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The Oxfordshire Smug by Judi Sutherland


By admin

(After Edward Lear)

In your Barbour coat do you garden all day
and go out gathering nuts in May
in a TRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you have a thing for the great Outdoors
and go out walking your Labradors
or the PUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In the gastropub when you go to dine
Do you yell in the bar as you quaff your wine
or the SNUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At parties in your Orangery
do you liberally let the Bolly flow free
or the KRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you name your children Piers and Jocasta
so their modelling jobs will take off faster?
you MUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

In Regatta week do you swig champagne
or use fifty pound notes to snort cocaine
as a DRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At Christmas time do you give your cleaner
a gift of your wife’s cast-off pashmina
or SHRUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you cruise the lanes in your four by four
speeding because you’re above the law
you THUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

On Sundays, after you’ve sung your hymns
do you sit outside with a glass of Pimm’s
or a JUG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

At festivals, scoffing from Harrods deli
do you strut your stuff in a Hunter wellie
or UGG?
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Do you loll on the chintz with your horsey arse
and secretly sneer at the working class?
you SLUG!
the Oxfordshire Smug.

Judi Sutherland is a poet, formerly resident near Henley on Thames, now living in Barnard Castle, Durham. She is the proprietor of The Stare’s Nest and organiser of the Fledgling Award for debut pamphlets by poets over 40.

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A Failed Poet’s Reflections on Writing Poetry – Part 1 by Jose Varghese


By admin

I struggled hard to create unique phrases,
got stuck with clichéd metaphors,
tried to freeze the magic of life
in extreme close-ups and wide angle shots
and ended with a senseless collage,
wrote of ‘chirping birds and twittering sparrows’,
watched thoughts ‘pirouette’, kept dreams ‘etched
in memory’, and failed miserably. Poetry
did not arrive in search of me. Perhaps
I lack experience, ‘real’ experience, mind it,
or I am insensitive to life and language,
or it’s my tpying, full og typpos, you see,
or it’s my blind faith in free verse and its
irreverent choices of

lexis

and

alignment,

or it’s just my attitude, my faltering faith
in the ways of the world of creativity.
I know there is something wrong for sure.
I have even started to wonder
whether the problem is with my readers.

(To be continued)

Jose Varghese is a writer/translator/editor from India who is currently  teaching English in the Middle East. ‘Silver-Painted Gandhi and Other Poems’ (2008) and ‘Silent Woman and Other Stories’ (forthcoming) are his books. He is the founder and chief editor of Lakeview International Journal Of Literature and Arts.

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Google-sculpt No.2 by Jinny Fisher


By admin

Google-sculpt No 2

Jinny Fisher lives in Somerset and is a member of Taunton’s Juncture 25 and Wells Fountain Poets. Her poems have been published in The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar, The Broadsheet and Prole. She also gained Highly Commended in York Mix Competition and 2nd Prize in Interpreter’s House Competition (2016).

 

Best Friends by Karen Jones


By admin

Engaging you in conversation
makes me contemplate
defenestration

Because

Your twisted interpretation
of my words causes
frustration

And

Your constant evocation
of past errors is
provocation

For

the sweet anticipation
of your complete
obliteration

So

If you require elucidation
let me provide this
explanation:

Fuck

(no more prevarication
obliqueness or
obfuscation)

You

Karen Jones is from Glasgow. Her poetry has been published at Every Day Poets, her fiction many places, including Mslexia, WWJ, Bath Anthology and Writers Forum. Her anthology, The Upside-Down Jesus and other stories, is available from Amazon.

 

Stylist by Carole Bromley


By admin

My hairdresser doesn’t really get poetry;
he’s into Thai boxing, but he does ask about it.
We have these weird conversations
while we pretend there’s a point
in even talking about a new style.
He tells me about his broken nose,
how the A&E consultant lost patience
when he went straight out and got it broken again
and I tell him about stuff that’s alien
like doing readings to ten people
and spending more on a course
than I earn in a a year. He’s given up
trying to understand why I write
and I’ve given up trying to understand
the appeal of getting the shit kicked out of you.
I suggest the two activities are not so different;
he suggests a little layering at the sides.

(first published in Well Versed and in The Stonegate Devil)

Carole Bromley lives in York where she is the stanza rep and runs poetry surgeries. Winner of a number of first prizes including the Bridport. Two collections with Smith/Doorstop, the most recent being The Stonegate Devil, October 2015.

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Come to the Acerbity Ball by Ron Runeborg


By admin

Some say a writer’s greatest worth is built upon one’s suffering
that depth is only reached through pain; then scripted without buffering
To honor true believers of the poet as enigma
I now invite you share with me a party for our stigma

I’ll send for you my favorite skull and crossbone clad balloon
you’ll ride in proper anguish to the dark side of the moon
You’ll wear your finest Visigoth, I’ll wear my blackest stare
we’ll danse macabre until the dawn (though dawn won’t visit there)

Let’s ruminate on sorrow, beat a fine dead horse or two
I’ll start a fear round robin, let’s begin with death by shrew
You’ll ride a foul but mighty wind, or play dismay charades
Let’s toot our funk on blue kazoos, let’s march in dirge parades!

