Don't tell me her name


{For the anonymous Indian women,
whose defiled and burned bodies
form a daily news item in the media}

Don’t tell me her name.
Let me cry for her,
let me cry for me
for I am woman born.

Let me map
my plagued body
in bruises, in burns,
in the stench
of kerosene,
in the fumes
of poison,
in the agony
of a defiled soul.

Let me write my body,
drowned in milk; my body
plucked, torn asunder
from my mother’s womb,
gasping for breath;
my body, torn apart for sins
of womb and breast.

Let me write a glorious
Motherland, where
inglorious women writhe.
Do I weep for myself
for I am lost hope, beating
my weathered  bosom
in the annals of history?

Or do I write myself
as Kali incarnate
trampling a nation’s shame?

Kali – Indian goddess of destruction
     
{Acknowledging Nilanjana Roy}

©  Usha Kishore, December, 2012

Indian born Usha Kishore is an internationally published poet, resident on the Isle of Man. Her work has won prizes in UK competitions and recently shorlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2012 .  


  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review.

Melinda Rizzo's  And They Came  started off the week, here at Poetry24, with a reminder that dogs really are our best friends.
Peter Flint analysed Christmas and it's various guises in The Many Faces of Christmas while David Mellor pointed out that The World Doesn't Sparkle.
The editors sincerely hope that the readership have all had a good time over the last week. In New Zealand we had a sunny and warm Christmas Day, which was as unexpected as it was welcomed. We relaxed with our families and had some glorious food and a glass or two of fine wine. We hope you all managed to get a space for some happiness and warmth.


  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Annual Review

Today we put current news on hold in order to publish a Review of the Year which has been assembled by one of our most loyal and regular contributors, Antony Baverstock. Thank you, Antony. We would like to wish you and all our readers a happy and prosperous 2013.

Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

The World Doesn't Sparkle


The world doesn’t  sparkle
But we do
With each passing tragedy
Our love shows through
Although they maybe millions of miles away
Or close by
We give them a tender smile
Or message to get them through

The world doesn’t sparkle
But we do
Evil wants to  find a home
But we shine through

© David Mellor

US firefighters shot dead in 'ambush' in New York state

David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

The Many Faces of Christmas


Christmas has many faces.                
First the avaricious smirk of commerce
toy shops, supermarkets, the internet,
suspicious buy one get one free bonhomie
begins months before the turning of the year.
Next, the stern features of duty,        
cards, cooking, parties, presents,
inspiration, invitation, perspiration.
Then the flickering face of friendship.
The warming worth of lasting communion.
Guilty ghosts of folk fast fading into oblivion,
the commanding countenance of conformity,
rituals of observance and obligation.
The grinning mask of Dickensian mythology,
trees and trimmings, mistletoe and mince pies,
smiling Saint Nicholas beam of benevolence,
santas, sledges, stockings.
The glowing visage of giving and caring,
the ruddy, bellowing laughter of revelry,
golden serenity of holiness and sacrifice.
All turned to immutable truth and hope
Of life's renewal and rebirth.

© Peter Flint

Abandon hope all ye who enter here: on the trail of the fabled Christmas Furby

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

And They Came


I’m told they’ll stay the week.
Golden Retriever ambassadors from Chicago
to the heartbroken in Sandy Hook, Connecticut.

Who like the Hebrew ancient Rachael,
or the mothers in Bethlehem, Judea,
during Herod’s reign of terror,

wept a constant, wrenching stream,
and would not be consoled.
They beheld the unthinkable.

The modern slaughter of these,
Holy Innocents, more incomprehensible
with each passing day.

I read the endless stories,
blindly weep heaving tears of solidarity
for men and women I have never met.

But still, the furry cavalry comes.
Used to offering comfort to the sick,
and profoundly sad, they come.

They come offering no platitudes,
no will of God admonishments. 
They offer nothing more than now.

Their gift comes as friendly, sweeping tail.
It comes as warm flanks offered as blankets,
 and moist kisses offered as kindness, absolution.

© Melinda Rizzo 2012

Obama calls for US gun proposals


Melinda Rizzo is a freelance reporter, poet and observer of the world. She lives with her family, and a Labrador Retriever named Caleb, in rural Upper Bucks County, Pennsylvania, USA.




  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review and A Very Merry Christmas

In a week when the news has been dominated by the Sandy Hook shootings and their aftermath I approach the writing of my first Sunday review with some trepidation. Like the narrative voice in Imelda Maguire's poem of yesterday, I find myself  'seeking sharp phrases' and 'clever turns' but I am, nonetheless, humbled by the dignity of those who have suffered and, at the same time, all too painfully aware that my life continues unaffected by these terrible tragedies. For the moment, at least, I am untouched, comfortable, safe and secure. This being the case, I propose to say no more. Readers of Poetry 24 this week will already know that the poetry speaks more profoundly than I could ever do here.

