from DREAM THEORIES, by Iain Britton

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

II

reflections spill
a mix of painted mangoes
mothers are plaiting      their daughters’ hair
the lagoon      ripples with still-life
a carved marsupial      stiffens up
on wooden haunches      claws
permanently scratched
into the bright pink earth

a flute player      on his stone pad
plays to birds      which flock & silently spiral
children      paddle the green slushing
slime of the lagoon      we go
between the plastic palms
advertising this year’s      special rates
for sleeping under the stars
a church choir      opens the collective self
& harmonies spin & bounce off
outcrops of stellar hardware

we emerge      on the other side
cloaked in grass      eating berries
& a stream      stutters past
as if choking on messages

III

someone      hits
the midnight bell

a translocated forest
gouges out      large
clearings for people      like us
to congregate      we pretend
music heals      poetry heals
we listen to sunflowers
stretching their sinews      hills
swapping contours for blue…

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Firetraps, by Rose Drew

I am not a silent poet

I: 1983
My substandard housing
was ground floor.
The fire alarms failed,
but I ran out into the rain.

II: 2001, 2017
That infamous September,
the summer before Daesh:
No,
those weren’t birds swooping, plunging.
We squinted at TVs, as people felt the flames,
held hands,
stepped off.

Is it fair to compare terror to terror
as homes deemed safe enflame
the eyesore hiding cladding
now your casket,
a crematorium delivered to your door;
an inferno you didn’t sign up for
when you inked the lease —

III: 1911, 2017
A hundred years ago,
the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire
was all girls and women
from browner countries.
………………………….[No sprinklers, one staircase,
——————-………….fire ladders & hoses falling short.
…………………………..Laws were passed. Even New York’s wealth
…………………………..were horrified.]
This tower also single mums, entire families,
brave migrants starting again with a bag
of hopes.
The fortunate flee
without even…

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Notes from a fire, by Rose Drew

I am not a silent poet

Hauling possessions back
to those who lived, the driver
points out the building:

smutty stubby middle finger
still stabbing the Notting Hill sky,
a half-burned matchstick
proclaiming FUCK YOU
to everyone:

elites happy to swagger past gardens
thru lobbies with smiling staff
while their lesser neighbors
ease by bins,
rattle keys into dented metal doors,
ride up the swaying service elevator:

some residents more equal than others.

I rather wish they were not
picking it apart,
floor by damning floor,
removing evidence:
erasing shame.

Leave that charred body tied to its stake.
Leave it grim,
a reminder
cheap cladding is more expensive than
one can bear;
that funds slashed for fire fighting
or for sprinklers BEFORE the fires must be fought
are not expenses.
They are the price of being human.

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