Tainted with Love by Ananya S Guha

reubenwoolley's avatarI am not a silent poet

Whither the dead
ha’ penny thoughts
the tortoise and the hare
run, in this impending fun
..
Brown soldiers black
black, brown
their shirts are shrivelled
into guns they hold
..
Terrorists come and go
the common man might
know, who the soldier
who the terrorist
the police arrive to gun
both
it is mayhem
and the gaping wound
that tells all the sorrow.
..
At crack of dawn
a son is born
father murdered
mother prepares
three coffins
for father, son and
mother.
..
I say my prayers quietly
what do soldiers want?
where is the brave war
and what are suicide squads?
the rose buds faint in red
tulips open into gaping wound
my praying beads are tainted
with love.

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The Prole Laureate Poetry Competition 2018 is now open for entries

Abegail's avatarAbegail Morley

The Prole Laureate Poetry Competition, 2018

Prize

Winner: £200, Publication in Prole 25 in April 2018.

Publication on the Prole website

2 x runner up prizes of £50, publication in Prole 25.

Publication on the Prole website

katered2017_origJudge

All entries will be read by judge, Kate Garrett whose latest pamphlet You’ve never seen a doomsday like it, was released by Indigo Dreams Publishing in July 2017, and her next pamphlet, Losing interest in the sound of petrichor, will be published by The Black Light Engine Room Press in early 2018. She is currently writing the sequel to Deadly, Delicate, as well as her first full collection of history and horror poems.

Time scale

Entries from August 1st 2017 to January 31st 2018.

Winners will be announced in issue 25 of Prole in April 2018 and on our website by April 20th 2018.

All work must be the original work…

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Sunrise on Midsummer Morning – David Calcutt

Beautiful evocation of summer

Claire Walker's avatar

Sunrise on Midsummer Morning
 
A full moon falling, the sky lit
with last night’s charred and crumbling embers

across the field, thin spills of misty light

visiting spirits haunt the hedges
or try a cry in the canal’s bandaged ear

dung reeks and steams, a horse’s hoof strikes home

and out of the trees the great bird rises
wings spread and beating the sky into flame

and the great egg of the world is hatched

with an outflung shout and tumble of voices
many and many, song of all songs.

*

Later on oak’s shoulder
an owl puts on a mask of light

and the big mothers with their babies
stand among thistles and stare.

David Calcutt is a playwright, poet and novelist. He is the author of four novels and three collections of poetry. His plays have appeared in the theatre and on BBC radio. He lives in…

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celestial fox

Gretchen Del Rio's avatarGretchen Del Rio's Art Blog

watercolor 6/2017

In Japanese mythology, a fox who lives long enough and gains a great deal of knowledge will reach an enlightened state, the Eastern sense of the ‘fox spirit’. 

I was exploring the spirit of the fox via google and discovered this song in which fox is presented as a kitsune or fox who is trying to reach heaven in the form of a shooting star. 

“To you my beloved to the land that lies beyond. Soaring through the heavens, she is moved to tears. I will fly out, I will dance in the night sky at the moment when this body disappears.”

So that’s what a shooting star is……. the Celestial Fox flying through the night sky.

purchase this painting

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This is a time by Rachael Clyne

reubenwoolley's avatarI am not a silent poet

when disbelief is as plentiful as grass,
when abstract nouns are emergency rations
and love and integrity are pilots on enemy soil,
hidden in safe-houses, with doorposts
marked by the blood of the lamb,
while all of hell’s angels roar down the bypass.
Now, the prophets are out of a job,
we are homeless and stand on a new ground zero.
It is time to predict even a present, let alone a future, without us.
It is time to do more than bury ourselves in landfill,
time to commit acts of love, without measure or return.

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Grenfell Lament by David Banks

reubenwoolley's avatarI am not a silent poet

(To the tune of “buddy can you spare a dime”)

Once there was a tower
I called home
Washing pegged out on the line
Once there was a tower
Now it’s gone
Smelly old me all the time

Given her a facelift
Poor old soul
Given her a brand new tone
Given her a facelift
On the cheap
Better they had left her alone

Often of an evening
Watched the planes
Following one by one
Carrying the wealthy
Slow as slugs
Into the setting sun

Once I had a family
All I had
Quarrels and laughter and love
Once I had a family
Now they’re gone
Mister, can you give me a shove?

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The BeZine, June 2017, Vol. 3, Issue 9

The Bardo Group Beguines's avatarThe BeZine


June 15, 2017

The environmental  challenges are complex, an understatement I know.

  • Big Ag pollutes our waterways and groundwater, air and soil. Some wetlands, rivers and their tributaries can no longer sustain life. Much pastureland is befouled with pesticides, animal waste, phosphates and nitrates and other toxic residue from unsustainable farming practices.
  • Sudan Relief Fund, World Food Program, Oxfam, Catholic Relief Fund, Buddhist Global Relief, the World Food Program and many other organizations are working to mitigate widespread  hunger, which is a problem of economic injustice as well as environmental degradation and environmental injustice.
  • Drought and resulting famine are devastating the Sudan, the West Upper Nile and Yemen.
  • In many areas of the world, access to potable water is sorely lacking.
  • Lack of access to clean water is exacerbated by a want of toilets for some 4.2 billion people, which has a  huge impact on public health.  The result of…

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Posted on June 14, 2017 by The Bardo Group Beguines Remembering the Farm

I remember a farm where grasses grew
wild flowers scattered over their jewels
enriching the meadows where cattle grazed
and every August with horses we made hay.

The land was productive and the cattle thrived
and gentle the rain that watered the soil:
the summers were long and the children swam
in the waves lapping beaches of silvered sand,

for the cattle provided pure milk by the gallon
that was milked every morning and collected
in churns, it tasted so sweet fresh from the udder.

The grasses provided sweet hay for both horse cattle.
I remember the haymaking, pitching grass on the fork;
the haycocks rising their mounds on the fields
to dry in the long days of summer’s sure sun,

but that was before the farms turned to spreading
chemicals promising ever increasing production
the flowers vanished together with the bees and
the meadows no longer held cattle and horses,
for the cattle are housed in great lines of production

and their milk is pumped into vats for pasteurisation.
Its delivered in plastic that needs recycling or lands
in the sea we once swam in so freely but now is awash
with fish that are dying and fishermen’s catches grow

ever smaller as the boats that caught mackerel no longer
tie-up at the jetty we walked to on Sundays, to buy mackerel
for dinner – they’re gone with the summer and the pure spring
water we drank by the bucket from the clear mountain stream.

© 2017, Carolyn O’Connell