On Monday, in 'Old News' , Linda Cosgriff reminded us that 'Death is an itch some must scratch' on both sides of the Atlantic while, on Tuesday, Eamon Ó Cléírigh 's deeply moving 'Unheard' spoke powerfully of the shock and grief now being felt by a small and close community in Ireland. On Wednesday, we took the unusual step of publishing two poems simultaneously: Joy France's  'Cut Back Christmas' and AfricMcGlinchy's 'Death of America's Christmas'  We made this decision because we felt strongly that, despite being very different from each other, both these pieces deserved to be published. We were aware that we were 'running out of time' before 'the end of the world' and, with a wealth of strong material to hand, we decided to bend the rules.


To make matters worse, though, we had already scheduled another poem by Afric, 'Mayan Finale', for Friday so that meant we had to break another rule, this time the one about one poem per author per week.  Never mind, I am of the opinion that any set of rules should be thrown out of the window occasionally and, anyway,  I would rather break a dozen of them than disappoint a single author who has submitted a strong piece of work. Accordingly, Wynne Huddlestone's poem, 'End of the World, or a New World Age?', also appeared on Friday. Once again, we could not decide so, in the end, we published both. 


On behalf on myself and the rest of the editorial team, past and present, I would like to wish all our readers a warm and wonderful winter holiday season and peaceful and prosperous New Year. We will continue to publish, although probably less regularly, over the festive period.


Finally, in keeping with our established practice of occasionally including an obituary with the Sunday Review, here are some lines to remind us of the contribution of a man who perhaps did more than any other musician of his generation to expand the horizons of popular music in the West.


Ravi Shankar 

A sitar may have twenty three strings

Six on a guitar
Or sometimes twelve
Four Beatles
Only one Ravi Shankar

After teaching George a few secrets
People took notice
He played the sitar
Recorded it
On Within You Without You

Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
Was it annoying?
As you sat there
Cross legged
Waiting for some follow up

The Fab Four never played Woodstock
But you were on stage
Looking serene
Sending out
Those magical vibrations.

© David Subacchi 2012

Ravi Shankar dies, aged 92

David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year. 


  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

December, 2012

I was writing a poem

for the end of the world,
seeking sharp phrases,
clever turns.
That devastating final line
hadn’t yet been formed
when the world ended.

In Ballybofey and in Newtown, Connecticut,
in other places too, names unknown to me,
worlds ended for mothers, fathers,
sisters, brothers, cousins.
For the janitor, the bus driver,
the teacher.
For the granny, the aunt,
the man in the shop,
the dog at the gate,
the world with that child in it
came to an end.
Will not re-start.

My world keeps turning, stays on its axis.
After a brief pause, after the shocking news,
here I am.
A different poem.
A slightly different,
sadder world.
And on it turns,
this world –
wounded, wounded.

© Imelda Maguire

Imelda Maguire, Donegal, Ireland, is a poet and a counsellor, working with young people in schools in Northern Ireland.










  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Mayan finale and End of the World, or a New World Age


Mayan Finale

The new gods re-line the stars,
boomerang clouds to blanket
over all the ancient myths,
hammering each with iron nails. 

A Niburu parachute snags
on one, letting its ragged cloth
sink colour into sky’s pavement
until the Milky Way is bruised to purple.

And now a humming starts; then god-bees
buzz, turn to screaming rockets,
as they discover the magnetic breath
of death across the world:

electric blankets, laptops,
mobiles piled in too-late pyres
offered to a solar flare equivalent
of a hundred billion atom bombs
  
and all the runaway leaves,
a squared-off sun, midges darting
in sprays of reckless spittle;
mountains topped with seers

and mass suicides, mosaics
of blood across cracked cheeks,
while thirteen crows line up along
a cemetery wall, and watch
the ticking clock.

 ©Afric McGlinchey
A Hennessy Poetry winner and Pushcart nominee, Afric McGlinchey’s début collection, The lucky star of hidden things,  was published in 2012 by Salmon.  Afric lives in West Cork. www.africmcglinchey.com


End of the World, or a New World Age

People everywhere are scurrying in fear
as the date draws near to 12/21/2012—the end
of the Mayans’ calendar; the stage set for doom:
World War, Apocalypse, Enlightenment, or peace
and a New World Age. Some Christians, too,
believe, perhaps, Revelations is coming to pass;
after all, the perfect number in the Bible is 12—

the Trinity multiplied by the four earthly elements
of water, air, earth and fire; there were 12 Disciples,
12 seals, and 12 heavenly gates (star gates?)
named for 12 tribes, guarded by 12 angels. Media
heightens the hysteria with themes of Armageddon,
Apocalyptic horrors, and theories of ancient
aliens. All cultures, religions and nations seem
to be drawing together, for once, in the belief
that the end of the age is upon us… but how

will it end? Will a sun flare set the world on fire,
or will a comet or Hubris knock Earth off its axis?
Will magnetic poles shift; will our last days
be spent in darkness? Will we blow up
the world with the H-bomb we designed to protect
ourselves? Will Jesus, Osiris-Dionysus, Vishnu, Ra,
and Buddha sit and argue about which one should

save us? Or will they just watch in judgment
as the world shrinks into a hot core, covering
us in gas and ash, burning us alive; or while
the world is beaten into bits like wadded up foil,
trash floating away to join other space

debris? Can humanity survive? Will a chosen few
hunker down in a secret government bunker
hidden deep in a mountainside to live for years
without sun, then emerge to plant seeds
in the frozen ark and begin civilization
again? Or is this just another hoax,
the gods’ secret joke—Look at these fools
expecting us to save them
from their imagination.

