Daily Archives: August 12, 2017

Conservatives in crisis by Judith Taylor

I am not a silent poet

Brexit vote sees highest spike in religious and racial hate crimes ever recorded (Independent, 7th July 2017)


Parasite turns wasp into zombie then drills through its head (New Scientist, 25th January 2017)


Bassettia pallida – the crypt

gall wasp, as it’s commonly known –

is parasitic on oak trees: under its influence

the tree makes hollow galls

in which the young of the wasp develop

till they’re ready

to eat their way out

and find their prey in the world.

But there is a smaller wasp

Euderus set – that manipulates

the manipulator. Gall wasps it infects

chew out an exit they’re not ready for;

die blocking it. And inside

the Euderus grub

whose jaws are rarely tough

enough for oak-bark, eats its host

grows strong, and when it senses spring

chews its way out to freedom

and other hosts, through a neat hole


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Questions for the sky-watcher by Judith Taylor

I am not a silent poet

What lightning strike
what fireball, what catastrophe
are you scanning for so avidly
in these bad times?
What part of yourself

you’re afraid even to speak of
goes muttering under the surface of your mind
how some apocalypse
would be kinder than this slow choking
in our own stupidity?

And what will we leave? – another
comforting question. What far future
archaeologist from a new star
will extrapolate our culture from these
ski boots and coffee-capsules and

wonder at our poisoning
the very waters under the earth?
Or ask why it consoles us less
to believe we will have cancelled ourselves
at present rates

before the atmosphere boils away
and into space: that rainfall
will continue, plate tectonics will continue
to grid us away, and cover up
our isotope trace.

That something
– some bacterium in a cockroach gut
possibly – will grow up to be
Life on Earth in…

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Hallowed Be Our Names by Terri Greco

I am not a silent poet

A tribute to the victims of sex abuse in the Catholic Church

Hail Mary, full of grace,

Blessed are you among us women,

men, and children.

Pray for us,

for we are not the sinners,

but a million enduring votives

aflame at your feet.

Holy Mary,

Mother of God,

Be more than an idol—

a hollow shrine to pray to.

Reach us with your outstretched arms;

Hold us while we weep.


Terri Greco is a poet and psychotherapist. Her poems have also appeared in Forage Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, and The Gambler. She lives in Chapel Hill, North Carolina with her husband and her son.

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