IN A STRANGE TOWN
How unfamiliar.
A motel like a one room house I broke into.
Television, three local channels,
feel like I'm stealing another city's news.
A meal in a diner.
Waitress, cook, act like they're begrudgingly
opening up the kitchen for me.
They take my money
but, as I pass it over,
it seems like foreign notes and coins.
I almost apologize for that being all I have.
And there's strangers on the streets enough
to cut a furrow in the brow.
I don't know these people. They don't me.
Never were strangers more an imposition.
I stare in windows of stores I'll never see again,
wasting their displays.
I cross streets with the flashing "Walk"
though if a car hit me it wouldn't matter
because nobody could tell the cop my name.
I return to the room I find only by its number
for its carpet, shades, would never call to me.
Weird colored sheets and blankets. Odd wallpaper.
Off comes my coat and shoes.
Down to something I'm surprised
an alien mirror says is me.
Maybe if I call home.
Maybe if I watch the tremor of my hand
as it wraps around the receiver,
like my nerve ends are trying to
reconstruct me from scratch.
A familiar voice could stake me
to some blueprints.
• John Grey is from Providence, Rhode Island, and has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal.
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Thursday, July 31
John Grey is in a strange town
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 31 Jul 2008 05:28 PM BST
Tuesday, July 29
Frances Gapper has a different perspective on buddleia
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 29 Jul 2008 10:02 AM BST
BUDDLEIA
It’s hot and the buddleia’s out, flourishing in waste ground, along the railway embankments. Mauve and that rarer dark purple. It waves in the wind like penises, if penises were made of tiny flowers, if they waved in the wind. I remember my mother in the back garden, sniffing the buddleia, exclaiming. I was five at most, but I felt embarrassed. Now I reach for the buddleia and draw it to my nose. • Frances Gapper writes very short stories and poems. Monday, July 28
Three shortcuts
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 28 Jul 2008 03:11 PM BST
We've got three short pieces for your today – by Matt Howard, Janet Thorning and a prose poem by IS&T editor Charles Christian...
Totem Dreaming of magpies all night, I heard one; he chaked and chaked until I woke. When I pulled the curtain aside to look he’d fucked off, leaving some drinker’s kebab. • Matthew Howard works in the insurance industry in Norwich and is also taking an MA in creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ When Darkness Overwhelms the Soul Though the bullet only nicked my flesh Though my blood only poured a little Though the doctor said I would be fine Though the nurses told me how lucky I was Though the cab driver said his brother was shot and killed Though the landlady says she’ll make me chicken soup with matza balls Though my bed is warm and the sheets are clean Though I can see the moon I still feel like dying. • Janet Thorning will complete her long awaited novel soon. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ THE MORNING AFTER Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, walking in to work from an unfamiliar direction. The subtle ache of unexpected physical exertion. The taste on your skin of a stranger’s sweat. The irrepressible smile that lights up your face, each time you rewind and replay the events of the previous 12 hours. • Charles Christian wakes up every morning and thanks the gods of creative writing that he never applied for arts council or any other type of public funding, as his days would now be spent dealing with pointless bureaucratic red-tape. Sunday, July 27
Poet Laureates
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 27 Jul 2008 06:59 PM BST
While we wait in the UK to find out who will become the next Poet Laureate – the betting is on Simon Armitage or Carol Ann Duffy or Roger McGough – here's a reading and interview with Kay Ryan, who has just been appointed to the laureateship in the US. The US appoint a new laureate on an annual basis – in the UK it used to be for life (Alfred, Lord Tennyson held the post for 46 years) however the current Poet Laureate Andrew Motion accepted the post in 1999 for a ten year term.
Saturday, July 26
Calling all IS&T artists
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 26 Jul 2008 08:37 PM BST
Words is great but we'd like a few more pictures – they can be paintings, sketches, graphics, photographs (including photographs of works created in other media) – to illustrate the site. We've already got Chris Major with his concrete poems and Alexis Rotella with her haiga as regular contributors, and we've also had welcome contributions by Maggie West, Rachel Fox and Geoff Stevens – but we would like more.