©Wynne Huddlestone

'End of the world' hysteria boosts tourism

Wynne's poetry can be read in nearly 40 publications. She is the winner of the 2010 Lifepress Grandmother Earth Environmental Poetry Contest.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Cut back Christmas and Death of America's Christmas

Cut Back Christmas

Cut Back Christmas is totally crap,
I’ve hardly got any gifts to wrap
I’m using newspaper string and scissors.
Christmas dinner is turkey twizzlers.
After, we might all share a mince pie
With some Vimto instead of fine wine.
I’ve got Pound Shop crackers that won’t crack,
No hats or toys, just jokes that fall flat.
It’s austerity round at my house
Cos I’m as poor as the old church mouse.
Our scraggly tree is a disgrace.
The fairy’s frayed and won’t be replaced.
Instead of stockings on the chimney breast
We’ve carrier bags - Netto’s finest!
The twelve days of Christmas are now ten.
Gone are the pipers and the French hens!
School nativities just aren’t the same.
The financial crisis is to blame.
Bethlehem’s all gloom and depression.
There’s room at the inn – blame the recession.
The three wise men travel from far and near
Bearing  Golden Virginia, frankfurters and beer
Poor Santa - is in a sorry state!
He’s so broke he’s not eaten of late.
Kids run away when he comes around
Since last week when his trousers fell down.
His “Ho Ho Ho” is cut back as well.
He still walks round town ringing his bell
He gets strange looks wherever he goes.
Cos of the cut backs he just shouts “Ho.”
He and his wife do the work themselves
Since they had to lay off all the elves.
Guess what has happened to the poor reindeer?
The venison pie was yum I hear!

So I’ll shut up now – I’ve had my moan
Some folk will spend Christmas all alone,
I’ll feast on love of family and friends.
It’s not what you’ve got or what you spend
But who you’re with that counts in the end.

© Joy France

Families spend £483 a week just to buy essentials

Shoppers touched by a bit of the Scrooge this Christmas

Joy writes poems and scripts and generally enjoys "mucking about with words". Although she has been published, she is mostly known for her presence on the performance scene in the North West area and for her work with young people.


Death of America's Christmas
A corridor of paintings, spattered
red; a teacher crams kids into cupboards,
tells them she loves them,
the way a mother would,
and silence will mean survival.

Children form a slow crocodile,  emerge
from the building. A brother watches
for his sister from the gate, doesn’t see her,
then finally he does, and the hug is the longest
and closest they’ve ever shared.

These are their presents this Christmas;
the lights  taken down, one by one, in a town
that is stunned into silence. Later will come
the questions, investigations, psychiatrists, debates –
for now it’s a nation in mourning.

Under the tree, no presents piling,
just fears, and rows of white boxes,
instead of lights or snow’s quilt
covering all that is dark
and spoiled in our world.

© Afric McGlinchey


A Hennessy Poetry winner and Pushcart nominee, Afric McGlinchey’s début collection, The lucky star of hidden things,  was published in 2012 by Salmon.  Afric lives in West Cork. www.africmcglinchey.com




  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Unheard

Even the darkest corner holds attraction
to those searching for silence,
a sanctuary from rushed thoughts;
suggestions that overwhelm,
lay a burden on the heart.

Secret pain seeks unseen solitude,
where shadows protect against our mundane.
That silent scream, a place beyond contact,
haunts nights where sleep remains beneath guilt.

Your light lies out of reach - one more step,
just one – once grasped there is no return,
your peace will come and we will fade
into the barbs of past.

Our cries will go unheard.

© Eamon Ó Cléírigh

Sisters in death

Eamon, from Dublin, is living in Sligo since 2003. Writing is his passion, along with life. His poems and short stories can be seen on several online journals.



  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Old News


Tragedy blossoms. Eyes glaze. Ears close.
Another school shooting 
in another small American town.

Death is an itch that some must scratch
with guns or knives or bombs.
With loathing - for classmates, parents, Mondays, self.

In Britain, we sigh,
remembering Hungerford, Cumbria, Dunblane.

© Linda Cosgriff 2012



Bio: Linda Cosgriff is an Open University graduate. Her poems have been published in ezines, magazines, various collections, and as art. Read Linda’s humorous take on life here

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review


The week began with Joy France reminding us of the 32 years since the death of John Lennon with her very creative poem Sign of the Times. What was clever about this poem was that you read it from the bottom to the top like a ladder. A very mystifying piece reminiscent of Lennon's way of thinking.

Barry Woods' Urban Android was about the increasing Orwellian society we are living in. The news story pointed out certain stores were using hidden cameras in mannequins. Woods tells us in an almost prophetic tone that 'Soon even our dreams will be hard-wired directly to a command centre.'

On Wednesday we had Noel Loftus' I Think I Was Nine. This was a powerful poem and had us here at Poetry24 in certain discussions regarding the style of the piece. It's written in the voice of a nine year old so certain errors were on purpose and the animal imagery was shocking and powerful and highlighted the topic of terminal illness and euthanasia in such a different way.

