Diminishing Poem Spliced with an Ovi
My Nan has got an iffy bladder
not good when climbing up a ladder
she was once bitten by an adder
though it came off worst
She did let out a curdling scream
and reached for antiseptic cream
I wrote it up, it took a ream
But I doubt it will ever be published
Nan quite soon lifted up a glass
she always was a dypso lass
and once rode naked on an ass,
made page three of the Daily Mirror.
The half starved virgin
Mother told me not to be greedy,
to sit on my hands and wait.
‘Hold in your stomach and tighten,
you never know who’s at the gate.’
Mother always looked good in an A-line,
kept her fingers off the cream buns.
Smoked cigarettes at breakfast,
tried filling her hunger with puns.
‘Keep smiling at those dancing boys
be cheerful and do not pout.
Go walking, cycling, play games of cards
and never ever give out.’
Mother frowned at my father’s kiss,
sat straight on her stool thinking thoughts.
Did the crossword and drank fizzy water
for the little pleasure it brought.
I wore white on the night that he took it –
a boy with clean nails and a purse.
He spent longer than I thought
but during it I caught
desire is a belly full of want. Now
give me some sweet with my sugar,
give me chocolate with my wine,
give me tongues in my kisses,
give me rapture in my crying.
Give me saunas in the sunshine,
give me plunge pools in the rain,
give me sand in the desert,
give me ecstasy in pain.
‘Leave the table wanting more’ said mother,
To hell with that, I state.
Give her food when she’s hungry ,
unlatch the half-starved virgin’s gate.
Bobbie Sparrow‘s poems have been published in many journals including Orbis, Crannog, Skylight 47, The Honest Ulsterman, Cordite, and Southword. Bobbie won 3rd prize for her Chapbook in the Blue Nib competition 2018 and came second in the Saolta Arts Trust Poems for Patience competition 2020. Her Chapbook Milk and Blood was commended in the Fools for Poetry competition 2020 and she was nominated as one of Dodging the Rain’s best published poets 2018/19. She loves lake swimming and cycling downhill.
A Grudge
On my tenth birthday, I got a toy horse
A party was out of the question of course
But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll
Gran got me Playdough, my smile
became thin
I thanked her profusely as it went in
the bin
But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll
Was there no end of crap presents today?!
Oh, a construction set! Cheers, auntie Gaye!
But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll
Mum baked a cake, the icing was pink
I pigged the lot and was sick in the sink
But I really wanted a Tiny Tears Doll
Heather Moulson has been writing and performing poetry since 2016, and has featured extensively in London and Surrey. Heather’s first pamphlet Bunty, I Miss You! Was published in 2019 She mainly hankers for a certain era and lives in Twickenham with a stroppy black cat.
Good Morning Mr Magpie
So how is life in your new job?
It couldn’t be simpler
Your brush stroke always black
Not a hint of light
Only your face calico white
Do you still magnify a molehill?
Huff and puff it into a peak
like the Reek and talk is cheap
And have you climbed it yet?
Oh! and don’t forget your umbrella
And whose ear do you burn now?
You’re a gossip blogger, I hear
Always knew you as a luddite
But then you usually found someone
useful just around the corner
By now you must have genius status
It takes a lot of time to be a genius,
you have to sit around so much
doing nothing, really doing nothing
Teresa O’ Connor-Diskin’s poems have been published or forthcoming in The Galway Review, Skylight 47, Dodging the Rain, Vox Galvia, The Irish Farmers Journal and she was shortlisted for Poems for Patiences 2019.
One of her poems has been added to Poetry in Lockdown collection at the James Joyce Library UCD
Marc Maron
They say never meet your heroes,
but after a gig that
I had just commented
was breathtakingly crafted
and delivered with an ease I long for,
we passed the stage door
as Marc Maron walked out.
Thank goodness I needed to use
the ladies’ after the show
and that the queue
had been the exact length required
to facilitate this moment
is not what I said
as I shook Marc Maron’s hand.
But what I enjoyed most
was the way Marc Maron didn’t wait
for Neil to approach
but stepped towards him,
hand outstretched,
thus ending a seventeen-year loop
of disappointment, caused
by an underwhelming chance
encounter with Philip Glass.
Tina Sederholm is a performance poet and theatre-maker. Described as ‘Completely spellbinding’ ***** (Edfringe Review), she has created and extensively toured four solo shows, including six runs at the Edinburgh Fringe. This poem comes from her latest collection, This Is Not Therapy, published July 2021 by Burning Eye.
MOURNING WHAT HE LOST
Steve found it boring caressing his hair each morning
because his hair was arrogant, luxuriant and elegant.
He never thought one day he’d need a transplant
for the 2 foot Mohican attached to his cranium.
Hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,
bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).
He poured cereal into a bowl then found he had no milk.
His blessed day had shattered, gone belly up, shattered
and his hair had fallen out. He could no longer caress,
flout, shout or watch sprout from his cranium
hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,
bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).
All his hair had vanished but one remained and thrived
and each morning he combed, shampooed and conditioned,
trimmed, pinned and gelled that strand so it lay flat on his head.
Then he lost that single hair as it departed his cranium.
