Sunday, 27 April 2014

A poem by David Clarke

The Messengers

Hark!, the angels are crying. We do not hear.
Even while they pace the lime-washed halls
brandishing bold lilies, as if to direct
our spiritual traffic – we are nonplussed.

We turn the pages of magazines, inspect
the sorry heel of our own dangled shoe.
Hark! and Hark! again. The rain is dashing
redbrick walls, cars illuminate

the prosey night, while ministers of all
religions bob home to a book or spouse – 
and every one just out of earshot
for seraphim, Hark!-ing themselves hoarse.

Not even poets attend to that hailing,
haloed in their screen-bright fug.
Such barren shores they choose to call to,
those heralds. Such blasted shores.

David Clarke was born in Lincolnshire and now lives in Gloucestershire. His pamphlet, Gaud, was joint winner of the Flarestack Poets Pamphlet prize in 2012 and also won the Michael Marks Award in 2013.

Monday, 21 April 2014

A poem by Susan Taylor

Time Lapse

I want these words to be nails.
No, not spikes hammered home
with swear-to-god points at the end
and cute trite titles at the top,

but flesh pink ones, delicately striated,
with ivory appearing along the edges.
See me – picking such perfect shells;
named in Latin, I gather, Moerella Pygmaea.

How they’re becoming wet new baby’s nails,
borne out of the golden bed of Anderby sand.
How I’m splashing through warm puddles
to show Mum and Dad  treasure;

the glee running to the tips of my limbs
mirrored in their eyes.

Susan Taylor’s most recent collection is A Small Wave For Your Form from Oversteps Books. She is a Dartmoor dweller, who is currently working in the heart of Totnes at Rhythm and Light (a crystal  and ethnic musical instrument shop in The Butterwalk.)

Friday, 11 April 2014

A poem by Kevin Reid

Love … it's all dying

after the movie 'Love is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon'

Undress at the table
two full bottles between you 

Shaved shy 
buttons undone
his belt a sex toy

Prostrate you wait
sphincter with a secret

Heavy pants 
burn of a butt
Francis fucked

Falling George 
his suicide attempts
pissing on your toilet piece

Premier in Paris 
run down with pills 
and champagne

Black suit 
flesh bag
tailored for a coffin

bollocks... I miss 
cowering under you

Kevin Reid lives and works as a librarian in  AngusScotland. His poetry can be found in various online and printed publications. Recent work at The Open Mouse, and  Ink,Sweat and Tears and The Interpreter’s House.. He is the founding creator of the online multimedia collaboration >erasure and>erasure iiWordless, an image and text collaboration with George Szirtes is published by Knives, Forks and Spoons Press. Kevin’s blog can be viewed here.