We moved away from the seriousness for a while and used A Christmas Verse by Thomas Martin on Thursday. This was about the predicted white Christmas we're supposed to get over December and January.

On the same topic of Christmas and Winter we next had It Is A Winter's Tale by David Mellor. Here we were reminded that although it is a season of joy and cheer, there is also rising energy bills due to inflation which will affect households all over the country. A quick turn to the reality of the monetary side of Winter.

Like we began with an obituary, we ended the week with an obituary. This one was David Subbachi's Stargazer which told us about Sir Patrick Moore who died at the age of 89.

At the end of the week there was the tragic shooting at a primary school in Conneticut, USA. It was a terrible news story and we received some poems dedicated to it. First is Children Playing: Gone by David Mellor.

Children Playing: Gone

shoot them down over Iraq
let’s forget we are taking them down here
killing more children in our streets
defending ourselves
with children’s blood
let’s tell others be in control
when gun laws let anyone take out who they wish
defend democracy
carry little children
in our arms dead at school
but let’s remember you
tell us the rules

© David Mellor


Born in Liverpool in 1964, David rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. He first discovered poetry in his 20s, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since.



And secondly we have, respectively, Sandy Hook Elementary School Massacre by Linda Cosgriff.

Sandy Hook Elementary School Massacre

28 dead, 20 under ten
A mother and other loved ones
Presidents weep
On days like this I wish I was a dog
a bird a sheep a cow a fly an ant a deer

I wish I didn't know how evil men can be

©Linda Cosgriff


Linda Cosgriff is an Open University graduate. Her poems have been published in ezines, magazines, various collections, and as art. http://thelaughinghousewife.wordpress.com

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Stargazer


In the black and white TV days
He seemed a jolly kind of toff
But that’s what scientists were like
It went with the territory
The monocle was impressive
Especially when it fell out

School taught me to name the planets
The difference between sun and moon
And that Earth revolves on its axis
But that’s all I can remember
He was much more informative
Maybe this could be exciting

Even dad looked interested
His hand raised to command silence
When the great man’s head appeared
Speaking of meteors and stars
As we sat by the coal fire
Imagining a comet’s heat

Later despite the cold bedroom
I would leave the curtains open
Trying hard to read the night sky
But lost without my expert guide
Until slumber overcame me
And the heavens faded away.

© David Subacchi.2012


David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year. 

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

It is a winter's tale


It’s a cold night
Making this debt ridden country
Even more difficult to bear
grit is rationed
The street lamps turned off at night

And It’s a cold night….

Making this even more difficult to bear
The elderly turn down e-ons of expensive gas
Workers wake up to see that their wages didn’t last

And somewhere someone is not thinking of any of this….
The luxury Harrods candles bought and boxed off
Windows left open as the heating is put on full throttle
The bonuses on failed enterprises keep them secure and warm

But out of my window it’s a cold night
And I really think someone might not make it through this night

But I doubt it’s you…

© David R Mellor 2012

Energy bill rises to outpace inflation


Born in Liverpool in 1964, David rummaged around various dead end jobs , then back to college and uni  . In my 20’s first discovered poetry , starting writing and performing and have done so ever since . David on Facebook and YouTube



  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review + AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

This week has been full of poems that were the opposite of what they first seemed, providing ripples of light and darkness: Last Tree Standing by Nicollette Foreman, was more about all those British ash trees about to fall. In Like Carrion Crows, Maureen Weldon referred to the (now) dead who picked on the living. A different side of the same news was Abigail Wyatt's The Comedy of High Places - not really a comedy at all. More ripples in Amy Barry's  Shadows on the Irish Sea which stretched from the other side of the world: a sense of being marooned, / so thick, it clotted, / choked his breathing. Darkest of all, Wendy Nicholson's Light up the lamps as the violence that has plagued Israel and Palestine for decades erupts again, with innocent lives lost on both sides:  so comes the dark and pain / to all again – and yet again / with no one spared. Even the humour was dark - with Philip Challinor pitched in with Political Police on the election where nobody bothered to vote.

On that cheery note, so to our announcement. First, this from Martin:

"As from this week, my editorial involvement at Poetry24 will come to an end, although I will continue to help maintain its Facebook presence for a while. I've taken this difficult decision so that I can free up some time and space, allowing me to explore and develop my own writing. 

So, a few words of heartfelt thanks. Firstly to Clare, for her huge contribution in helping to develop Poetry24. Without her insight and talent, I doubt whether we would have made it this far. Secondly, thanks to you, for your continued support and, of course, your quality poems.

Best wishes to everyone, and thanks again!

Martin

And this from Clare: 

"I will always be grateful to Martin for inviting me to share this project and am proud to have been a part of it. This hasn't been an easy decision for either of us, but I, too, have other ambitions and commitments and feel my time at Poetry24 has also run its course. 

Thanks to Martin's vision and the support of so many fantastic poets from around the world, I think that together we've all created something unique. Thank you all for being part of that.

