Into this, by Simon Collings

I am not a silent poet

Into this indifference the temper
of cynicism, of anomy

distempers of rage
pressed into speechlessness

the mute gestures of inaction reflected
in the masked faces of denial

time running away
with our captive impotence

contained anger turned
inwards, the body consuming

its impulse
to give chase

a stink of tainted process
in which inequity is smothered

the dull drag of compromise
a manoeuvre

to stifle protest
in glacial intransigence, a filth

of melting sentiment insulting
in its penury

this charade of care, of inclusiveness
which does not include,

the makeshift gestures
of contempt, reason dismissed

in deceitful excess, obdurate
in superfluity, the machinery

frustrates all tactics
of escape, closes off

the possibility of argument
of explication, a mire of detail

to sink a point in
the predetermined outcome

is etched with a stylus
on the smeared glass

a callous message without meaning
marking the boundaries of resistance

inscribing its purpose

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Wounds, by Amy Louise Wyatt

I am not a silent poet

Some people cannot speak about their wounds
for very thought of blood will turn them red.

They like fresh wrapped bandage; clean bleached
sheets; starched towels; crisp new handkerchief.

They know why we’re first washed clean:
untraced womb; maternal plasma; amniotic sap.

Women-made women: women full of wombs
expel whatever they have chosen to expel.

Yet, some can’t speak about their wounds.
Ones in shock of fresh-flecked cloth, stoop, bow

and call out not again.  Women, who the very
thought of blood will turn them deathly grey.

..

Amy Louise Wyatt is a lecturer, poet and artist from Bangor, N.I.  She is the editor of The Bangor Literary Journal.  Amy has been published in The Blue Nib, CAP Anthology, Lagan Online andFourXFour.  She was a finalist in the 2016 National Funeral Services Poetry Competition and the 2017 Aspects Festival Poetry Slam and shortlisted for The Seamus…

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