Review - Paul Brookes - These Random Acts of Wildness / Othernesses

Review - Paul Brookes - These Random Acts of Wildness / Othernesses

Paul Brookes is a writer, local historian, genealogist, photographer, shop assistant and grandfather. He is editor of the Wombwell Rainbow interviews, reviews and poetic challenges, and has many published poems and several chapbooks. For more, go to www.thewombwellrainbow.com. 

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Paul has published these two books of poetry simultaneously. They are a result of writing a sonnet a day, inspired to do so by fellow Barnsley poet Ian MacMillan. Sonnets are not straightforward, but they sit nicely in the Venn diagram of narrative, lyric and imagistic and, when used skilfully, can be a powerful weapon in the poet's arsenal. You can tell a story, but it can't ramble. It can be all imagistic, or employ images within it. It can be used as a snapshot that encapsulates an idea. In these publications we see how Paul uses this form in multiple ways.

I am reviewing these together (at Paul's request) as they are linked. I will begin with "These Random Acts of Wildness", a set of 38 poems that are grouped by mini-themes. Nature, housework, childhood and school, and observations in a churchyard. The last group, each describing the life of people randomly next to each other in the graveyard, are a conclusion of the theme of death that runs through the other sections and is signalled by the angel statue beautifully illustrated by Jane Cornwell on the front cover. Randomness is a theme too, and as humans our desperate attempts to find some sort of order to the chaos of the world.

There are many excellent poems here - I like "Cemetery Swallows" - a poem about life and death intertwining and life continuing after we go. 

Flash their white underside as they curl in
wards, vital boomerangs spinning back on
themselves, snatch flitting small meals in a spin

I identify very much with Paul's memories of schooldays in a working class area where being clever and shy made you an outsider.   

Our parents want, work towards best for us.
We are separate in distinctiveness.

The descriptions of the mundane are very good, inhabiting the soul of the vacuum cleaner and iron, observing nature at a microscopic level.

This is a fabulous collection that requires, and deserves, multiple readings. It uses plain language, including dialect where needed, but also stretches into difficult and complex images. 

Othernesses is a companian piece that is published by, and contains, beautiful drawings by Jane Cornwell. The combination of sonnets and art is terrific and adds to what is a superb collection of poems. Many of them are about insects, or sea life, and introduce us, briefly, to the brief lives of these creatures that share our planet. Despite being all around us, they are strange, they are "other". We don't really understand how they think, or what drives them other than some nebulous concept of "instinct". We, as supposed higher beings, are always thinking about everything and believe we make most of our decisions after considered thought. Perhaps this collections suggests we don't - viewed on a larger scale our lives are brief. We search for food, sex, perhaps some kind of fulfilment, and then we die.

'Earwigs' is a good example - it shows the birth, upbringing and eventual leaving of the nest of this familiar insect (or is it familiar? - when was the last time I saw one? I used to see them all the time as a boy. Maybe I've stopped looking.) It refers to the female as "Mam", which is a great way to draw you into the poem.

We crawl out of our eggs and eat them
Mam guards us against those who would eat us,
feeds us what she's caught or found, dead stems,
hard and soft shelled, rotted out of darkness.

As a side note, this stanza shows us the effort Paul puts into his rhymes - this is a pattern throughout the book. The mix of full and half rhymes keeps the poems from sounding the same. 

This mother is cruel - she will kill and eat any young who don't leave so she can move on to the next brood. While this is extreme, there will be people who recognise this rejection if their mother finds a new man, a new family. 

Even home is temporary. All fleet.
I hide in darkness, wings folded and neat. 

Someone asked the other day to define poetry as opposed to just speaking or writing. This book would be a fantastic example. I replied as a quick and incomplete response - "rhythm, concise language, pointing out things that people may not otherwise see, but recognise."

Just when you think Paul has created a complete collection of insect sonnets like some Victorian collector, pinning them one at a time onto a board, he throws in some poems about him, his ancestors, and indeed ourselves.

