Keeping Company With Time
Staring out of the photograph is the face of a ninety-one-year-old former railway worker who’s spent three decades caring for a clock. Not the family-heirloom, wedding-present kind that ticked away in pride of place on mantelpieces long before the world went digital, but the massive, ten-foot, monster of a dial with gold-leaf ornamentation, cast-iron hands and Roman numbers cut from best Welsh slate that hung for a hundred years in St. Pancras station. Immaculate against the gable-end of a barn, his clock dwarfs the man whose skills brought it back from the dead, but who stands stony-eyed, grim-faced, not looking at his masterwork, amid the tangle of bramble that long ago buried his garden. Behind him, paint on a row of stable doors has flaked to exhausted grey. Creeper chokes the roof, lassoes loose tiles, its tendrils worming through space-time towards the region of two o’clock.
When Even The Sundials Have Crumbled To Dust
Oceans of lost lives
pebbles along the shoreline
one or two we keep
Almost no one comes here these days, just beach bums and refugees holed up behind the dunes in hopes of staying forgotten. Met some religious folk once, from a colony down the coast where the sea’s already turned to dust, a hard place, let me tell you, to wait for your new messiah to appear with a second shot at paradise. Hot as hell and no water. Ran into a couple of sun-crazed poets, too, before my eyes began to fail. Lookin’ for inspiration in the music of the dunes, they said. But that was a while ago and they haven’t been around again or I’d ’ve spotted their tracks. In daylight anyway. At night you wouldn’t believe the dark since the towns along the coast were all switched off. Even the engineers who’ve survived don’t make the trip any more. Why bother to maintain expensive plant when nobody uses it? Like I say, the place is pretty much dead, has been since before the tour buses gave up trying to keep it alive. No diesel, I guess, leastways, not for pleasure. A tough drive, too, with the roads so broken up or buried under sand. All the old resorts are ghost towns now, almost nowhere left with water in its tanks or a drop of fuel to drive the gennies. I’ve been lucky so far, though, stayed comfortable, kept myself out of the way of the army gunships that come lookin’. It’s easy if you listen for the rotors … like Vietnam. I moved to a higher floor a while ago to stay above the sand. Not that it matters. Don’t think much about problems, damage to my eyes and skin. Makes more sense not to. Sun’s warm all year, there’s peace and quiet to ease me through however many days’re left and watching sunset shadow the world to sleep is always special.
We come and we go
must it always be so
ask the universe
• Ken Head lives in Cambridge, England. He was an invited reader, alongside Pascale Petit and Mimi Khalvati, at the London Poetry School’s 2007 fund-raiser.
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Thursday, January 31
Two new pieces - one prose & one haibun - by Ken Head
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 31 Jan 2008 08:21 AM GMT
Tuesday, January 29
New zine for modern haiga
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 29 Jan 2008 07:57 PM GMT
Check out this new webzine (there will also be a conventional magazine later this year) called Modern Haiga – and featuring a number of IS&T's favourite haiga and taiga creators. The link is here – www.modernhaiga.com – however there will also be a permanent link in our 'favourites' links.