I feel the turn already just by penning this request
I’m so much more an author when I’m sullenly depressed
So please accept this call to arms, let’s toast our gloomy trappings
lest we subject our readers to involuntary nappings.

Ron Runeborg lives with his wife Linda and Montague Pierre the dog in Lakeville Minnesota. He writes poetry and short stories and currently has two books available.

 

The One That Got Away by Sarah J Bryson


By admin

We had a mouse in our kitchen. The cat brought it in;
a small soft toy with a squeak to make the cat’s tail switch.
But when the mouse had lost interest in being batted about
or tossed in the air- it escaped to the safety of the dark

right under the kitchen cupboards. It scrabbled around
and found – underneath the built-in dishwasher –
a home, safe from cats and inaccessible to humans.
A comfortable existence, most of the time.

Even a hot wash in the dishwasher above did not evict him.
Believe me, Mum tried it.

Sometimes a snout could be seen checking out the scene.
Then if no cat about, the mouse would leave the under cupboard dark
and nip across the floor, under the door – to the utility and the cat’s bowl.
One lump of ‘Whiskas’ was a good sized meal for our little guest.

Every now and then the cat would suspect and inspect.
He’d sniff around gingerly then, tail upright, he’d walk off in a huff.
But at night the mouse would explore, leaving small calling cards,
far more than you would expect from one small mouse.

We had a mouse in our kitchen. But it had to go.
Mum said. She’d had enough.

We returned from the shop with a trap and a jar of peanut butter.
The trap was ‘environmentally kind’ – designed to catch and nourish,
so the mouse could be released (far away) and flourish.
Night after night the cat’s bowl would be raided

the cardboard blockade for the gap under-the-door, left in in tatters.
Peanut butter untouched. This mouse preferred ‘Whiskas’.

The mouse had outstayed its welcome. Two new traps were set
(‘infallible’ it said on the box). The under-door gap was sealed
with extra strength tape, heavy duty cardboard, and military precision.
We went to bed with our fingers crossed.

We had a mouse in our kitchen.
But the one that got away did not get away again.
We found him in the morning: snapped,
stiff and cold, his nose poked in peanut butter.

Sarah J Bryson is a poet and hospice nurse. She runs occasional poetry workshops, and more regularly she works in care homes as part of a project taking poetry into residential care. Her poetry has been placed in competitions and published in anthologies, in journals and on line.

 

Barbie, Sindy, John and Mike by Thomas McColl


By admin

With her ten-fingered lynch mob,
my sister, Tracey, tore my Action Man apart,
after finding Sindy and Barbie,
both of them naked on my bed,
discovering the joys of lesbian sex.

I didn’t realise they were sisters
or that Barbie was due to get hitched that day to Mike,
or that my Action Man’s name was Mike.

Tracey, with a severed plastic leg still in her hand,
explained that Mike,
while serving at the front line
that stretched across the living room,
had ‘on purpose stepped on a land mine’,
distraught at having heard the news
that his bride-to-be ‘was a dyke’.

My other Action Man,
which Tracey named as John,
was married off that week to Sindy,
but the marriage was a sham.
With some encouragement from me,
Sindy and Barbie continued their lesbian love affair
at every available opportunity.

That Sunday afternoon,
with John replacing Mike at the front,
and Tracey out shopping with mum,
I brought Sindy and Barbie together once again
to have their fun.

Thomas McColl has had poems published in magazines such as Envoi, Rising, Iota and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and his first full collection of poetry, Being With Me Will Help You Learn, is out now from Listen Softly London Press.

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A Higher State of Consciousness by Charles Christian


By admin

Far up on a building site
a brickie takes a break
shirt off, bare chested
he sits cross-legged
on a window-ledge
basking in the mid-morning heat
clutching a mug of tea
smoking a roll-up
reading The Sun
like Buddha on a high rise
the Buddha of the Frogs
the Buddha of the White Van Men.

Charles Christian is a former barrister and Reuters correspondent who now writes about tech, geek stuff, folklore, pop culture, medieval history, the just plain weird, and anything else he thinks you’ll enjoy.

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Surveillance Drills by Dave Weaver


By admin

I hovered lonely as a drone
That floats on high o’er council slum,
When all at once I saw a lone
Drug-dealer plus attendant scum;
Along the Lane near Tottenham’s stands,
Ten thousand pound’s worth changing hands.

The waves of fans beside them dragged
Enshrouded in their coloured scarves:
A hoodie could not be face-tagged
Among such crowds on heaving paths:
I scanned – and scanned – but little saw
The details of their hidden score:

For oft when I am in the clouds
My GPS in relay mode,
And gyroscopes a-spinning loud
While I a new target download,
Find mere surveillance hard to bear:
I want to kick some arse down there!

Dave Weaver was a late developer as a writer. In the last four years he has had three novels published by speculative fiction publishers Elsewhere Press and his fourth, a psychological drama called ‘The Unseen’, is due out this summer. He has self-published two collections of short stories in Kindle format and has had work published online and in various anthologies including two pieces in the upcoming Rattle Tales 4 anthology.

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