Look up on a clear night,
you’ll see me glint by.
I’ll try to wave assuming
I’m not doing space things.
They’ve got me growing
weed under lamps;
I have to roll it generously
and put on funny hats.
There are box sets
but not what you’d hope:
“Little House On The Prairie”,
“Merlin” and “Bread”.
I’m the last one aboard,
a chimp in loungewear.
I’ve spilt my peanuts
to see if they notice.
Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, where he writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in print and online in Shortlist Magazine, Sarasvati, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Stare’s Nest, Fry Your Friends, Nutshells & Nuggets and others. He edits Clear Poetry, a weekly blog publishing accessible contemporary poetry: https://clearpoetry.wordpress.comRead More
Itinerant Singer ‘Two’
Four walls contain acquaintances:
Table and chairs
- Immensely relevant.
As well, the wine cup,
The ticking clock, and
Neatly folded paper-money
To nurse me through
An oncoming second life.
Here, in plenitude, abides the astringent
Light of Eastern Nigredo.
Perhaps the copper
Will become an emerald
The size of
That September moon
Upending treasure’s residue!
Outside, each morning, a mottled sparrow
To a sky-full
I must ask
The Ornithologist why
Stefanie Bennett has published eighteen books of poetry and poems online. Of mixed ancestry [Italian/Irish/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Townsville, Qld., Australia in 1945. Her latest poetry title, The Vanishing is due at year’s end.Read More
A boy gnew me by a stonepit. He steemed
in th sun stone-waking, lighting trees like wicks;
his eyes were sofd as ash, and cities hymned
and chymneyed in the atlas of his sex.
I tricked in him, – unclocked all tocks, all ticks;
a debt that ploppd its anchor in my tchest –
nd 8 weeks fraille in rocking lihgt, I foamed
at the mouth like the sea. He ssuppd the moyst
unplundered of my underarm; he yessed,
impressed on me the braille of wouldlice
havocking the rocks.
I kept him at a cost:
he got with dogg my daughter, bent our house
toward a future wigged with cirrus,
fingernail’d with hangman’s lime. I died in prison.
Camille Ralphs started in Stoke. Currently Senior Poetry Editor at The Missing Slate, she was recently also Cambridge Editor-in-Chief of The Mays XXII. She has a few published poems kicking around.Read More
The pencil tree
I want a pencil tree,
its black heart
of wind and rain,
and summer flourish.
I want a pencil tree,
but not that one.
That one has
its grey hide,
ready to burst
and spread death
the other trees
in the grove.
Cut it down.
Dig it up.
Colin Will (@colindwill) is a poet and publisher living in Dunbar. His new collection of haibun, The Book of Ways, has just been published by Red Squirrel Press. www.colinwill.co.ukRead More
Soft headed, out there through the mist,
the sun nothing but a sense of light.
No time, no place. The vapour
carries it all. It’s enough.
Given the time gracefully, the vision holds
clear through to the centre of the earth:
being here, my head opens up all the way
to the top of the sky.
Many have trodden here, may many others
continue; creatures of slime or of feathers
pass by, they nibble and peck, they shit,
they show their colours.
I can tell what this is for, if I worry
less and listen to the whispering glory.
We’re clergy whatever our collar, we
sip our secular claret.
Peter Daniels’s publications include Mr Luczinski Makes a Move (HappenStance, 2011), Counting Eggs (Mulfran Press, 2012), and selected poems of Vladislav Khodasevich from Russian (Angel Classics, 2013), which was the Poetry Book Society Recommended Translation. Twitter: @chintz35 www.peterdaniels.org.uk http://eggcounter.wordpress.com/Read More
The Use of Me
Turn me in with turning leaves, with squirrels,
tend me seldom as some feral plot.
Watch me like a model in my polka dot apparel,
let me be my foibles and my fops.
Place me in among the lathes and potters wheels,
plant me with the sycamores and rings of yew.
Use me for that certain task like proper tools,
love me when I waiver, spin or skew.
Gram Joel Davies lives in Somerset, UK. You can find his recent writing in The Centrifugal Eye, The Lake and The Journal. He reads with Juncture 25 poets. His Twitter handle is @poplarist.Read More
Cuddled in the Bus Station
Cuddled in the bus station
in our old wool coats we agree
that the wobble in the axis
of our favorite planet corresponds
to the wobble in those organs
outer layers barely conceal.
Snow hustles the lyrical streets.
Buses gnash into numbered slots
and discharge patrons who slough
past us with hardly a glance.
Bundled in red you may suggest
a Christmas gift for the needy,
but in my black overcoat I’m grim
as the reaper himself. Safer
for strangers to ignore the smelting
of thick air around us. The cries
of metal on metal persist,
but as skyscrapers lurch and wheel
in the battered light the crimes
of the last century thicken
into focus, no longer black
and white but raving in colors
we hadn’t tried to imagine.
We have to re-edit and rewrite
every page of history we scanned
from high school onward. That text
left ink smears on our bodies
only the most devout lovers
could have licked or abraded off.
That wasn’t us. The wheezing
of diesels tries to arouse us,
but we’re upholstered in our wool
so nothing can penetrate
except the subatomic particles
we emit to hurt each other
subtly enough to ignore.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire (USA). His latest book is City of Palms (AA Press, 2012). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His fiction, essays, poetry, and reviews have appeared in many journals. He won the 2010 Aesthetica poetry award.Read More