A man on the 19.34 to Birmingham New Street, having misread the signals,
uses his mobile to try to arrange another date with the woman who has
hastily waved him off at Liverpool Lime Street
Whah?
Say again.
I bet yum freezing
ya baps off ay ya,
bab? Say again.
Say again. Whah?
I could come back
like, warm you up.
Whah? Say again.
Say again. Whah?
Errrrr……Runcorn.
Say again? Whah?
Thursday. Thurs…
Say again. I know,
yeah. Say…………
Ok…………..Tarrah.
Tarrahtarrahtarrah.
To Professor John Henderson, about my/his belly.
John,
Would be great to cut a fine figure.
I do, says your belly,
Swaying on my two pins.
Uh huh? I’m listening, I say.
Yeah, I cut a fine figure of a Henderson belly
asking John for a hug.
You’ve got persistence going for ya,
I give you that. Yeah I have,
my/your belly drawls,
taking a long drag of a cigarette,
I’ll ask him till the day I die. I placate curve
with smoothing palm.
Are you thinking about John now?
John Henderson belly closes her eyes.
Yeah. All his vocatives rolled
into one tumbling waterfall of cadences.
What about his ablatives, his hyperbatons?
All cases. All cadences. One long
Belly schmoosh. His semantic analytics?
His patterns? His parsings? His epics?
His topsy turvey word order?
My belly is opening her lips, lost
for words. His exploratory thematics?
She’s gone, lost in loin-louche.
Maria Andrews is a short film maker and photographer who occasionally gets published in poetry mags (Polka Dot Ceiling, Still Life) and was once published in a collection (Bloody Amazing). Her current alias is a puppet called Leopold, who is a London correspondent for Helmiflix.com She likes belly laughs. manifestafilm@weebly.com.
Do come to my party..
This time, just for close friends
so no Facebook public event;
I’m celebrating the spring equinox
but haha – without fertility rites.
I am not inviting anyone’s ex
as far as I know, but nobody said
last time about Liz and Dean
or Janice and Liz, or the tragic death.
This time the veggie option
will not contain chicken stock
and I told everyone no hash brownies,
whether labelled or not.
The party games will all be voluntary;
there will be no charades
acting out cocktail names,
no removal of clothes.
No dog-sitters will bring the pooch,
another time for the twins with AHD
and we already established
next doors cat won’t fit the BB Q
This time no stand-back-fifty-metre
fireworks in the tenement’s back green;
it’s the wrong time of year
and the facing flats weren’t keen.
Though the emergency services
were actually rather pleasant
and the front door
has now been mended.
RSVP. Do come!
Ruth Aylett teaches/researches computing in Edinburgh and her poetry is published widely in magazines/anthologies. Joint author of Handfast (Mother’s Milk, 2016); her pamphlet, Pretty in Pink (4Word) was published Jan2021. More at http://www.macs.hw.ac.uk/~ruth/writing.html
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Earthworms Are Awesome
I mean, they literally feed the fucking planet. Take our fermented banana, yellow miasma and crap it out as wise-man’s gold. And I feel impressed with my morning turd! But that needs hours of processing, by loads of people in hazmat suits with fancy gizmos, before it turns into anything useful. I’d rather be a worm: take a shit, and boom, job done; it’s warm and ready to be laid into by a seed-bean or bulb. Maybe I’d be more fulfilled without a human brain to contradict my purpose. I’d find my way into a middle-class compost bin, spend all day eating potpourri detritus, and be a rent-free master architect, redacting common land law. I’d be humbled by my legless body, my simple ways of building, mindful of camber structure instead of grey velvet sofas and Mrs Hinch. I’d be at home in dirt, throw my gender away and bag the kinky night-time rendezvous’ amongst an orgy of grass with wet breath. The human hand would be no more risk to me than it is now, maybe even less, and mother Earth might forgive me for my flesh. I just hope being swallowed by a bird is a quick death.
Holly is a mature student currently studying at the University of Leeds. Her poems have been published since January 2021 by Ink, Sweat & Tears, Anti-Heroin Chic, Spilling Cocoa Over Martin Amis, Dreich and more, as well as appearing in anthologies. She is currently working on her debut collection.
Twitter: @Holly_C_Writer
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Plums
I walked into the kitchen and there was Mum
Sitting at the table with a truck load of plum
As Mum de-stoned the fruit to make it into a pud
She wrote a short verse which I thought was quite good
She has this skill of writing as if she is somebody else
Looks like the voice of this poem is that of myself
And so, she wrote:
‘My mum’s been busy cutting up plums
Her son, her chum thinks they all look like bums
Now she is glum as she is getting numb thumbs’
A few hours later she had no reason to grumble
Those numb thumbs had made way for the perfect crumble
Lee Campbell is a performance poet and regularly performs at Paper Tiger Poetry in London His poem ‘Clever at without being Seen’ was recently included in Sometimes, The Revolution is Small, Disarm Hate x Poetry’ project by Nymphs & Thugs Recording Co. UK and published in Queerlings online magazine. His poem Juniper Park was recently published on this website.