There are about 70 sonnets in "Othernesses" so it takes time and multiple readings to absorb them all. Along with "These Random Acts of Wildness" they form a formidable collection of beautifully constructed fourteen liners (one or two may be shorter!). Vivid, detailed, and interesting. Get them both if you can.

"These Random Acts of Wildness" is published by Glass Head Press and is available directly from the author. Contact Paul on Twitter @PaulDragonWolf1 or by email paulbrookes07@gmail.com

"Othernesses" is published by Jane's Studio Press

Review - Sally Jenkinson - Pantomime Horse, Russian Doll, Egg

Review - Sally Jenkinson - Pantomime Horse, Russian Doll, Egg

 

Sally Jenkinson was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. She has been writing and performing poetry across the UK for more than a decade, and has also written and performed internationally in Sweden, Iceland and Australia.

Her work has recently been featured in The Morning Star, Lighthouse Journal, Emerge Lit Journal, The #MeToo Anthology from Fairacre Press, and on BBC Radio 4’s ‘Power Lines’.

She is a care worker and community arts producer, and is currently working towards her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Gloucestershire.

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I recently reviewed Helen Mort's "The Illustrated Woman", which was a broad ranging look at women and how they and others viewed their bodies. Part of it was about childbirth, but in this pamphlet Sally does a deep dive into her specific childbirth experience, in all its gory, frightening and magical detail. Reading this I felt at times a bit like Ewan McGregor's character in Trainspotting when he goes into the filthy toilet to get his drugs. I felt like I was going head first into a birthing pool, drowning in various fluids, to get to the poetry. I, of course, have never experienced childbirth in person and I did miss our first (I was in America for work and he decided he wanted to come 4 weeks early) but the other two were relatively routine once we'd reached the hospital. Actually I really must write about the journey to Jessop's on 29th January 1990 - but that's for another day, get back to the review!  

It starts with the early stages, with a prose-poem "Pantomime Horse" that uses the stages of labour as a start point for short prose pieces that poetically reflect the very matter-of-fact descriptions of each stage of birth. 

Then the setting up of the birthing pool. In the very short poem Birth Plan (this is most of it), Sally writes

I hope to do this at home
because hospitals are choked with ghosts

Spoiler alert - the home birth plan is thwarted and the poem Hospital Transfer explores the moment that the plan changes.

No bone-old fears can compare to this.

Wagons roll says the parademic.

In hospital the poems become increasingly frantic, giving a sense of disorientation and hallucination as memories mix with the reality of the situation the soon-to-be mother is in. The poem Forensics breaks out of the panic and views some less than pleasant memories of men, as the doctor reaches between her legs. I won't spoil the ending, but the last line of this one is very sharp indeed. 

Once the baby is out safely the poems soften and the final one, The Goddess Myth, is a lovely reflection of the joy and relief. 

Your tiny hands, your tiny ears, your tiny wail
                I won't write a poem for another year
You're the best thing I've ever made
    One day you'll ask me a question I can't answer

This isn't an easy read and it may be best to avoid it if you're about to give birth for the first time. Save it for afterwards. It's full of brilliant images and swaps poetic styles and rhythms effortlessly. the poems change shape; there are found poems, imagistic poems, narrative and lyric, and there's even space for a Golden Shovel. 

This is a very creative and visceral work, a fine poet writing about her experiences in a vivid and challenging way. Highly recommended.

"Pantomime Horse, Russian Doll, Egg" is published by Burning Eye Books www.burningeye.co.uk

Pole To Pole

A poem written in response to a Paul Brookes format challenge, this is a mirror poem. It reads the same forwards and backwards. 

 

Pole To Pole

 

Palin is legendary.
Pole to Pole
ice packed
travelling relentlessly
days and nights, through biting insects (and deserts),
people smiling about unsure animals,
borders crossed
- equator -
crossed borders,
animals unsure about smiling people!
Deserts, and insects biting, through nights and days
relentlessly travelling
packed ice
Pole to Pole.
Legendary is Palin.

