Monthly Archives: November 2018

Pick One, by Myron Scott

I am not a silent poet

The ritual of alleged democracy:

the right-leaning leftist,
the Trump-leaning rightist.

……Your life is on the line, but it really doesn’t


Myron Scott is a lawyer and special needs instructor in Tempe, AZ. He is old. He lives with his wife and keeps cats. The degradation of language under Trump has led him from the precise prose of the law back to something he hopes approximates poetry. 

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Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Rodney Wood

The Wombwell Rainbow

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.
The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.


Rodney Wood

Rodney Wood is retired and lives in Farnborough. He published his first pamphlet, Dante Called You Beatrice (Red Ceiling Press), last year; a pocket-sized pamphlet dealing with a love that compels him to write poetry. He has been widely published in magazines (Riggwelter, London Grip, Magma, The Ofipress etc). He jointly runs an open mic at The Lightbox in Woking.

The Interview

1. What inspired you  to write…

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Keith Waldrop and Sarah Cave: A review

Elliptical Movements

Of And, Keith Waldrop, Guillemot Press, 2018, £6.00

like fragile clay, Sarah Cave, Guillemot Press, 2018, £9.00

Of and.jpgThe arc of Keith Waldrop’s poetic career is a movement from verbosity to minimalism, a paring away of the extraneous. His early work tends to follow the logic of prose, of sentence and paragraph, but his mature poetry removes this scaffolding to let the silence out. However, while the method has evolved, many of Waldrop’s central concerns have remained constant, especially how ‘the spaces between things/all but make up for the intervening/entities (The Space of Half an Hour, 1983).

In that same book, Waldrop wrote

Many years ago

I wanted to write about

prayer, but was hindered by centuries of

practice – also my religion

got in the way. Am I finally ready?

And now, 35 years later, it seems he is, as prayer is at the core of…

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Tijuana Couple, by Kushal Poddar

I am not a silent poet

A couple in Tijuana
snowballs depression.
Their daughter just flies over
the furthest tower,
over the border.
The thing about the pigeons is
they have old man hidden
in their voice and they look like babies.
A snowball in Tijuana
exchanges two kinds of mindlessness.
Kushal Poddar has been featured amongst the poets for the month December by Tupelo Press, Vine Leaves Literary Journal’s Best of 2014. He presently lives at Kolkata and is the editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’. He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within” (Barbara Maat, Florida), “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems”  (BRP, Australia) and “Eternity Restoration Project, New And Selected Poems” (Hawakal Publishers, India)

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Widow’s Dues, by Kathryn Alderman

I am not a silent poet

*For Bridget

The fat cheque lands like a lardy cat hogging the doormat.
Twenty years too late to de-louse the babbies,
or rumble the glacier shoring up the scullery wall.
There’ll be coal fired tonight, like cracked black eggs,
a toast raised with the Black Stuff, for his lungs
soused in Passchendaele gas. Still. Finally.
No cheers for her pay spent like fags, Tommy-the-hero’s trauma
cured in ale, kids hid in the kahzi at his carousing
Two Lovely Black Eyes down the Brummagem back-to-backs.

For this, she left salmon silver-backing up the Moy,
Brent Geese overwintering in raw Killala Bay.
Blood money she says, her wages of war.


Kathryn Alderman is widely published online and in print, including: Amaryllis, Atrium, Bonnie’s Crew, Eye Flash Poetry Journal, Good Dadhood, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Canon’s Mouth and she won Canon Poets’ ‘Sonnet…

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Poppies, by Lesley Quayle

I am not a silent poet

here is the red –
of blood (obvious),
of hearts slashed open
like keening mouths,
of landscape wearing
the going down
of the sun,
here is the sap,
staunched too early
and the half opened bud,
tooth and claw (old story),
hell’s architecture
of fire
and angels burning,
in never to-be-harvested fields.


Lesley Quayle is a widely published, prize-winning poet, currently living in Dorset. A former editor of Aireings magazine, she is now a co-founder and editor, along with Stella Wulf, of 4Word poetry press.

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Dastards, by Dominic Albanese

I am not a silent poet

double down dumb shit
lawyers guns n money
thoughts n prayers
empty lies…..edit videos ….slap crap
truck loads
a mother today, is sitting by
a window
with a photo of
her freshman college daugher
at her high school graduation
now is in a morgue
with a 45 caliber
exit wound big
as a grape fruit
in her other wise
youth full pretty

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White Feather, by Harry Gallagher

I am not a silent poet

How many young men Emmeline?
How many slouched off to slaughter,
stabbed by white feathers,
pinned by you and your daughter?
Did you find out what colour
white runs under gunfire?

How many cowards did you find Emmeline?
How many trembling wrecks
within sanatorium whitewalls?
How many missing legs,
heads that never recovered
from the mud and the blood?

How many feathers would it take
a boy to make wings,
fit them to his back
and fly away?

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Three poems by Peter Wyton

I am not a silent poet

UNTIL THE SMIRKS ARE WIPED FROM MEN’S FACES                                    


On social media, a video
showing nervous teenage Indian girls,
disembarking from a bus to take part
in a demonstration condemning rape,
speedily surrounded by teenage boys,
smirking, every last one of them smirking,
keen to tease with irrelevant debate. 

“Do you think it’s all right,” bellows their spokesman,
“for a girl to go to a cinema
with a boy not of her own family?”
Chorus of approval from his buddies,
still smirking, pressing ever closer.

“Is it right,” counters one girl, defiantly,
“for rape to occur in any circumstance,
even at the hands of a relative?”

“It doesn’t happen like that,” bawl the boys,
widening those smirks, shoving nearer yet,
not admitting that it DOES happen,
as they won’t, neither here in India,
or in countless societies worldwide
where the masculine sex is conditioned
to act according to…

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