Clare

Is this the end of Poetry24?  Not necessarily. We are happy to see Poetry24 continue with new editor(s) at the helm. If anyone out there would like to make this their project we would be happy to hear expressions of interest, answer questions and share our experience, so please get in touch if you're interested: poetry24@hotmail.com  

With this in mind, we plan to make it to (nearly) the end of the year, with submissions still accepted up to 14th December.

Have a great week

Clare and Martin

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Political Police

These common voters! Really, what's the use
Of letting them elect some senior cops?
The turnout's limp, and so the mandate flops,
And turns poor Dave that nasty shade of puce.

Upon their head be it, next time the boot
Must be applied to gipsy or to darky;
Or some untasered terrorist malarkey
Impels the Met to start a turkey shoot.

They do not do their duty at the polls,
That gracious gift of democratic Dave
To brighten Britain's economic grave:
Democracy is wasted on the proles

© Philip Challinor

None of the above: electorate spurns David Cameron's police polls

My Weblog: http://www.thecurmudgeonly.blogspot.com
My Books: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/challinor07

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Light up the lamps

Light up the lamps
to shine and pierce the dark
they cannot lift or light a spark
of life in all the dead

that have been lost
in Gaza and in Israel
here truly stand the Gates of Hell
where violence rules and tears are shed

all is despair yet still
the war goes on, the missiles fall
and no one heeds the call
for peace, revenge instead

speeds rockets in reply
so comes the dark and pain
to all again – and yet again
with no one spared.

© Wendy Nicholson

Three Israelis killed by Gaza rocket as violence escalates

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

The Comedy of High Places

The King is dead. Long live the King!
While trumpets sound and choirs sing,
another sovereign topples down,
the gloss worn from his royal crown;
and all his minions hold their breath
in fear that they may topple next;
and wonder just how much they know
and who will stay and who will go;
and, if they go, who’ll take their place
to profit from this royal disgrace.
Long live the King. The King is dead,
the crown has tumbled from his head;
yet, while his courtiers gnash and moan,
another monarch mounts the throne.

© Abigail Wyatt

Lord Patten: trust in BBC needs to be restored - video

Abigail lives in Redruth in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and does her best to remain positive.  Her new blog is: abigailelizabethwyatt.wordpress.com. She can also be found on Facebook.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Shadows on the Irish Sea

Pain gathered in his chest,
a sense of being marooned,
so thick, it clotted,
choked his breathing.

His wife, lying
in some unmarked grave,
he wished he was invisible,
had evaporated into green-silk,
and misty air.

Sun set in sharp autumn chill,
black shadows, quavered,
her image
on a rippling sea.

© Amy Barry

Man charged over Jill Meagher case

Amy Barry has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in Ireland and abroad. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Like Carrion Crows

Listen to the ripple.
Deep in the lake
a stone was dropped.

That night the child cried
no one was listening.

Until
years later
horror and sorrow.

While the carrion crows
flew - - free.

© Maureen Weldon

BBC must face public inquiry over Savile

Maureen Weldon is published in poetry magazines, journals and on-line.  'Sons of Camus International Journal' 2011 published 25 of her poems winning her an award. Her sixth poetry book will be published in 2013.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Last Tree Standing

Since the warm winds
I will no longer sit amongst bluebells,
or feel the gentle touch of
a hairstreaks wing
bathing on my arm in the sun
  ... I stand alone.

Since the winds                            
I will no longer see snowflakes drift,
hear laughter as children play,
running beneath me
in the winter chill

 In this autumn wind
tree spirits linger
watching old friends die
while the urgent call of  nuthatches echo
lost in the sound of chainsaws
I hear them call
         I see them fly...
                     As I turn to stone.

© Nicollette Foreman

Ash dieback summit brings tree experts together 

Runner up in the Ninth International Poetry Competition, published in Dawn Treader; Sentinel Poetry Movement , First Writer, and further anthologies Nicollette loves a challenge and enjoys writing in different styles.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review

Lost things dominated Poetry24 this week

In BABS, Welsh poet David Subacchi mused on a lost opportunity having missed a once-in-a-lifetime chance to view a historic vehicle. 'But I forgot' he chides himself repeatedly... it's your age David! ;-)  Another historical reference this week was a Coded Message  from wartime Bletchley Park found on the skeleton of a pigeon, lost in action. Marilyn Brindley's rondeau considered the aborted journey and lost words on 'A folded scrap, a paper shred'.

In Compliance vs Education P. Sherman's message was that UK schools have lost their way under pressure to meet targets. Sadly some youngsters don't get to find out: Sue Morgan's Grimm Household Tales conjures up a dark carousel of' 'false magic – / that muddle of dust / and clutter-book mystery' to link the loss of Northern Ireland tot Millie Martin and missing Welsh five-year-old April Jones.

Afric McGlinchey's A short-lived tyranny was another chilling tale - this time of 'pretties' in Thailand going under the knife to achieve perfect looks - some are lucky enough just to have lost excess fat or 'undesirable features', others lose their lives.

But men are 'suffering' too:  the thrust of John (or should that be 'Johnny'?) Saunders' playful It’s a Wrap was that porn actors in Los Angeles County are now required to use condoms. A degree of sensation lost, but a new responsibility gained perhaps?
What will we find in our new inbox this week? Keep your best topical poems coming this way! (and if you use Duotrope writers free database - which we heartily recommend - don't forget to log your submissions to Poetry24).

