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 .  


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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.


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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.

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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.

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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

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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.




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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. 


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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.










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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.

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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




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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.



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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

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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

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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. 

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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



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