Month: November 2022

When Infirmity Struck Modernity, by Julian Isaacs


By Robert Garnham 
When Infirmity Struck Modernity
 
At McCarty’s party everyone was hearty, if not hale.
They’d overdone it with the night porter
And the jugs of foaming ale.
The Paddy’s and the Power’s didn’t taste like what it oughtta,
And the weather was beyond the pale.
A blanket of Edgar Allen lay thick upon the ground,
And the ladies were sobbing Billie Jo Spears.
The hurdy-gurdy emitted the eeriest sound,
Wailing through their hopes and fears.
Lenehan was scoffing a plate of split striptease
As the barometer dropped and froze.
There were some people the contra-tenor just couldn’t please,
And somebody hit Maloney on the nose.
If you find this tale a little strange to understand,
It might help to read it tied up with a black velvet band,
Shivering on the sand at Sandymount Strand,
But new minutes will never catch the second hand,
For the man in the signal box who killed time
Has committed an ever unpunishable crime.
 

A Girl from Yorkshire, by Neil Windsor


By Robert Garnham 
A Girl From Yorkshire

Oh how the parents sigh, not inclined to rejoice
Dismayed from the outset at their offspring's romantic choice
They disapprove so blatantly as they take her presence in
Looks of curiosity, at a loss for words, of this potential next of kin
Then the floodgates open, there's no holding back
Lacking even the basics of civility and tact

Oh no, but the girl's from Yorkshire can't you see, she's just not our expected southern type
She's all flat vowels and sarcasm, excuse us while we snipe
She talks of strong tea and rugby league, she's left her whippet on the lawn
She's not a patch on a fragrant english rose, all sweet and Henley born
They're still living in the days of pit ponies, cobbles slick with icy rain, and beef dripping chip shop grease
Striking miners around braziers on the village green, we far prefer maypole country dancing, and afternoon cream teas

She's from Yorkshire they say, all Sean Bean, Hockney and Selwyn Foggit, working mens clubs and spam
She's not up to our southern ways, she's never been on the tube, paid the congestion charge, she's never watched The Arsenal or West Ham
The bustling size of London must be so hard for her comprehend, from The Docklands and Bermondsey to King's Cross and Harringay
She'd be out of her depth in Fortum's food hall or the opening night of a west end play
She's not our sort of girl, nice enough in her own way, but an uncultured square northern peg in a roughly hewn round hole
We can't bring ourselves to sanction your relationship dear. Good grief the girl's from Yorkshire after all

Pick a southern girl why don't you? Choosing to shower this one with your affections makes absolutely no practical sense
We need to protect our breeding stock, maintain a northern romance resisting defence
We're not prejudiced you understand we're just southernly civilised with a touch of self righteous attitude
It's the thin edge of the wedge to let her into our flock, we really don't mean to be rude
But the girl's from Yorkshire for goodness sake, all mills, chimneys, rhubarb and tripe. A trip around the charity shops is their idea of a day out
Her dysfunctional family probably lives in on of those terrible two up two down overcrowded terrace houses, replete with outside toilet no doubt

The girl's from Yorkshire my precious, we're tolerant and polite to a fault, but let's be realistic for a moment, she hasn't the refined attributes we seek and require
Heaven's above, the girl's from Yorkshire, She thinks Bremner, Giles and Boycott are gods, she's not the sort of potential daughter in law we desire
We all love to visit their quaint Dales and picturesque coastal and market towns now and again, but we wouldn't want to live there, all Chuckle Brothers and dregs of summer wine
They have scraps with their fish and chips, listen to brass and silver bands and treat Headingley like a shrine
Saints preserve us, the girl's from Yorkshire. She drinks pints as she quotes Bennet, knows Sutcliffe and Hutton's batting averages by heart, eats pork pies and parkin, and spreads mucky dripping on bread!
Oh but the girl's from Yorkshire darling, all rough edges and uncultured ways. For the sake of our sanity and social standing trust us, drop her like a hot potato, find a southern girl instead.

