Monday, 28 November 2016

A poem by Christopher Iacono

Earth, Waving

Inspired by Bridget Riley's Fall (1963)

A rumble outside the window
trickles into your ears
like shooting drops of rain.
A waving floor shifts your feet,
bends your legs.
Then the first picture frame
slides down the wall,
the second one
collapses on the mantle
before crawling over the edge,
broken glass streaking
into your veins,
cracks growing like ivy
against the wall,
sheet-rock powder
sprinkling on the carpet.
Hundreds of crashes
pummel the wet sand
of your skin, rivers of noise
overflow in your skull, linger
until you yank the door open,
run from the threatened shore.
When the flood recedes,
you gaze into the last shards
of glass intact in the mirror
before the sight of the damage
sends the final tremor.






Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. He has been published in Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry, Dirty Chai, Pidgeonholes, among others. You can learn more about him at cuckoobirds.org or find him on Twitter (@ciacono1973) or Instagram (@ciacono761).

Thursday, 24 November 2016

A poem by Colin Crewdson

Sprites


Prompts, night flares:
      
Last night you were blond,
      
bobbed.  You had a small sharp nose.
You left for Paris.

Before:
       
You walked like a farmer,
       
solid, mistrustful,
your mind on the technicalities of minutes. 

In the darkest night of grief
you carried off the last light, a thief
softly unbodying herself.
 

And then:
               
You leant over
               
created a bridge over the years
       
        with whisps of golden hair.
Should I feel grateful?

Photogenesis:
                
neurones briefly flash,
                 
noctilucent,
                 
as your torch beam
swings by in the dark, randomly. 






Colin Crewdson lives in Devon where he works as an osteopath, after a career in other european and middle-eastern countries. He's been published in Ink Sweat & Tears, The High Window, The Open Mouse and The Journal.

Monday, 21 November 2016

A poem by Julia D. McGuinness

Not Muriel


Low sun through the windows
gilds dust in a bone-weary lounge.
A rasp cuts the air; specks whirl.
That's my sister! It's Muriel!
A stranger spears her finger
at me, pins me not Muriel

with a rigid stare, shadowed
in sockets dark with old grievance;
Her stiff hand needles my sleeve.
What's happened with the house?
I flinch, like a Muriel clamped
and mantled to fix the family.

Stumped, I scan bodies slumped
in Care and see Mum asleep,
mouth open, in a tan chair:
upright; plastic; urine-resistant.
I crouch low, whisper by her face
the name she gave me once.





Julia D. McGuinness lives in Cheshire where she writes, counsels and runs writing workshops for creativity and wellbeing. Her poems have been published in anthologies and online appearances include Clear Poetry, Nutshells and Nuggets, Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her collection Chester City Walls, was published by Poetry Space in 2015. She belongs to Lapidus, the network of therapeutic writing practitioners, and the Mid Cheshire Stanza BLAZE.
Visit her at www.creativeconnectionscheshire.co.uk

Monday, 14 November 2016

A poem by Hilary Hares


Illusion

Braque expands upon a collaboration between himself and Picasso  (Céret, 1911)


Come, let me be your guide, I know the cypher to its depths.
   We call it Clarinet and Bottle of Rum on a Mantelpiece.

Pull the bottle from the cork, drink from its geometries,
   attune your ear to subtle notes of ochre and grey.  

Now, abstract your gaze.  See how the images surface and dive,
   overlap, distil.

What?  What’s that you say?  You see no clarinet, no mantleshelf,
    no bottled rum?






