Jim Carson says its a Gemini thing

A Gemini Thing

It’s a Gemini thing
My secret world
Opposites attract yin and yang
Angel devil lecher priest
Each made more by the other’s being
Hooded serpent fur and fangs writhe
In deadly dance knowing no other way
No mercy for second place
Hungry pack snorting steam claws pawing
Frozen ground the smell of fresh blood
Circling the wounded prey and then
The kill
Cruel nature’s way
But one can’t exist without the other
It’s a Gemini thing my secret world
And I think I like it

• Jim Carson is an architect and aspiring poet and composer living in Atlanta.

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Nigel Pickard's seen This Couple


who, ten years ago,
were so well known
in local circles –
both feared a little,
sniggered at only
behind their backs:
we were very young –
this couple pass us
in a fashionable
restaurant. They’ve

eaten early and,
as we arrive,
are on their way out,
him with his stick, her
her own grandmother.
We don’t recognise
them till they’ve gone.
“But they knew us!”
you say. “You should’ve
seen them look!”

• Nigel Pickard's first collection Making Sense was published by Shoestring (2003), his first novel, One, by Bookcase (2005).

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Mandy Pannett's not sure about this anniversary


she peeled off
the price

which he
had forgotten

to do and  

the red roses

of their cellophane

adding them

by stem
to her

crystal vase
together with

the contents of the


which promised to keep

them fresh

she wondered

how long

they could last

Mandy Pannett runs an arts cafe, supports two local writing groups and
enjoys giving readings and running writing workshops. She has two
poetry collections from Oversteps Books – Bee Purple and Frost Hollow.

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Poets don't fit in – by Ken Head

Not Fitting In

No one at the table believes
in the helpfulness of gods or poetry.

Good-humoured, you sit and chat, replete
among emptied plates and glasses,
towards a comforting consensus:  self-interest
is the driver, you agree.

The needs of others never feature
in your calculations.  Why should they?

Upstairs, a door slams, sudden
raindrops smack against open windows,
car wheels sloosh over wet tarmac.
Time, as always, is passing.

Someone asks why write poetry if there’s
no money in it.  What good is that?

You remember:  stone Buddha image
so tall it took your breath away,
young monk on tiptoe, smiling, arm
outstretched towards a golden fingertip.

•  Ken Head's poetry weblog is at www.listeningforlight.blogspot.com and he'll appreciate your dropping in to browse and maybe leave a comment if you're passing.

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John Irvine is looking at life thru the bottom of a martini glass

                                   diminishing values

in a world of diminishing values, indistinct goals and flexible boundries
   it is becoming more difficult to find one single nightmare to commit
     to utterly in the mauve miasma of pseudo-nightmares and pastel
             hued marshmallow dreams. I want a proper nightmare
                    throbbing with scarlet promise and tangerine
                        risk. Some otherwhere I can escape to
                            casting aside all my prejudices
                                and petty expectations.
                                    Would that be
                                    John Irvine

• John Irvine is a regular IS&T contributor and this should look like a martina glass – should

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New poetry by Geoff Stevens


This is the vacuum of the day
night takes the light
and you with your superior tugging strength
take the duvet away
with your extra lung capacity
breathe all my air
Please turn down your heartbeats
you are ruining my silence
upsetting my sleep
and your dreams are infringing on my dreams
Keep to your own side
you're giving me claustophobia
your elbows are weird
they have four sharp bones on them
you're bruising my ribs
your snoring's out of tune
It's upsetting the regularity of my breathing
you'll bring on my angina
No, I don't feel like it.
I don't want a cheese sandwich.
You have one if you want one
and don't keep asking me things
can't you see
I'm asleep!

• Geoff Stevens is a regular contributor to IS&T – see R/H side-bar for details of his latest collection.

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Three short poems by Rachel Fox

Sweet Nothings

You are nothing
I am less
Let's admit it
We're a mess

Why one is childish rather than pretentious

Because quite enough other people
Already do
So well
And so regularly


Oh, all of us are weirdos
It’s odd that, but it’s true
And the more you call me ‘weirdo’
The less hope there is for you

• Rachel Fox is a regular IS&T contributor and her new collection More about the Song is sitting in my in-tray waiting to be reviewed.

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