Daily Archives: June 3, 2018

After Ruskin, by Oonah V Joslin

I am not a silent poet

 Found Poem: from Pg 35 “Unto this Last” – John Ruskin
impetuous decisions
our respect
subjects to experiment upon
give poison in the mask of
After Ruskin
We are not citizens.
We are subjects to experiment upon.
And this is not science.
It’s politics.
It gives poison in the mask of government.
No justice let alone mercy
as if existence is the most people deserve.
Imperious and impetuous decisions wrapped in lies.
They do not need or solicit our respect
who keep themselves in power by birth or bribes.

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Shaping a Future, by Isabelle Kenyon

I am not a silent poet

Fortune teller: Ask
Have we learnt from our mistakes?
Our leaders smear blood on our faces: Ask
if a necessary evil breeds death in women’s wombs: Ask
if our history has wiped out their future: Ask
if we can grow from passivity:
for you were born bloody
but do not have to go on that way.

(Wash, wash, for we are born into many layers of filth.)

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For Hiroshima, by Isabelle Kenyon

I am not a silent poet

There are women who breed death,
endless coils of pink curd –
reaching inside and reeling out clumps of intestinal substance
which in a healthy body
forms a baby.
These women birth charred dreams:
a half life.


Isabelle Kenyon is the author of poetry anthology, This is not a Spectacle and micro chapbook, The Trees Whispered, published by Origami Poetry Press. She is also the editor of Fly on the Wall Poetry Press, which produced MIND Poetry Anthology ‘Please Hear What I’m Not Saying’, shortlisted for a Saboteur Award.

Her poems have been published in many poetry anthologies and included in literary festivals, such as Anti Heroin Chic, Literary Yard, Bewildering Stories, The Inkyneedles anthology, the Great British Write Off, the Wirral festival of Music, Speech and Drama, Poetry Rivals, and the Festival of Firsts.


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New Morning, by David Chorlton

I am not a silent poet

Sunrise, early summer: mute
clouds in the east edged
with fire, while the still full
moon hangs cool above
the mountain to the west.
The forecast is for

a hundred degrees by
the afternoon, but now
the back yard wildlife
is coming out from hiding
to nibble at the edge
of early shadows as they cross

the freshly watered grass.
Sunlight through the window blinds
rubs against the wall.
Morning news has not yet risen
from that dark horizon

beyond which the meetings
are held to circumvent democracy,
and where nobody distinguishes
politics from entertainment.

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Your God Will Forgive You but The River Won’t by Katherine Heigh

I am not a silent poet

they came with sage and songs,
sweetgrass smoke swelling from shell to plume
to spaces he touched,
polluted places,
places where we still have to live
and die again each night
in the bedroom befouled
(that’s why they told me to smudge it again)
sobbing sisters
and smoke_and songs to the birds
to carry him away from
places where we still have to live

a compulsion to sweep
– they said it was right –
right out the back door
where they put a new lock
in case he tried to come back
they left me a braid of sweetgrass
in case he tried to come back

searching out his selkie ancestresses
to come collect their boy
a glass jar filled with nine nails
– one for each year he stole from me –
prime years, nearly nine – the skin of a snake
and the hottest kitchen powders

graveyard dirt…

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