Hilary Hares has a BA in Creative Writing from the University of Winchester in 2010 and an MA in poetry from Manchester Metropolitan University. Her work has appeared in the following:
Anthologies: Lines Underwater 2013, Inspired by my Museum 2014, Hampshire Writers’ Society Anthology of the Best of 2011-2014
Competitions: Grey Hen Poetry Competition 2016 (shortlist), Christchurch Writers Competition 2013 (First Prize for Poetry), The Plough Prize 2011 (longlist)
Collaborations: Elemental Dialogues (www.elementaldialogues.wordpress.com), Writing Hampshire (www3.hants.gov.uk/writing-hampshire).
Magazines: Antiphon, Bare Fiction, First Time, South, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, The Interpreter’s House, The New Writer

Thursday, 10 November 2016

A poem by Elizabeth Gibson

As the darkness fell


Red spots, ink stains on your back became a
flowing stream; fear in my mouth, my legs, as I
ran upstairs the way I would always run after my
big brother but there was no man to hold me,
hold us, when the darkness fell.

You sat in the office with Mr Jump, holding his
soft green body, bandy legs dangling. You knew
something was wrong but you were serene. Emily
bounced about and then came to cuddle you, eight
condescending to six as the darkness fell.

If I thought you would be like saintly invalids
in books I was gladly wrong. You taunted your
sister, black spots beneath your eyes, as she
scratched her head furiously and screamed at you
and all seemed okay as the darkness fell.

Trawling through the zoo with a buggy – mine?
No, it was your cousin who slept, oblivious
to the treat that I had dragged myself out to
bestow upon her. The giraffes didn’t impress you
either, as the darkness fell.

You turned seven and we celebrated in the garden,
your long legs making waves in the grass and Emily
rocked her chair and told you not to rock yours
and the bad meat made her sick but you were
spared, thank God, as the darkness fell.

You went back to school and did well but you
were never like them; never loud, clever, fast.
But you survived, your summer hat perched over
your new curls and my psoriasis erupted and
I didn’t give a damn as the darkness fell.

When the thunder crashed you listened, rapt, while
Emily stood trembling. We watched all night and
she seemed okay, I couldn’t be sure but separating
you would be wrong and taking you from what you
loved would be a sin as the darkness fell.

You couldn’t eat a thing, you said, you cried when
I tried to make you, you were sick and sick and sick
and the doctor looked at me and shook his head and
I knew that was it. How I longed to feed you from a
banquet of the gods as the darkness fell.

The white of the bed, the sheets, as we stand looking
at Emily who will give her cells for you, who is smiley
as ever, cheeks full of colour and you are white and
thin and I know this is our last chance and I love you,
I love you as the darkness falls.

Today, my darling, you will get new marrow and get
better; you will run wild, two little girls keeping up
with one another how it was meant to be. Tomorrow
all will be well so I will say goodnight and hold
you tight as the darkness falls.






Elizabeth Gibson is a Masters student at the University of Manchester and a Digital Reporter for Manchester Literature Festival. She is a member of Writing Squad 8 and has work published or forthcoming in The Cadaverine, London Journal of Fiction, Far Off Places, Myths of the Near Future, The Mancunion, Octavius, Severine and Ink, Sweat and Tears. She tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk.

Monday, 7 November 2016

A poem by Jo Waterworth

Shooting photons in the Canaries 


They can get lost on the way, you know, violating inequality.
We need a security guarantee.
Are Alice and Bob truly influencing each other?
If local realism was to be believed
he would likely be enamoured with the flutter of every photon set in stone.
Hardcore diamonds containing potential bugs patched the universe,
but so ingrained into our daily thinking is a property called spin
that every test they did was toast, leaving a gap,
a hypothetical pair conventionally known as
rival teams at the University.

(with thanks to New Scientist)






Jo Waterworth lives in Somerset, is a member of Wells Fountain poets and has performed with Strange Sisters. She has won prizes and been published online and in print, most recently in I am Not a Silent Poet, Hedgerow, Gnarled Oak, Obsessed with Pipework, Poetry Space showcases and prizewinners anthology. Her pamphlet My Father Speaks in Poetry Too is available from Poetry Space. Currently studying at Bath Spa University, she blogs at https://jowaterworth23.wordpress.com and https://jowaterworthwriter.wordpress.com