So please – please – all feel free to submit examples of your work – ideally as a JPEG file (don't worry about the size, we can adjust that here) – and, as ever, you retain full copyright in your work.
Chris Major looks at the UK smoking ban
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 26 Jul 2008 08:11 AM BST
 • Chris Major is a regular contributor of concrete poems to IS&T Friday, July 25
New poetry by Sara Crowley
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 25 Jul 2008 06:13 AM BST
Flames
They say ‘She’s out of control.’ ‘Someone should do something.’ They phone social services, who send nice women with too quiet voices to soothe and help. They go away again, smiling, satisfied that their sensible advice has made a difference. How lovely for them. The last one – ‘Just call me Mimi, my name is too difficult for you to pronounce,’ suggested that I express myself in another way. Stop punishing myself, stop the cut and slice relief, give myself a break. So I have. Petrol and one match, simple. Flames! Licking, zagging, spreading. Spitting burns. Out of control. • Sara Crowley blogs at http://asalted.blogspot.com/ Wednesday, July 23
Julia Bohanna is carrying out some restoration
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 23 Jul 2008 08:55 AM BST
RENOVATION
Blisters of her green paint ruptured wet under my nail like fat bladders of seaweed. The God of all Mildew had blown bird's egg speckles and flown. Whoever dressed her, has left her he said. Sea licked the beach beyond as I watched them take down For Sale. Puckers of wallpaper fell to the flash of our knives like flakes of her skin. An angry nettle army bent its head passing news of incomers and the dead to the salt wind. Be sure to hack away her past, he said. Make sure nothing survives. Skeleton children laughed in every room. We danced to the music of bones and stroked each warming wall, loving it all, Hoping not to finish too soon. Then we laid on paint thick as a geisha ritual. Pressing seeds into fresh soil, those imprints of us. Small hands will one day touch her, we said. The sea still kisses the curving coast and I sweep whispers of dust from lofty unloved places as our own whispers fade. At night we listen to settling sighs, shiver about children that might have been. There is nothing else to do. All is well here except us with nothing left to do. • Julia Bohanna says "I'm new to this poetry lark, but I have fooled people into believing I am a good short story writer. Enough to give me prizes!" and adds "Making it up is the best way to be… spontaneous, that rush of panic that makes you feel alive. Planning is for duller, less creative souls!" Tuesday, July 22
Frances Gapper engages in some light conversation
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 22 Jul 2008 04:24 PM BST
LIGHT CONVERSATION
Fiona over the road asked me would I please stop shining a light (my reading lamp) through her bedroom window. She said, it's like a searchlight and these new lamp-posts are the wrong ones she added the council will have to replace them. It might be the angle you're shining it at. Thanks for letting me know, I said. • Frances Gapper writes very short poems and stories. Monday, July 21
Vanessa Gebbie is watching the reeds
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 21 Jul 2008 04:09 PM BST
REED
There are babies growing in the reed beds again. They grow in cocoons like the nests of harvest mice, a little looser in the weave. The cocoons have been swelling since the spring; the first frosts have come and gone but the cold will be back. I feel it on the wind. The welcome boards at nature reserves have posters attached, headed ‘Advice’. Should you stray off the path, do not make eye contact with the foetuses. Of course, I’m still walking there. I did yesterday. I stopped a while in one of the hides. Many cocoons had burst; the air filled with thistledown. Below me, the water was as still as glass. And under the water, babies. Curled up tight, thumbs in mouths, floating under the surface, turning lazily as though breathed on by an unseen current. Then I strayed from the path. A cocoon was bursting. A male child grasped a reed with one fist. Crying, a high sound. Below him, the water. Waiting. I’m far, far too old for this. But it is done; I did not let him drop. I put him under my jacket, naked against my skin. And on the way home, I sang. • Vanessa Gebbie's debut collection of short fiction is longlisted for the Frank O'Connor Award. |
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