14 Days From Namibia
From home in Twee Rivier we journey;
‘n toer van een plek tot 'n ander’
No roads through borders,
just sand.
And dry trees shelter carcass
as paths stay veiled.
No help from Perrier,
San Pellegrino has deserted us.
Mato Mato behind us
ons vorder van een stadium tot 'n ander.
To Upington we journey
• Matt Ford is a Creative Writing student at Winchester University.
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Monday, March 31
Two works to celebrate the arrival of spring
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 31 Mar 2008 02:47 PM BST
Saturday, March 29
Friday, March 28
Two poems by John D Robinson
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 28 Mar 2008 02:28 PM GMT
Mid-air
The mid- air awakening of a dreaming swallow caught peaceful in her shadows of elegance. ~ ~ ~ ~ Portugal Portrait Such a breeze could spell romace & bring An end to the flowers that move in shatter'd Forms of promises & shatter'd promises bring the dust of old friends That dance in the neglect'd corner's of a sleepless night & old friends make history. • John D Robinson is a UK-based poet & publisher. He has published two books of poetry Time Signatures and Sky – Fall Blossom, with a third due in near future. His work has been printed in approx 100 small press magazines, journals, newspapers, poetry readings & work-shops in schools, colleges & community centres & bars. Thursday, March 27
Poems (CD) by David Francis
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 27 Mar 2008 07:09 PM GMT
This CD of poetry and music by New York poet David Francis has been sitting in my in-tray for an appallingly long time. Nothing personal David, it's just that the last time I received a CD of poetry and music to review, it turned out to be recited by mad people – and played by mad people. Nothing could be more different than this CD. Called Poems, the poetry is good. The music is good, in a folk/acoustic style (which in some respects has the mellowness of some Steely Dan tracks). And the production values of the CD are excellent.
There are a total of 18 short poems (and equally short musical accompaniments) on the CD, all prompted by a 22 date tour of the UK he did in 2006, which gave him an opportunity to revisit the places in and around London where he used to live and write many years previously. Listening to this CD is both a relaxing and thought provoking experience – and one I'm going to be happy to do again. I'm not sure to the distribution details for the CD however you can order it online from CD Baby for $15 (about £8.00). www.cdbaby.com/all/davidfrancis There are also some sample tracks you can hear free of charge. Here is one of them – In a Storm... http://audio.cdbaby.com/21af9def/mp3lofi/d/a/davidfrancis3-10.mp3 Wednesday, March 26
Two poems by Maureen Wheldon
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 26 Mar 2008 03:54 PM GMT
TO CHANGE THESE HOURS
She reaches the gate of four pearls Rattles the bars. Sees through a fence of fire One star. And the sun dancing in gold shoes. In the east Helios is driving the four horses. She would change these hours But knows: To pick bright flowers She must never look back. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ DO NOT BELIEVE ALL Do not believe all you read in history : it has long been out of date. But listen to the wind, observe the sun, birds, and wide, wide sky. And somewhere, on a far-off beach, where ocean grinds and washes rocks to fine sand; a pink shell, a periwinkle. Here history winks her eye. Now walk and read. • Maureen Wheldon's poetry has appeared in various small press magazines and her collection To Change These Hours published by Kite Modern Poetry Series. Tuesday, March 25
Picture in Grey - a prose poem by Mandy Pannett
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 25 Mar 2008 06:42 PM GMT
PICTURE IN GREY
There’s the sense of a river behind a low wall; footsteps on leaf-fall, grey light through the mist. There are hours ahead for the unshed rain. This is an island of pavements and derelict blocks; a low landscape, no colour here. Nothing to do but wait for the lamps to be lit. Flies in the buttermilk whispers the song. Something is scratching and digs. On the Embankment a stone lion is lost in the fog. His paw is upturned. He begs. I detest my past and anyone else’s mutters Magritte as he sketches the lion. Thinks about gunfire and troops moving in. Adds a man by the parapet with his back to us; he is staring over the edge. Gives him black wings from the shoulder blades down to the ground. Considers a title: Pea soup, spleen of Paris, Philadelphia, mal du pays… Thickens the fog. Bats scuttle out as old lamps are lit. There are gaps in the masonry and a chill wind. A pigeon lies dead in a scatter of leaves. There are hours ahead for the rain. • 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. Monday, March 24
