Great Collection of Poems

Numbed,
as wooden as a puppet,
she yearns for something to make sense.

Teardrops gathering
on her lower eyelid,
waiting to fall.

The disappointment,
burns her eyes, her brain.
Hot blood rages through her veins,
she wants to thump her fists
against his chest,
his face.

Pained memories,
like rough charcoal- sketches
in her soul,

wrongly remembered.

© Amy Barry

Woman raped by father 'devastated' at sentencing

Fiona Doyle says she feels 'vindicated' after rapist father jailed

Amy Barry writes poems and short stories. She has worked in the media industry as a Public Relations officer. Her poems have been published in anthologies, journals, and e-zines, in Ireland and abroad. Trips to India, Nepal, China, Bali, Paris, Berlin, have all inspired her work. She lives in Athlone, Ireland.

they don't even stop for the two minutes silence
cenotaph day - never mind respect the dead
or the sacrifice

as I walked in to administer meds last night
the man who sat on Ellena's bed wearing striped pyjamas

ashen faced
translucent
simply looked me in the eye and faded away
shrugging his shoulders

© Philip Johnson

Eleanor Margolis on her mixed feelings about Holocaust Memorial Day

Philip's words have appeared in: The Ugly Tree; Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words. He works in elder care.

The scales of justice
Tipped in favour
Of depravity
Again.

Evil spat in the face of courage
And walked free.

If heaven holds a place
For those who pray
What does hell reserve
For those who don’t?

© Maeve Heneghan

Self-confessed rapist father walks free

Maeve Heneghan is a native of County Dublin.  She has been writing poetry and short stories for a number of years now and has had some of her work published with First Cut, Verse land,  Static Poetry and Every Day Poets.

Hello, the week seems to have ended with a lot of snow, I hope it's not affected our readers too much. This week we began with The Season Ends by Amy Barry. It was a very sad and moving poem and quite powerful about a fifteen year old girl who had committed suicide after being tormented in school over sex rumours. It was a complicated story of sadness and cruelty and I'm reminded of the final, short stanza: 'Her body / found hanging / from the maple tree, / in winter.'

Suicide was a recurring theme as another story popped up, this time in the military as combat lessens. Show Me Something I've Seen Before by David Mellor was published on Tuesday. It shows us a kind of torment with being in the military and not fighting, which seems to create a psychological torment and shows someone to wishing to see their normal life, 'Something I've seen before, me and Steve growing up in the candy store.'

Fellow Poetry24 editor, Abigail Wyatt was published on Wednesday with Proper Love. It's a thought-provoking poem about the 56 year old British woman who was sentenced to death in Bali for cocaine smuggling. The poem questions the way we judge and the decisions we make. The ideas of right and wrong and crime and punishment.

Royal Pardon on Thursday, written by Philip Challinor, was a satirical approach to the tabloid stories about Prince Harry. It references the naive and immature actions Prince Harry did in the past and the negative press he gained from it, but then the change in opinion about him, to forgive him, when he joined the army, 'Go to Asia and blow up sufficient wogs.' I suppose this wasn't about Harry and what he's done in his life, but about the silly, fickle tabloid journalists who really only write about their own agendas.

Clare Kirwan returned to Poetry24 on Friday when we published The Moses of Elephants. This was about the baby elephant that died in the BBC show Africa and David Attenborough defended it, saying it was a natural tragedy. The poem is filled with religious imagery and almost sanctifies the elephant in question, showing that the elephant's death was indeed natural and, in a sense, beautiful, and there was never any need to complain about it.

Finally, we published Prisoner at Home by Katie Beviss to end the week. The news story was about Palestinians who threatened to sue Israel over settlements. The poem is very powerful and interesting from the first line: 'The man at no.3 has been taken prisoner.' I particularly liked the use of Hebrew '"מתים המהלכים"' to read 'The Walking Dead.'

Remember to keep submitting to us at poetry24@hotmail.com and tell your friends about us. You can like us on Facebook on our Poetry24 page.

Hope you've all had a good week and have better one to follow.

Michael.

The man at no.3 has been taken prisoner.
I can see it now when I look into his eyes
that there is no coming out of his coma,
when I place my hand against his it passes through him like a ghost.
The Politian shouts that he is “מתים המהלכים" (The Walking Dead)
but he doesn’t hear that his house is marked X.

