Thursday, 13 December 2018

A poem by Thomas Tyrrell

ANNE BONNY TO DANIEL DEFOE


Now we are to begin a History full of surprizing Turns and Adventures; I mean, that of Mary Read and Anne Bonny; the odd Incidents of their rambling Lives are such, that some may be tempted to think the whole Story no better than a Novel or Romance…
—Daniel Defoe, General History of the Most Notorious Pirates


Ah, Mr. Author, our lives
were no mere amatorious novel,
unlike your Roxanas, Clarindas
and such drabs of the bookseller’s stall.

I was pirate and woman and all,
and I sailed with and slept with Jack Rackham,
who, if he had fought like a man,
need not have been hanged like a dog.

And still a warm glassful of grog
or a lungful of salt air recalls those
fiery kisses from Jack and from Mary
and the tang of hot blood on the deck.

We left many brave warships a wreck,
many argosies spoiled of their cargo.
We were pardoned by Governor Rogers
but returned to our old course the same.

Beyond law, beyond guilt, beyond shame,
slipped free of the cables of duty,
we sailed by the wind and the starlight
and lived by the codes that we chose.

When the pirate-hunters, our foes,
found us moored off the coast of Jamaica,
the men fled below, drunk and fearful.
Only Mary and I stayed to fight,

and our cutlasses gleamed and flashed bright,
and our pistols roared out like the thunder.
We fought, back to back, for our freedom,
with our teeth and our nails and our knives.

I’m the only one now that survives.
The Revenge’s crew went to the gallows;
Mary’s dead in the jail of a fever;
I’m left with the memories alone,

the proud sins that I’ll never atone
for, adventures not found in the pages
of your idle romances and novels
poured upon by the leisured and bored

where the heroines find their reward
in making a dazzling marriage
to a cultured and virtuous husband
as their dainty and dutiful wives.












Thomas Tyrrell has a PhD in English Literature from Cardiff University. He is a two-time winner of the Terry Hetherington poetry award, and his writing has appeared in Spectral Realms, Wales Arts Review, Picaroon, Lonesome October, Three Drops From A Cauldron and Words for the Wild.

Monday, 10 December 2018

A poem by Liv Chapman

What To Expect


Over there
A black hand just out of reach, behind the curtain
Our daughter insisting it’s a monster
You, insisting it’s a shadow of the jasmine
That creeps lovingly around the door
I’m insisting...who knows?
A pitch for ambiguity.
Mischief.
A love of disquiet.

True, it looks like jasmine
But see how wiry, and suspect
It is, how it moves to and fro
(Blown about by
The wind, you tut)
Unsure of what it is, or where to go.

My daughter curls up in bed
Satisfied with your response
Perturbed by mine
Her body a knot, casually tied.
It’s important to know things at five you, the book,
Says. The difference between what is real, what is dead
What is fake, what’s alive.
You can’t go around making things up about
Shadows being real.
Do you want her to have nightmares?
Do you want her to expect the worst?

Of course not, I say. I just want to make a
Pitch for ambiguity.
The love of disquiet.
Mischief.
Stories with no ending, no beginning, no
Meaning that is taught, only felt,
The way a Shakespeare sonnet skirts
Thinking to ring deep down in the bones
Where nothing and everything hurts.












About Liv Chapman
I live in the U.S now but am originally from York, U.K. I earned my PhD in Art History there, and moved to the U.S. to get married. I now have a beautiful daughter, Arrietty, to whom ALL my poems are dedicated! Until recently I was a school administrator (having been an English teacher for some years) but I'm currently on disability due to chronic pain. Despite the pain, I still love warm fall mornings, coffee, reading, and writing, writing, writing.




Thursday, 6 December 2018

A poem by Jasmine Blackney

Machine 


Grant me a grade
of blue light in the dark;
A torch that will lead
the leeches out and into
that black hole lake.

If you must, sell me the
Diamonds, fake and bright,
the white nothings,
the ideas, and leave
my hands empty of hers.

Tell me to choose,
Turtles or doves,
Sundays or silk ties.
Tell me to find
the exit –

I am blind in this maze.

Ask me for answers,
while I hunt for the questions.
Clouds behind eyes
Stars blinking
Heart wide.

Suit me up
In black
Sit me in a cube
A moving window
Pulsing, clicking.

Show me the meaning
Of a life
In the concrete.
I would rather
A lantern made of moons. 









Jasmine Blackney studied a Creative Arts Degree with Honours and is currently taking time to travel, read, blog, write poetry and finish her second novel. She has never been published before.

Monday, 3 December 2018

A poem by Clair Chilvers

Black 


is the colour of my psyche
of the all-year-round dark mornings
of tears
of Requiem masses - Requiem Aeternam-
Et Lux Perpetua-
of warnings of the abyss ahead
with no bridge
of the folded mourning clothes kept
in the tall dark chest
of the dread of loneliness on Sunday evenings
until one day
the cat with yellow eyes
may cross my path.












Clair started writing poetry at the age of 70 after she retired from the NHS. She lives in Gloucestershire and was inspired by the work of UA Fanthorpe who was Head of English at her secondary school. She is the author of Pilgrimage - a collection of poems written following a visit to Palestine. Her work has been described as ' powerful and moving' by Anna Saunders founder of the Cheltenham Poetry Festival.