Daily Archives: October 21, 2017

Go to war and fight for me by Lisette R. Auton

I am not a silent poet

Go to war and fight for me

I’ll house you in a substandard property with magnolia walls in every room that

eat your voice,

keep you buried in the gloom of other women’s glares.

Coffee mornings and his rank is yours

the stink of lost men clings to the room and you all pretend

it is not clawing at the edges of your skirts

like the children do on the school run,

to the one the settled folk avoid.

Keep those spaces safe for itinerant mothers pulled at the whim of a

game of Risk played in chesterfield leather boardrooms

from Churchill’s days.

They don’t see what we see, they do not look and

you are invisible.

I fake overtime hours to save my holiday for summer sun and far away beaches

(but not Cyprus, I’m not that cruel, yet)

and two weeks stolen Christmas bliss with my family tight…

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Surrender by Lisette R. Auton

I am not a silent poet

It is not giving up.

That’s what they told me. That’s what they tell me.

It is not curtailing your spirit

your life. Your

dreams

nightmares

need for children

need for sex

drinking

writing

living it is not giving up they say as they shower and put on their makeup and smarten up and walk outside to the taxi to the hot noisy bar to the shagging to the passing out,

to the hangover.

It is not giving up. Just lie there with your feet up.

I washed your dressing gown. Curl up there.

We will be home soon and you will not have moved or lived.

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A line from Ivanka Trump by Mark Young

I am not a silent poet

The healthcare sector has be-
come increasingly concerned
with the integrity of contam-
inated cantaloupe. Drones are

now employed to inspect on-
farm storage & adherence to
environmental regulations, &
the capital-intensive nature

of infrastructure requires you
to consider a wide range of
factors, to know your market
value. Dry wells have become a

topic of common discussion as
Americans devour more ham.
Activists demand it be served
in cubes less than 5 mm a side.

..

..

Mark Young lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia, & has been publishing poetry for almost sixty years. He is the author of over forty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages.

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Neil Stonechild Went Out With His Summer Shoes On by Ronald Shields

I am not a silent poet

They are called Starlight Tours.
Given on the coldest nights in Saskatoon.
Police pick up a drunk
First Nations People mostly,
maybe throw an elbow,
or the butt of a club in the gut,
then he is handcuffed,
thrown into the backseat.
Driven out past the power station
maybe knocked around a little more
depends on how much he protests.
Then left to find his way back to town
in the dark, in the cold, in the snow
sometimes with shoes and a jacket,
sometimes not.

Later when the body is found
stiff, frozen to the ground
lips frostbite black, nose split,
a broken lump on his purple swollen face
we are told just another drunk Indian
who couldn’t find his way home
so he froze to death.
That’s what the official explanation –
accidental death actually means.
Neil Stonechild was not an ignorant person.
Oh for sure he was…

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Measure by Stefanie Bennett

I am not a silent poet

After [United Nations] “Rights of the Child” October 2017  (Stefanie Bennett)
..
….
I thought him shallow
Until he bent
To kiss the ground   *
… This Dosha
“With the trouble”
Emblazoned
On his chest.
Lilacs flared – and
A sparrow
Held her wing at
Half-mast.
               “Sinhala,’
He hissed: the larynx
A dirge
Born of sand.
Repeat Sri Lanka,
And weep.
 ..
[*Dosha = Ritual Healer / Buddhists kiss
the ground with their feet]
..
 
Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] Stefanie Bennett
has published several books of poetry & worked with Arts Action For
Peace. She was born in Qld., Australia in 1945.

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I told my dad by Cath Campbell

I am not a silent poet

I told my dad
when his friend put a hand up my skirt.
‘Oops, musta slipped. Cheeky girl!’.
I never saw that man again.

I told my dad
instinct already honed to danger,
when a man followed me home
from school, ‘Giveusakiss, pretty girl’,

I told my dad, I did,
and he went off into the darkness.
I can’t tell you what transpired
but there were torn knuckles and bruises.

I told my dad
whenever anything happened.
He never said a word. He was out a lot,
sometimes alone, sometimes not …

I stopped telling my dad when I was fifteen years old,
but, today, although he’s long gone, I think I’ll tell him one last time,
the tidal swamp of innuendo, assault, body shaming, cajoling,
car stalking, following, touching, forcing, gas lighting, bullying,
hurting, harming, hassling, menacing, owning-the-narrative arrogance
was constant, relentless and drowning.

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