Progressive by Brian Johnstone

The way she said,
“I thought you might,”
was my undoing;

my chat-up lines
remembered more
for absence

than success. I’d said,
“What sounds are
you into?” Not caring,

but just putting out
the only line
that I could think of

aiming to connect.
Not even that alluring,
but a girl

that was enough.
How she answered
long forgotten;

but remembered
– when she asked me
that same thing –

is her response.
“Prog Rock,” I’d said,
so keen to get it right.

She didn’t wait;
said, turning on her heel,
“I thought you might.”

Brian Johnstone’s work has appeared throughout Scotland, elsewhere in the UK, in North America and in Europe. He has published six collections, most recently ‘Dry Stone Work’ (Arc, 2014), and his work appears on The Poetry Archive website. His memoir ‘Double Exposure’ will be published by Saraband in 2017.

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Observations on the Seventh Day: A mature female in a domestic setting – Autumn by Sarah J Bryson

One member of the clan, in this case the female, labours
for several hours in the preparation of sustenance
required by the family unit on the symbolic seventh day.

A heated box lights a section of animal corpse –
the release of vapours leads to verbal expressions
of a positive olfactory response from younger members

[immature adults] who then migrate, having only just woken,
back to the upper layers of the territory to occupy themselves
with small lit boxes activated by quick moving digits.

As the meal’s protein component transforms
into a brown leaking-piece the individual,
[in this observation a female called Hazel]

removes the outer skins of roots pulled from their outdoor habitat,
and trims green growths (rejecting those with small life forms)
in readiness for a timed scalding in metal pots of hydration fluid.

As she prepares she listens, via a small electrical appliance,
to a fictional community performing a worship
in their settlement’s religious structure, not so very far away.

She peels a thin layer off the secondary nourishment,
and puts small uniform pieces of the white flesh into a ceramic dish
with a sprinkle of a white granular substance –

and this in turn is covered with a crumb of fat and gluten powder
[the assembly of which requires skill and dexterity]
before it is sacrificed to the hot box, without ceremony.

The final fluster of activity, to bring all elements together,
is accomplished with the urgent summonsing of off-spring
achieved by a series of bangs on a copper disc.

The appearance of the spouse [Joe]
is met with an aggressive glance
but he deflects a verbal onslaught

by the production of a slim glass container
from which he pulls a wooden plug
and pours a portion of red fluid into a large drinking vessel

which he presents to his mate, brushing her hot cheek
with the external margins of his eating orifice, before striking
an exaggerated pose with a carving implement

and slicing the animal corpse with a smile.

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.

 

The Owl and the Pussycat (went for a curry) by Leanne Moden

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to eat
At a beautiful restaurant.
They took some Naan, and plenty of yarn,
Wrapped in a French croissant.
The Owl looked up to the menu above,
And sang (for he’d bought his guitar)
“O lovely curry! O curry, my love,
What a beautiful curry you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful curry you are!”

Pussy said to the Owl, “You indolent fowl!
Please, pass me the chutney, I pray!
Too long we have wasted! This food must be tasted!
Stop singing. Let’s hit the buffet!”
And so they both dined, quaffing plenty of wine,
‘Till they grew almost too fat to stand.
And, when they were finished – their hunger diminished –
The bill came to over a grand,
A grand,
A grand!
Yes, the bill came to over a grand!

“I’m not paying this!” The Owl swung his fists –
And smacked the poor cat in the neck.
It was accidental, but Pussy went mental;
The parlour was thoroughly wrecked.
Then they were barred, and thrown out in the yard
With nowt but a runcible spoon.
Now each one agrees that he favours Chinese,
Or a pint down the old Wetherspoons
The spoons,
The spoons,
Or a pint down the old Wetherspoons.

Leanne Moden is a poet from Nottingham. She has performed all around the UK, including sets at Trinity College Cambridge, the Nottingham Poetry Festival, Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, the Cambridge Festival of Ideas, the Royal Albert Hall and Bestival on the Isle of Wight.

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Broom by Peter Yates

I have a new broom
to sweep clean
the detritus of my life.
I’ll collect it all in neat little piles

labelled:

Lost Direction.
Broken Promises.
Divided Loyalties.
Shattered Dreams.

And being part of that bold new breed
of eco-warriors
I will, of course, recycle it
recycle it all
back into my life again.

Peter Yates is a playwright who has his own Theatre Company Random Cactus. He works with various charities and is a Theatre Critic at London Theatre 1.

 

A Funny Thing Happened At The BBQ Party by Stella Wulf

Libidos washed up like sagging lilos
on a rasp dry beach,
we bobbed about in cozy cliques,
chattering of the doings of offspring,
plumbing, leaks.
Chewed the fat of the latest diet fad.

The men snapped tongs,
slapped meat on the BBQ,
talked of bleeding rads,
brake pads,
and we all admired the view
of the perfectly ridged new roof,

and the new roofer emerging,
unabridged from the shower,
all terra cotta brown and limber,
his lithesome man-boy chest,
aquiver,
as he did his best to hide his timber.

The tide rushed up that deserted beach,
in a surging tsunami of passion,
breaching the maternal shore,
shingling everything in its passage,
and I gushed in immature ejaculation,
‘Anyone for sausage?’

Stella Wulf lives in France and is currently studying towards an MA in Creative Writing. Her work has been widely published and has appeared in several anthologies including The Very Best of 52, three drops from a cauldron, and the Clear Poetry Anthology. 