 

 

 

Image by PIRO from Pixabay

Review - Matthew M.C. Smith - The Keeper of Aeons

Review - Matthew M.C. Smith - The Keeper of Aeons

Matthew M. C. Smith is a Welsh writer from Swansea. He is a three times-nominated 'Best of the Net' writer (Icefloe Press 2020, Acropolis Journal 2022 and Broken Spine 2022), a Pushcart Prize nominee (Broken Spine 2022) and R.S. Thomas prize winner (Gwyl Cybi). Matthew is widely published in presses such as Poetry Wales, Barren Magazine, iambapoet, The Lonely Crowd, Icefloe Press, Arachne Press, Finished Creatures and Broken Spine Arts.

Matthew published Origin: 21 Poems in 2018 and The Keeper of Aeons in Autumn 2022.

He studied for a PhD on the subject of Robert Graves and Wales at Swansea University, completing this in 2006. He is academically published in the International Journal of Welsh Writing in English.

​Matthew writes about landscape, history, identities, family and cosmology.

He is the editor of Black Bough poetry, a project created in 2019 to promote imagist micropoetry. He is the originator and organiser of  weekly poetry fest @TopTweetTuesday on Twitter and the Silver Branch  that platforms amazing writers.

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The Keeper of Aeons is a wide-reaching, evocative and ambitious combination of prose and poetry that, as its title suggests, spans our past and future via a brief interlude in the life of a young Matthew Smith.

In the short, one poem, prologue the observer in the International Space Station looks down and wonders if love exists outside that orbit. And indeed, what love even endures on that globe?

Part One, Aeons, is also short. It looks at the past and future, sets the scene for the rest of the collection. Bones of ancient people in a museum, astronauts stepping into a gleaming rocket.

Part Two, Ancient Navigations, takes us through the ages via the ancient caves, crags and bones of Wales. There are so many fabulous images here that it's hard to pick examples. In fact I opened pages at random and stuck my finger on a poem or prose piece and pulled out these:

Fires danced, shadows on the hill,
Tongues lost before bones   (Bryn Celli Ddu)

Flies scud in half-light
glint in glacier-ruins
where minnows flicker
in golden shadows   (Henrhyd Falls/Annwn)

The rich, dense imagery is like a jungle of words, almost overwhelming in its fecundity. But once you start picking your way through you find so much to love. There are echoes here of two Thomases - Dylan and R.S. - unsurprising perhaps as almost every Welsh poet will have them in their DNA. Yet Matt's writing is also like neither of them.

There is a deep affection and reverence here for landscape and history, a feeling that the stones, paths and hills are somehow alive, or at least that they hold some part of every living thing that has touched them.  

One of my favourites is the long prose piece 'Fixing the Hyperdrive' - it takes us briefly from the ancient to the (relatively) modern with a boy and his love of Star Wars and his ability to use a second hand Millennium Falcon to fire his imagination. There are lovely memories of early 1980s childhood in this poem, and it grounds us before the leap into part three of the collection. But of course, as with earlier references to rockets and space, it points us to where we are going.

Star Fields vividly brings back my memories of looking at the Milky Way in the pitch dark skies of Northern Queensland. The sheer scale, that humbles you and makes you question the meaning of existence. 

Part Three, Heaven's Territories, takes into a distant future where things may not be as gleaming as the rockets that we fire towards the equally luminous stars. The future is consequential, but it is not yet written. 

The concluding poem, 'What is Faith?' begins

It is knowing that nothing matters
that there is nothing else

but the dance of dust
around our bodies

and the speed
of light, impossibly fast

and far, which knows
no pain, an arrow without sentience.

Again, this section contains remarkable imagery, but the poems are shorter, more concise, taking us to a conclusion in style. 

This collection is a technical tour de force in imagistic prose and poetry that achieves its very ambitious target to take us on a journey through time and space unlike no other.  He should be very proud of this - now the question is - where does he go from here? I can't wait to find out. 

'The Keeper of Aeons' is available from The Broken Spine website.

In Sepia

Photo is of the Glaswegian soldier John Gardner White, age of death listed as 20. Photo courtesy of the Imperial War Museum.

