Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine

Just a couple of random scribblings...

* I read somewhere that Twitter 'tweets' (ie micro blogs) with their limit of 140 characters (including spacing) could be the new haiku format for the digital age.

* If you are interested in the haibun format, I've just started a new haibun group – anyone can join – on the Facebook social networking site. It's called – with apologies to Basho – Narrow Road to the Haibun

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Saturday, March 21

Aeroplanes - a new animation of a poem by Rebecca Goss

by Charles Christian on Sat 21 Mar 2009 10:21 AM GMT

We've another excellent animation for you – this time the poem is Aeroplanes and is by Rebecca Goss. The poem was made into a short film for Liverpool's Poetry in the City Festival 2008. Aeroplanes was a prizewinning poem in The Bridport Prize 2000, with judge George Szirtes described it as having "intelligence, poignancy and sharpness of perception".

* To find out more about Rebecca Goss and read a selection of her poems visit www.poetrypf.co.uk/rebeccagosspage.html

* To find out more about the animator Ealeya visit www.eekfilms.com and www.youtube.com/user/ealeya

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Friday, March 20

Simone Mansell Broome sends a postcard from Crete

by Charles Christian on Fri 20 Mar 2009 02:51 PM GMT

Lizard

A long tailed lizard
darts across melting tarmac,
gone in a tongue flick.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tarmac

The road falls away,
its collapse flanked by bunting,
faded red-and-white warnings

strung from tarnished poles
visible in bright sunlight…
driver, beware of the dark.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Searching for donkeys

Eyestrain,
scanning the horizon
for donkeys,
for goat kids or lambs,
for signs
that nothing changes, that
the old ways
cling, have strong, deep roots.

* Simone Mansell Broome lives in rural West Wales, writes, performs, leads workshops and is a glass half full kind of woman. www.simonemb.com

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Thursday, March 19

Caroline Davies is moving on

by Charles Christian on Thu 19 Mar 2009 01:33 PM GMT

Moving On

At the Calderdale Royal Infirmary
nothing moves, not even her chest.

Peace has descended
like snow carpeting the ground.

Rain throws spats against the window
Nurses move like shadows

A catering trolley comes squeaking past
pauses for a moment to acknowledge the corpse.

* Caroline M. Davies has taken far too long to realise that writing and reading poetry are the things she most enjoys doing. Her poems have won prizes in a number of competitions including King's Lynn writers, Blaenau Gwent, Aber Valley Festival, JBWB and Flashquake.

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Wednesday, March 18

Molly Naylor remembers that night

by Charles Christian on Wed 18 Mar 2009 06:06 PM GMT

That night

I wouldn’t want you to think I’d forgotten that night
I’ve been busy
I’ve had shit to do –
an appointment on Thursday
future ex-husbands to meet
and you know, yoga and

I’m not fucking with you
except for when I’m fucking with you
but I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten that night

I’ve been busy with people I don’t like as much as you
people who don’t think like you
dress like you
sing like you –
in your tone-deaf, extraordinarily bad way
you break stained-glass windows

I haven’t forgotten that night
and this morning I saw icicles melt
the milkman smiled
I swear a dog winked at me
it was all brilliant and it was all a bit like you

I don’t even have a milkman
but over toast I heard something funny on the radio
and I knew that in another, more smug life,
you and me are grinning at the witticism as I pour you more coffee
ceramic smiles as sausages fry, humble

but in this life
it’s just appointments
and the feeling of satisfaction when you lessen your overdraft
or buy new shoes in the sale
or bake bread
or hear Journey
or dance to Meat Loaf in a surreal location;
it’s not a fight
it’s just appointments
and I’m late late late
but I wouldn’t want you to think for a moment
that I’d forgotten that night.

* Molly Naylor is a Norwich-based poet, scriptwriter and puppeteer. She is currently writing her first solo poetry show.