Two poems by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 29 Jan 2008 10:45 AM GMT
IN HIS BEARD A COLLECTION OF SWEET BREAD
On the emergency room table a bearded man being examined was found with ants in his beard. Each ant carried crumbs of sweet bread, which they could not enjoy because the nurse who cleaned the man's white beard, swept the ants away, some with malevolence, as she pinched the ants between her little god fingers. FALSELY ACCUSED I was accused of chasing or following a woman around. I was told I did something wrong and that is a lie. All I know was that I was on the street. I was hungry and now I am here. I don’t know where my green card is. They took it from me. I don’t know where it is and I don’t see what business it is of yours to ask me such things. I don’t have to speak to you. I was falsely accused. • Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal works in the mental health field in Los Angeles, California. Recently his poetry has appeared in Beat the Dust, Munyori Poetry Journal, and Kendra Steiner Editions. Sunday, January 27
Two concrete poems by Deborah Gordon
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 27 Jan 2008 11:04 AM GMT
OF BEAUTY
 REGRET  • This is Deborah Gordon's first appearance on IS&T. She says "I began writing at the age of seven and since then have never really stopped. I like to experiment with all different styles and mediums and the concept of movement: To make the words leap from the page or dance their way into a verse. I live in the South Coast of England with my husband and 2 feisty cats!" Friday, January 25
Two poems by Ralph-Michael Chiaia
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 25 Jan 2008 02:21 PM GMT
we should all be cynics
I'm surrounded by idiot optimists cynical is the only way to be. Mom says she misses someone saying, "I love you." I told her don't miss it, they're always lying she laughed her optimism clear off. the oranges I keep a basket of oranges in the car. every time I see a really hot girl I mean disgustingly hot the kind that makes you involuntarily moan, I throw one at her • Ralph-Michael Chiaia is an experimental poet. Find out more at http://formonksonly.blogspot.com including how to purchase Chiaia's new chapbook from Coatlism Press. IS&T will be carrying a review of this in the near future. Wednesday, January 23
Two new poems by Amanda Weeks
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 23 Jan 2008 08:29 AM GMT
Rumours
They said she was a witch – The old woman at number forty-nine, So we never played ball near her house Or chased her cat. The crowd outside the chip shop Moved when she appeared, She never said “excuse me” Like everyone else. When I fell over, running past her house She heard my scream. I shivered when I saw her And dreaded the torture that She was bound to give me. I couldn’t run and couldn’t shout. “That’s foot’s broken,” she said. She helped me inside, sat me down And gave me her phone. Whilst I phoned my mother She put a bag of frozen peas on my foot And stuck a lollipop in my mouth. “Don’t tell anyone I was nice to you, mind,” she said. “People think I’m evil and I like the peace and quiet.” Now, as I try in vain to finish my script, Kids running up and down the street Shouting, spitting and swearing, I’m half tempted to start a rumour Just like old Agnes did. Then maybe they’d fuck off. Lucky Bastard I’ve never found my G-spot Or a diet that works Or exercise that isn’t hard work Or a work/life balance Or wrinkle cream that works Or a car that drives like a dream That you could park on a stamp. I’ve never had a stress-free Christmas Or a worry-free holiday Or interest-free credit Or a hassle-free loan Or a boredom-free job. Or diet food that doesn’t taste like shit Or tablets that are easy to swallow Or tampons that make me feel sporty Or shower gel that invigorates Or a comfortable bra Or underwear that’s slimming Or ladder-resist tights Or chip-free nail varnish Or waterproof mascara That can be removed without diesel. Or watched a film which changed my life Or listened to music which changed my life Or read a book which changed my life Or taken a flight without patronising cabin crew. And if you have, you’re a lucky bastard. • Amanda Weeks lives in Pontypridd, South Wales with husband Carlos, four-year-old son Travis and a cat called Rita. She began writing eight years ago when, at 27, she decided to pack in her job as a collector, invent a pile of A levels and study creative writing and drama at university. She has had several short stories published in anthologies. She has written for several music magazines. Her Welsh-language screenplay Catastroffi was broadcast on S4C in 2006, and she's had a further two screenplays optioned to Tornado Films. She recently came third in the Welsh Poetry Competition. She is currently writing a novel, and is adding to her poetry and short story collections. She is currently working as a supply teacher at Ysgol Gyfun Cwm Rhymni. Previously, she's worked as a drama tutor and as an actress. Monday, January 21
Coniston - a series of three short poems by Andrea Porter
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 21 Jan 2008 08:35 AM GMT
Coniston*
