Father
i.m. Father Jacques Hamel 1930-2016

Such a small throat,
wafer-frail above folds
of a white linen alb
almost too heavy
for bird-light bones.

Such an old man,
not seeking death
but sensing its nearness,
hoping to go in peace
like blind Simeon.

Such a rapid step
from terror to healing,
as his life-blood
lapped into the warm
blue bowl of eternity.

There are as many ways to do this as there are to do anything worthwhile. I have done it different ways in different books, because the material one has often dictates the structure. Just as, in the writing of a poem, one has to listen to the poem itself, then with a book, one has to listen to the poems and allow them some say in choosing their own order.

Like a lot of other poets, I think it’s vital to print off the poems one hopes to include. It’s a good idea anyway, to have a hard copy of each completed poem; that’s the best way, other than having them published in book form, to guard against computer crashes and lost discs. I’m not always the best at taking my own advice here, I must confess.

My latest collection, The Five Petals of Elderflower, takes both its name…

Oud

He clutched his grandfather’s oud, strings towards him, as tightly and fiercely to his chest as his brothers their AK-47s when they’d gone to fight.

Perhaps, some day, he’ll learn to play it.

It was the only thing in the house untouched by the explosion. His grandmother, father, mother and little sister – scattered anatomised, almost atomised, aerosolised around the ruins.

His brothers? Who knows? He didn’t believe in anything any more. Felt nothing – neither despair nor hope. Grief nor anger.

The Mermaid

The girl they found in the sea was a stranger.

They pulled her onto the beach and marvelled at her strange clothes. A little boy, who was more heart-broken than scared, asked if she were a mermaid. A man, more scared than heartless, laughed emptily.

The small group that had gathered looked out to the sea, wondering how many more cloth-swaddled limp-limbed people there were, drifting their way.

There was a sadness to it all that was offensive to some.

“Throw her back,” Sam Murdock said.

Inconveniently for him, she was still alive.

A woman turned the girl on her side and rubbed her back. Her voice was a murmur as constant as the sigh of the sea.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright.”

Some wanted to take her to the village, care for her, look after her until she was better.

Aggie Dawes was livid. “How long…

You might like to dip into this wonderful online magazine The High Window where you will find absolutely oodles of poetry from Carole Bromley • Rachel Carney • Amyon Corbould • Ken Craft • Ken Evans • Tony Flynn • Neil Fulwood • Rebecca Gethin • John Greening • David Harsent • Zeina Hashem Beck • Angi Holden • Gaia Holmes • Ross Jackson • Henry King • Michael McGill • Dh Maitreyabandhu • Jessica Mookherjee • Helen Mort • Jan Napier • Nicola Nathan • Michael Penny • Alan Price • Adrienne Silcock • Mario Susko • Grant Tarbard • Claire Walker • J.S. Watts • Stella Wulf; translations by Anthony Howell • Roy Marshall • Allen Prowle • Peter Robinson • Patrick Williamson • Timothy Ades an essay by Helen Mort and a special feature by Peter Sirr. There are reviews of Helen Mort • Vona Groarke •…

On Hearing of Jo Cox’s Last Words
June 18th 2016

My husband is out in the June sunshine
filling the bird feeder, hanging it back
by the bay tree. They have been waiting for him;
a finch is first, then a sparrow, the pair of collared doves.
Blessed are those who feed the birds,
like Saint Francis, who knew them as kin.
The roses hang, heavy with blooms,
but the fuchsia, today, its myriad scarlet droplets,
can do nothing.

She died in too much pain, that life
that served those in flight from harm,
stolen by knife and gun, her world work
done.

I watch the birds, their to and fro. Blessed
are those who build the kin-dom.

A lone feather lies in the grass,
the sunshine catching its iridescence.
A breeze is picking up, lifting it on.

Claire Dyer has now chosen her long list from the entries to the Paradox Paragram Prize.

In her comments when making her judgements Claire says:
‘Judging this competition has proved both challenging and inspiring. I have learnt lots! I have also greatly enjoyed witnessing the many and varied interpretations of the theme, been impressed with the skill and courage of the entrants, as well as their intelligence, compassion and generosity of spirit.’

All Long List pieces will be included in this year’s Paragram anthology, due to be published by the end of 2016 by Paragram Press. The Short List and subsequent winners in each category will be chosen and the details posted on this site as soon as they become available.

Humour	Ian	Colville	Parable
Humour	Ayelet	McKenzie	Clean Windows
Humour	Michael	Weightman	Black and White
Humour	Vivienne	Vermes	Love Affair Between People of Literary Bent
Humour	Aileen	Shirra

Sharp on her tongue, acid
the berry she’s spent, but wanting
to sup the hell out the night
and shut away the bodies,
the trashed mosaic
of bone and flesh
from a country she’ll never visit.

The Duce Of Coach 3 of 8

For you there is only this moment, this thing that you do right now,
This breath, this opinion you blow so carelessly,
I see you on the train advertising your newspaper, tells it like it is mate,
The headline, that tosses lit matches and walks away,
If I could make this fire you play with real, I would do it,
And by those burns you shall be seen.

You talk of our history, our kind, the way things were 20 years past,
But it is yours and yours alone, my little Islander,
It is a drop of rain, it came, it went, no more than that,
If I could turn your words to shit so that you would choke on them,
And feel its taste, the stink never fading, I would do it,
And by its taint you shall be known.

You…