For those of us with rats in our lofts (and possibly bats in our belfries) and facing the prospect on Wednesday of going back to the day job after the holidays, here are two timely pieces by Mike Estabrook...
CHIPMUNKS
Yes we have become overrun
by chipmunks
but I like the little guys,
yesterday a baby,
big as a fist, sat there
on the lawn not scurrying away
until I was right up on him,
the thought of rabies flicked
through my mind seeing as
they are usually gone
when you get within a mile
but no, no rabies,
guess he hasn't yet become accustomed
to frightful death-dealing ways
of us humans.
Bob was telling me just yesterday
how he got a squirrel out of his house
by "plugging him in the head
with my 22."
CRAP
Remember that all that crap going on at work:
the new boss, Mr. Corporate Company Man,
who has more action lists and projects lists
and deliverables lists
than storms have rain clouds,
the new reorganization up top
So-And-So now the executive VP of blah-blah,
Mr. Snooty BigWig now the Director
of this and that . . .
Fat Cat Big Cheese now running the start-up
division in the far east . . .
the recent explosion of meetings
like mushrooms popping onto a dead pine tree,
all of it, every single bit of it, every scrap of it,
is crap, pure crap, because it really
doesn't matter at all,
not now or ever in the past or the future,
one damn little hill of beans.
•
Mike Estabrook lives in New England and says of himself "I'm the
marketing communications manager for a tiny division of a gigantic
company, and man, going into an office every day can be excruciating. I
should've stayed on Northfield Avenue instead where I belong and
learned to fix cars like my Daddy did." We published a couple of his prose poems back in October.
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Monday, December 31
Two poems by Mike Estabrook
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 31 Dec 2007 03:40 PM GMT
Monday, December 24
A Christmas Collection from IS&T
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 24 Dec 2007 11:20 AM GMT
We'd like to wish all our readers – all 3500 of you – a Happy Christmas and here are some seasonal offerings by Tish Davis, Maureen Weldon and Chris Major...
Two haiku by Tish Davis virgin snow a young boy runs ahead to warn the rabbit *** these woods again a leaf frozen in the spider web • Tish Davis lives and works in the US. Her haibun have appeared in Contemporary Haibun Online. Recently one of her haiku was recognized as a Poem of Merit in the R.H. Blyth Awards for 2007. Like Soap Bubbles by Maureen Weldon Winter: like soap bubbles in a washing-up bowl. This will not last, this cup, that plate, the garden reflecting in my eye. Or my lover – he used to hold my heart – who has a golden tongue – a gift for music. I brushed his body with my long red hair. It was Christmas then, it is Christmas now : green crates of decorations, bottles of wine, flickering candles. I see them on my kitchen window, mirrored in fairy lights and parcels of secrets. From the hall, three little boys Are singing Silent Night, to the rhythm of their money-box. Now my daughter shuts the door the sound goes round and round. In the sink the suds have sunk, In the centre: a star. To poems – one concrete – by Chris Major PROTEST POEM Every Christmas it's the same: given without much thought, the perfect choice for a festive season. Oh, there should be stickers everywhere, for they are not just for Christmas; because the novelty soon wears thin, and abandoned, pushed aside they are cruelly left, good only to blame odd farts on.......... ..........bloody sprouts. SOMEWHERE (footprints) soon her step will fill: flowers 'n' cards as guilty neighbours churn to snowy slush a blank white page of garden path. Too little then, and too late, all print that is this poem's shape. • Chris Major is a regular IS&T contributor Friday, December 21
Jim Bennett has the secret city blues
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 21 Dec 2007 11:02 AM GMT
secret city blues
when I came here I saw twelve men carve their way through the carbon night while outside the moon played on the walls a landscape fashioned after mountains a memory of caves that kept men safe hands held fingers twisted like rope two butchers fought with knives unstropped like an argument after Sunday lunch and in some backdrop lot of unseen movies wasted men drink from bottles in brown bags street corner gangs eye trash can sorters looking through you like you do them an old women recycling filth carrying bags pushing a pram full of cans and bottles secret doorways into other peoples lives open as she passes and close just as fast as she leaves her presence in a smell hanging like a memory in the air muttering as she does the unheard words from a conversation in her past the dogs in hunting packs haunt the alleyways pick over trash burrow in the organic mass of rotting food behind the restaurants ignore the screech of brakes and sirens from the road the shouts and screams and tears the brutal laughter from the bars the moaning sound of copulation the whore with her panties down and the man who falls to the ground dead drunk both pissing in the darkness as steam rises from the gutters and grills I splash between the pools of light street lights and flashing traffic lights cars taxis and buses scraping along clogging the air with tar gas painting buildings grey to black among the smiling signs and easy male and female backstreet buggary that is New York here I walk with ghosts Chandler Runyan and Ginsberg and listen to Lou Reed Dylan and ten million others as I mouth the words of the Secret City Blues • Jim Bennett is a poet, and he believes that he is still alive, living in a place that looks a bit like Merseyside. www.poetrykit.org Monday, December 17
Sarah Ellis is angry
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 17 Dec 2007 04:10 PM GMT
How do I loathe thee?
