Straw Widow
Monday is putting in time,
Tuesday, the longest day,
Wednesday, a frisson –
a swell between my legs
while I track your journey
from industrial estate,
to train, to bigger train;
the final stretch is your walk
from the station to home,
and me: your straw widow.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This Is No Cana
after Stanley Spencer's painting
The wedding breakfast is eaten
and our guests are idling,
there's no handy miracle man
to turn good water to better wine.
My bride is regretful about
the poverty of our feast.
'What can we do?' I say to her,
my mind on our honeymoon:
the raw velvet of her opening,
the soft suck of skin over skin.
'Let them eat cake,' she says,
and I'm glad that I've married her.
* Nuala Ní Chonchúir lives in Galway, Ireland. Her bilingual poetry collection Tattoo:Tatú (Arlen House, 2007) was shortlisted for the 2008 Strong Award. Nuala adds: "Twenty of the poems in English also have Irish versions/translations. In Ireland we call our other language 'Irish'. In Irish it is called 'Gaeilge' (pronounced 'gwayl-ga'). For clarity, and usually only to non-Irish people, we call it Irish-Gaelic. The Gaeltacht is where native Irish speakers live."
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Sunday, August 31
Two poems by Nuala Ni Chonchuir
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 31 Aug 2008 04:34 PM BST
Random news
by
Charles Christian
on Sun 31 Aug 2008 04:21 PM BST
Couple of news stories to report...
* Ariane Koek has decided to resign as the Director of the Arvon Foundation, with effect from 31 December 2008, to further her writing career. We wish her every success. * John Irvine reports that you never know when an opportunity for a commission or publication can spring up: "Folks, one must take opportunity and wring its rotten neck when it raises it's ugly head... recently I booked a rental car over the internet for a short holiday we're planning in Australia early next year. The Australian manager (who has, I have discovered, a very advanced sense of the ridiculous) made contact and asked, after reading some poetry on my website, if I'd write a 'ridiculous' poem for them. The company is called Vroom Vroom Vroom, a name that hooked me straight off. Great people to deal with there too, I can tell you... their website address is www.vroomvroomvroom.co.nz and is well worth a visit. Well, I did write something and you can read it if you go to the Home page above, scroll to the bottom of the page and click on my name. These good folks have even given me my own web page and links to everywhere that matters. You can even purchase one of my books by following a link(s) from this location! How wonderful is that... There are opportunities in all sorts of unlikely nooks and crannies, so keep an eye out. In a nice, hand-blown glass jar for preference." Saturday, August 30
Katrina has been studying sugar packet art
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 30 Aug 2008 06:19 PM BST
sugar packet art
Here's my number. You should call me if you ever get bored. You can ask me to coffee. I'll politely ask you if you had somewhere particular in mind, and you'll probably say no. I'll then begin to list off three or four of my favorite coffee shops and you'll probably say that you don't care and that I should pick. I'll ask what part of town you live in and then choose from there (even though all the coffee shops I named off are all on the same street and are within four blocks from each other). I'll give you directions and then when we're about to hang up, I'll remember that we didn't even set a time. "Hey, hold on!" I'll exclaim. We'll settle on the next day. Probably 2-ish…or 7-ish. I'll leave my house approximately 25 minutes early. I'll bring a book so that when I arrive too early, I can catch up on my reading. I arrive and I'm exactly 12 minutes early. I'll go to the counter and decide that I'll be up all night if I get coffee (we chose 7-ish) and instead, will get some tea. I can't decide whether I want Jasmine or Green tea, so I settle for Black (after ordering, I'll remember that Black tea has almost the same amount of caffeine that coffee has and will wonder why I didn't just get coffee instead). I'll go and sit down on the couch by the window and will try to look sophisticated holding my cup of tea in one hand and holding my book open with the other. Except my fingers are too weak to hold open the book--there are two inches between the page that my pinky holds and the page my thumb holds. I can't read anything and the book is about to close in on my fingers. Fine. I'll put my tea down. I'll be able to finally read, but then I won't be able to read. I'll wonder if I should get up and give you a hug when you come. I'll wonder if you really even want to be here, or if you just gave in because I kind of forced you (well, I didn't force you, I just told you that you should). I'll