Two poems by Amanda Weeks
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 24 Mar 2008 05:20 PM GMT
Scrubber
From the minute I wake up I can hear her sweeping brush against the pavement And wonder how many particles of dirt Have settled since the last cleansing exercise Eight hours ago. Then she moves on to the windowsill The paint faded through constant rubbing. Next is the turn of the lamppost All graffiti is executed And Goldie the labrador’s piss is bleached. Her windows, already gleaming Are wiped to within an inch of breaking – Nothing must spoil her view of the street. She needs to see if litter is dropped Or blown from less clean terraces. The ice cream man parks outside And she watches like a hawk. Once, his predecessor dropped a wafer She is on tenterhooks until the van And its unruly customers have gone. She waits for her husband to come home Through the back door – He’s not allowed to use the front passage For fear of spoiling the carpet. But he doesn’t come home, so she cleans some more. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Hindsight If I knew then what I know now I’d wear short skirts and sleep around, Because when you’re young and good looking With big tits and can drink more than the boys People call you a slag. So with hindsight I should have done Darren And Paul and Craig and all the others Who said I’d done them And got some pleasure to compensate For the annoyance Of being called a slag, And squares whispering about me And boys constantly phoning me And hanging around my house Which made my father shout And call me a slag. If I knew then what I know now I would have gone on tour With that rock star I snogged, back stage In Newport Centre in 1994, And said “bollocks” to you And seen the World, had free drugs And good sex. Probably. If I’d known that all the while Whilst I felt guilty and dirty You were seeing someone else – A fat girl with crooked teeth I would have gone to San Francisco, Left you crying, smashing up our home With all your friends comforting you, Giving you free drugs And calling me a slag. • Amanda Weeks lives in Pontypridd, South Wales. 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. Sunday, March 23
It's that way - by Mike Montreuil
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 23 Mar 2008 09:40 AM GMT
IT'S THAT WAY
i. the day begins never in the way we imagine it would be too predictable even the love I have for you is that way ii. the shower water is hot more so than yesterday I wanted it that way iii. I tried to set a place for you at my breakfast table some things are impossible like a morning kiss iv. it may be Monday morning but the streets are deserted I willed it that way they needed to be clear of all obstructions my thoughts are filled with snow v. the phone at my desk is silent why do you not call? I am here you are there Is this our waiting game? vi. the noon time sun is high someone made it so we can now find our way to each other my imagination does not take a back seat vii. it's you on the phone! I waited all day to hear your voice you will be here in a matter of minutes viii. the sunset is much too early our minutes seem like seconds it's always that way we knew it right from our reluctant start ix. the alarm clock rings morning already I am warm underneath my blankets my memory of you fades like the dream we just lived • Mike Montreuil lives in Ottawa (Canada) and can be found at a hockey rink cheering on his son. (He'd probably feel at home in the UK today – this is being posted on Easter Sunday and its snowing.) Friday, March 21
Easter - a concrete poem by Chris Major
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 21 Mar 2008 09:23 AM GMT
 • Chris Major is a regular contributor to IS&T. Thursday, March 20
Two new works by Deborah Gordon
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 20 Mar 2008 06:30 PM GMT
The Tiger
 The Paper Clip Men Slightly bent And – spent around The edges The paper clip men Dance – wildly on The ledges. • This is Deborah Gordon's second 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." Wednesday, March 19
