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." |
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