1. The Ferry The child on his father’s lap reaches out, touches the water. He trails a finger, sucks it. It tastes of old rain, he says. It tastes of not the sea, deep, slowness, town scouts fingers. 2. Campbell Cold water cures many ills, lowers desire to the pitch of an Arctic char. Shafts of femur and tibia, the curved chassis of ribs record the speed of decay. Note it is less than three hundred miles per hour. A clutch of teeth, the flip of a shell, the pace of a glacier. 3. Ruskin’s Ice House Overlooking the Lake (Brantswood) A cell carved from the cliff’s flank, he could sit here to cool his head, as a world races to melting point. There is a comfort in dark days, the ease of keeping what is. He prefers winter; he knows that a mountain can hold ice, can school water in stillness, can reflect the nature of cold. * Coniston is the glacially formed lake where Donald Campbell died attempting the world speed record on water. Ruskin the well known nineteenth century art critic and social theorist moved to live in a house overlooking the lake. He suffered all his life from severe bouts of depression. • Andrea Porter is a member of the poetry performance group Joy of Six that has performed in Britain and New York. She has been published in a number of poetry magazines (both paper and online) in the UK , Canada , Australia and USA . Her narrative sequence of poems Bubble was adapted for Radio 4 as a drama by the RSC playwrite Fraser Grace. She received an Escalator Award from the British Arts Council (East) and The New Writing Partnership in 2006 to complete a novel. She sleeps either too little or too much. www.joyofsix.co.uk Friday, January 18
Two poems by Ward Abel
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 18 Jan 2008 10:05 AM GMT
FULLNESS
Something breathing rises, falls, tides pulled by sentience wisdom her lips parted as if beginning speech or receiving touch a song plays across the empty fields breaks like brookings on the way to fullness wideness open sea. And the waters swim me without knowing me envelop me with arms that smell of perfume and gel and weather. I am fine with that. More than fine. RELIEF When it's quiet and things haven't happened yet, all I can hear is sunlight alone in the hum of ringing. Thoughts of what will be, failure and choice, preoccupy my energy and plans of action, but inaction solves all of this, repose murders the demon. • Poet, composer of music (Max Able/Abel, Rawls & Hayes) and spoken-word performer (Scapeweavel), L. Ward Abel lives in rural Georgia, USA and has been widely published in the US, Europe and Asia. His chapbook Peach Box and Verge has been published by Little Poem Press (2003). Twenty of his poems are featured, along with an interview, in a recent print issue of erbacce (UK). His new book of poems Jonesing For Byzantium has recently been published at UK Authors Press (London, 2006). Wednesday, January 16
On the first night of a dark moon by Elaine Speakman
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 16 Jan 2008 08:16 AM GMT
On the first night of the dark moon
In Bolton, In a basement, In a tall black room with a hard black floor I listened, To a woman, To a tall dark haired woman dressed all in black Reading poems, Long dark poems, New Scriptures about God and a woman and a box and a Beast The Beast. I escaped the beast, Going forth alone Into the dark night Down long dark streets Where long black rats with long black tails Scattered before my feet Into the long dark shadows. Oh Lord my God grant me a box, A box, A box of matches And candles, Lots and lots of candles, Oh Lord I beseech thee, LET THERE BE LIGHT! • Elaine Speakman says "I am an 'overgrown' (50 something years old) student who has just started on the MA in Creative Writing with Jon Glover at Bolton University. All my life I been both a lover of and a scribbler of poems, but it is only in the last 5 years (since my supposedly mid life crisis) that I have begun to take my own work seriously. Monday, January 14
Painting and Pianos by Jim Carson
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 14 Jan 2008 03:44 PM GMT
Eightyeight
String of shimmering pearls Black and white trembling For the divers touch but not afraid And who holds the keys Musky lover Caressed by a million hands before me Ravaged by strong and slight Petulant playful Coiled energy poised to strike Every sinew quivering with anticipation And who holds the keys Dark sepulcher-ossuary to dusty bones and souls forgotten Voices of giants screaming "release" And who holds the keys only 88 Just a few bits of wood and metal really Stitched together by strings Of time………… nothing more……… but everything Waiting patiently to play Watercolor Dream Tried to paint a beautiful sunset With words…………….. (iridescent turquoise tinged with indigo swirling about an autumn harvest Of gold, russet, magenta and brilliant orange streaked by the rays of dying sun Settling softly into steel gray sea …a watercolor dream rendered by higher hand) But failing to capture the glory Resigned to simply sit back and enjoy…………………………. • Jim Carson is an architect and aspiring poet and composer living in Atlanta. Three of his poems were recently published at hungryriver.com. He can be reached at jcarson@ncgarch.com Sunday, January 13
New haiga by Maggie West