 

Interview Technique by Mark Mayes

Why do you want this job?
Why do you want it now?
Do you fulfil the requirements,
the person specifications?
How do you fulfil them?

What can you offer?
What would you offer?
Why should we choose you
above the other candidates?

Communication skills,
do you have them?
How good are they?
Are you flexible?
How flexible are you?
Flexible under pressure?

Do you have a sense of humour?
Humour under pressure?
Is your humour flexible?
Are you bubbly yet dynamic?

What do you understand by:
customer service,
equal opportunities,
teamwork?

Where do you see yourself
in five years,
in ten years, in fifteen?

Do you have time-management skills?
Can you manage time?
How much time can you manage?
What is time?

In three words,
describe your personality.
In three words,
describe your ideal job.

Is this your ideal job?
If not, why do you want this job?
Why don’t you want your ideal job?
Why aren’t you in your ideal job?

This gap
in your CV,
can you explain it?

Why have you applied?
Why do you want this job?

Mark Mayes has published poems in various magazines, including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat & Tears, Staple, The Reader, The Shop, and Fire, and has had work broadcast on BBC Radio. He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.

 

A G.P. Submits Case Notes by Beth McDonough

(Evidence of Reasons for Non-attendance at Incidents in Orchards by St Madoes)

Monday: Maggie Sinclair fell from a recent-rotted bough,
brought on by last winter’s wersh of snows.
If she bruised, sustained a twist, well, nothing left her lips.
She still won’t let me know.

Tuesday: Some creeping culprit cut up Cutler Grieve.
No-one knew quite why.
If he needed surtures, I really couldn’t say.
The family made it clear. They consider me a spy.

Wednesday: Little Oslin was wormy to the core.
I expect he festered quickly. Yes, I fear
they just suspect he’s resting, but
he doesn’t want me near.

Thursday: Rough wee Scrog was dragged off in the jaws
of their neighbour’s toothless dog.
Perhaps I asked too much.
They claimed they saw the Vet, but they looked at me agog.

Friday: Yon Scotch Dumpling was scabbed in every place.
I even mentioned maggots,
but they crumbled at my offer.
I know. I’ll never make my targets.

But, bugger me – the weekend!

What I watched the Lass o’ Gowrie do
furrowed with her burly Bloody Ploughman
may not require me quickly, but be certain
their activities and liberties will need a closer scan.

Beth McDonough finds poems whilst swimming in lochs and rivers, foraging and riddling with Anglo Saxons. Often writing of a maternal experience of disability, she was Writer in Residence at Dundee Contemporary Arts 2014-16. ‘Handfast,’ her poetry duet pamphlet (with Ruth Aylett) was published in May 2016.

 

F.W.Woolworth’s Leaving Do by Peter Raynard

Late as usual a pasty-faced Greggs sausage rolls
to the bar, orders a pint and radars the room.
In the snug, old friends M&S & BHS reminisce
about the Man at C&A, watch Topshop’s figures,
it’s unique and boutique. Many others crowd
the dance floor Whistles stands alone, unaware
of Zara’s foreign presence. Heals may be higher
in price and class, But Primark may yet have the last laugh.

Others keep out of the spotlight hoping
it won’t spin their way. Waterstone’s wets itself,
Foyles cuts fingernails real quick, Anne Summers
vibrates scantily with fear. Bums are squeaking
all along the High Street. In a darkened VIP area,
the far-from-sadministrators disembowel Past Times,
autopsy Whittard’s fine teas, fix bulbous eyes
on His Master’s Voice and Blockbuster’s,
as they snort lines of coffins filled with the rewards
of Jessop’s losses, ready to hollow them out.
Clinton’s couldn’t be there, so they sent it a sympathy card.
‘Your time will come, don’t you worry,’ it read.

But there is still some fight, as Poundland
takes a swing for 99p stores but misses
and Pop Up shops poke out tongues,
Charity shops hold out hands, whilst
Amazon and eBay are virtually there.

Greggs shuffles round, asks the barman
‘What did the F.W. stand for in Woolworths?’
‘Fuck Wit,’ he replies.

Peter Raynard is a writer and editor. His poems have appeared in a number of publications and his debut collection “The Common Five-Eighters” will be published by Smokestack Books in early 2018. He is also the editor of Proletarian Poetry: poetry of working class lives.

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Performing a poem in a non-poetry space by Mark Blayney

Hello, my name is Cough. I’d like to share my what the hell’s this? with you
and also to welcome bar till ping.
It’s lovely to see excuse me love here and also
so many of you who are mower starts outside window.

SO I’LL SPEAK a little louder to cover the Is this not Cuban salsa?
and hopefully we can move to the first well they told me it was in here
and then we’ll enjoy a reading from a new book by
oh you’re right it’s Thursday.

It’s good to see so many new faces FART
and I hope not all of our first-time performers will be nervous.

So don’t listen to him it’s all indoctrination,
put your bible away you wan- kingdom of the polar bear,
a set of poems about Greenland and the
ice sheet – me, let’s put something on the jukebox!

And please welcome to the stage, reading from her new book
‘Poems spoken in a whisper’
the very wonderful Police siren! Bar till! Where are the toilets?

Good evening. My first poem is called, ‘The long silence’.

….

….

….

Let’s go, Doris. We’re missing Casualty.

Mark Blayney won the Somerset Maugham Prize for ‘Two Kinds of Silence’. His third book ‘Doppelgangers’ is available from Parthian and his first poetry collection ‘Loud music makes you drive faster’ will be published in October.

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