Monthly Archives: August 2019

Two poems by Lucinda Marshall

I am not a silent poet

I am not a silent poet-It Wasn't My Child, Conversation After The Fact_0

Lucinda Marshall is a writer, artist, and activist. Her poetry publications include Sediments, GFT, Tuck Magazine, Stepping Stones Magazine, Columbia Journal, Poetica, Haikuniverse,  and ISLE and her work appears in the anthologies  “Poems in the Aftermath” (Indolent Books), “You Can Hear The Ocean” (Brighten Press) and “We Will Not Be Silenced” (Indie Blu(e) Publishing). She has been a finalist in  Waterline Writers’ Artists as Visionaries Climate Crisis Solutions contest and Third Wednesday’s 2018 One Sentence Poem Contest. Lucinda  is also the founder and host of the DiVerse Gaithersburg Poetry Reading and Open Mic.

View original post

Taking Back Control, by Marc Woodward

I am not a silent poet

When the girls in the pharmacy shake their heads
to say there’s still no sign of your meds
and they’re frightened that old folk may soon be dead
ain’t it wonderful to know
we’ve taken back control?

When the lorries are stopped at the harbour gates
with the food onboard past its sell by date
for the paperwork’s wrong or duties are late
ain’t it heartening to know
we’ve taken back control?

When a man on the radio says apples and pears
will come much cheaper from the Southern Hemisphere
– and if he’s heard of ‘food miles’ he simply doesn’t care,
you’d really like to know
who’s taking back control?

When a visa must be bought for a holiday in Spain
and all the British pensioners are coming home again
while the young Polish grafters have left us to our rain
ain’t it wonderful to know
we’ve taken back…

View original post 73 more words

Two poems by Elizabeth Robin

I am not a silent poet

At Wounded Knee

i lie on my back, reading south dakota clouds
like the child i was. but i can’t summon fluffy
cartoon whales and elephants and teddy bears

here, i see jagged daggers in the sky
bayonets skewering babies, cannonballs

flying into chiefs and warriors just disarmed
at mothers and children scrambling into the gully
surrounded by hundreds of soldiers, firing at will

banish these images and trace the outline of a buffalo’s
fleecy hump, immense horned head bent, fleeing

until it dissolves into a husk of silver dollars
and rotting meat, legacy of a people who take
what pays ……..,,,….and take …………..and take

until it disappears. a treaty, when inconvenient
conjures the escape clause to justify the slaughter

and a trail of tearmakers who won’t believe
in dreamcatchers ……………………or ghost shirts

they just look at clouds
………………….and wonder how to turn a profit

at…

View original post 182 more words

Three Poems by Richard-Yves Sitoski

I am not a silent poet

Letter from a Detention Centre Along the Mexican Border

take the thing which disturbs you most
& show it some sympathy
the monster under your bed
needs to eat too

show us some sympathy
you take us for criminals
but we need to eat too
so get over ancestral hatreds

you take us for criminals
we are the thing which disturbs you most
but ancestral hatreds
are the monster in your bed

& you’re not disturbed in the least
that it needs to eat too
this monster in your bed
which knows no sympathy

for it will eat you too
till there’s bones on your mattress
& if we show you sympathy
maybe that’s what disturbs you most

..

The Problem of Free Will in a Town Beset by White Supremacist Propaganda

Does sky rest on Earth or is Earth tacked to sky?
How long is a morning, a morning…

View original post 576 more words

Changed Climate, England, Summer 2019 by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

I am not a silent poet

Dust settles on summer windowsills,
on sideboards TVs shimmer Churchill’s ghost
onto modern screens   conjured plasma
realised through BJ’s studied bull-dog slump.

Right-wing masterminds, harness nostalgia,
declare war on liberty, compassion, freedom
with crazy, clownish grins and promised tax cuts.

In extreme heat, blood runs cold. Benighted
whispers escape Mogg’s elocution: the old/young/
frail/different/un-monied/finally everyone
beyond white rank and privilege will fail.
Terror unopposed, trashes lives beyond redemption –

yet in suffocated daylight, foul with fumes,
angry men mop their bows and mutter,
Give the BJ man a chance. Who knows?
Cometh the hour, cometh the man?
Beguiled by his brass-faced badness,
shameless mis-speech, they cling to bleached
colonial dreams, forget collateral nightmares.
Historians are hated, placed under house-arrest
banned from shedding quenching beams of light
into hell, onto our underworld’s smoking coals.

Young people with fresh eyes, call out BJ
and his crew, their coruscated sunshone lies.
Older…

View original post 12 more words

pink maggit by M; Margo; Review by Clara B. Jones

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

AAA_Margopink maggit
M; Margo [Margo Emm: photograph]
2019
Ghost City Press Summer Series
Unpaginated [12 pp]
Free PDF @ ghostcitypress.com [donations accepted]

Short Review by Clara B. Jones

“I tell them that the tricks of today are the truths of tomorrow.” Marcel Duchamp

I am an autodidact when it pertains to learning about the arts, criticism, and literary theory. In order to “get” what experimental poetry is about, i have had to read widely in the fields of experimental & innovative literature, Modernism, as well as, Post-modernism. M; Margo [Margo Emm] is an experimental poet, musician, Facebook personality, and editor whose career I have followed for several years. Having reviewed their books, it seems clear that each volume serves both psychological and literary purposes. Many of their poems address Margo’s ongoing experiences with “gender dysphoria,” and I have categorized them as a writer of “angst,” as a master of dark…

View original post 731 more words