Have a good week

Clare (& Martin)

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

It’s a Wrap

What a day. Just finished the threesome
we started yesterday and the director says
I have to work under cover,
something I’ve never done before.
I mean it’s hard to change.
He says “action” and I have to fumble
with the wrapper. My performance sucked.
I can’t get into the swing
and I messed up the money shot.
I mean honey there's no feeling,
I have to feel something or else I can’t act.
Suzie did her best, but even she says
it’s strange. She thinks she’s allergic to them.
I cannot do a decent day's work.
I think I need a beer and a cuddle in front
of the TV tonight honey. What do you say?
Can you fetch me a hotdog? Yeah,
unwrap it for me. Thanks.

© John Saunders

Ensuring condom use on porn sets called challenging

John Saunders’ first collection ‘After the Accident’ was published in 2010 by Lapwing Press, Belfast. John is featured in  Measuring,  Dedalus New Writers (Dedalus Press, 2012). His second collection ‘Chance’ is to be published shortly.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Grimm Household Tales

The Dijon carousel turns
and turns again,
to spin its enchanted web.
Music from a squeezebox age.

Pied-piper’s pipes lift and lead astray.
Even the dogs grow glassy-eyed.
For Mansard eyebrows twitch at false magic –
that muddle of dust

and clutter-book mystery.
Children bake like milk-fed loaves,
lewd circles burn young flesh,
chaste little backs break.

And April?
April disappears like a black cat in the night.

© Sue Morgan

Millie Martin murder: Trial told baby died from head injury  Update: Case ends  8 Nov
Parents of missing five-year-old  remain convinced their daughter is still alive

Sue Morgan  lives in Northern Ireland. Some of the places you can find her recent work are:   Every Day Poets, the New Poet, the Southword Literary Journal and CrannogMagazine.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Compliance vs Education

So how are you meant to decide
what a 'good school' or bad school is?
Reports, exams, do you trust them?
Or believe what the summary says.

"We pride ourselves on our good marks,
our Ofsted reports, they're the best!
Great teaching-no bullies-remarkable meals,
our school always passes the test."


Now I have a friend in Ofqual,
they know the schools' tricks of the trade.
Marking, assessments, that sort of thing
to ensure they all get the best grade.

Assessments given back to the students,
to edit the project just done,
a tweak here a tweak there, "That's better."
Each pupil they check one by one.

So advice to employers today;
on interviews just go by your gut,
you'll know when there is a good prospect
for 'The System' needs a kick- up -the -butt.

©  P. Sherman

GCSE row: Teacher accuses Ofqual of 'covering tracks'

Sherman lives in the UK and has been published in a number of anthologies and loves to write in different styles and  genres,  due to this has started to write under different names according to style. 

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Coded Message

A coded message never read,
Attached to pigeon, long since dead,
Which rested in its weary flight,
Revealed at last, exposed to light,
A folded scrap, a paper shred.

The secret words could not be said,
Their import far too great, instead
A cypher expert had to write,
The coded message.

Top secret words in code embed,
And seal them in a capsule red,
Then send them flying through the night.
With Bletchley Park within its sight,
Fate took a hand and left unread
     The coded message.

© Marilyn Brindley


Quest to crack secrets of lost D-Day pigeon


Marilyn is a retired primary school head teacher, who now has the time to indulge in the writing and reading the works of other creative individuals. She blogs at http://hangingonmyword.blogspot.com

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

A short-lived tyranny

Last week she was a pop up girl,
pouting prettily by a brand new car;
next week she might be tossing seaweed in a wok
for customers who idle by the counter, staring at the pretty
in the poster behind her.

The big chill
of realization, swarming tremors,
as she hands over their wrapped takeaway,
fast food, like fast beauty,
gobbled right before her eyes.

The once-pretty won’t be able to say
how she recognised the moment
– perhaps it’ll be a quivering eyelid,
where once there was covetous attention –
that shudders her through the thin door to silicon.

Fat sucked and re-injected
in the nick of time, she thinks,
needle threading her skin, erasing flaws,
stalling fine lines that may be
blurring her future.

The man with a scalpel in his hand is god.
Pretties face their new Dorian Grey illusions,
poised beside each other in a startling symmetry;
this engineered beauty necessary, they are told,
for wealth and sexual power, recognition.

But there’s a risk in seeking
cosmetic artifice, believing the promises
of counterfeit consultants; the danger
of the arrow that may pierce mistakenly,
prematurely, call time.