Lieutenant John Gardner White © IWM (HU 127373)

 

A war poem written as a half-rhyme exercise at Read 2 Write and inspired by Wilfred Owen (of course) and by the wonderful WW2 anti-war song Bomber's Moon by Mike Harding.  

In Sepia

As grey light filters through the misty dawn
we rise from mud where we had hunkered down
and make that climb to face the greedy shells,
the bullets that await the whistle's shrill.
Where men face sorrow lost in cooling blood;
on wire, in holes where other men have bled.
Oh mother, father, let your hearts be broken
and then with grief for me you may be stricken.
For grief you will not find a remedy
a long held portrait is your memory.
You filled with pride the day that I was called
and in that frame my face will not grow old.

Review - Helen Mort -The Illustrated Woman

Review - "The Illustrated Woman" by Helen Mort

 

Helen Mort is an award-winning author based in Sheffield. She has published full collections of poetry, a novel and also writes drama and creative non fiction. She has been shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize and Costa Prize and won the Fenton Aldeburgh Prize in 2015. She is a Senior Lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University.

At a more personal level for me, she was Derbyshire Poet Laureate and founded the Spire Writes poetry night in Chesterfield, which I attend. 

Helen came as guest reader to Spire Writes in 2022 to read from her latest collection, The Illustrated Woman. 

This is a superbly crafted collection, full of concise writing, by turns gentle, fascinating, disturbing, challenging and occasionally wry and humourous. The title and the front cover give a hint about the overall theme of the novel, and the visual images that certainly drive the first section, "skin". Helen herself has a number of tattoos (although not as many as on the cover illustration!) and, through these, she explores her own identity and that of women in general. In particular, she references the women who came before her - her mother, grandmother and her great-grandmother. In the beautiful poem "Precious" she describes the ring that has been passed between those women, wrapped around each of those fingers:

Birmingham bright, silver of the Jewellery Quarter
this ring is the ribcage of my great grandmother,

is the concrete pipes on the building site
where my gran played chicken as a child...

The poems in this section explore society's views of women with tattoos, both now and in the past. Helen writes from a deeply personal perspective yet skillfully brings that perspective to people who aren't inked themselves.

I have to admit a personal liking for a poem in this section, "Love Poem" that is set on the Chesterfield Canal that is not directly linked to tattoos, unless you count painting Fuck Off on a wall as a kind of tattoo. I have walked and run there many times and the images are perfect. 

"The Nurse" describes an exquisitly British awkward moment in a clinic as blood is taken.

"On Permanence" is a fabulous prose-poem that closes the section perfectly, explaining without explaining. 

The second section, "skinless" takes us on a journey though childbirth and the joys of small children. In "Pip", there's this fabulous stanza

I placed my hand on my stomach
as if I could already feel the growth
inside me, tiny as an orange seed,
a burrowed pip, near-weightless, citrusy.

"Into the Rucksack" takes us to the world of the dad-to-be classes, a sharp piece aimed at men clumsily attempting to empathise with pregant women. 

There are so many lovely natural images in this section once it gets to and past the birth - sheep, owls, bears, berries. Too many to even pick a fair selection to show you. Towards the end of the section things turn a touch darker, a portent of what's to come.

The last section, "skinned" opens with a brutal, unadorned sequence called "The Valley" about the porn industry in the US - some of the participants are tattooed, but everything is exposed. The sad story of August Ames, the brutality of the casting couch, the mundane grimness of the porn shoot.

August Ames was found hanging from a tree in LA, a day after getting bullied off social media for refusing to participate in a sex scene with a man who had done gay porn (I had to look this up). 

Helen had her own horrific experience with online deep fakes and she covers this expertly in "Deepfake: a pornographic ekphrastic". After these two poems have metaphorically punched you in the gut there's a long prose (prose-poem?) piece about an expedition in the wilds of Greenland. It's empty, beautiful, unsettling and a place the writer can almost, but not quite, escape from the turmoil back home.

Perhaps you have often felt yourself watched. Perhaps you were right. 

From a distance you might think she was enjoying herself

The poem Clematis Montana is a heartbreaking poem about her mother - she used to catch little Helen out with the which is heavier - a tonne of bricks or a tonne of feathers? riddle.

