Tuesday, 30 September 2014

'The Up and Up'

Now things are on the up and up
we’ve no cause to complain.
Our cup it runneth over;
so let’s vote them in again.

Let’s vote for cutting welfare
and for demonising need.
Let’s vote against humanity –
and for intemperate greed.

And let’s pretend that Zero
Hours Contracts are OK,
that Workfare really is a job,
and MP’s earn their pay.

And then let’s lay the blame
for all at someone else’s door.
Let’s say the sick are shiftless –
and let’s criticise the working poor.

Let’s say they live on junk food
and that’s why their kids get fat.
(If they’d only shop at Waitrose
there’d be so much less of that.)

And, if a person wants to work,
let’s say the jobs are there.
We’ll sanction those who sleep in late
and will not do their share.

We’ll target the disabled, too:
we’ll keep them – occupied.
(We’re sure there’s something they can do –
until it can be proved they’ve died.)

And we’ll applaud the policies
of those who work for our good ends.
We’ll forgive their little foibles
and their handsome dividends.

And we won’t dwell on taxes dodged
or politicians’ perks.
The fact is, like or lump it,
that is how the system works.

Abigail Wyatt

Monday, 29 September 2014

'The Fall'

Sunlight on a snow topped mountain, 
The blue of sky mirrored by sea, 
My children's smiles,
The sounds of a stream falling over stones. 

These are beautiful in their own fashion

Yet, to my eyes they are nothing to the elegance 
Of a rectangle
With rounded corners 
And shiny aluminium and glass.  

Oh naked phone of perfect beauty, 
Status of premium degree. 
Love most profound. 
Lasting days. 

Until, alas! 
Heartbreak and despair. 
Perfection, once yours is ruined for ever, 
By the pressures of a front pocket. 
Bent, banana like. 

Must buy another. 

Gordon Nicholson


Observer of the ridiculous, coffee addict and wild swimmer. A Brummy living in Devon, working on first novel. Raising kids.

Sunday, 28 September 2014

Sunday review

The first poem of the week was "NO" by Neil Fulwood which looks at the result of the Scottish Referendum on independence from the United Kingdom. It does not end on a cheerful note but the writing and imagery are excellent.
A crown of thorns
is biked up by courier, postmarked London,
wrapped in promises already broken.
Ruth Corkill's "The Conspiracy" was Tuesday's poem and examined some pretty amazing theories that are appear to be buzzing around the internet. I enjoyed the way the narrator gets a little overwhelmed with the rush of information but talks about the things the "everybody knows'
Everyone who works in the Pentagon commutes from Chechnya.
Hannah Linden's  poem "Under The Bridge" was Thursday's poem dealing with the disbelief and unconcern that is shown toward child sexual abuse.  And just this week I read an article from a woman living in New Zealand dealing with the terrible time she had to experience when seeking justice for a rape. It is extremely distressing to think that this problem is not being addressed. 
Now we can't move without getting our feet
wet and it's the same murky cess-pool that should have
been childhood. We should have been playing pooh sticks
Simon Marks' poem "Gorham's Cave" was our Friday poem and put us inside the mind of Neanderthal people and their interactions with
"the thin ones with no eyebrows"
  This is description which will stick with me for awhile.
Abi and I had a chat mid-week and are thinking of handing over the editorships to interested people by the beginning of next year. If you are interested in filling the role, at what I stress is a very preliminary stage of the process, drop us an email and we'll have a talk.
Keep safe and  keep the poems coming.

Friday, 26 September 2014

Gorham’s Cave

There really is no better way
to spend an evening than the beach.
the light on the sea is like
the insides of those shells, the ones
with the tasty muscly bits.

We sit until the sun drops to the water,
before retiring with a few good friends,
the thin ones with no eyebrows, to our cave,
and under the light of oil sticks,
play a game or two of Squares.

We’re still developing the rules,
but think there should be some moves
straight and some diagonal.
We’ve carved a board into the ledge.
The Men are keen to start a tournament.
Neanderthal cave paintings.

©Simon Williams
Simon often writes on subjects gleaned from the BBC or Wikipedia sites and also runs a Facebook group called Poem A Day which, by coincidence, runs in April and September, so he's busy writing this month.
Twitter @GreatBigBadger 

Thursday, 25 September 2014

'Under The Bridge'

The policeman had reported that we were frolicking:
it was in quotation marks: words used, he claimed, when I 
was a thirteen year old state-owned girl. He didn't expect

me to come back all these years later with a news
team. It was all so much simpler then. Water flowed
under and you couldn't ever step in the same river 

twice. Now we can't move without getting our feet
wet and it's the same murky cess-pool that should have
been childhood. We should have been playing pooh sticks

seeing whose twig reached the other side of the bridge
first – not which one arrived safely, not dragged under,
mauled and so broken up that it barely made it through

at all. And now, when I tell my story, the police authority
make a statement about how I have said nothing at all
as if even now, this doesn't add up to sexual abuse. 

They're hoping I'll be caught in the eddies and go round
and round. They still don't believe in the power of water.
©  Hannah Linden


Hannah Linden is a poet based in Devon, UK. She has work upcoming in Nutshells and Nuggets and upcoming in Domestic Cherry, The Broadsheet and  Wonderzoo. She is a very active member of Jo Bell's internet poetry group, 52.