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 13 Jan 2008 01:18 PM GMT
 • Maggie West says "After I had been writing short poems for some years, I discovered haiku while studying formal western-style calligraphy. In 1992, I became a member of The British Haiku Society and was thereby introduced to other forms of Japanese poetry. I much prefer the brevity and simplicity of the Japanese style. I feel they have much to teach us, from the subtle, non-judgmental haiku, wit of senryu, heartfelt emotion of the tanka, to the collaborative aspects of renga poetry. Many of these short poems have a greater depth than first perceived. Ancient Japanese poems, speak intimately and effortlessly to us across space, time and language barriers. After reading these, other types of poetry seem lacking in many ways. "Working mainly with inks and other water-based media, I have always enjoyed 'mark making'; transforming the tactile working surface using many types of brushes, pens, quills and sticks as necessary. I try to make my handwriting on the haiga as legible as possible without being formal. As I come from a 'western art' background, my work is not traditional in the Japanese sense; however, I try to be true to the spirit of haiga." For more information visit Maggie's website at www.maggieonthebeach.co.uk Friday, January 11
Fox by Pamela Moyle
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 11 Jan 2008 12:33 PM GMT
Fox
Thoughts elsewhere, eyes happened to glance in your direction. Dominated now, my mind absorbing your sleek, shining perfection. Motionless figure, pricked ears, wary and wanton a preyed on predator: king of the fields. Your brilliant eyes compelling contact, appraising, timeless, unblinking. An indefinable something passes between us, then you dismiss me to resume your stealthy slinking. While I now enchanted remain alone with my thoughts again. • Pam Moyle say "Nature is the main inspiration for my poems. I've been published by Chester Poets, Chester Vista and Peace & Freedom Magazine." Wednesday, January 9
Cat by Catherine Busby
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 09 Jan 2008 11:11 AM GMT
Cat
My daughter purrs and rubs her head against my chin. It means she wants some love. She laps soya milk from a saucer. Nights are sleepless Her brain can't rest And so we start the day with bleary eyes. Tired miaows. Even KittyCats must go to school. Some times she stays Curled tightly in a ball She lies amidst our cats And speaks softly with them. On those days I teach And stroke her As we learn the circulatory system and My own heart expands. I reach around and hold her close. Place my lips against her skin. Breathe in her scent And close my weeping eyes. I cover her with fluttery kisses from babyhood. We giggle and she chatters like a pull-string toy. Her mania continues, Wild laughter. Animal sounds. My beautiful daughter wings her feral way. And as her pendulum begins to swing I keep our family clock ticking, Real-time. My life is on hold, happening to me. I watch from someplace else. And still her brain can’t rest. Her eyes and face are blank. She mews. "Mummy, KittyCat is tired." Catatonic. Our tears fall. When I seek help I am handed a magic wand inside a blister pack. My daughter calls to me. Thick black words, Swirling shapes and heavy patterns Adorn her walls. Deep-grey eyes reach inside my face. "Mummy, Help me." She is tripping. Terrified. I have no antidote. "My brain is broken, isn't it?" She knows she soars and plunges And wishes that she didn't. She knows that people laugh and stare And I tell her, "Yes, my love, they do." The doctors talk of Lithium. I cannot make my daughter better. I love her. I accept her. I enjoy her. She is my delight, my muse, My uninhibited beauty. My daughter purrs. It means she wants some love. What a clever KittyCat she is. • Catherine Busby says "I live in Somerset, in a small grey town, but hope to flee to a place with strong winds and seagulls one day... I have two teenage daughters and so consequently spend a lot of time driving! I use that time to allow my mind to wander freely. I always follow the Highway Code." Monday, January 7
New poetry by Gary Kissick
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 07 Jan 2008 06:24 PM GMT
Eight Dream Errata
• It’s not a case of awaiting your arrival at Drummer Street Station. We’re together again on the Thames. • Some anomaly of space and time below deck and the waterline makes the narrowboat wider within than without. And since I see you now and then, you’re eighteen and maybe ten. • We turn a corner like a clock, climb eight steps in a single lock. • The boat is so stealthily slim we straddle it, father and son. It steers itself like a life. • We glide, at night, through the moon, which, as you know, is forbidden. • The river’s lovely, wide and deep, and all that’s passed clasps hands in sleep. • The sky is brighter for the storm. Downstream lies unbroken, still. Cygnets give birth to their swans. • You say you love me, and always will. • Gary Kissick's latest collection Another Kissing Couple Has Exploded was published by Gatehouse Press last year. Sunday, January 6
Friday, January 4
Two poems by Deborah Bates
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 04 Jan 2008 10:14 AM GMT
Vita Sessuale
