Category: Free verse

Mea Culpa by Mark Mayes


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As his forehead met my nose,
causing it to explode
into a cascade of blood and snot,
I wondered what his childhood had been like,
and the precise nature of his family’s dysfunction.

As his size-ten DM’s crunched into my bollocks
at an equally disconcerting speed,
I bemoaned his lack of life chances,
and the undiagnosed dyslexia,
which had so sorely troubled him.

When, having whipped out his Stanley,
he proceeded to inscribe a map
of the Scilly Isles – on my neck,
I blamed the NHS for not proactively
offering him counselling
at a more formative age.

Finally, as he stamped rhythmically on my spine,
chanting ‘Bastard’ all the while,
it dawned on me
that he was the real victim here,
and I had no right to complain,
if anything, I was to blame,
for in me he saw the cause,
the cause of all his pain.

My Home Counties’ vowel sounds
had put him out of joint;
plus the unpardonable act
of spilling his pint.

(originally published in The Interpreter’s House)

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.

 

The Bra by Mab Jones


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The bra was invented
In two places
Simultaneously.
By Herminie Cadolle in France
And Mary Jacob in America.
Both sprang up in
The two countries
Almost instantaneously.
Twin buds of an idea,
Fleshed out and
Eventually ripening.
But no-one really knows
Who is the true
Discoverer.
Though one of them,
Like the things they cup,
Is bigger
Than the otherer.

(Originally published in Poor Queen, Burning Eye Books, 2014)

Mab Jones has read her work all over the UK, in the US, Japan, France, and Ireland, and on BBC Radio 4. She runs International Dylan Thomas Day, writes for the New York Times, and recently won the Geoff Stevens Memorial Poetry Prize.

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A Gentleman’s Guide to a Comfortable Life by Simon Williams


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Wear a utility belt.
This avoids scrubbing holes
in your pockets with loose change
and inadvertently washing
phone numbers, first drafts and £10 notes
to lint.

Never take on anyone else’s fish.

Learn about cars
but also find a reliable garage
and join the RAC.

Buy cheap crap from China.

Own several pairs of trousers
and change them regularly.

Pre-heat the bathroom and
check towels before showering.

Own a Swiss Army Knife
or failing that
a smartphone with a compass app.

Grouchy is a respectable standpoint to work from.

Back up your stuff.

Perfect the appearance of being busy;
never be caught writing poems.

Simon Williams has six published collections. He latest pamphlet, Spotting Capybaras in the Work of Mac Chagall, launched in April and his next full collection, Inti, will be out later this year. Simon was elected The Bard of Exeter in 2013 and founded the large-format magazine, The Broadsheet. He makes a living as a journalist.

 

The Artist Does Laundry by Pat Tompkins


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The artist mixes darks and lights
in a single load on washday,
although she knows that blacks and whites
will turn various tones of gray.

The cheap madras fabric bleeds
odd shades: a true creation.
The bargain red towel will lead
to pastel pink foundations.

Different colors each season:
a della robbia blue
gets muddied into titian.
The old wardrobe becomes new.

(Previously published in Still Point Quarterly)

Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.

 

Hyperbolic Wishes by Sarah Watkinson


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And you, have an amazing weekend too
be stunned as your three-storey extension cracks and falls
shedding that primrose render from its breeze-block walls;
watch the four horsemen churn your stripy lawn
and your yelling kids launch into space from their trampoline.

I hope it’s truly fabulous for you
with lots of harpies at your barbecue,
a whopping leviathan in your swimming pool,
dragons to drop in, turn your burgers black
and incinerate your Range Rover Evoque.

Sarah Watkinson is a lifelong scientist and new poet. Her work has recently been published in magazines including Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Pennine Platform, The Rialto, The Stare’s Nest and Well Versed, and has won several prizes in open competitions.

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Under the Hummer Tree by Simon Pinkerton


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The Hummer Tree,
Sacred pillar of our school community.
Site of countless hummers.

All-season hummers.
The Hummer Tree bare
And party to blue-lipped, quick, cold-trembling hummers.
New growth, new blowers and blowees.
Hot, sweaty, teenage-fumble hummers,
Welcome cool shade and relative darkness
So as not to showcase the hummer too much,
Or get too hot.

And of course, dry, scratchy leaves falling on my head,
Both heads,
All the heads,
Giving head hidden from the Head
And her Deputy Head hummers.

No matter the season it was always
Cool to be given or to give
A hummer under The Hummer Tree.

(originally published by Mad Swirl, February 2015)

Simon Pinkerton is a humour and fiction writer, very famous and drives a very elegant posh car (Hyundai) and lives in a sought-after area (a shed near Heathrow airport). Please read his writing at McSweeney’s, Word Riot, Minor Literature[s] and other sweet places.

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The Knight of Whatever by Rhys Hughes


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Champion of shrugs, defender
of the couch faith,
bides his time unbidden,
bodes well emboldened,
rests his pointed metal feet and yawns
like the hinges of his suit
and waits to evade the next crusade.

His helmet has a double chin
built in just in case
he is invited to too many hog feasts,
not that this is very likely
because he does not love his friends.
Other things he cares nothing for
include jousts, sieges and enormous horses.

The Knight of Whatever
can no longer be bothered with this poem
so he refuses to rhyme or scan
and forces it to change direction.
There is an astrolabe over there,
small troubadours mean big trouble,
Jerusalem is nice at this time of year.

Rhys Hughes has been a writer for most of his life. He has published more than 30 books, almost 800 short stories and numerous other pieces.
 

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


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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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Stylist by Carole Bromley


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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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The One That Got Away by Sarah J Bryson


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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.