Xmas Does Not Arrive in Metro Manila by Karlo Sevilla

I am not a silent poet



It is unleashed.


By malls, shopping centers,

commercial establishments.


Bombardment of artificial lights

shaming the stars.


Stereos blare the seasonal songs

in aid of merchandise.


There are no silent nights.


The four-month season

in all its burlesque glory.




In the slums, the children

have Cronus for their Father.


In the slums, the children

fall prey to Herod’s henchmen.


In the slums, the angels

drop their guard.


In the slums, the saints

don’t intercede.




Come New Year’s Eve, fireworks.


There will be explosions.


And sparks, from firecrackers.


Some, from the mouths of guns.


One, the last Xmas light a child

shall ever see.




Somewhere, a manger.


Somewhere, a silenced night.


Karlo Sevilla writes from Quezon City, Philippines. His poems have appeared in Philippines Graphic and in…

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Happy Announcement – Geraldine Ward Published in “I am not a silent poet.”

Geraldine Ward

Hi, I am really happy to tell you I have had three poems published in “I am not a silent poet,” edited by Reuben Woolley. This is a particularly proud moment for me as it is the first time I have had all poems that I have submitted at one time accepted simultaneously by an editor. Many thanks go to Reuben Woolley. I want to thank Marie Lightman who has also been very supportive of my writing and recently published two of my poems in Writers Café Magazine, Issue One. I will send some links over shortly to my works and their websites. Good to see that creativity is really sparkling in the  writing community.

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Status: by Lilo Umpfenbach Ducommun

I am not a silent poet

So many cracks & the light comes in
blinding – the comfortable low light gone
Our mercenaries are fighting wars even they don’t believe in
it’s a job and there are contracts, aren’t there?
We are asked to thank them for their sacrifice,
fighting to keep us free, are we?
Deception, delusion and Illusions rule
Reality has left the building


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Fake Christmas by Sue Kindon

I am not a silent poet

The first stone, as soldiers load
heavily weighted weapons
to defend their promised land.

Wailing Wall, Dome of the Rock,
Church of the Holy Sepulchre,
is nothing sacred?

A salvo of syllables,
and the prayer-settlements
launch rocket-boulders from borrowed ground.

You can dress it up,
in skull caps, chequered headscarves
or the president’s new clothes,

it was always about an out-of-favour tribe
wrong side of the barb-wire-words, denied a home.

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all of the drunken defeated men by Martin Hayes

I am not a silent poet

all of the men in all of the alleyways
who once worked in control rooms or workshops
where they had to listen to 3 inch high supervisors scream at them
until they had pumped themselves up so that they could feel as though they were 8 feet tall
all of the men slumped in all of the shop doorways
too drunk to make it home who once tried to hold down a job
where they had to lump 25lb boxes of frozen lamb
into the backs of trucks for £8 an hour before tax
all of the men in all of the gutters who had to juggle 6 am drunks with clocking on at 9 for more years than you would believe
all of the men at the bottom of their rivers who now have to wash cars or move the contents of houses for men they consider not to…

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In Response to the Daily Fail who Mock my City of Culture by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

You portray rats as refugees like Nazi propaganda,
we take them in like mothers do scent to their kin
they paint our grey city as a portrait of sanctuary,
take that in for a moment and let it absorb like ink.

You report there is more culture in a yoghurt than in Cov,
like the yoghurt and milk from foodbanks under our ring road?
Or yoghurt adverts on your website interrupting fake journalism?
Did you know that twitter is a nest where some vultures circle?

In my city is a Rastafarian man washing his hair in a library sink,
he reads books and reads people then begs for change yet changes us.
it is people like him with his cap filled with rain and loose change,
that make us the richest city in all the right ways you fail to see.

My grey city was mixed with two tone to…

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Fuck Your Feelings by Esi Yankey

I am not a silent poet

Miss Yankey is a London based British/Ghanaian poet with a healthy addiction to verse. She runs Poetry Prescribed, who provide therapeutic workshops promoting poetry as a healing tool; and an effective way to manage mental health and wellbeing; In addition to this Miss Yankey is a co-host and resident poet at The Chocolate Poetry Club. To find out more please follow her on social media or email info@missyankey.com


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