© Afric McGlinchey

The cost of being 'pretty' in Thailand

Afric McGlinchey won the prestigious Hennessy Poetry Award (2011). Her début collection,
The lucky star of hidden things, was published in 2012 by Salmon Poetry

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

BABS

They brought you home
Just for a day
Outside the museum
Near where I work
Four great wheels
Shining white body
Not like the day
On the Pembrokeshire sands
When you rolled
Coming to rest upright
Facing the sea
Your driver a Wrexham man
Already dead at the wheel

They had to break some bones
To free the lifeless body
Before the flames took hold
Then there at Pendine
They dug a great hole
Burying you for 40 years
Until an enthusiast
Dug you up
Hour after hour
Of loving labour
To restore your former glory
So then they brought you home
Just for a day

And I forgot
Gazing at my computer
Struggling with statistics
Fretting about the misery
That is work today
I forgot
Time was I would have been first
To welcome you
With camera flashing
But I forgot

Just yards away
From where my
Grimy Vauxhall was parked
I forgot
Was it age or madness
Distraction or stupidity
This morning back at my desk
Waiting for the day to boot up
A stick-it reminder note
Falls from off the screen
I crumple it angrily
Flinging it into the bin
Written down one word only
BABS.

© David Subacchi

Car that broke land speed record comes to Wrexham museum


David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year.
 

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review

It's been a week when our minds have been filled with thoughts of others. Fran Hill kicked things off with a poem to mark the 80th birthday of Sylvia Plath. My mother read Plath is not only darkly toned, it also successfully highlights the way we can become fascinated with tragic figures, sometimes to point of obsession.

Michael Ray pointed us towards a different kind of preoccupation. In Bewabs and Mozzas, we learnt about the role of the Bewab, a common sight sitting at the front of almost every building in Cairo, the enforcer of social mores.

Then came the 'Super-storm Sandy', making landfall along the eastern seaboard of America. And, after the weather had wreaked havoc, Mark Kerstetter bent his mind to Naming the Hurricane. Three days later, Sinead Cotter had written about the Funfair Washed Out To Sea In Hurricane Sandy, a reflective piece on the "fading memories of those who rode the rollercoaster’s dips and curves on summer nights," and "where all is silenced now in the icy suck and surge."

Back on this side of the Atlantic, Philip Challinor took a satirical sideswipe at the prospect of those hospitals that are struggling to balance the books and, consequently facing privatisation, with Safe In His Hands.

NHS is not the only familiar sequence of three letters, currently under threat. In Hamsters do the conga, Noel Loftus reminded us that the BBC is also suffering at the moment, as the organisation finds itself dealing with increasing numbers of allegations made against various individuals associated with the late Jimmy Savile.

Well, that about sums it up for now. But I'll just give you another nudge to note our new email address, in parting. If you're submitting (and we sincerely hope you are) send your poems to us at Poetry24@hotmail.com

Have a good week ahead.

Martin (and Clare)

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Funfair Washed Out To Sea In Hurricane Sandy

They’re swimming with the fishes now,
the fading memories of those who rode
the rollercoaster’s dips and curves
on summer nights: 
the centrifugal swerves,
the terror, screams and laughter,
tangled views
of faces, earth and sky,
and out beyond the lights,
the ocean,

where all is silenced now
in the icy suck and surge
of waves breaking
through the metal frame
sprawled sideways on a ruined shore.

There are many things that matter more,
but as they sweep the brown tide
from their homes,
do those who count their losses
feel a special pang
for funfair rides and neon nights,
for innocence and youth?
For when the great colossus
mocked their fear,
their half-screamed reassurances
before their fears began:
‘Of course it’s safe, you wuss,
relax!  It would take
a hurricane to knock this down.’

© Sinead Cotter

Super storm Sandy: Aerial footage shows devastation

Sinead lives in Dublin and has had work published in the Sunday Tribune and the Irish Independent. She's currently working on her first poetry collection.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Hamsters do the conga!

Hamsters do the conga!
Now there’s a dish served cold.
And though, day one, it wasn’t  true,
Let’s watch what will unfold.

Some glitter’s growing gold.
And some develop ticks.
Some are passing parcels.
And some are passing bricks.

Whistle if you will
My cloudy, rustic hick.
The bag has freed the cat too late
For Him to ever fix.

Tabloids, for their kicks,
Spit headlines uncontrolled.
But when the house just can not fall-
Rectitude untold.

© Noel Loftus

Freddie Starr arrested in Jimmy Savile abuse inquiry

Noel Loftus is a fellow member of ward9writers from Mayo in the west of Ireland. In his forties, he is married, with two children, and currently works as a buyer for a safety supplies company.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Safe In His Hands

This patient here is far from spry;
He's overdosed on PFI.
His system took an awful kick
From excess treatment of the sick.

He's sixty-four with dreadful pain?
I'll just relieve him of his brain.
He'll be much happier, you'll see,
Without it. Well, just look at me.

And, since we're in improving mood,
Let's do an extra bit of good!
The patient has a minor cough?
Let's carve him up and sell him off!

He's suffered terrible reverses
From excess payment of his nurses.
The rot's gone to his very guts,
And must be cured with deeper cuts.

It seems he's haemorrhaging cash:
My surgeon's skills I'll up and flash!
We don't need doctors here, you know -
My chainsaw and my buckets, ho!

Hunt's patent snake-oil treatment will
Most likely cure, or maybe kill -
Dear public, why this foolish fear?
Do you not see there's profit here?

You surely cannot still believe
That I'm the sort who would deceive?
I'd never privatise by stealth -
I'm NewsCorp's Minister of Health!