Two poems by Bernice Lever
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 19 Mar 2008 04:49 PM GMT
SPIT & POLISH
How I hated the sizzling splash of phlegm each morning as Mom lifted the black lid of our kitchen stove, spitting into the burning wood flames. I could forgive her home-rolled Macdonald's tobacco cigarettes dangling from the corner of her firm mouth as she stirred pots of soup, porridge, even gravy, ashes drifting finely to bubbling pots or our flowered linoleum. Those days, Mom's spit on corner of her hankie wiped smudges or tears from our chubby cheeks, just waiting for our Saturday turn with the one family bath water in the same old galvanized tub. Polish too quickly, too lightly, and my teenage house work was labelled, as Mom said, "just a lick and a promise" that would have to do until tomorrow; not the shiny perfection of "spit & polish" with serious intent on uncle's military boots. ARMOUR Walking alone allows their annoying, sniffing, licking dogs to hinder my stride, while their silly snide asides drill my ear drums, shatter my thoughts. Shutting up windows and doors keeps their superior tones, even inferior pets, mediocre offspring, outside this wooden cabin, a sanctuary, silencing their jealousy of my places of peace. Wrapping myself safely inside my rusty station wagon, believing glass, green vinyl, especially enamelled metal will protect me against my neighbours, I have the radio on high so it smothers their complaints of my missing muffler as soon as I turn that key, stamp my gas pedal. Now to develop heart armour – • Bernice Lever is a Canadian poet. If you check out our reviews section, there is a report on her latest collection Never A Straight Line (ISBN: 978-0-88753-438-6). For more info visit www.colourofwords.com Tuesday, March 18
Two works by Hannah Silva
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 18 Mar 2008 05:56 PM GMT
talking to silence
cutting cutting cutting ctctctctctctctctctctctctctctct sickening how dgd gdg dgd gdg dgd gdg dgd gdg dgd d d d d d d d d doubt doub ting t onges…doubt ing to…de co rate….this….speech. sick-of-me talk-ing-to sick-of-me talk-ing-to sick-of-me talk-ing-to… silence… risk…thinking sinking sickening kick towards speaking…doubtful…listening look at me look at me look at me sick of me sick of me sick of me tell her tell her tell how talking to talking to licking licking looking looking sick of sick of…..swallowing….. dividing. watch. how. this. di. vi. ded. sp. ace. Breeeathesss…. Se pa rates…. into you in to you into you too your reflection is licking me spitting me out like an unwanted diary entry I have become graffiti. Engraved on the inside of this bottom lip. I spill my self slip. I see this is reflection is this see I ee this is reeeo e I I ee this is refleco I I tion noit ref lect ee ct see I see…and …it… breaks…. tkktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktk What about my body in the middle? Drown. Down. Own. Gone. Now. Someone... I’m a dot now rotting over I! A blood cut in the memory clot! The other of self. Ish Ish Ish Ish! She is all fish down below. All fish down. I hook her, and fling back! This is what I mean by dancing join! join! join! I am going to be to going am I joy! joy! joy! I walk through the grass and hands my ankles grasp. Underneath all the self-taking the love, it kisses, hard. Dust Here...a pearl-drop on the eyelash It reflects a myriad of wounds Some travel with us Which were we born with? No one blink. No one let time pass without outcry. Voices overlap, speech turns back on someone longing Voices overlap, it’s over; the television speaks. Voices Overlap speech turns back on someone longing Voices overlap, it’s over; the television speaks Is the window open? I’m longing to repeat my mistakes Longing to repeat to repeat myself Longing to Repeat to repeat myself Is the window open? I’m longing to repeat my mistakes. No one blink. No one let time pass without outcry. We have woken into something. The midst, the mist of something. Choking dust choking us. • Hannah Silva is a playwright, poet and theatre director living in Devon. Her website is at www.hannahsilva.co.uk and she recently performed at the London Word Festival. Monday, March 17
Rachel Fox reports on StAnza
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 17 Mar 2008 08:05 PM GMT
Rachel Fox reports on the StAnza poetry festival which took place at St Andrews last weekend – StAnza is the only regular festival dedicated to poetry in Scotland...
