Daily Archives: October 3, 2017

Symphony Number Nine by Paul Sutton

I am not a silent poet

I say to my heart be coarse, be tougher
hear the music from car doors and lyrics on
pussy or willows or bitches. The boys from
the grooming gangs are here. I see a mother
battling a stream full-flow, harsh objects but
no daughters found in the wreckage. There are
shops they’d visit, then it’s all change and the
colours darken, a purity symphonic – ghost
folk songs, fugelhorns – but words are circular,
evenings violent. I can’t say it amazes me;
where was the family life leading,
its ‘pointless meaningfulness’ –
the love –
you can laugh, not realise as it happens.

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The Men and the Bees by Hafsah Aneela Bashir

I am not a silent poet

Multiple metastases presented last night
Entering full bodied arenas silently
No one noticed the casual invasion
My watch waited for children to come home
Eyes pinned open against a grainy image
Near naked torsos spilling through doorways
Many pink balloons soared through sky that night
Early risers drifting towards a different horizon
No child wilfully ever lets a string go
Manchester did not buckle from a bomb
Everyone like kith and kin to one another
Negated the flint of hatred as they stood together
Mothers opened arms wider, the homeless – life savers
Each taxi driver, a beacon, each doctor, a saviour
Night shook the bees awake and we created honey
Masses of bright flowers carpet St Annes Square
Epitaphs not of stone but petals and soft toy bears
Names carried from one to another through this fragrant air
The soft orchestra of buzzing…

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Crap Allegory by Jonathan Taylor

I am not a silent poet

For Stuart

We need to talk about the burnt-out tower
a fuck-off middle finger
raised to gentrification
in a rich part of London.

We should speak about the burnt-out tower
an immigrants’ incinerator
blackened by poverty
against a bourgeois sky.

I want to write about the burnt-out tower
how ash rained down in showers
onto white BMWs.
Drivers had to put wipers on full.

I want to but I can’t write about this –
it’s a crap symbol, far too obvious,
a modern Gormenghast made unambiguous
or some crude medieval allegory
starring the Desperate and the Greedy.
Reality like politics makes for shit poetry
which cannot contain the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the smoke the

Jonathan Taylor is an author, editor…

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