She'd laugh. There's no difference. Now her limbs
are tricking her. Her body was a house.
Now it's made of feathers.

The rest of the poems are more reflective and the collection ends with the flawless, tender, love (in its purest sense) poem "Dear Body", that circles back round from "Precious". It describes Helen helping her mum to shower. Their bodies, their skin, reconnecting as they did when Helen was a child. Beautifully written.  

Close up, her skin more tanned
than mine, a dark mole

growing on her temple
right where my grandma's is

her elegant, arthritic hands,
garden-blunt fingernails.

The whole collection deserves multiple readings - on each read through you find a line, an image, a thought that eluded you before. It is a serious piece of work, thematically very solid, technically excellent and extremely thought provoking. 

"The Illustrated Woman" is published by Chatto & Windus and is widely available online.  

Paul Brookes format challenge weeks 1-26

 

The first 6 months of Paul Brookes' weekly format challenge. Each week suggests a different poetic form. Some of the formats appeal, some don't and some definitely don't suit my style. But it's a good intellectual challenge, it kept me writing when I'd gone off the boil and sometimes you get one that really works.

Week 1 - Sestina

Rolihlahla

You took your long walk to freedom
inside your cell of twenty seven years.
Did you, alone in all your darkest nights
ever lose your will and give up hope?
Close your eyes and wish to never wake?
Or did you always know the dawn would come?

Rolihlahla, how did you come
to be the one to lead your land to freedom,
shake the branches of the tree and wake
the world that let you rot for all those years?
Become the one who gave us hope
that sunny days can follow darkest nights.

In your tiny room, alone at night,
did visions of a new land come
and go, new ideas, plans, and hopes?
Dreams of millions yearning freedom
after grinding years
of servitude and pain. Could you wake

the fervour that once kept you awake
when like a shadow in the night
you poked your rulers for so many years?
You knew that one day they might come
and smash your door, steal your freedom
for a final time, their cruel hope

was to extinguish any hope;
hold no funeral, no wake,
just a fist to crush your freedom
so they could sleep at night
and when their morning came
their power would be safe for all their years.

But you knew better; twenty seven years
their game was up and hope
had won the day, you came
exultant from the open gates, no longer weak
or chained, the bravest knight
had slain a dragon, given back their freedom.

Freedom springs from hope
when years pass like nights
and, when we wake, a fresh dawn comes

Week 2 - Acrostic

Blood Roar

Mouth that roars in blood,
Ignites a flame, burns slowly,
Gathers its own momentum.
Under the heel of the oppressor
Each must speak their own blood,
Light their own flame.

He spoke in blood and fire,
Expected nothing, hoped for more.
Raged like the wounded bull,
Never healed his wounds.
Armed himself with words.
Never held back his love.
Death crept slowly to his door,
Entered and stole his soul. Only
Zeal and love remained. 

Autumn

Assume, just once, that Autumn
U-turned at December's lukewarm
Touch. No friendly bienvenu,
Unfeeling cold its only gift.
Maybe time could turn and say adieu;
Neverending, sweet and golden Autumn aura.

Week 3 - Pantoum

White Giant

We watch them, fascinated by their skin,
their odd-shaped head and tiny eyes.
Slowly munching, grass and brush,
unimpressed by what they saw. 

Their odd-shaped head and tiny eyes
watching us, though nearly blind,
unimpressed by what they saw -
these weird two-legged freaks!

Watching us, though nearly blind,
do they know that, on these trucks,
these weird two-legged freaks
are the biggest danger in their world?

Do they know that, on these trucks,
we don't hide the fact that we
are the biggest danger in their world,
and yet their fate seems sealed. 

We don't hide the fact that we
try our best to save them all
and yet their fate seems sealed;
because we have no answer.