How do I loathe thee? Count the fucking ways. I loathe thee till I can feel my blood boil, So livid you make me, my insides coil. So long as the black night follows the day, I’ll loathe thee in every way that I can. Not one thing you can do will bring me back, I loathe thee hungrily, like a whore craves crack. I loathe thee faithfully, woman to man. I loathe thee with hatred, pure from my heart, It flows through my veins like poisonous lust. I loathe thee with passion, a painful dart With foul abhorrence – I loathe thee, I must. Am I wrong? Or was it like this to start? I shall loathe thee forever. That, you can trust. • Sarah Ellis is studying creative writing at Winchester and says "I'm originally from Croydon and I'm just your typical student, completely broke, messy, usually hungover but I work hard and aim high. I'm a veggie, I love running and I plan to travel as soon as possible." Friday, December 14
Daylight Effect by Joseph Balaz
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 14 Dec 2007 03:53 PM GMT
DAYLIGHT EFFECT
With each sip of coffee the wide picture window frames a transcendence of hues as the dominion of the moon yields to the clarity of light. Soft shading and contrast resembling the impulsive strokes from a painter’s brush and palette. Observing and looking back in through the open window another day begins as easy and simplistic as a thought turned in upon itself finding portholes of recognition. Eyes that were wild in the chase and the frenzy receive the reflective gaze and ponder a deep tributary left in the timeless grasp and final thrust of a fervent duality. The blackness held no secrets and the dark whispered only sighs. In remembering the seclusion of two silhouettes traversing the night another sip of coffee is taken and a returning participant settles into a comfortable recliner like a timber wolf reposing in a field of plush grass— With legs outstretched and two feet resting upright an adventurous heart quietly howls at the reminiscent image of the moon. • Joseph Balaz lives in northeast Ohio. He is the author of Domino Buzz, a cd of music-poetry www.joebalaz.com He is also coauthor, with photo-artist Mary Ellen Derwis, of JOMA-online www.jomaonline.com an online gallery of concrete poetry and photography. Thursday, December 13
Henry Wingate dies - UPDATED
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 13 Dec 2007 08:24 PM GMT
Original posting: IS&T editor Charles Christian writes... Henry Wingate, a young and promising writer based in Norwich (England), died last night in a road accident. No further details are available but Wednesday (12th December) was a vile, icy and foggy night. Henry was on the same course as me at UEA and, by a cruel twist, only early this week two of Henry's poems were published in the Not Expecting Fish anthology. He will be missed.
Update: Henry's mother Candida Wingate writes... Dear Charles I have just read your text about Henry Wingate on the Ink Sweat and tears web site. I appreciate it was posted late last year, but ... Henry Wingate died at 10.15 in the morning. The sun was shining, but not sufficiently warm to melt the ice that caused the car to skid. But it was the safety barrier erected to prevent cars going into a nearby ditch that killed him. And one of the other passengers in the car, the lovely Kirsten Duffus. Henry's brother, Max and Henry's partner, Nat survived the accident with barely a physical scratch; it was the coroner's verdict that, had it not been for the safety barrier, Henry and Kirsten (Max's partner) would have survived, too. Henry was on his way to his grandfather's funeral. The mood in the car was described by Nat as being 'sombre'. And so I sit here and google my dead son's name, in the hope of finding news of him. On this occasion the luddite in me cannot let pass the suggestion that he died on a vile, icy foggy night. Best wishes, Candida Wingate Night Came In Night came in so fast accompanied by damp cuffs, tight throats and fatigue. But our breath was call and response. Rebounding verse and chorus from lung to lung. In strained second hand streetlight i saw the pattern at the foot of our bed, reassembled its components, and made a threat to outline our security. • Henry Wingate Wednesday, December 12
Waiting by Samantha Desmond
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 12 Dec 2007 12:36 PM GMT
Waiting
This night of possibility is just another to survive. My breasts, once golden keys to other men’s lives are now a sign of a woman long ago lost. Beyond comfort, your touch is nothing but an assault on skin stretched, barely hanging on. Remember, this is no game and I am no player. Not one of these ice cold amazons in a harlot’s body, lips stained by previous prey. I’m a little girl lost in a body I do not understand, and you are not the man to explain it to me. That job is for a preacher of patience. So sulk back to your pack and lick your wounds, find other legs to spread. I won’t let you be the one to corrupt my dreams. Your night of endless possibility Is just another I must survive. • Samantha Desmond is doing an MA in Creative & Critical Poetry at Winchester. Monday, December 10
New prose poem by P.A. Levy
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 10 Dec 2007 11:40 AM GMT
Fivefuckingfuckoffrings
