RENOVATION
Blisters of her green paint ruptured wet
under my nail like fat
bladders of seaweed.
The God of all Mildew had blown
bird's egg speckles and flown.
Whoever dressed her, has left her he said.
Sea licked the beach beyond
as I watched them take down
For Sale.
Puckers of wallpaper fell
to the flash of our knives like
flakes of her skin.
An angry nettle army bent its head
passing news of incomers and
the dead
to the salt wind.
Be sure to hack away her past, he said.
Make sure nothing survives.
Skeleton children laughed in every room.
We danced to the music of bones
and stroked each warming wall,
loving it all,
Hoping not to finish too soon.
Then we laid on paint
thick as a geisha ritual.
Pressing seeds into fresh soil,
those imprints of us.
Small hands will
one day touch her, we said.
The sea still kisses the curving coast
and I sweep whispers of dust from
lofty unloved places
as our own whispers fade.
At night we listen to settling sighs,
shiver about children that might have been.
There is nothing else to do.
All is well here
except us
with nothing left
to do.
• Julia Bohanna says "I'm new to this poetry lark, but I have fooled people into believing I am a good short story writer. Enough to give me prizes!" and adds "Making it up is the best way to be… spontaneous, that rush of panic that makes you feel alive. Planning is for duller, less creative souls!"
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Wednesday, July 23
Julia Bohanna is carrying out some restoration
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 23 Jul 2008 08:55 AM BST
Tuesday, July 22
Frances Gapper engages in some light conversation
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 22 Jul 2008 04:24 PM BST
LIGHT CONVERSATION
Fiona over the road asked me would I please stop shining a light (my reading lamp) through her bedroom window. She said, it's like a searchlight and these new lamp-posts are the wrong ones she added the council will have to replace them. It might be the angle you're shining it at. Thanks for letting me know, I said. • Frances Gapper writes very short poems and stories. Monday, July 21
Vanessa Gebbie is watching the reeds
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 21 Jul 2008 04:09 PM BST
REED
There are babies growing in the reed beds again. They grow in cocoons like the nests of harvest mice, a little looser in the weave. The cocoons have been swelling since the spring; the first frosts have come and gone but the cold will be back. I feel it on the wind. The welcome boards at nature reserves have posters attached, headed ‘Advice’. Should you stray off the path, do not make eye contact with the foetuses. Of course, I’m still walking there. I did yesterday. I stopped a while in one of the hides. Many cocoons had burst; the air filled with thistledown. Below me, the water was as still as glass. And under the water, babies. Curled up tight, thumbs in mouths, floating under the surface, turning lazily as though breathed on by an unseen current. Then I strayed from the path. A cocoon was bursting. A male child grasped a reed with one fist. Crying, a high sound. Below him, the water. Waiting. I’m far, far too old for this. But it is done; I did not let him drop. I put him under my jacket, naked against my skin. And on the way home, I sang. • Vanessa Gebbie's debut collection of short fiction is longlisted for the Frank O'Connor Award. Friday, July 18
The lady likes them young - by Louise Halvardson
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 18 Jul 2008 05:23 PM BST
The lady who borrows youngsters
There are no items to satisfy her request talking books about contemporary life don’t exist She walks down the high street pulls youngsters from queues invites them for tea and line them up on her sofa in alphabetical order She wants to be told everything her eye-sight is too bad to read about DJ’s, graffiti and raves the life of her grandchildren if she’d had children When it gets dark mobiles makes an alarming noise the youngsters have been reserved for someone more important they want to be discharged back to their lives She takes the phones off them asks their families and friends if she can renew the loan she doesn’t mind paying the fine if she can keep them for just a little longer But the reminders are piling up on the hall mat her license to borrow has expired. • Louise Halvardson was born in Sweden on a cold winter's day in 1982. When she was old enough she escaped to England and ended up in Brighton which inspired her to write a novel. It's called Punkindustriell hårdrockare med attityd and was published in Sweden last year. She's also active, going by the stage name of Lou Ice, as a performance poet. www.myspace.com/louicepoetry82 Wednesday, July 16
Two new poems by Colin Cross
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 16 Jul 2008 09:20 AM BST