wonder this, I'll wonder that, I'll wonder here, I'll wonder there…I'll wonder anywhere! Then I'll get upset with myself, realizing how retarded I am. Then you'll walk in (and without question, you'll probably be absolutely beautiful…like always). You'll look around and then you'll see me sitting at the couch by the window. I'll smile at you and say "Hey, how are ya!" but I won't give you a hug. You'll inform me that you will be back and that you are going to order some coffee. I'll pretend to read when you order (still can't read though). You'll come back with Green tea. I'll assume you thought it was too late for coffee too. I'll ask the stupid question I almost always ask, "Did you find the place okay?" Immediately after asking, I'll secretly scowl at my idiotic predictability. You'll probably say that you've passed the place a few times in the past, but have never stopped in. You'll say it's nice and that you like it. I'll say that I'm glad. And I will be. About an hour and a half will pass. I'll probably have a handful of delicious "you" tidbits and you'll probably have a handful of retarded jokes that I have tried to make you laugh with. There probably will be sugar packet art all over my side of the table, or little pieces of ripped-up napkin all over (I can't sit for an hour and a half without playing with something). My throat will start to feel a bit dry from all the talking. I'll wonder what will happen next. That's where you come in. * Katrina is a girl who lives in Denver, Colorado. Katrina spends her time fighting with her cat and crying when she loses the fights. She also enjoys writing non-sequitur letters to non-sequitur strangers, so email her at sellula@gmail.com if interested.
Normal service will soon be resumed
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 30 Aug 2008 02:50 PM BST
Apologies for the lack of postings over the past week – been in Texas with the day job working 18+ hour days with wall-to-wall meetings and receptions – living on adrenalin and tortilla chips – and coping with a 6 hour timezone/jet lag difference. It's dirty work but someone's got to do it – and hopefully I have now collected and destroyed all pictures of me attempting to line dance at Billy Bob's Honky-Tonk in Fort Worth. More to follow...
Monday, August 25
New flash fiction by Brian George
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 25 Aug 2008 12:20 PM BST
SHE PLAYED ME LIKE A STEEL GUITAR Winter trees scrape the cracked sky. Clouds like old bruises mass in the late afternoon. I walk on. She played me like a steel guitar, coaxing out sweet sliding sounds at will, just for the fun of it, for her own amusement. The rough pads of her guitarist’s fingers snagged on my skin, set up a friction. We fought often, drawn back again and again, always with her in control, cool, scoring the movement in ways I didn’t understand. In the street there are houses boarded, steel shutters in place of doors, pebbledash rendering streaked with black. Bin bags spew onto front lawns. A dog eyes me, contemptuous, rasps a bark, runs off. ‘Let’s go away together,’ she’d said. ‘Where?’ ‘Does it matter? Got to move on. Find the new.’ So we went. She knew places, people. They smiled at her, looked away from me. She smiled at me, told me lies, drew out another tune. I danced to it. The crowd applauded. The crescents, the walks, the closes, all spiral away from me. I stop in the middle of the estate. A gang of boys look me up and down, laugh, swagger on, hands in pockets. ‘We’re so good together,’ she’d said. ‘We’ve come so far.’ ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Without you I’m dross.’ I believed her. Wind whips round the corners of this estate. Mudded slush soaks through my boots. More dogs and boys are circling round me, ready to move in for the kill. I heard the sound of a country and western ballad float on the breeze, bright and crushingly sad all at once. She said something into the wind as she waved. Her smile was bright. I thought she was saying good luck, but she was saying goodbye. The clouds close in. * Saturday, August 23
New poetry by Gwilym Williams
by
Charles Christian
on Sat 23 Aug 2008 04:43 PM BST
A couple of months ago (see 15 June posting + cover artwork) we ran a news item about regular IS&T contributor Gwilym Williams' new collection Genteel Messages (Poetry Monthly Press, ISBN 978-1-906357-17-7). About the same time I was reading a book about 'street photography' which argued the point that when the genre first appeared in France in the mid-to-late 19th century, there was a close relationship between the photographs being taken and the 'street poetry' being written by the likes of Baudelaire and Rimbaud. (I know, all go off on a creative writing masters course and discuss.) What particularly appeals to me about this poem from Williams' collection is that reflects that street poetry ethos. Enjoy ...Ed.
