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 |
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