Unlike lots of poets and poetry folk I have to say I always approach StAnza with mixed feelings. I have had good experiences there - for example I went to a great workshop with Matt Harvey 2 years ago (and I am not normally a workshop kind of a person). He was really encouraging and helped me a lot in terms of confidence (he was probably the first person involved in poetry to say 'you're good, you should do this'). However I've also had some dire StAnza moments too. I tried the Masterclass a few years back and hated it (it was with Jane Hirshfield - she was fine but some of the participants...aagghh!) Plus I've sat through a lot of (for my taste) overly poetic outpourings about nature and nature and, oh yes, more nature - oh the droning voices, oh the overdeveloped imagery, oh the polite audience... Last year I even tried the Slam as people kept telling me I'm a performance poet (which I don't think I am particularly... in fact I'm sure I've said at least a hundred times that I think the whole literary/performance split in poetry is a nonsense really... some of the supposedly great literary poets can perform well... some of the supposedly performance poets can be as literary as they come... if in a less 'look at the width of my phd' kind of a way). The Slam was OK, I didn't embarrass myself, but it let me know the Slamming thing is not for me... the hooter, the time limit, the juke box jury. Yuk. Anyway... this year rather than a full weekend and a lot of family organising I just chose a couple of events on the Thursday. I got there early and tried to see the exhibition bits (hmm... so-so). I bumped into a few friendly faces, spent ages in Waterstones (we don't have big bookshops in Montrose), bought a Don Paterson book (I give in, he is a clever bastard... and funny... and miserable and oo, you are awful but I like you...), saw the poetry films on show in the Byre (fantastic - the Larkin one, the family values one...), ate lunch in quiet caff (just as well - no food at the lunchtime Studio Theatre show... again...) The lunchtime show itself was great though (food or no food) featuring Raman Mundair (from Shetland, via Northern England, via India). She was one of those poets that's so full of life it's a joy to behold. She sang (beautifully), she smiled like she knew how to do it, she had a great range of material (for me the highpoints were the very sad poem about racist killings in London and the very exciting poem about dance and life and everything). I felt we should all dance off down the stairs at the end... but of course we didn't. This is St Andrews, dear, walk nicely and bow to the royalty. I went on to the Past & Present next - largely I have to admit because I wanted to see Adrian Mitchell but didn't fancy the Sunday night reading (lots of reasons... too many to detail). It was a great event. Tom Leonard was amusingly droll and bitter (and like Don Paterson's...older brother? Uncle?) and Adrian Mitchell was just... delightful (how English that sounds). He was talking about Blake but most of all he was talking about life and joy and happiness. Like the simply delicious Michael Morpurgo (who I also saw at StAnza a few years back) he made you want him as a Dad, or an Uncle or a Grandad... how nice it must be to have men like that in a family... men with hope! I never knew my Grandads or uncles (or Dad of course) so I think about these things. That may not be a literary poet's take on the event but you can read that stuff elsewhere...I 'm always pleased to see good specimens of humankind and rejoice in their wondrousness! So that was it for me. I went back off to the public transport system and family life, my mixings with the literary world over for another long while probably. I do like some writers but being around a lot of them for any length of time gives me a headache. • A version of this also appears on Rachel's blog http://crowd-pleasers.blogspot.com/
Rachel Fox on why writers groups are not for everyone
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 17 Mar 2008 03:34 PM GMT
Writers' groups are not for everyone
Writers' groups are not the place for everyone Sitting in those shapes and clasping verse A bit like self-help meetings (minus all the fun) Instead of drugs and phobias it's far, far worse There are lots of serious blokes who dream of softback Who know exactly why their words are best Ok, career is not exactly on track But luckily there's nothing helps you toughen like a test The women present criticise constructively This is good and that is nearly so Young and old have faces trained in empathy But is spending time this way really the best way to go? I tried, I tried, I open the door wide And I go right back to the ungrouped world outside • Rachel Fox was born and raised in Northern England and now lives on the Angus coast in Scotland. She says: "I have been writing poetry regularly for about ten years. I have worked in journalism, education, market research, shops and nightclubs (5 long years as a DJ in the 1990s). At present I look after family full-time – partly because I like it, partly because it gives me more writing time and partly because I am very bad at keeping regular jobs. I publish my poems as postcards and read regularly at the folk club in Montrose." More information can be found on her excellent website at www.crowd-pleasers.net and we will be carrying some more of her work in the next few weeks. Saturday, March 15
