Monthly Archives: July 2019

Two poems by Bojana Stojcic

I am not a silent poet


An adrenaline-seeking town dressed in red and white
runs down the cobblestone streets like a hungry river

in the fierce heat of the Mediterranean sun
enraged bulls show no mercy

to those who slip and fall
who slip and fall

a ruthless wolf pack in San Fermin
with days passing between feedings

locates, singles out
and stalks

its prey from a distance
staying out of sight until it’s ready to attack

not a deer, not a moose
not a bison, not an elk

but a beaver, feeble and sightless,
breathing the air of placid sufficiency

opportunistic feeders, unable to retain saliva
within their mouths, circle and test before

bringing the victim to the ground
the conquest of paradise

the animal does not die of blood loss or shock
but of shame


finish school
find a decent girl/boy from a nice family
you’ll marry and have…

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Cossetted, by Angi Holden

I am not a silent poet

At school, everyone stretched upwards, ambition
a pair of silent claws. These boys all knew one another,
fraternised in the holidays, took one another’s sisters
to parties in Sussex, to hunt balls in Gloucestershire,
dressed like their fathers.

The boys who inherited the school like an old watch
didn’t have to use their brains, even if they had them.
What security: to have always been well-off.
The future would look comfortingly like the past.

Scholarship boys had to live on their wits, set apart,
herded, marked off, their world a social laboratory,
clever animals in an alien habitat. Their labour of inclusion,
like a journey of immigration, was a matter of barely visible laws:
certain areas of London, prep schools, London shops
certain sports, clothes, brands of aftershave,
distinguished surnames: all signified.

If they were posh, scholars were interestingly so,
came from bohemian and eccentric families,
like Boris, a familiar…

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Four poems by Z D Dicks

I am not a silent poet

In the centre of the city     at the cross
is a man     Diogenes     suited and booted
he rifles     through a bomb proof bin
He pulls out an arm     with a half squashed
sandwich     a bite mark at corner     and waves it
at a thick     lipsticked woman     on stilt heels
and twists crust     points it like judges finger

Men don’t think about sex     every ten
seconds     they think where’s my socks
where’s my lunch     and I’m late for work

An office lady     staring at him     scrunches the paint
on her face     leaving mud banks     at corners
of eyes     she veers away     from the soggy
lettuce     and floppy bread     tumbling like a clown

Do you mind     I’m on my lunch break
hold my calls!

Diogenes smears mayonnaise…

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Two poems by Anna Saunders

I am not a silent poet

The Wolf Speaks at the Tory Party Conference

We are tender to our own
and feed them our prey – pulverised
to a paste

a bloom of coruscating
scarlet, lumpen with gristle
on our lips.

We aren’t how the novels portray us
we are worse than that.

You could say we cower from those
who are our equals

preferring instead to track down
the weak the sick, the broken.

There we are half hidden
in the dark fir forest

panting, our lolling tongues
fat with want
glistening with a cocoons of saliva

Learn from us
seek out those you can overpower
break them down to that which your offspring can digest.

reduce them to a quick
then let those from your blood line
eat them from you.


The Benefit Minister’s Mythological Creature of Choice

Once they had rested on a lonely shore,
the travellers laid out their food

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The Party Formerly Known As The GOP, by Howard Richard Debs

I am not a silent poet

(a found poem)

An elephant never forgets.
I remember what Abraham Lincoln said:
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
I believe this government cannot endure,
permanently half slave and half free.
I do not expect the Union to be dissolved—
I do not expect the house to fall—
but I do expect it will cease to be divided.
It will become all one thing or all the other.
I remember what Theodore Roosevelt said:
Moreover, it cannot too often be pointed out
that to strike with ignorant violence
at the interests of one set of men
almost inevitably endangers the interests of all.
The fundamental rule in our national life—
the rule which underlies all others—
is that, on the whole, and in the long run,
we shall go up or down together.
I remember what Ronald Reagan said:
A troubled and afflicted mankind looks to us,
pleading for…

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Two poems by Clara B. Jones

I am not a silent poet

AAA_Traits_00Sonnet For Lyotard #1

  1. You hid Lyotard’s notebooks in your vitrine…
    …because Philosophy made me what I am today.

  2. Your boredom poems changed ego’smeaning.
    Freud was the Ubernode of personal growth.

  3. It was only true aposteriori.
    Only then did I sympathize with Cyborgs.

  4. Critics are rarely your friends…
    because “cold” is a polyphone, and critics can be ruthless.

  5. Your skin is xanthous.
    My race is unknown, but resistance is a virtue.

  6. You were born before the riots…
    …when lives were at risk.

  7. They praised Adorno, but Kristeva called them Romantic.
    Wordsworth was their favorite poet after Keats died young.

  8. Romantics invented “the sublime”…
    …also, they collected stamps.

  9. A poem is a series of dots.
    It is noble to turn dots into words.

  10. Despite contradictions, life does not paralyze you.
    I drink lemonade at every meal.

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Nonsense poem for the hottest day on record, by Charlie Hill

I am not a silent poet

The world is a ball of crushed Coke cans,
my wine has a plastic-y nose,
there’s camels on Svalbard High Street,
we burn coal to help us cool down;

too much info has left us all powerless,
nematodes are sporting louche crowns,
some people go camping in cities,
as others plan day trips to the moon.

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