Try our best to save them all?
We slowly drive into the dusk.
Because we have no answer,
another species slips away

their odd shaped heads
their tiny eyes
their missing horn

Week 4 - Alphabet

Maneuvers

Armies are out on maneuvers
Battlefield lines being drawn
Constantly under bombardment
Death and disease is the norm

Each soldier has their own home town
Families waiting for news
God gets his quota of prayers
Hoping there's nothing to lose

In wishing for intervention
Just protection to bring them home
Kill or be killed is the mantra
Leaves scars running deep to the bone

Moved like pawns on a chess board
Nudged forward one space at a time
Or sacrificed one for another
Pretending it isn't a crime.

Queens and Kings, bishops and castles
Rulers might finally fall
Simply replaced by another
That wishes revenge for them all

Until more young soldiers are ready
Victory lies the refrain
When hatred gets the blood flowing
Xenophobia wins once again.

Youth watches its blood leak away
Zealots thrive while families pray.

Week 5 - Dizain

Shining Road

From clouded mountain, prison cells and wine
we shared the driving on the shining road.
Salt tang our taste as senses intertwine;
a taste of loss, of flux, as asphalt glowed
where time slipped by and memories grew cold.
The Great Whites drifted ever South, as we,
our compass pointed to the East, broke free
where mountain passes, plains and fields pretend
that they care nothing for the dying sea
and we both knew where this hard road might end.

Week 6 -Sijo

Park

We walk as autumn sun retreats, softly warming leaf strewn paths
Zig-zag the mossy nailed-wood fence. Sunlight glints on many eyes;
Hyena smile, tigers yawn, lions stretch out, meerkats stand tall.

Week 7 - Bob and Wheel

Halloween

Pumpkins
in fogged October skies
weird lop-sided grins
gleaming with Devil's eyes.
Such darkness hides within.

Week 8 - Awdl Gywydd

Bins

Do you miss the old black bins?
all rubbish in, no sifting?
No purple/green confusion;
what day's it on? Unsporting!

How much did we throw away
on every day, not caring
that we leave such dirty tracks;
our planet cracks, despairing. 

Week 9 - Bref Double

Gone

I try to follow in her tracks
they melt and disappear
I don't know if it's love or not,
except inside my head.

I try to follow scents and trails
with senses that I lack
but she is nowhere to be found;
I feel a constant dread

and search in all her favourite spots;
the places she once loved.
The cafes, river walks and cliffs;
I read the books she read.

But words will never bring her back
from sprouting grass where flowers rot. 

Week 10 - Trinitas

Antiwoke antibiotics

You need to sort that out, he said,
it looks bit too red

                                                                            I laughed, another project fear
                                                                            like Covid, climate change. Misled!

                                   
but I thought it would disappear
and now I'm stuck in bed.

                                                                            The earth is warming, is it hell!
                                                                            it's 'flu', we should just chill

There's yellow pus in there as well
and I'm starting to feel ill 

                                                                            My immunity will save me, cock
                                                                            I'm not a soft snowflake

Don't worry said the smiling doc
I'll sort it with a pill 

                                                                            But we've been lazy, we forget
                                                                            the pain of past mistakes.

                                                                           

Week 11 - Blitz Poem

Pride and Honour

Wear your badge       
Wear it with pride   
Pride is passion       
Pride should not divide   
Divide the people       
Divide the world by fear
Fear drives us all   
Fear keeps them in power
Power is darkness                       
Power in the hands of  liars and criminals           
Criminals and murderers hiding in plain sight               
Criminals with a smiling mask               
Mask their actions with a               
Mask of Godliness
Godliness counts for nothing when                   
Godliness makes lives worse                   
Worse in body                       
Worse in spirit                       
Spirit can and will be crushed           
Spirit that could shine a light           
Light on your smashed door               
Light that blinds your eyes                   
Eyes covered while other                            
Eyes  watch you through darkened dystopian windows           
Windows are absent where you are taken       
Windows would let you see
See into your inner being            
See the pumping of your blood           
Blood of your land                   
Blood of your sex                   
Sex is wicked                       
Sex is your shame                   
Shame is the bedrock of our being       
Shame bears down on your body like a stone           
Stone measures the depth of their hate       
Stone them all 
All who fail to follow               
All who do not comply               
Comply                    
Comply  now                           
Now is the time to act           
Now or  never                       
Never is a very long time           
Never to see your family again           
Again we  watch and hope that          
Again the world will show honour       
Honour your courage                       
Honour will bring respect                   
Respect              
Courage

Week 12 - Curtal Sonnet

Christmas

Cold withers us and skies grow heavy grey;
the nights draw dark and winter's hand takes hold
of children in their fleecy coats and gloves

who long for time to pass 'til Christmas Day.
They play their parts with gifts of scents and gold
in stories from the Holy Land relived. 

