Everyday

Everyday cacophony
tick tok like
exam we often
take in life,
the roof is stretched
to reach sky,
of our imagination
we draw images
on long and short
walls of spaces
nothing is empty
like sadness of heart,
gone,
alone is
madness
to life canvas.

Hey Reuben, so tell me a little about IANASP and why people should read it?

I am not a silent poet started at the end of November 2014. I was at a point where I was getting very angry and depressed about the number of Facebook posts and Tweets about different kinds of abuse all over the world: gender abuse, domestic violence, child abuse, female genital mutilation, abuse of the disabled, the bombings in Gaza, Syria and many other places leading to the huge numbers of refugees trying to enter Europe with many drowning on the way in the Mediterranean, the mistreatment and killing of blacks in the USA, austerity imposed by the Conservative party in the UK and its terrible effects on the poorer members of society…

I felt it was time to do something, but this was rather frustrating because of my age and family situation, there is…

Cornwall Contemporary Poetry Festival

Open Poetry Competition 2016

1st prize: £600    2nd prize: £150    3rd prize: £50

Judge: Alison Brackenbury

Entry fee: £5 per poem, £3 per poem thereafter

Closing date: 3 September, 2016

Alison Brackenbury was born in Lincolnshire in 1953 and studied at Oxford. She now lives in Gloucestershire, where until recently she worked, as a director and manual worker, in the family metal finishing business. Her collections include Dreams of Power (1981), Breaking Ground (1984), Christmas Roses (1988), Selected Poems (1991), 1829 (1995), After Beethoven (2000), Bricks and Ballads (2004) and Then (2013), all published by Carcanet. Her poems have been broadcast on BBC Radio 3 and 4, and 1829 was produced by Julian May for Radio 3. Her work recently won a Cholmondeley Award.

Rules and instructions for entry

1   The competition is open to anyone aged 16 or over.

2   Poems should be…

For Jo Cox

I’m thinking of the man who murdered Archduke Ferdinand
and how that shot would ricochet
along the trenches of the Somme, loud enough to echo
on the far side of the world. And all the men since then
who levelled the barrel of premeditated guns
and took aim at life, as though that could solve anything.

I’m thinking of the awful randomness of a death
that someone chooses for you
without permission, while all your future selves collapse
into a bullet hole. And afterwards, the press
decides if your killer was a mad lone wolf
or a terrorist, as if these two are mutually exclusive.

I’m thinking of that philosophical distinction we all make
between nature and nurture, although
motives are seldom pure and never simple –
and how they say there’s no free will at all;
that the finger muscles squeeze down on the trigger
before the…

Arriving at our stop, it would spit us out … so much cattle, the regimented and the ragtagged, tired and numb.  Once dumped, the rail-car doors would close behind us and we were whirled in the wake of the train rushing to the next station. Then, a sudden silence, and we were free to plod our way home, a final few blocks in Gravesend, a new ‘s-Gravenzande*, if you will, but an old irony. I’d stop at the bakery first and go on to Paul the butcher and his merchant’s rictus. His beef, he told me, “is like butter,” perfect for my carnivore husband. Paul’s face seemed bloodless to me, as if in some moment of devotion he chose to infuse the dead. Still more child than woman, I would study the varied cuts waiting to be bought, waiting to be devoured. I’d fancy their missing eyes, bones, and very lives crying out. These…

Poet, Writer, Linguist, Photographer and Educator, Aprilia Zank at play

Malajusted

I had put on
my reddest dress
to spread brightness
on my arrival
but these women were rabid
had crawled to the drug locker
with their pee bags
trailing behind
and their white gowns
open at the back
for ease of examination
I tried to stop them
screamed for the nurse
but they were already
devouring
the coloured pills
and celebrating
their ephemeral victory
over doomed
maladjustment

untitled

this is an ugly poem
this is a wicked poem

this is a poem
about corpses lined up
in antiseptic bags
in the basement

this is a poem
about weary customers
drawing numbers
for refundable purgatories
on the ground-floor

this is a poem
about a young girl
on the third floor
pulling tight
at the pink of her hoodie
to conceal
the baldness of her head

this is a poem
about…

I’ve twenty-seven sisters beyond the sea

(After Sloan MS 2593)

I’ve twenty-seven sisters beyond the sea,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.
And they sent six presents to say goodbye to me,
Pertrum, Partrum, Paradisi, Temporie,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.

They sent me a sea which bore no herring shoals,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.
They sent me a road which led nowhere at all,
Pertrum, Partrum, Paradisi, Temporie,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.

They sent a wedding present on the day of my divorce,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.
They sent me a key that could not open doors,
Pertrum, Partrum, Paradisi, Temporie,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.

They sent a bunch of flowers without any blooms,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.
They sent a country house with Fascists in the rooms,
Pertrum, Partrum, Paradisi, Temporie,
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.

What could be the sea that bears no herring shoals?
Perrie, Merrie, Dixie, Dominie.
What is…