Sexuality oozes from unrestrained pinks – contradicted with the delicious bass line of masculinity. A square jaw line backdrops pinched ruby nipples, on a chalky white base, whilst over a foxtrot of heartbeats and a plethora of sheets, cabernet soaked lips reach for a partner. The painter’s palette blends, as the tempo quickens – with the desirable colour being you. Discount Teabags A tramp sits. There sits the tramp of Sauchiehall Street. The face familiar to thousands, but known as nothing; his name superfluous. As he pulls at his prized woollen hat, I see that the malty coppers in his box, amount to a cup of tea. But not one from Starbucks. • Deborah Bates says "I'm 20, am Scottish but moved to study Creative Writing at the University of Winchester. Ambition to earn my money through writing poetry about the way I see life." Thursday, January 3
Book review by Ken Head
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 03 Jan 2008 10:59 AM GMT
Instead of Silence – reviewed by Ken Head
Instead of Silence: Selected Poems: Miriam Van hee Translated by Judith Wilkinson Shoestring Press, 2007 www.shoestringpress.com ISBN 13: 978 1 904886 45 7 ISBN 10: 1 904886 45 0 Paperback £8.95 , 74pp Miriam Van hee was born in Ghent in 1952 and is widely regarded as one of Belgium’s finest poets, although she writes both in Flemish and Dutch. Having studied Slavic Philology at the University of Ghent, she has since worked as a lecturer in Russian at the Interpreters’ Academy in Antwerp. She has published eight collections to date, together with translations of the work of other important poets including Anna Akhmatova and Osip Mandelstam. She has also won a number of awards and seen her work translated into French, Polish, Swedish and Lithuanian, with Austrian and Mexican collections in preparation. Instead of Silence offers poems selected from six collections published between 1980 and 2002 and represents not only the first translation of her poetry into English, but also an acknowledgement of the standing of her translator, Judith Wilkinson, a poet herself, whose first chapbook of translations from Flemish and Dutch poetry, In An Unguarded Moment, was published online in 2006 by www.languageandculture.net In her introduction to this edition, Wilkinson remembers an email from Van hee in which the poet states her preference for plainer, more everyday translation and says of her work in general that she likes “a certain bareness”. The truth of this becomes apparent, because many of the poems have no titles, make no use of the upper case and are punctuated entirely by rhythm, line breaks and the flow of thought. They are spare but at the same time highly focused, sober but allusive, brief but needing to be read with care. Nothing is made easy and it remains for the reader to explore the spaces between the words, where interpretation takes place. A good example is the second of two short poems jointly entitled The Camp, from the 1980 collection Interior and quoted here in full: that I never walked there in the mornings in the fog that I have always worn clothes that fitted nicely that I have read books that belonged to me that I have never stolen that I have never had to choose. Rather than explain that overwhelming last line with its rare and very deliberate use of the full-stop after the final crucial verb, this reviewer would remind the reader of William Styron’s great novel Sophie’s Choice and say no more. Good poems make demands on their readers, take us to places we might not always choose to visit and one of the effects of Van hee’s economy and brevity is to create perspectives that encourages such difficult but important journeys. As she writes in Photograph, “a film does not end/without an explanation”. Our lives are intricate patchworks quilted by many hands and these clear-sighted, compassionate poems explore with unflinching concentration the sometimes painful complexities of the stitching. They meditate, both sombrely and lyrically, upon the business of being human, crossing many landscapes, bearing moving witness to the effects of war and social change, of loss and dispossession, laying bare the experience of modern urban life, of love and family. They deserve to be widely read. See sidebar for cover shot Wednesday, January 2
Two poems by Geoff Stevens
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 02 Jan 2008 05:56 PM GMT
A WOMAN FOR ALL SEASONS (EXCEPT ONE)
Visiting the past you gave birth to Christ had John the Baptist's head brought to you submitted Samson's hair to a Number One cut bared your breasts in Minoa seduced Mark Anthony in Memphis stepped in to kiss Nelson on the deck of The Victory and committed suicide with Hitler. So why can't you think of anything to do when you are with me? GIORGIO CHIROCO'S PORTRAIT OF APPOLLINAIRE It could just as well have been a preview portrait of Marlon Brando set in stone method acting a bust and wearing black sunshades and stoicism. It absorbs everyone's attention the slightly chubby face the receding hairline the full sensuous lips but mainly the muscular latency that is perceived though only the head is shown. • West Bromwich-based Geoff Stevens is a poet and publishes the Purple Patch poetry magazine. |
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