Poets notoriously have a hard time gaining traction and establishing themselves; we’re called starving artists for a reason. Even wildly successful writers rarely have their name recognized outside of literary circles. School curriculums have also taken a nosedive when it comes to poetic appreciation; my daughter brought Katy Perry lyrics home as part of her poetry unit in 5^th grade. Good thing we have technology.

I can usually put poets in one of two categories. There are deeply introverted individuals who write from an intricate mesh of feelings and experiences and then there are the highly extroverted, bubbly, ‘listen to what I just wrote’ poets. Of course, I’ve come across several who go through short bouts of enthusiasm only to withdraw back into solitude where they can write in peace. The internet is the perfect place for either type or those who swing back and both.

With so many…

You bloody cried, didn’t you,
over the wee Syrian boy in the orange chair?
He didn’t cry.

Such a sight I saw today
Where once these fields danced.

Two horses their hooves tied with twine
Dumped, discarded, dead.
Have we forgotten their legacy of loyalty throughout history?
The poor pit ponies blinded, lived and died in darkness.
Coal cart horses, whipped and broken by their burden.
Mules marred by unbearable weights – collapsed from exhaustion.
They have ploughed fields, pulled barges, wagons, drays,
Trams, fire engines, ambulances and Brewers carts.
Spirited sentients sold to the knackers yard to make soap.
Casualties were lost in circuses, movies and film.
Others gored to death in insane bull fights.
Bartered, drugged and lashed for a bet,
shot, disposed of with spent slips.

War – a fools folly
The caltrop, truly the Devils weed,
Pierced and punctured
Left you languishing in the bloody muck.
Used as shields for bullets and bombs.
And the ultimate betrayal
In brutal barbarity –
They strung…

August 15, 2016

“to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
© Ellen Bass

In this issue our writers touch on many aspects of hope and its flip-side grief, sometimes head on and sometimes by a thread. In our lead features, Corina Ravenscraft urges us to act without expectation, to…

As the EU referendum heaves inexorably into view, we are temporarily rebooting New Boots and Pantisocracies to allow you to write a new poem on the preamble or outcome. Whether you’re a Brexiteer, a Bremainer or a Brundecided we want to see a poem from you on any aspect of the lead-up or the aftermath. But get this, polemicists and poets, you only have until midnight on Sunday 26th to write, rewrite, reject, rethink, resurrect, re-edit and render your poem to azjackson65@gmail.com. We’ll publish the best here, starting early next week and only stopping when one of us utters the safe word. As they say in Europe, allons-y!

You

grandma came from malta, or was it
gibraltar, anyhow dad was very dark.

his hair remained so, with help and support.

i came from england to live here with you

#thebear.

also from another country.

i hear there is trouble in the village.

yes. i am scared they will shout
and say go home.

another country.

Feasts of Peace & War

Spare with years his familiar figure was known
by all, comforting as morning coffee in the café
his smile sweet and welcome as a Tart Tatin
he was known by everyone, beloved as the bells
that rang to summon them to the church they’d
entered since childhood. He’d consoled in times
of sorrow, shared wine in joy, and kept secrets.

Beyond years when many had retired to enjoy
the fruits of lives he’d continued a sweet ministry
tending the community, visiting the sick, teaching
children, consoling troubled, burying the dead
and every morning ringing the bell to call
the faithful to daily prayers beneath the steeple.

One August morning as sun stirred every window
scent of croissants, coffee mingled with geraniums
he stood before the early worshippers as he’d done
for many years, intoning the familiar peaceful prayers,
two teenagers burst in armed with hate…

More poems produced by children during my workshop in Huddersfield Library. Caution: may include our own made up words – because anything Dahl can do, we can too!

Mrs Guillotine

The meanest teacher ever found
was from France, and lived a mile underground.
A language teacher originated,
saw the Queen be coronated.
At school she is a complete terror
and if you ever make an error
you’ll find out Mrs Guillotine
will lock you in the school store cupboard.
If you run down the corridor
she will scream at you, making you fall to the floor.
So beware! Do not bump into Mrs Guillotine
or you may end up executed.

by Mei Rivett (age 9)

Miss Lovelyhug

Miss Lovelyhug is a nice teacher.
She has long hair and she is tall.
She wears a butterfly teeshirt
and she moves like a butterfly.
Miss Lovelyhug has blue eyes.

Louanne (age 7)