My Land by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

Wounded is my land

hurts at every hill, valley

mountains, or in sultry plains

Even when a bird soars across

winged skies, it hurts

never know when it will plummet

down to seas or, deep deep gorges

..

Strange is my land

there are mosques, temples, churches

synagogues even

But it hurts

never know when blood

will splatter across their sacred walls

..

Historical is my land

when the plains rumbled with  battles

foreigners unsettled came to settle

there were wars and canons

but it hurts

you never knew who would win

who, lose and who the traitor!

..

Penurious is my land

but it hurts to see them

sleep by pavements after

selling their wares there

..

Uneducated is my land

little children don’t go to school

they sell, or steal or serve tea

And their parents beat them.

Even sell them in a growing

demand and supply market.

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Brexit Passions by John Alwyine-Mosely

I am not a silent poet

I am condemned by others, wearing Asda’s finest, loving the curry, hating the Indian, them that visit Spain for sun with chips, who thought Labour was for the working man, they made the cross of wood and nails of iron.

That I must carry as this was born of my silence as factory whistles and streets of common worth became black and white movie reels.

Yet I stumble at shaky pensioners wanting back a childhood of back to backs and Empire cakes, and the Daily Mail Pharisees preaching whose life, whose tongue, speaks for me. Yet where was I when the tree was fell and the coal dug for the smelt of iron?

I watch a man round as a cottage loaf, t-shirt bare arms showing tattoos of faded love and sinking ships as a woman, hair dyed young, worn jacket too big for a shrinking body, kisses away his…

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Cut by Marie-Thérèse Taylor

I am not a silent poet

Let me cut your hair
just here

Let me fold your skin
pin it tight

I have blades
of sharp tradition

Silence!
When I have to

I cut
tongues

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