Let battle commence against the dole grey world old and charmless pull up your hood be blinkered be unseen be a rising star on CCTV with exuberant flashes of mindless violence and a passion for thievery pick up the phone I’ll let it ring five times the speed at which we nicked the sun and I know it were just a larf but yea we was quick man I mean the speed of light quick hands like camera flashes blur dazzle and it were in our back pocket then we legs it out of breath panting like some obscene phone call what colour is yer knickers pick up the phone why don’t you no good hanging about don’t wona linger yea but we got away with it stupid planets orbit round and round mental like special brew nutter like a central line cruiser got stars in their eyes gone milky way blind give ‘em the slip when we circled the solar system uranus rising little green men on mars saturn’s rings pick up the phone please we was back by three nice and tidy in time to get the drinks in but there’s old bill large as life sitting in the boozer scratching his nut trying to do sudoku yet over the top of his lager top he’s clocking us and we’re feeling iffy and we’re looking all shifty pick up the phone ‘cos I fink it’s all gonna kick off but you know what it’s like course you do spend spend spend get flash with the readdies this fing is burning a hole in me pocket I gotta get me thrills and spills and pills have a huge fuck off wad of bish bosh dosh buy me designer wear all the latest gadgets and buttons satellite tracking MP3 camera phone so pick up the fucking phone just one more ring just one more ring ‘cos I’ve got a bad feeling about today I don’t fink fings are gonna quite go my way now I might be right I might be wrong but I don’t fink we should ‘ave nicked the fucking sun for fuck’s sake pick up the fucking phone please pick up the phone ‘cos it’s all gone dark and I can’t find my way home Children of the material age oblivious to when the cornflowers bloom hang around on street corners that bare the names of former heroes who come complete with post codes but beg the question who the fuck are you • P.A. Levy says... "I'm a Cockney sparrow now living in exile in the beautiful Suffolk countryside." Friday, December 7
New poetry by Matthew Friday
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 07 Dec 2007 04:39 PM GMT
John Friday
We-re not related in anyway, That’s my first surprise. Seeing him on the ward, the second: laying flat in a bed, a very tall man, going bald in a Middle Management way. Smiling at me one minute, and then 'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!' 'It's not you,' his weary wife promised, patting my hand, interested in the same family name because it might be a way to get through to John, stop the foul stream; she was far beyond blushing now. 'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!' His great love, his wife told me, was - is - the stars, astrology. He swore by the star signs and looked for proof in every-day actions. He knew every star by names. Always looked up. Dreamt of being in space. Floating. Weightless. 'Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!' Now his space was a bed far too small, his feet poking out the end. A bleed in the brain had crashed his spaceship. A man who found the word toilet a disgrace, now incontinent. A man who recognised his wife, but not enough to tell her he loved her ever again. • Matthew Friday is a professional writer and graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at Goldsmith College, London. He has had poems accepted for publication in the following magazines: Carillon, Earth Love, Finger Dance Festival, The New Writer, Pens on Fire, Pulsar and Red Ink. He has also received a special mention in Poetry News and won 3rd prize in Writing Magazine's Valentine Day poetry competition. Wednesday, December 5
Concrete and prose by Caroline Maldonado
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 05 Dec 2007 01:49 PM GMT
Today we've got two pieces by a new contributor – Caroline Maldonado – a concrete poem and a prose poem. And, in case you were wondering, the tango is danced in a figure of eight pattern.
TANGO IS is Tango a sad thought danced. that be can UNDERWORLD A safe room. From here I can see the sky, violet before dawn, and the river, black, sucking up lamplight. Light from a neighbour's window slips through the slatted blinds and stripes the kitchen floor behind me. Somebody coughs, and laughs in their sleep. The fridge sings and the plumbing yawns like a distant train. The river below. * …air and dust tug it from her fingers: it cruises round Sainsbury's car park, dives under a departing car, where it catches on a wheel round and round and round out to the street, is blown under the 266, under lorries, under Fiat and Mercedes; it flattens, rises again, up over the pavement to slap the lamppost, catch a branch of the cherry tree, hang there one-armed, in the sunlight, waving to the world – it falls again, hovers over guttering until a final gust…. * Beneath city streets sewers swell, smell of sulphur, tunnel waste. In a rats' playground men build shelters of chipped wood and tin. Bottles and needles are a game for their dogs: tap and roll. "I've messed up good this time." He looks away. "Sometimes I feel so sad I could cry. Sometimes, I could cry." The train doors open, heave a sigh, expelling breath and passengers – sssh. And then the voice: Please mind the gap. • Caroline Maldonado lives in London and Italy and has published poems in nth position, Obssessedwith Pipework and The Interpreter's House. |
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