On Venice Lido Cargo ships and oil tankers bound for Mestre or Trieste wait patiently in the queue on the long horizon. Here in 1912 Thomas Mann's von Aschenbach fondly gazed upon his handsome hero, the young and noble Tadzio, in his novelette Death In Venice. Today on the Lido there's really not too much to see beyond those monochrome ships parked in the haze and the high up clock on the Hotel des Baines. On the grey sand there's the usual pre-season plethora of plastic and polystyrene Thermovisco is nuzzling with Succo e Polpa Pesca A pigeon pair is inspecting an unzipped can – Stolichno Bock Beer rusting in a twisty rage of net. A miraculous light bulb has washed up – glass unbroken. There's the occasional squawk of a gull out to sea. A spray – Byron's Mediterranee Deodorante – do not expose to naked flame – is corroding at the collar. Half buried I find a Debica Vivo Radial in good condition. Other curiosities: a solitary pickled onion and a pair of welding glasses in Day-Glo orange. A dog floats by; face down; smooth and slick as a seal. On the long grey horizon nothing is moving. On the long beach men are assembling colonies of bathing huts. * Gwilym Williams Friday, August 22
New concrete poetry by Chris Major
by
Charles Christian
on Fri 22 Aug 2008 09:23 AM BST
Ever topical, regular IS&T concrete poet Chris Major has a comment to make on recent reports in the UK press that uninsured drivers are killing more people than ever before...
 Thursday, August 21
New poetry by Kerry Hudson
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 21 Aug 2008 12:22 PM BST
An Economy of Letters
After the phone call my heart turned to blackened honeycomb. With every sore beat it rained Chernobyl snow down on soft unprepared insides. Breathe became a baby. Struggling for enough air to scream out the indignity of helplessness. Loss. Fuck. F o u r letters, brutally succinct. It’s the shock. Drink dark tea. Three sugars. Let the steely sweet coat my tongue. Limbs curl small, jammed between my stove and a wall. A face tilted towards the enduring sky, too relentless for my eyes to assault. It chastens. I become still and mute. The economy of those letters, just a small part of the fullness of life. * Kerry Hudson writes short stories and poems. She is currently working on her first novel in East London in a pile of books and shoes called home. Wednesday, August 20
Tola Ositelu is feeling confident
by
Charles Christian
on Wed 20 Aug 2008 01:09 PM BST
Confidence
It runs ahead of me, makes an announcement And gives a full description Of who I will be In the years to come And I’m still trying to catch My breath I wish I could keep up With my confidence Fall into step and run alongside Instead it delights in Sprinting ahead and jeering When confronted ‘I’ve been here before you were even born’. But should I be ungrateful To such an optimistic friend? After all, it vouches for me But in a way that leaves me afraid That I won’t grow into the hype Come the day It disgruntles folk And they misunderstand ‘Who does she think she is?’ I don’t think anything It’s just who I am. Confidence, mmmm Maybe I should just leave you be Fight my corner Make the introduction Remind the whole world and me Of how secure I am Potentially. * Tola Ositelu was born in South-East London, 1981 to Nigerian and Ghanaian parents. She studied law at university and is currently a trainee solicitor within a local government organisation in North London. Away from the day job she can be found organising, hosting and singing at live music events, seeing as much of the world as her annual leave will allow her, trying to make her mark in the world of music and literary freelance journalism, watching plays and attending various musical and literary events across London. www.tolitasmusings.blogspot.com Tuesday, August 19
Short cuts by Nigel Pickard and Dianne Feaver
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 19 Aug 2008 06:57 PM BST
Shearing Pen
If we don't sheer the woolly buggers they will bleat themselves to death and standing in the pen, we blather on about it until they do. * Dianne Feaver lives in Canada, she's been writing about for 20-ish years and says she prefers formal rhyme but dabbles in free verse – and is currently an artist working in oils. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ LILY, SWIMMING part of this watery other world, a ghost of herself, she glides from one side to the next, the light on the surface like a net she slips through * Nigel Pickard's first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003), his first novel, One, by Bookcase (2005). |
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