Neil Windsor is a Writer of children’s short stories, Artist and Poet from Leeds who produces and performs all his work with an absolute passion and a slightly slanted off – kilter view of life.
He also plays extremely bad left handed blues guitar.#neilwindsorart

 

Shakespeare has a Bad Day, by Clive Donovan


By Robert Garnham 
SHAKESPEARE HAS A BAD DAY

What is the question? To not do or do.
Do not do it lest it be more fortunate
That not doing may be the best?
But best to not do tardily, I guess.
Be not so tardy in this enterprise
For we may well wish to own this ill upon us
As those who wish us ill may not in actuality,
And in the end the not doing of it should surely be
My own will let to suffer right whatever cost.
Oh would it were that being just would be
Just not to do or yes, just do it
Or no, or yet, yes, maybe.
What's it all about anyway?
Toby or not Toby?

Clive Donovan is the author of two poetry collections, The Taste of Glass[Cinnamon Press] and Wound Up With Love [Lapwing] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannog, Prole, Sentinel and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He is a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022’s best individual poems.

 

Writing on a Roman Wall, by Ben Macnair


By Robert Garnham 
Writing on a Roman Wall
Personal Adds

The Eunuch Support group meets on Mondays,
where we will discuss how to sing the high notes,
and how farmers can trust us with their goats,
between the end of February, and the Vernal Equinox,
we will not discuss how the Emporer got the pox,
but we will write these things on the walls,
for all the world to see.

The Inn of the Mule-drivers,
come and damage your livers,
Happy hour is none too frequent,
if you are looking for a wench.

Meat for sale,
it will soon be off,
don’t come looking for our sympathy,
when you get a cough.

Speakers with the leaders in the town hall.
If they were of any less use,
they would be no use at all.

Wanted: Sewage worker.
If you know what the job entails,
you know why we are looking for one.

Wanted: Road Worker
Please bring you own shoes.
Must have an excellent sense of direction.

Wanted: Lion Tamer
Short term contract.
Immediate Start.

Ben Macnair

 

The Day I Cooked my Son’s Speech Therapist, by Beth McDonough


By Robert Garnham 
The Day I Cooked my Son's Speech Therapist

she arrived all kindly shiny in thunder, ahead
of his school bus return. Full of plans,
ASD-specific wisdom. He crashed in, appalled.
I no wanted to see her.
She flashed three PECS cards
at his face, intoned, in triple slow time
H   e   l  l o     K   eir
I       have     come    to     visit     you    and       your   Mum.
Put her whole fisog in his.
I no wanted to see her,
He dashed off his jacket. Ran out the back door.
She nodded towards my space.
I can help you understand how he communicates,
what he needs to let you know.
We followed him into the garden. He whizzed
for the trampoline. She chanted
from the circumference upwards. More cards.
My son turned to the fence,
bounded furiously, bounce, bounce, bounce
I no wanted to see her. Away now. Away!
Solicitously, she advised me
Sometimes he speaks very fast, and runs words
into one another, so we don't know what he says.
He turned quickly, saw her still standing, transplanted
from class to his own garden, 
then he spun away in disgust.
No wanted to see her.
Jumped on and on. Small splats of rain
did not dissuade him. I took her inside,
made coffee. Offered scones.
If we sat inside the conservatory we could
observe, as he leapt up by the lupins.
She enjoyed everything, I think. Seemed pleased to eat
that scone, as she helped me along.
My temperature rose. 
So I brought extra coffee, closed a window.
She took one more scone. I shut the door.
My son trampolined on.
Yes, she'd love another scone.
Steam rose from plants.
He pogoed on.
I'll come out whenever you want,
I'd love to help. I sealed
the last window. She lifted
her third scone as I watched
sweat drizzle on her lips.
At last I persuaded her that we must not
take more of her weighted time. 
Slowly, I sluiced her to the front door,
thanked her hugely, assured her
if we needed, we'd certainly phone.
She stilted formulaic farewells.
Away! Away! he replied.
Don't worry. We'll soon learn what he's saying.
As her car departed, my son 
came in for our usual time
of juice, maybe cake, and told me
I no wanted to see her.
We hugged. Don't worry. We won't.
Soon after, the Therapist married 
and moved to a faraway post.
I gave her a pretty coffee pot.
Considered very hot scones.

Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in many places; she reviews in DURA. Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish was published by 4Word. Recently, her site-specific poem was installed on the Corbenic Poetry Path. Currently Makar of the FWS, she’s found year-round in the Firth of Tay.