New haiga by Alexis Rotella
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 15 Mar 2008 01:40 PM GMT
 • Alexis Rotella is a regular contributor to IS&T. This photo was taken during her recent trip to Japan. Friday, March 14
Portrait of Death as an Artist by P T Diep
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 14 Mar 2008 04:26 PM GMT
A portrait of death as an artist
Light peels back the night from faces with prayers engraved on chiselled lips the mist of souls is teased towards the sky by the sun that lifts the veil to peep at death upon the ground already calling those bodies down the bodies of boys buried neck deep in metal tombs no longer draped in laughs. The water-colours of yesterday have dried, like oil, becoming water-fast. So time scrapes the scene and scrapes the scene until all flesh is gone and bones are stones that mark the beds of boys that overnight joined their forefathers in the grave. The tombs crumble into remnants, overrun by the forest's creep. Green crystals encrust copper, swords and helmets lie exposed. Earth draws the greens back down, reds and golds blur the setting sun. Black night tumbles from the sky, pierced by time's perfect aim. • Phuoc-Tan (PT) Diep is a regular contributor to IS&T. This poem first appeared in Poetry News. Thursday, March 13
10 ways of seeing the Moon by Barry Tench
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 13 Mar 2008 09:18 AM GMT
10 Ways of Seeing The Moon
big biscuit moon a floodlight over the empty docks in a morning mist, it keeps hanging now I see you, now I see don’t as you drop from the balcony to a boy with brown hair wizardry on a chalkboard a reminder to buy some cheese the trapeze artist spots a place to hang her face in a courtyard a bucket lies on its side reflecting the moon as a stoat stops, unseen one night by a lake Mary has a vengeful monster to create and a day selling big issues is punctuated by the moon. • Barry Tench is a student on the Creative & Life Writing course at Goldsmiths College, London. He has been writing and teaching creative writing in schools and youth centres for 10 years and his work has been published in variety of local and national magazines Tuesday, March 11
Two poems by Christopher Mulrooney
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 11 Mar 2008 06:27 PM GMT
the price of admission
you kick the sign in your forehead with your own left foot it isn't a guarantee by any means something about your grace when doing so must win the heart of the machine shop 'til you drop I. Brokeback Market you check your guns at the door the lonesome cowboys on the soundtrack watch your every move with rustling eyes II. HQ Super this is the peaceable kingdom swans and geese are for sale pigeons and sweetmeats fans and automobiles and diapers III. meat market the lonely matador leaves his ring for security at the carneceria you can fight it at four and have it on the table by seven • Christopher Mulrooney lives in Los Angeles and has written poems in White Chimney, The Delinquent, Vanitas, Guernica, echolocation and fourW.
Broken Voices - Paddy Trrant's book reviewed by Sarah Bower
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 11 Mar 2008 08:27 AM GMT
BROKEN VOICES
Broken Things by Padrika Tarrant Reviewed by Sarah Bower Padrika Tarrant is a familiar face to regulars at Norwich’s Cafe Writers evenings. I almost wrote, a familiar voice, but that would have been misleading. Because, as this first collection of stories proves, there is nothing familiar about her voice at all. Tarrant’s fictional world exists somewhere just under the skin of the quotidian ‘every day’ world, in a space of which most of us are unaware most of the time and are thankful for it. On one level, her writing is firmly grounded in place; particular cities and even the streets in them are often mentioned by name, though Tarrant does not have to make explicit references for us to know where we are – in sad bedsits and bleak council flats, in charismatic churches where fear of the devil holds greater sway than the love of god, on late night buses and empty underpasses and streets where dead dogs lie in gutters and dead souls