A Gemini Thing
It’s a Gemini thing
My secret world
Opposites attract yin and yang
Angel devil lecher priest
Each made more by the other’s being
Hooded serpent fur and fangs writhe
In deadly dance knowing no other way
No mercy for second place
Hungry pack snorting steam claws pawing
Frozen ground the smell of fresh blood
Circling the wounded prey and then
The kill
Cruel nature’s way
But one can’t exist without the other
It’s a Gemini thing my secret world
And I think I like it
• Jim Carson is an architect and aspiring poet and composer living in Atlanta.
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Monday, June 30
Jim Carson says its a Gemini thing
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 30 Jun 2008 04:42 PM BST
Saturday, June 28
Nigel Pickard's seen This Couple
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 28 Jun 2008 09:04 AM BST
THIS COUPLE
who, ten years ago, were so well known in local circles – both feared a little, sniggered at only behind their backs: we were very young – this couple pass us in a fashionable restaurant. They’ve eaten early and, as we arrive, are on their way out, him with his stick, her her own grandmother. We don’t recognise them till they’ve gone. “But they knew us!” you say. “You should’ve seen them look!” • Nigel Pickard's first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003), his first novel, One, by Bookcase (2005). Friday, June 27
Mandy Pannett's not sure about this anniversary
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 27 Jun 2008 08:13 AM BST
ANNIVERSARY
she peeled off the price which he had forgotten to do and cut the red roses free of their cellophane but adding them stem by stem to her crystal vase together with the contents of the sachet attached which promised to keep them fresh she wondered how long they could last • 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. Thursday, June 26
Poets don't fit in - by Ken Head
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 26 Jun 2008 04:55 PM BST
Not Fitting In
No one at the table believes in the helpfulness of gods or poetry. Good-humoured, you sit and chat, replete among emptied plates and glasses, towards a comforting consensus: self-interest is the driver, you agree. The needs of others never feature in your calculations. Why should they? Upstairs, a door slams, sudden raindrops smack against open windows, car wheels sloosh over wet tarmac. Time, as always, is passing. Someone asks why write poetry if there’s no money in it. What good is that? You remember: stone Buddha image so tall it took your breath away, young monk on tiptoe, smiling, arm outstretched towards a golden fingertip. • Ken Head's poetry weblog is at www.listeningforlight.blogspot.com and he'll appreciate your dropping in to browse and maybe leave a comment if you're passing. Wednesday, June 25
John Irvine is looking at life thru the bottom of a martini glass
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 25 Jun 2008 03:46 PM BST
diminishing values
in a world of diminishing values, indistinct goals and flexible boundries it is becoming more difficult to find one single nightmare to commit to utterly in the mauve miasma of pseudo-nightmares and pastel hued marshmallow dreams. I want a proper nightmare throbbing with scarlet promise and tangerine risk. Some otherwhere I can escape to casting aside all my prejudices and petty expectations. Would that be heaven or h e l l John Irvine • John Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor and this should look like a martina glass – should Tuesday, June 24
New poetry by Geoff Stevens
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 24 Jun 2008 06:55 PM BST
LOVERS
This is the vacuum of the day night takes the light and you with your superior tugging strength take the duvet away with your extra lung capacity breathe all my air Please turn down your heartbeats you are ruining my silence upsetting my sleep and your dreams are infringing on my dreams Keep to your own side you're giving me claustophobia your elbows are weird they have four sharp bones on them you're bruising my ribs your snoring's out of tune It's upsetting the regularity of my breathing you'll bring on my angina WHAT NOW! No, I don't feel like it. I don't want a cheese sandwich. You have one if you want one and don't keep asking me things can't you see I'm asleep! • Geoff Stevens is a regular contributor to IS&T – see R/H side-bar for details of his latest collection. Monday, June 23
Three short poems by Rachel Fox
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 23 Jun 2008 05:23 PM BST
Sweet Nothings
You are nothing I am less Let's admit it We're a mess Why one is childish rather than pretentious Because quite enough other people Already do Pretentious So well And so regularly Weirdo Oh, all of us are weirdos It’s odd that, but it’s true And the more you call me ‘weirdo’ The less hope there is for you • Rachel Fox is a regular IS&T contributor and her new collection More about the Song is sitting in my in-tray waiting to be reviewed. Sunday, June 22
Saturday, June 21
New collection by Geoff Stevens
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 21 Jun 2008 06:41 PM BST
Regular IS&T contributor Geoff Stevens has a new collection out – see cover illustration. You can get copies direct from him (price £6-50 + 70p p&p) from 25 Griffiths Road, West Bromwich B71 2EH.
 Friday, June 20
Bottle Bank by Helen Pletts
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 20 Jun 2008 02:59 PM BST
Bottle Bank
A lean trousered scrabble; Pressed aside the green-breast-curve, toe-tipped Arched form a-gape reaching, Visage-crimson-cold. A jagged white slit creases the cheek; And the human bright-blue-eye Echoes love lost, the pricelessness of heart; Scattered, like the glass shards You hopelessly filter. Your stick twists But it won't stretch, nor grasp without prehensile Tendency, the bottle's neck. • Helen Pletts was born in the UK but has lived in Prague in the Czech Republic for the last four years. She says "My experience of living here has provided me with most of the inspiration for my current writing. The man I wrote the poem about is still alive, although he seems to always be drunk. He leans in to the bottle bank to get the bottles that may not have smashed on their way down – tries to retrieve them with his stick – then takes them to the supermarket for the returns money. I thought he would perish the winter I first saw him doing this - either from falling in head first, or from the extreme cold – minus 20+ on some days (winter 2005) so I gave him some money – this was right at the point I looked closely into his eyes and realised that he was struggling with something else maybe – the something else that had driven him to trying to drink himself to death. His eyes were the most incredible blue. I couldn't get home fast enough to write the poem." |
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