 

Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice, by Terri Metcalfe


By Robert Garnham 
Celebrity Stoning on Thin Ice
 
It’s very easy to shout insults
to people that I can’t look in the eye,
to an online presence who might as well be a ghost
haunting the blue walls of a white bird
 
They call it cancelling
but it used to be called public shaming,
boycotting
bullying
 
It’s a commodity –
you give me one opinion,
I give you two fingers
and three minutes to take it back
 
or you’re retweeted as threadworms
spreading from the anus to the mouth of the internet
but who wins in the end?
Gameshows, that’s who.

Cumbria native Terri Metcalfe has been published in Abridged, A New Ulster, Green Ink Poetry, Spilling Cocoa and Skylight 47 amongst others. Shortlisted for the Open Window 2023 mentorship programme, she will be a featured reader at the 20th anniversary of Over The Edge Literary Events held in Galway this January.

 

I Said, Pointedly, by Phil Huffy


By Robert Garnham 
I Said, Pointedly
 
Author, watch your language,
avoid the common traps
of amateur expression
and paraphrastic lapse.
 
Banish inclinations,
when speech you recollect,
to state the speaker’s motive,
describing her affect.
 
Poet, please consider
this thought as apropos:
You’ll make your meaning clearer
with words that people know.
 
If you fancy rhyming,
its use must be astute.
Don’t make your grand allusions
a trivial pursuit.
           first published at Poetry Super Highway
 

The Passenger, by Lynn Valentine


By Robert Garnham 
The Passenger

November and everywhere turns mouse,
garden no longer good enough though
the compost heap smoulders with rot of apples.

The mice brush by inside discharging dark
pellets of shit, nips of urine, craze
of footprints. The air grows furred, weighs
heavy with whiskers, a particular brown-grey 
colour scheme, rushing of small rodents.

He is frightened to open cupboards, too scared 
to sleep, to become part of the scurry. 
He puts down poison, traps, peppermint spray, 
packed up clothes for a holiday.

The last item to sneak into his steamer trunk?
A wee sleekit beastie—mouse.


Lynn Valentine’s poetry collection, Life’s Stink and Honey, was published by Cinnamon Press in 2022 after winning their literature award. Her Scots language pamphlet, A Glimmer o Stars, was published by Hedgehog Poetry in 2021. Lynn is on Twitter @dizzylynn

 

When I Die, by Tonnie Richmond


By Robert Garnham 
When I die
 
please don’t say I’ve passed away
or gone to heaven. Instead,
I’ll hope that you will simply say
I’m dead.
 
You might say that I lived life well,
there were some ups and downs. I tried
to do my best, had fun with family and friends
but in the end, I died.
 
Please don’t suggest I’m somewhere in the sky
looking down on kith and kin. I’m sure
you wouldn’t really like that! Just accept
that I am here no more.
 
I hope that you remember me sometimes,
think of me kindly, memories don’t spoil.
But please don’t use some flowery euphemistic words —
I really have not stepped off  this mortal coil.

Tonnie Richmond is retired and is interested in archaeology and poetry. These days she finds writing poetry easier than digging. She has had several poems published by Dreich, Yaffle and others.

 

Frustrations in the Office, by Sarah James


By Robert Garnham 
Frustrations in the Office

i) Behind the blinds 

The office chair has an angle 
on everything. Going nowhere itself, 
it still feels it’s earned a higher position,
would floor all competition. 

Despite purpose-moulded plastic 
and a firm spine, it has learned 
to turn its back on others’ pressure,
cushions itself against stress.

It refuses to carry excess weight, 
won’t budge when asked to do more
than simple tasks, barely conceals 
its steel tones and hard edges.

But, once the blinds are closed
and the night watchman passed,
it spins round and round on the spot, 
imagines taking charge, and stock.

Instead of stationery, new wheels.
Oil, polish and, with the whole office
waiting on its orders, hope even 
of finding a desk that’s a perfect match.
 

ii) Non-PC Ideas

This desk is tired of feeling used,
fed up of ending up pushed
into a corner or back against the wall.
 
It’s had enough of being treated
as part of the furniture, overlooked
by all or constantly dumped on:

PCs, screens and mice; piles
of paper and files; coffee mugs,
dirty stains and laptops; boxes,

and more boxes. Five years too 
working with the same chair,
and, when their legs brush, no sign
 
that it could share the desk’s rush 
of anticipation, that hint of a shiver of 
a tingle of electricity, static or not, 

which lets ungrounded hopes thrive.
One day the chair will notice it – 
the battered desk wishes silently…

but remains stuck there ignored.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. For her, good laughter is a medicine, sometimes even a path towards positive change. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.