’s not good to offend?
Those Minorities: The gays, blacks, cripples…
They get hurt easy. You wouldn’t hurt them –
you’re a sensitive kinda guy we know.
A real Californian snowflake. Yeah?

The President is sensitive too. He gets hurt.
How many presidents are there? Just one.
Now that’s a true minority. Poor…

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Ruins by Peter Adair

I am not a silent poet

after William Blake


This isn’t a town you’d like to visit.

Arriving one night, I wandered through streets

Whose lights were smashed, I stumbled with the blind.

No guide.  No map.  Wheelchairs, I think, were dumped

in alleys.  Beggars crawled on their knees, squeezing

their plastic cups like rosaries.  One man screamed

for help, but no one came.  I hurried past,

too numbed to care.  And outside an open window

a mother wept for her hungry child

while a drummer thumped out his merciless tune.  He,

at least, was getting high.  Then the window slammed shut,

crushing someone’s fingers, crushing someone’s hopes.

I wandered on through each darkened street

until the sky burned red and howled and cried

and a god, just waking, yawned and fell back asleep.

Like metallic Furies machines clanged clanged clanged

churning out their mind-forged manacles;

blood ran down the factory, the palace walls;


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The Archer by Peter Adair

I am not a silent poet

You were the archer who missed the mark,

the cyclist who lost his way in mist,

the runner fleeing his shadow.

When you fumbled your lines in school

Mr Brass snapped: ’Can’t you read, fool?’  Under

the ruck you curled up; studs trampled over you.

Rigid on the garden seat or clamped down for dinner

hands never touched.  The gods just nattered

on high or ate in silence.  You ached for praise.

How early were you broken?  Whose careless hand

one sunny morning shattered your glassy brain?

Those yells still echo, splinters pierce your skin.

Your heart or your nerves was the weak spot

the strong unerringly found.  Each arrow hit home

till you, the simple and blameless, were cut right through.

Bullies sniff their victim’s scent.  They marked you out

for sacrifice, smirking, laughing, dragging you

to the pyre where you shot back arrows from the flames,

taking a…

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