TOMORROW
sometimes I wake up in the morning and wonder what day it is but I always know that the next one is tomorrow ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ PIGS although Anne is twelve years younger than me we were both born in the year of the pig which I reckon makes us both piglets Anne collects pigs which is maybe why she hangs out with me and why maybe one day I'll find myself hanging on her wall like some kind of bizarre trophy • Colin Cross is a regular IS&T contributor Monday, July 14
Carl Abt is writing
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 14 Jul 2008 04:29 PM BST
Writing
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The time has come for letters. Two toed, Three toed, Four toed, Letters. The time has come for words. Two booted, Four pawed, Six bird-clawed, Words. The time has come for sentences. Crisscrossing, Overlapping, Hunted, Sentences. Winter’s fresh blank page chills the Earth So all may write and not be Forgotten when unseen. Crunch, crunch, crunch. • Carl T. Abt is an English major at the Ohio State University where he says he has entirely too much fun. This poem was first published in November 2007 by Expressions, a division of Sam's Dot Publishing. Thursday, July 10
AT gets physical
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 10 Jul 2008 06:02 PM BST
Physical
How? How do you manage to do this? I knew you were there – rather I was there... It was me and the joy at the first watch dad bought at the first terelene shirt he got at the first touch of her breast it was me... it has become a you now – the magician's trick of disappearance without a trace like the traceless movement of the gentlest of breezes the touch, the body, that kiss of life – physical where... where... only memories... were they your's even at that time? wordless bloody silence end • A.Thiagarajan, postgraduate in English, taught in colleges in India, before joining the the finance sector. He has been writing in English and Tamil since college days. His work (poems, haiku, short stories and articles) has appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including Subtle Tea, Poetic Diversity, A Little Poetry, Poetry Canada, pwreview, poetrysuperhighway, betterkarma, Indolink, The Heron's Nest, Haiku Harvest, Roadrunner, Simply Haiku Meghdulam, and Mainichi. He says the nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and the cruelty we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession. He lives in Mumbai, India with his wife, Rama. Wednesday, July 9
Two poems by Sergio Ortiz
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 09 Jul 2008 07:29 PM BST
Simple Things
I say goodbye to simple things like trees in autumn peel their leaves. Melancholy is the sad slow death of simple things that ache. Stay for a while, beneath my noontime sun. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Gothed Tina painted my lips black, paleness on the cheeks foggy in layers of transparencies. I gave so much to anger it ached like a scared hitchhiker blowing a trucker in traffic on Interstate 95. You shook my hand, offered beer. I said: Whiskey, and lit a cigarette. By 4am you were trapped in the undertide of Mata Hari’s tongue. You didn’t remember my name: Sam. But it wasn’t because of the snake shaped ring, with emerald eyes, eating its tail, wrapped around my finger. You left a rose in front of my door every day for a week. I took off the mask and smiled. We’ll have to get a larger coffin. Sergio Ortiz grew up in Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American University in San German, Puerto Rico, philosophy at World University and culinary art at The Restaurant School in Philadelphia. Among other titles, his work has been published in and The Cave, Origami Condom, Poets Ink Review, FlutterSilenced Press. Tuesday, July 8
Two cinquain - or near cinquain - poems by Michael Lee Johnson
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 08 Jul 2008 06:08 PM BST
Snowflake
In spring Last snowflake falls Temperature is rising If it knew how long it lasts, why bother? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nothing to Do Summer As the world burns, Nothing else to do, but Step into liquid cool waves And swim. • Michael Lee Johnson is an Illinois-based poet and freelance writer. He is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, as well as two chapbooks of poetry and has been published in a wide range print & online poetry magazines. For more details visit http://poetryman.mysite.com/ Friday, July 4
An Amy Winehouse poem by Kezia Green
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 04 Jul 2008 07:44 AM BST
Should Amy Winehouse ever stay in a caravan by the sea