© Philip Challinor

Two hospitals could be privatised at struggling South London NHS trust

Weblog: The Curmudgeon - You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry.
Books: Philip Challinor's Books

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Naming the Hurricane

Perhaps it is the child in us, saying
come, hold, do, even please,
seeking incantatory possession
of the uncontrollable.
But of course the storm has its way,
as does each silent soul
like so many trees
with wide green heads
both bending
and waving.

© Mark Kerstetter

Hurricane Sandy's U.S. death toll climbs to 33; at least 7.4 million without power

Mark Kerstetter steals time away from restoring an old house in Florida to write and make art out of salvaged wood. markkerstetter.com 

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Bewabs and Mozzas

He hawks as we pass;
she drops something
into the folds covering
his crossed legs. Hand rising
in salutation, his eyes
busy scrutinizing light
trying to squeeze through
the closing door.

I, aghast: but why?
She smiles -
he’d tell the world
I’m a whore and you,
my love, even worse
a naswangi- womaniser.
I’ve saved your Western
face - now get upstairs!

Our bewab: cleaner
of my Mozza’s purse
gate keeper,
moral arbiter,
since she started
staying over.
Her reputation assured
with Egyptian pounds.

© Michael Ray

The doormen policing Egypt's morals

Michael Ray  is a glass artist living in West Cork Ireland. In 2011 he won the RTE John Murray National Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in The Moth, Asylum, The Independent and Cyphers.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

My mother read Plath

My mother read Plath
with her toes curled up,
spilling her sherry
as knife slit skin from skin.

She turned the pages quickly
to find bloody bits
and underlined any
reference to whiteness.

She studied a photograph
of Sylvia in a dirndl skirt
and compared the blueness
of their eyes in a mirror.

She kept wide masking tape
in a dark cupboard
and always made sure
there was bread and milk

for a rainy day.

© Fran Hill
Remembering poet Sylvia Plath

Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Sunday Review

Hallowe'en is imminent, and autumn is slipping its leash, allowing us to slide into the shorter days and darkness of winter. The current rash of news stories are doing little to cheer us up, and this has resulted in some pretty sombre submissions, this week.

Anthony Baverstock started the ball rolling with My Name was Amanda Todd, a harrowing poem about a 15 year old girl who killed herself after being bullied online. We included the link to a video she posted on YouTube, where she tells her story in a set of handwritten notes. One of the saddest things I've witnessed in a long while.

On Tuesday, Jane Slavin brought us, Who Killed Cock Robin… the sorry tale of how the environment ministry licensed the killing of two robins and a wren, after they became trapped in a food factory and were considered a threat to public health.

Next, Not On the 9 O'Clock News!  Philip Johnson was disturbed by the apparent reluctance on the part of the BBC, to deal with Jimmy Savile's alleged paedophilia, despite rumours of his inappropriate behaviour as far back as 1973.

It's more than three weeks since five-year-old April Jones disappeared whilst playing near her home in Machynlleth, mid-Wales. David Subacchi tells how "‘STOP’ is the anguished word on the lips of everyone,"  as the town's clock tower is lit up up in April's favourite colour, pink.

On Friday, Abigail Wyatt highlighted new advice given to doctors and health and social workers by Liberal Democrat Care Minister Norman Lamb at a conference on end-of-care, on how to select candidates for a "living will."

And Anna rounded out the week with Black Holes and Worried Souls, inspired by a German woman who feared the Earth would be sucked into oblivion in a black hole, caused by the Large Hadron Collider.

Touching wood that we'll all manage to get through the coming week, please don't let the prospect of black holes stop you from writing news-related poems for us. We are extremely low on submissions, so now is a good time to tell you about our new email address. All submissions should now be sent to us at Poetry24@hotmail.com Clare and I decided that this would make the submission process easier for everyone. All we need now, is for you to try it out. So, bracing myself for a flurry of topical poetry (Clare's on her hols until next Friday) I'd like to wish you a great week ahead.

Martin.

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS

Black Holes and Worried Souls

Try as she might
she cannot quell the fears
that exist deep inside her,
that man with one twist of a knob,
one press of a button
could permanently turn out the lights,
turn day to everlasting black of night
as they play God,
attempt to recreate creation
with the Large Hadron Collider.

She knows nought of elementary particles,
of quantum fields and symmetries;
her understanding of her world
is what she feels and sees,
mass to her is not something acquired by vector bosons
but something she attends on Sundays;
her worry is that one day mans inquisitiveness
(with one push of a button) will decide her fate,
her demise as they attempt to recreate creation
with the Large Hadron Collider.

It matters not to her how matter attains mass,
whether Higgs boson exists or not,
what matters to her is that she is, she exists
and the worry deep inside her very soul
is that with one twist of a knob,
a scientist generated black hole
will suck the Earth into oblivion
as they play God with the Large Hadron Collider…

© 'Anna'

German woman fails to prove atom-smasher will end world

Anna is passionate about her world and writes about her feelings in both poetry and prose.  She lives in the UK and for personal reasons, prefers to remain just 'Anna.'

  • Digg
  • Del.icio.us
  • StumbleUpon
  • Reddit
  • RSS