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New collection by IS&T contributor available here

by Charles Christian on Wed 18 Mar 2009 09:22 AM GMT

Over the past couple of years, Helen Pletts has undoubtedly been one of the big finds on the Ink Sweat & Tears webzine. You can now buy Helen's latest collection directly from the Ink Sweat & Tears chapbook shop (payments by PayPal) from as little as £4.99 (inc p&p - UK price) – which we think is the lowest all-in price available anywhere on the web. (Rest of World price £5.99 inc p&p).

The collection – comprising 22 poems – is called Bottle bank and we particularly like the surreal quality of her writing, as it combines the observational everyday with the intimate – and the alien.

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Tuesday, March 17

Timothy Bedford has been visiting the sick

by Charles Christian on Tue 17 Mar 2009 02:38 PM GMT

I Enjoyed That

On Saturday,
the only thing I could do,
was wheel you to the cafe
and buy you the first hot coffee,
you'd felt in weeks.

On the way back to the ward,
we watched fat rabbits in
the garden.

Amidst heavy sloped shoulders,
from a half silenced mouth,
someone's ghost said:

"I enjoyed that."

* Timothy John Bedford says "My mother had a stroke recently, though it seems mercenary, this is what I came up with."

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Monday, March 16

Charles Christian playing the Brighton Fringe

by Charles Christian on Mon 16 Mar 2009 09:08 PM GMT

Tickets have gone on sale today for my one-man, one-night only show during the Brighton Fringe Festival. The location is Fletch at St Andrews, Hove – the date is Tuesday 5th May - the time is 6:00pm. It's called Tales from the Digital Slow Lane and takes the form of a series stories about growing up in a seaside town in the 1960s, failing to find any sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll – and wondering what to do about the bomb beneath my bed.

Tickets cost from £8.00 – call 08444 771000 or online at http://www.fletchatstandrews.com/ – click on Fletch Theatre for more details ... & hope to see you in May

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Terry McKee is thinking about quitting smoking

by Charles Christian on Mon 16 Mar 2009 02:44 PM GMT

The Quitter

As a man of moderation and means, my father credited his success to his strict methodology, which he doled out, circumstantially, in rousing sermons, designed to magnify my poor judgment in taking the low road, while highlighting the benefits of the high road.

In one particularly disappointing episode, obviously trying to hold back his frustration with me, he launched into one of his life-is-what-you-make-of-it speeches, which always came on the cusp of failure and regret. “Don’t be a quitter, Terry. You’ll never get anywhere in life without some stick-to-it-ness.”

“Dad, the coach told me not to come to practice anymore,” I explained.

“Why would he say that?” He looked at me, his head cocked like a confused puppy.

“Maybe because I stink. I’ve only played once in the past fifteen games and neither of us sees the point in continuing. Just chalk it up to another bad experience.” I walked away, leaving him alone, his sermon silenced.

In hind sight, I see my childhood was one bitter pill after another for him to swallow. Growing up with his branding guilt has taught me how to handle letdowns and lament, but I’ve learned that, like beauty, it’s in the eye of the beholder, or simply put, happiness is all about perspective.

However, he’d be pleased to know that I heeded some of his advice. I’ve managed to stick with several things throughout my life; men, my age and cigarettes.

After three marriages, one widowed and twice divorced, commitment has left a bitter taste in my mouth. While I still find men titillating, marriage is reminiscent of a piece of chewing gum, full of flavor for the first fifteen minutes before deflating into a soft wad of displeasure. A new flavor, every now and again, is fun for a spur of moment thing, great for changing things up but not for long lasting enjoyment.

As a woman, it’s my prerogative to be forever more, 35 years old, well, at least for the next ten years. Enough said.

And, like father like daughter, I’ve been smoking for nearly 25 years – oops – 20 years faithfully, until today. Today I quit, and with the help of some mind altering drugs, it’s a relatively painless process. Just to think, stick-to-it-ness is now available, without a prescription, in an easy to swallow pill. My father would be proud. Pity, it wasn’t around when I was a child, nothing like a good drug to cure what ails you.

Now if only my father hadn’t taken his stick-to-it-ness so seriously, God rest his soul.

* Terry McKee lives in southern Florida, with her husband, three dogs, two horses, numerous lizards and six dragon flies.

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Sunday, March 15