After looking into the pan of a Dudley Diplomat, Amy heads, barefoot, for the shore; past Rajah, centre stage at the Animalarium; his spots stagnant in the big-cat cage. On the sand she takes a boy’s kite: starstruck, he stares at ‘Valerie’. Fighting the string’s heavenly tug, she runs backward in saturated steps; tilted face hoarding sunshine for dark days. Then, as the sea approaches, reproaches, she retreats to join the high-tide-line of burnt shoulders and rainbow synthetics; extended families of sandwiches and folding chairs, all waiting for the water to wash away their sins. She rises from the salt baked pebbles to buy a 99. The man at the booth says, "Have this one on me, love." And the sweet creamless cream that drips on to her wrist is divine. • Kezia Green provided the following profile "A short lady with dark hair" – we'll be publishing another of her poems next month. Wednesday, July 2
Agency Workers by Pat Jourdan
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 02 Jul 2008 04:50 PM BST
Agency Workers
We sit on New York-style chairs, stainless steel on cloudgrey carpet. Here in the heat and light is our morning's ration of luxury as the register fills up. Each name a strengthening of each, conspirators together, muffled from the cold. Another working day. We are processed away from our real selves and into this working-person-thing. There is no room for Elgar-like regrets; we snatch a new day's scandal from The Sun. Our driver arrives last, his own worries hidden in his nonchalance. Lizzie and Stella and Annie and Sue, Maureen and Jean and Joan and Dot, Carrie and Angie and Brenda and Cath, Denise and Mary and Sal and me hurtle along the country lanes to where the factory waits beyond the fields. Today's payment: one entire sunrise, spanning all the window of our racketing van. • Pat Jourdan's latest collection is The Cast Iron Shore from Erbacce Press. Trained as an artist in Liverpool, she has spent many years in Ireland, which shows in her work. Saturday, June 28
Nigel Pickard's seen This Couple
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 28 Jun 2008 09:04 AM BST
THIS COUPLE
who, ten years ago, were so well known in local circles – both feared a little, sniggered at only behind their backs: we were very young – this couple pass us in a fashionable restaurant. They’ve eaten early and, as we arrive, are on their way out, him with his stick, her her own grandmother. We don’t recognise them till they’ve gone. “But they knew us!” you say. “You should’ve seen them look!” • Nigel Pickard's first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003), his first novel, One, by Bookcase (2005). Friday, June 27
Mandy Pannett's not sure about this anniversary
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 27 Jun 2008 08:13 AM BST
ANNIVERSARY
she peeled off the price which he had forgotten to do and cut the red roses free of their cellophane but adding them stem by stem to her crystal vase together with the contents of the sachet attached which promised to keep them fresh she wondered how long they could last • Mandy Pannett runs an arts cafe, supports two local writing groups and enjoys giving readings and running writing workshops. She has two poetry collections from Oversteps Books – Bee Purple and Frost Hollow. Thursday, June 26
Poets don't fit in - by Ken Head
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 26 Jun 2008 04:55 PM BST
Not Fitting In
No one at the table believes in the helpfulness of gods or poetry. Good-humoured, you sit and chat, replete among emptied plates and glasses, towards a comforting consensus: self-interest is the driver, you agree. The needs of others never feature in your calculations. Why should they? Upstairs, a door slams, sudden raindrops smack against open windows, car wheels sloosh over wet tarmac. Time, as always, is passing. Someone asks why write poetry if there’s no money in it. What good is that? You remember: stone Buddha image so tall it took your breath away, young monk on tiptoe, smiling, arm outstretched towards a golden fingertip. • Ken Head's poetry weblog is at www.listeningforlight.blogspot.com and he'll appreciate your dropping in to browse and maybe leave a comment if you're passing. Wednesday, June 25
John Irvine is looking at life thru the bottom of a martini glass
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 25 Jun 2008 03:46 PM BST
diminishing values
in a world of diminishing values, indistinct goals and flexible boundries it is becoming more difficult to find one single nightmare to commit to utterly in the mauve miasma of pseudo-nightmares and pastel hued marshmallow dreams. I want a proper nightmare throbbing with scarlet promise and tangerine risk. Some otherwhere I can escape to casting aside all my prejudices and petty expectations. Would that be heaven or h e l l John Irvine • John Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor and this should look like a martina glass – should Tuesday, June 24