But do these stories have a message now?
A planet torn by war, our conscience cold?
How can a deity who sits above

convince all people that they must allow
capacity for love?

Week 13 - Haiku Sonnet

City Winter

Skies darken early
Frost sparkles in city lights
Gentle sleet falling

Clouds clear, moon peeks through
Air still, cold, hardens the ground
Dresses cars in white

Padding in fresh snow
Footprints stop; keen pink nose sniffs
Cat finds a way home

Hiding in shadow
Sleeping on merciless streets
Wrapped in old newsprint

Stars and planets still revolve
The morning sun can't wake him

Week 14 - Golden Shovel

Ruins

When a civilisation falls, we observe these
events from distance; see reflections, find fragments
of lives that leave ghost-shadows. Lives that you or I
can't comprehend, rocks and dust and skeletons that have
stopped dancing. We fail to see ourselves; we have shored
our own minds against death. We try to push against
the forces of time and space. Where is my
salvation now? What thoughts are left but ruins?

Chickens

So.

You wanted so much 

to see the Himalayas. Your mind depends

on stimulation, upon

the lived experience that only a 

trip to the mountains, or a red 

desert can fulfil; the constant turning of a wheel.

On seeing the long barrow,

your eyes glazed 

with tears, you said I should never have come with 

you, that I brought only rain

where sun should be. And here we are; a glass of water

with the many pills on the table beside 

the bed where I lie, where you lie. You say that the 

 

sheets seem very clean and white

but you have to go; you need to feed your chickens.

Week 15 - Rhupunt

Heavens

A setting sun
whose work is done
lets colours run
from dark of night

The ancient stars
shine from afar
a sky of tar
timeless delight

The planets show
their route they know
a steady glow
from dim to bright

They mark our days
our months, our ways
and always stay
within our sight

Week 16 -  Virelai

The Monster

When there is no shame
and it's all a game
of personal fame
and lies
it is we who pay
when they hide away
and we know that they
despise
the people they con
by fake lexicon
while their eyes are on
the prize

With his empty eyes
he'll appear to try
to apologize
but he
has an empty heart
while he plays his part
rips some lives apart
with glee.
But what can we do
to point out what's true
as he laughs at you
scot-free.

Week 17 - Katuata

Fish

Plunge into cold sea.
A soul is cleansed. Will silver
darting fish flee or stay?

Cantona

When sardines aren't thrown
into the sea do seagulls
follow you or become lost?

Desert

White elephants stand
in the desert. Watch the past
fade. Will the blood ever dry?

Rocks

If I fall and crash
onto these salty sharp rocks
will you finally move on?

Week 18 -  Rinnard

Cold Wind Howling

A cold wind is howling
across a bleak country
where lean wolves are growling
and hungry for vengeance.

But where are the people
who pray in our churches?
Look to God in steeples
and don't see the paupers.

Let's treasure the homeless
and feed all the migrants
reject all the soulless
and welcome all humans.

For doctors, for nurses,
for drivers, and porters;
dip into your purses
and thank them for kindness.

So come all ye faithful
and gather, you pagans;
reach out and be grateful
for all of your riches.

Week 19 -  Trimeric

Stoat

The stoat slips through the jagged fence;
darting across the frozen field
her coat has not yet fully changed
to match the freshly fallen snow.

Darting across the frozen field
she sniffs the icy air and scampers on
to look for food within the farmer's barn.

Her coat has not yet fully changed;
its reddish brown is flecked with white
but soon she will be hiding in plain sight

to match the freshly fallen snow
and clear-air frosts that January brings;
until she fades to brown again in Spring.