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My Mother Said
Always take care of your man
and try not to seem too clever.
The home is a woman’s domain;
this floor could do with a hoover.
Men like to think they’re clever
so buck your ideas up, my girl:
this floor could do with a hoover
and you’re wearing a dirty skirt.
Buck your ideas up, my girl,
make him feel proud of your looks:
you’re wearing a dirty skirt
and wasting your time on books.
Make him feel proud of your looks
and give that bathroom a clean;
there’s no time to waste on books;
cook something nice for his tea.
Go on, give that bathroom a clean;
the home is a woman’s domain,
so cook something nice for his tea
and try to hang on to your man.
(Previously published in Snakeskin, May 2018)
Sharon stopped writing poetry in 1976 and started again forty years later, after retiring from her career in education. Her poems have been published online and in print and she is currently studying for an MFA at York St. John University. Originally from Bristol, Sharon now lives in Otley, West Yorkshire.
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Reincarnation Revenge
If I come back
I’ll be a flea,
A sexy flea
who’s bitchy
Throw wild flea orgies
in your bed,
and bite you
’til you’re itchy
Winner of no Poetry Ireland Competition, or any other competition, no published debut collection, nothing printed anywhere else yet except here.
Her poems have been nominated for nothing so she’s nominating this poem to go on this page – a great place to start nominating.
She is the curator of nothing. Her anthology doesn’t exist, yet she keeps going.
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One To Tenant
One house to rent
Done deal over the phone
Finally we have a place
on loan not quite our own
Two months saving up
we needed to hurry up
Got the first months rent
and the deposit
We got lucky,
There is a lot of competition out there
we nearly lost it
Three people start a new chapter
two adults one child
Days of struggling
but days that contain laughter
our first journey to happy ever after
Four in the morning
and the little one wakes up
Still half asleep as i hurry
to reach for a bottle or cup
A distant memory is 8 hours sleep
but its four hours only
Before i hear the sound
of the alarm clock beep, beep, beep
Five days a week
on a basic wage
After the rent is paid
be lucky to get a mcdonalds
eurosaver burger at this stage
Six months go by
starting to borrow money
on the sly
Even though i work
It’s hard to save
How can you save for a mortgage?
when money is tight
like chains on a slave
Seven loans to my name
cant say im the only one to blame
But living in Dublin
feels like your paying double
But down in the country
you pay less so no trouble
Eight hours overtime on
next week’s payslip
But i’ll only see a tenner
of that so i will head to
The bookies with a hot tip
Football or horses
Il do what it takes
to save for a mortgage again
And if i win
Just maybe, my saving can begin
9 attempts at a loan
from the bank to the shark
Still the chances of balance
are looking a bit stark
Chances look dark
but there is light
at the end of the tunnel
Maybe a dream of a decent life
is not so impossible
10 years of struggling
10 years of juggling
All the the times the bank
told us not a chance
during the boom and
after the economy collapsed
But after ten months
Ten days and lot of years
Something came out of
the blood, sweat and tears
We may have our keys
And can look back at the rent
and be proud to say
I served living a life on borrow
a life as a tenant.
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VEGE
Hey, remember me?
I am the leafy vegetable at the side of your plate that never got eaten
The one your mother insists is good for you
I lay there getting cold and soggy until the meal was over
You waited — until she wasn’t looking
Then receded on tippy toes and tossed me in the step-bin
These days, you speak of being organic and eating brown bread,
brown rice, brownies made of all-natural black beans,
fairtrade cocoa and grass-fed butter
You carry a metal straw and forsake plastic
You are an environmental warrior
A climate change defender
You do yoga and meditate and stand on your head
You attend retreats on mindfulness — to empty your mind
You go to the gym to stretch your body to its limit and call it de-stress time
You eschew coffee and prefer green tea
You drink cold-pressed juices made of avocado, cucumber, carrots, celery and pumpkin
You speak of their antioxidant properties and gloat about the anti-aging glow of your skin
I was the leafy green you threw in the bin
I still remember mum insisting that wasting me was such a sin
You are vegan now —
I win
Julian Matthews is a former journalist and trainer finding new ways to express himself during the pandemic through poetry and fiction. The Malaysian-based poet is published in “Unmasked: Reflections on Virus-time” (Heliconia Press), an anthology curated by author Shamini Flint, Poetry and Covid (poetryandcovid.com), a project funded by the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, the WordsFest Zine (Insomniac Press), Borderless Journal, Nine Cloud Journal, Second Chance Lit, Poor Yorick Literary Journal and Wingless Dreamer
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How Papa Never Got His Guapa
As Astrud Gilberto once said to Stan Getz,
The thing about the sun is it also sets.
Then along came Hemingway in a big white Beemer,
Saying: Hello darling — are you the girl from Ipanema?
Maybe I am, she said, but that bell never tolled for me.
You’re just a dirty old man, so please go back to the sea.
I think you’re a bit of a beast,
And you’re not invited to my moveable feast.
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