New poetry by Geoff Stevens
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 24 Jun 2008 06:55 PM BST
LOVERS
This is the vacuum of the day night takes the light and you with your superior tugging strength take the duvet away with your extra lung capacity breathe all my air Please turn down your heartbeats you are ruining my silence upsetting my sleep and your dreams are infringing on my dreams Keep to your own side you're giving me claustophobia your elbows are weird they have four sharp bones on them you're bruising my ribs your snoring's out of tune It's upsetting the regularity of my breathing you'll bring on my angina WHAT NOW! No, I don't feel like it. I don't want a cheese sandwich. You have one if you want one and don't keep asking me things can't you see I'm asleep! • Geoff Stevens is a regular contributor to IS&T – see R/H side-bar for details of his latest collection. Monday, June 23
Three short poems by Rachel Fox
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 23 Jun 2008 05:23 PM BST
Sweet Nothings
You are nothing I am less Let's admit it We're a mess Why one is childish rather than pretentious Because quite enough other people Already do Pretentious So well And so regularly Weirdo Oh, all of us are weirdos It’s odd that, but it’s true And the more you call me ‘weirdo’ The less hope there is for you • Rachel Fox is a regular IS&T contributor and her new collection More about the Song is sitting in my in-tray waiting to be reviewed. Friday, June 20
Bottle Bank by Helen Pletts
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 20 Jun 2008 02:59 PM BST
Bottle Bank
A lean trousered scrabble; Pressed aside the green-breast-curve, toe-tipped Arched form a-gape reaching, Visage-crimson-cold. A jagged white slit creases the cheek; And the human bright-blue-eye Echoes love lost, the pricelessness of heart; Scattered, like the glass shards You hopelessly filter. Your stick twists But it won't stretch, nor grasp without prehensile Tendency, the bottle's neck. • Helen Pletts was born in the UK but has lived in Prague in the Czech Republic for the last four years. She says "My experience of living here has provided me with most of the inspiration for my current writing. The man I wrote the poem about is still alive, although he seems to always be drunk. He leans in to the bottle bank to get the bottles that may not have smashed on their way down – tries to retrieve them with his stick – then takes them to the supermarket for the returns money. I thought he would perish the winter I first saw him doing this - either from falling in head first, or from the extreme cold – minus 20+ on some days (winter 2005) so I gave him some money – this was right at the point I looked closely into his eyes and realised that he was struggling with something else maybe – the something else that had driven him to trying to drink himself to death. His eyes were the most incredible blue. I couldn't get home fast enough to write the poem." Wednesday, June 18
Leigh Pierce has a date
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 18 Jun 2008 01:47 PM BST
Date Night
No snow no rain no way Nowhere Just pain Bound by agony, to the couch of eternity From humble beginnings come humiliating ends A horrifying conclusion that can’t be stopped Wanting to leave But not able to – too scared Having to leave and not wanting to – too nervous Too/too scared/nervous Cabin fever developing into hermit (w/out crabs) Into a full blown battle Terminal anti-social agoraphobia “You can’t make me leave!!” “You’re not the boss of me!!” I scream as the men in pretty white coats Take me out for a night on the town • Leigh Pierce describes himself as "a poet who types with brass knuckles, a head full of port & lungs full of cigar smoke". Tuesday, June 17
Bobby Parker has an unfinished manuscript
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 17 Jun 2008 03:39 PM BST
unfinished manuscripts (neglecting her needs)
I got a bunch of hahahas in my underwear drawer next to a copy of Poetry For Fools and a half-smoked joint... I take them out and rattle them in the streets like neon chains advertising This New Time To Be Getting Along With People We Secretly Hate... I call them dream-star-solar-henrymiller- magic-sex-revolution-mirror-bells-of-luck... but my girl, well, she calls them stinky ball-sacks filled with what's left of my heart and O my armpits cradle them now like tiny silver violins and, as I sweat-drip these words, they play to you so sadly it would break your heart if I were to tell you what, if anything, all of this means. • Bobby Parker is 25, lives in Kidderminster (England) has poems published/accepted in/by Agenda, Obsessed With Pipework, Fire, Iota, Rain Dog, Cauldron, The Coffee House, Curlew, Krax, Weyfarers, Purple Patch and Urban District Writers. |
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