A single hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,
bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).
What should Steve do with it? Have it displayed or framed,
dipped in formaldehyde, electroplated or suffer immersion
in alcohol? Steve must let everyone know a 2 foot Mohican
once flourished on his now empty cranium.
That hair dyed pink geranium and not bright cerulean, maroon,
bubble gum, cinnamon, electric crimson or even violet-red (medium).
Rodney Wood lives in Farnborough, co-host the monthly Write Out Loud (Woking) and is widely published.
Long Johns
He has such a sensuous appearance,
Still, after 20 years of being wed,
But when he wears his long johns,
I ban him from the bed!
They are such a repulsive garment,
They are such a ghastly sight,
They don’t particularly arouse me,
They give me such a fright!
Oh, fancy seeing your husband,
With his wobbly, knobbly knees,
His thighs and shins the size of twigs,
Oh no thank you please!
He has his champion features,
It’s his legs that I cannot bear,
I would rather see him in his tighty-whities,
And thermal underwear!
My personal inner thoughts of him in them,
Are completely obtruse,
With him lying next to me in bed wearing the long johns,
I strictly refuse!
It prevents him from the bitter winter, I shall give him that,
But the material is frantically coarse,
He needs to burn the long johns,
Otherwise I am filing for a divorce!
Long Johns
He has such a sensuous appearance,
Still, after 20 years of being wed,
But when he wears his long johns,
I ban him from the bed!
They are such a repulsive garment,
They are such a ghastly sight,
They don’t particularly arouse me,
They give me such a fright!
Oh, fancy seeing your husband,
With his wobbly, knobbly knees,
His thighs and shins the size of twigs,
Oh no thank you please!
He has his champion features,
It’s his legs that I cannot bear,
I would rather see him in his tighty-whities,
And thermal underwear!
My personal inner thoughts of him in them,
Are completely obtruse,
With him lying next to me in bed wearing the long johns,
I strictly refuse!
It prevents him from the bitter winter, I shall give him that,
But the material is frantically coarse,
He needs to burn the long johns,
Otherwise I am filing for a divorce!
arse
I’m building an intricate mansion
from an infinite stockpile of stone,
and only I know where each stone has to go,
so I’m building it all on my own.
You might think that house is this poem,
but that would be really old hat.
It’s a stale metaphor that we’ve all used before,
don’t you think that I’m better than that?
I don’t simply write about writing,
how low do you think I would stoop?
Instead I’m now writing of writing of writing,
and on in an infinite loop.
I’m turning so self-referential,
it shows I have talent and class.
It would be no surprise if, in front of your eyes,
I disappeared up my own…
Mark Totterdell’s poems have appeared widely in magazines and have occasionally won prizes. His collections are This Patter of Traces (Oversteps Books, 2014) and Mapping (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2018).’
How many cigs did Cyril smuggle through?
Five hundred twenties underneath the floor
Of his old camper van. If he makes two –
Two quid a pack, I mean, he can be sure
Of a cool grand. Could Cyril ask for more?
Of course he could. He bought a ton of hash –
A hundred quid’s worth, at a legal store
In Amsterdam. He’ll sell you some for cash.
Some porno mags: they’re awful tacky tat,
Some dodgy DVDs and videos –
For his own use. You can’t blame him for that.
Have you seen his old lady? Christ, she’s hideous!
He says the human traffic pays the best,
Desperate people fleeing for their lives
From torturers and tyrants and the rest.
And most of them have relatives and wives
To swell the profits when their turn comes round.
Cyril’s a pretty enterprising man.
But after his last run, well, Cyril found
Exhaust fumes did for one young African.
Come out the back. I’ve got her in the freezer.
She looks so warm, but she’s as cold as ice.
It really upset Cyril, poor old geezer.
So is she nice, my friend, or is she nice?
You’re right, and she deserves a decent grave.
You have to show respect when all is said.
Now, on that score, could I call in a favour,
So Cyril can sleep easy in his bed?
Lots of new building going on round here,
You tell me in your knowing sort of voice.
Foundations for a library and a school,
Even a church, so Cyril’s spoilt for choice.
Just name your price. If Cyril says Okay,
We’ll bed her deep in decent Essex clay.
Hey, just a tick, do you see what I see?
I saw an eyelid flicker, I could swear.
Help me to lift her out; bring her in here.
Put her down by the fire; give her some air.
It’s all right, love, you’re in safe company.
Just swallow some of this. There. Is that better?
Should we call Cyril up on the Q.T.?
Say she’s revived and can he come and get her?
No, I don’t think so either. There’s more profit
In letting Cyril think he’s in a fix.
She says she’s grateful. Girl, think nothing of it.
We’re going to sort out Cyril’s box of tricks.
Pass me the phone, love. This ought to be fun.
Remember, your mate Cyril thinks he’s lost you.
Hi, Cyril! We’ll clear up your mess, old chum.
But we want cash up front, and it’ll cost you.
Brian Burden is a retired college lecturer. He grew up in Banbury, Oxfordshire and graduated from Oxford University. He now lives in Essex. This poem is from his self-published collection In A Green
Glade.
