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
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Thursday, December 13
Henry Wingate dies - UPDATED
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 13 Dec 2007 08:24 PM GMT
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. Tuesday, December 11
New anthology by IS&T editor Charles Christian out now
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 11 Dec 2007 09:32 PM GMT
Not Expecting Fish
Not Expecting Fish is the title of a new anthology of poetry (see cover picture in side-bar) edited by Ink Sweat & Tears editor Charles Christian and published by the Gatehouse Press in association with IS&T. It is a collection of 46 poems by over 20 contributors (including Charles Christian) who last year attended the University of East Anglia's creative writing diploma courses. Reflecting the authors' wide range of experiences of love, loss and life, the net result is an eclectic but one hundred percent accessible collection of some of the best in modern writing. The book (ISBN 978-0-9554770-3-4) is available both on Amazon and direct from Ink Sweat & Tears. The IS&T price is £5.00 (inc p&p) per copy for UK orders and £6.50 (inc p&p) per copy for international orders. You can order a copy by phone: +44 (0)1986 788666 - or fax: +44 (0)1986 788808 - or email: orders@legaltechnology.com - or snail mail: Ink Sweat & Tears, Oak Lodge, Darrow Green Road, Denton, Harleston, Norfolk IP20 0AY, UK. You can pay by cheque (made payable to Legal Technology Insider) or by credit card (Visa, Mastercard or Amex). The anthology takes its name from a line in this poem by contributor Debbie Arnander... Fish When you were eleven you loved fishing. When you were forty you went out and bought yourself the best rods and lures your hard-earned money could buy. You even bought a special fishing hat. You sat on the bank in your nylon chair waiting. The trees dripped honeydew onto thick water. And there were dragonflies. They made you think of your first kiss. Then suddenly a small vibration singing on the line and something tugging – Quick! Your fingers fumble at the reel you bite your lip: a little silver perch with orange fins rips twisting up into the air. Your heart goes down seesawing plop. You weren't expecting fish. 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. Monday, December 3
Jacket potatoes and Jesus - two poems by Colin Cross
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 03 Dec 2007 02:04 PM GMT
JACKET POTATOES
when we were kicked out of the pub in the early hours of the morning we would sometimes go back to Big Jock Bob's house and he would shout up the stairs – waking half the neighbourhood in the process – and get his wife out of bed to come down and make us coffee and sandwiches and when he got a microwave oven we had to go round that night too and his wife had to get up and do us jacket potatoes so we could see how quickly they cooked he was so proud of the fact that they only took about five minutes I didn't like to say mine was still hard in the middle and besides his wife might not have got up again ELDERLY JESUS I always seemed to see him around the city with his long white hair and beard and in the summer wearing only shorts I imagined him to be an artist of some description and then just before Christmas I visited a craft fair and he was there with his miniature paintings of religious scenes and it struck me that he resembled an elderly Jesus maybe returned from the dead • Colin Cross is a regular IS&T contributor, he lives in Norwich and has had poetry published in small press zines throughout the UK, Europe and USA. Sunday, December 2
New taiga by Pamela Babusci
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 02 Dec 2007 11:26 AM GMT
 • Pamela Babusci is an American poet and artist and previous contributor to IS&T. She describes 'taiga' as made-up term for combining tanka with art, in the same way that a haiku + art becomes a haiga. |
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