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 .
Don't tell me her name
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 .
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year.
December, 2012
I was writing a poem
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 McGlincheyA 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.
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.
Cut back Christmas and Death of America's 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
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
Old News
Sunday Review
A mother and other loved ones
On days like this I wish I was a dog
I wish I didn't know how evil men can be
Stargazer
David Subacchi’s first English language collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year.
It is a winter's tale
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






