Monthly Archives: July 2018

This is 2018 – time to demolish society, start at Year 1, by Andy Brown

I am not a silent poet

I have seen a picture of a homeless person, sleeping bag
snuggled into the doorway of a shop that sells beds. The
one on display looks pristine, well-cared for, well-tended;
one can only hope the homeless person is being treated
likewise, but this is Leeds, this is Britain 2018 where
ministers lie knowing there will be no discipline from
a weak ‘leader’ anticipating a ‘Brexit Dividend’ she
wilfully allocates to her friends and Tory supporters.
But it does not need to be this way, it is not just or fair;
foreign-owned British press perpetuating lies about alter-
native opportunities that might allow a better life for the
majority and not increase slavery to an exclusive minority.
I have seen a picture of a homeless person, sleeping bag
snuggled into the doorway of a shop that sells beds.

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songs I not sing, by Darius Molark

I am not a silent poet

today i write of distant songs
of songs across the lands and the seas
of songs held with eyes languid,
searing voices lashed across the towns and the grief
that have have received the bombs, the planes
and the feet that have march for days through
ungodly insanes, why so pliant the woman
and children that they cannot be moved
but burnt to the ground songs of
sweeping throats through horrid pain

songs that probably cannot be song
today i write of distant songs
songs that garble like ocean crossing sea birds
that grip the skies in the morning and
that feast on what is left of the ravaged earth

songs that do not tell time
songs that merely go away
dreaded songs despair
songs songs that

i have forgotten
songs so far
so far

darius molark, poet writer in chicago

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Warming, by Ceinwen Elizabeth Cariad Haydon

I am not a silent poet

They say a storm is building,
thunder and lightning, a downpour,
the whole works. Bring it on, please.
 ..
Everyone waits, people pace
around the floor and sweat. Eyes sting,
search for clouds that don’t appear.
Weeks of heat bring out quirks
in staid and steady folk. Hidden
tendencies revealed, misanthropic
words mis-spoke. Lovers quarrel,
rent asunder by stickiness and lack of air.
..
Damp sheets tangle, cling, wrapped
round writhing bodies. Daytime workers
unable to sleep. Frantic. Each night,
bare bottoms bitten by flying insects
whining in through flung wide-open windows.
 ..
A storm is building, so they said,
five years ago. Today, the ground’s too hard
to care, to live, or bury our miscarried dead.

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A Tale of No City, by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

You began feeding them,
thrice a day at first,
and they had their wilderness,
tiny nails, teeth more or less. 

Once a day then. Boredom
caught the morning sun.
The flooded streets laid eggs of dry patch.
Sam’s mom complained
about the animals living in your yard.

You began fading,
and they did not comprehend
the magic that spells waning away.
As if to be God one must
appear to disappear, build
someone’s fortune and draw a circle of fate. 

They begged, meowed,
crawled and leapt inside your house.
You shooed them, told them
not to make love or even if they did
not to birth rights. 

And one day you found kittens,
eyes still unopened,
under your bed, your old shirt
forging their camp.
They cheered at you, wondered 

why you would not wave happy hands,
after all you gave them once,
but because you…

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