pass unnoticed. Yet Tarrant does not see these places with the same eyes as we do. Her storytelling strips away the mundane to reveal, with scalpel-like precision and great compassion, what lies beneath. In stories such as Darling and Coffinwood, the dead are not gone, but merely waiting to reveal themselves to those who take time to care for them, to inflate their lungs with old carrier bags or coax their shy presences with saucers of milk. In Gas we are confronted by the mundane and catastrophic consequences of being turned upon by what we believe we have tamed. It is one of our conceits as the only species possessed of self-awareness to personify the inanimate, and Tarrant is not afraid to take this to its logical and chilling conclusion, to show us just where our arrogance will get us. Broken Things is a very fine collection indeed, funny, terrifying and provocative. Padrika Tarrant’s imagination is not a comfortable place to be, but it is darkly addictive, like a switchback ride or an hallucinogenic fix, and you will come away from it changed. These are simply some of the best short stories I have ever read. Broken Things is published by Salt at £12.99 (Hardback, ISBN: 978-1-84471-343-1) • Sarah Bower is a novelist, short story writer and teacher of creative writing. She was the winner of the 2005 Cafe Writers Short Fiction Award. Her first novel, The Needle in the Blood, was published by Snowbooks in 2007 and was Susan Hill’s Novel of the Year 2007. Her second, The Book of Love, comes out in April 2008. Monday, March 10
New poetry by Will Collins
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 10 Mar 2008 12:22 PM GMT
Ehs View
wit eh luvs aboot bein mental iz thi freedom ay speech wit eh hates aboot bein mental iz thi way thi wordz git stuk wit eh luvs aboot thi condition iz thi income support muni wit eh hates aboot thi condition iz thi eighty quid a week budgit wit eh luvs aboot thi life iz thi free hoose wit eh hates aboot thi life iz thi shite location wit eh luvs aboot thi pills iz they chill im right oot wit eh hates aboot thi pills iz they make im fat wit eh luvs aboot it iz no workin wit eh hates aboot it iz gettin bored wit eh luvs aboot it iz eh lives in ehs ain wee bubble wit eh hates aboot it iz ehs cut oaf fae thi world wit eh luvs aboot it is thi fresh perspective wit eh hates aboot it iz naebody else kin see it wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi voices keep ehm compni wit eh hates aboot it iz thi voices tell ehm whit tae dae wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi attention eh gets wit eh hates aboot it iz thi sections they slap on ehm wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi fact its no cancer wit eh hates aboot it iz thi suicide attempts wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi up up ups wit eh hates aboot it iz thi doon doon doons wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi intensiti wit eh hates aboot it iz thi flatness wit eh luvs aboot it iz thi frogs in thi hallway wit eh hates aboot it iz theyre no real wit eh luvs aboot it aiwiz huz a dark n selfish tinge • Will Collins is studying creative writing at the University of Winchester and says he has written this piece in a strong Glaswgian accent to give it a city feel. Saturday, March 8
Two prose poems by Katrina Naomi
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 08 Mar 2008 06:15 PM GMT
How to Make Lasagne
First, assemble your ingredients. Be sure that all are fresh and the best quality that you can afford. Second, go for a walk. Stroll to the pine forest at the top of the lane. Stay for 30 minutes. Lay down, shut your eyes. 25 minutes. Then, when you are ready, open your eyes, watch clouds separate through the branches. 5 minutes Third, pick out four images that you wish to use. Slowly retrace your steps. Fourth, return to the kitchen. Layer your thoughts. Fifth, put the dish in the oven. Gas mark 5. 30 minutes A Lesson About Spiders, for Traditionalists Don’t pull out their legs, whether one by one or two by two. Don’t tread on, squash or thwack them. Don’t dissect or bisect the spider, that one in the hall, that larger one under the sink. I’m telling you this because I know something about spiders that you don’t – about spiders and about many things. Should you ignore this teaching, you will have the blood of kings, the blood of queens, the blood of the Empire on your hands – for a spider’s blood turns blue at the point of death. • Katrina Naomi is studying for a Creative Writing MA at Goldsmiths. Thursday, March 6
Two poems by Julia Webb
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 06 Mar 2008 07:25 PM GMT
Camping If I could snuff out the world I would, if I could chase away the what once was, if I could glance at a mirror and catch a glimpse | |||