Week 20 - Endecha

Righteous

after Miguel Hernandez - "Adiós, hermanos, camaradas y amigos.
Despedidme del sol y de los trigos"

Final breaths rattle; chains tie
more skin than flesh, you have lost
your battle as war rages
far away, where others also bear the cost.

As you scrawl your final words
on prison walls, death trains roll.
In fascist plays, roles are cast,
innocents despatched, and Europe pays the toll.

Goodbye, brothers, comrades, friends:
my own fate is surely sealed;
I tried, I failed, now it's time
to let me take my leave of sun and fields.

Breath has gone, cold lungs at rest;
eastward iron wheels still spin.
Leaders play their games of chess
but with fortitude, a righteous heart will win.  

Week 21 - Masnavi

Night Fox

In the cold light of day, troubles fade away
but when you try to sleep, from your soul they creep
and claw into your brain, drizzle turns to rain
your confidence will crack, grey dissolves to black.
Ticking like a clock, stalking like a fox,
this creature of the night won't draw blood or bite;
its terror is far worse than a witch's curse
the future that it shows causes fear to grow
and when you think it's done, here's another one
more heinous than the last; in whose grip you'll twist.
You're praying for the sun, dawn's relief to come
but then you think again; that just brings more pain,
problems in its wake, the cycle you can't break. 

Week 22 - Toddaid 

Split

We stroll together on a winter's day
with no hint that anything has changed.
Where the icy footpath splits apart our
drifting souls and hearts become estranged.

Week 23 - Tripadi

Presentee

Lines of cars stop-start in sequence;
traffic lights an inconvenience.
The sun peers out to watch us start our day.

Mustn't be late in the office,
start on time, tap keys in chorus;
be seen to be at work's the only way. 

Never mind how good your work is,
we sit here in this sterile circus
where tigers swapped with sheep all earn their pay.

Forget about your work-life balance!
Don't you dare encourage talent!
Distrust the colourful, reward the grey. 

Watch the office clock tick over
Could it really go much slower?
At five o'clock we pack our things away.

In the car we feel like crying
Every day's a bit more dying
As we inch home the evening light decays.

Week 24 - Quatern

If 

If I died unexpectedly
a heart attack perhaps, or stroke;
some medical emergency
swallowing food that made me choke

would anybody make a fuss?
If I died unexpectedly
I'm fit enough but I could be
hit by a car, a train, or bus.

Where would all my money be?
all passwords hide inside my head.
If I died unexpectedly
those bank accounts might too be dead.

Your life is in the cloud, you say;
a facebook page just history.
My digital life wiped clean away
If I died unexpectedly

Cold

The cold has come again this year,
each passing day we felt it steal
into our fingers, toes and lips,
and then into our throats and lungs.

It is a shock to all how soon
the cold has come again this year;
between the harvest and the snow
we felt no time had passed at all.

We spent relentless days and nights
in homes that barely kept it out;
the cold has come again this year
and takes a living harvest home. 

My mother, father, sister now
all burnt to ash that stained the snow.
The ground's too hard to dig their graves.
The cold has come again this year.

 

Week 25 - Idiomatic Poetry

Sticky Wicket

He was on a sticky wicket
the field was closing in
he'd dug in as much as he could do
with a straight bat he might win.

He didn't want to hole out
down a fielder's throat
you play each delivery as it comes
if you want to be the GOAT

Make sure you cover up the gate
to keep the googly out
watch the yorker in the blockhole
deny the "Howzat" shout.

He wasn't playing cricket
politics was his game
he'd found that cricket metaphors
helped deflect the blame...

Week 26 - Mathematical poetry

1.4142135623746...    

So.
They said I was
irrational;
that I was wasting
my time
seeking
something where I
would spend my whole life
as some kind of heroic failure,
laughing stock,
lost in numbers,
an infinity of digits with no pattern
but as time passes
I find I just can't stop...

Pie

No matter how big your family
you can never get
an equal slice of Pi

Square

They took him to the square -
the centre of a town
in France, a small scared boy
in soldiers' clothes who ran
and then, by order of
the King, they mowed him down.