He surrounds himself with heirlooms
passed down through the hands of spirit family members
who visit now and then when the door is left ajar;
but make no sound for fear of distressing his heart.
In his eyes I see anguish and I see so much joy.
In his eyes I see pain and I see a lifetime of love and faith.
In his eyes I see proudness for a beautiful daughter and son and I see fear for these same peoples' lives.

When I visit again,
his body may be translucent and white as snow.
His organs as bright as flowers sprouting in his blood,
but he will teach me how to see with immortal eyes.
Sleep like I’m feigning death but awake, so awake
to watch the beauty of his world burn away in war.

© Katie Beviss

Palestinians threaten to sue Israel over settlements

Katie Beviss grew up in England. As a child she found a way to express herself through writing. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven and wouldn’t know how to stop.

with much trumpeting, called together families
of pachyderms: We’re going on a journey.
Beyond the burning bush and luscious forest,
the memory of trees, the bones of loved ones
is another place and I will lead you.

Now we live on salt and thorn, the taste
of sorrow, the promised land a mirage, metaphor.
Awaking to another blasted dawn; the first born
dead, a plague of promises. We will be
carrion, old elephants whisper like law.

Thirsty and yearning for an end to adventure,
there’s nothing in this wilderness but suffering.
Sunbright bones identify our path;
we aim for Eden, with our ears for sails,
across a sea of sand, scratching for sustenance.

From hidden ducts behind our eyes, elephants weeping,
a slow procession, lacking even music. This silence,
the buckling of knees, our young ones cargoes
lost upon the way, all bones and sagging grey:
such sadness can never be forgotten.

The Moses of elephants found an idea of God
and followed without knowing. Faith! He said,
which made it sound important, solid, real.
I believe and you are coming with me.
Parts the sea of doubt with broken tusk.

©  Clare Kirwan

Producer defends a natural tragedy

Clare Kirwan is a Merseyside poet and short fiction writer and hopes to bring out her  first collection this year. By day she works in a library - like Batgirl. http://brokenbiro.blogspot.co.uk/ Twitter: @ClareKirwan

Show me something I’ve never seen before
Away from the one bar and candy store
Show me something I wish I’d never seen before

It’s friendly for a while , with no foe, we can play cards for a while
Til I see their limbs go
Away from this Taliban strong hold back in bits to this one bar and candy store

Show me something at night , now I can’t pull the trigger
Show me something at night , that’s not Steve falling like a pack of cards
Show me something that’s not my leg and soul in bits

Show me something I’ve seen before, me and Steve growing up in the candy store passing our days in the one bar
Forever and a day away from this

copyright@David R Mellor, 2013

Suicide in military rise even as combat lessens

The sound of crows
cawing on their lonely
flight home,
she stands beside the maple tree,
sodden dark bark from
the heavy rain,
moss creeps up its trunk,
fine play of colours,
autumn hues
of green, black, yellow
and rust,
bitter contrast to
her fine, white face,
a poignant image,
a youth blooming
in a season
of endings.

Her body
found hanging
from the maple tree,
in winter.

Hi all, it's been a bit of an up and down week here. We started the week with Aparna Pathak's poem "Intentions" about the Pakistani/India clash that is ongoing in Kashmir. It is a simple yet powerful poem that could apply to most conflict in the world. A bowl of humanity is what is needed.
David Mellor continued his recent run of good poems with "Truce Bomb" about the Syrian rebellion and the West's attitude toward it.
Editor Michael Holloway contributed a great poem "An Evil of Want" about the current British government and their attacks on the most vulnerable people in society. I particularly liked his phrase:
"The small eyes, gap-toothed grin beneath balding head,
laughs without shame or remorse".   
Marie Ryan contributed her first poem to Poetry24 with "Here Comes the Sun" an ironic title considering that the subject is the worsening world situation and containing the memorable line 
"Winter sun skis to April fools."
Nicola Copeland's poem "No Pancakes on Sunday" is a wonderfully sad poem about a British soldier dying from his wounds inflicted when he was in Afghanistan.
All in all it was a great week of poems but we had a break in transmission due to a glitch in scheduling and a low level of submissions. As Abi Wyatt said "Come on guys, it is time to shake off that comfortable and euphoric drowsiness brought on by the excesses of the festive season, time to get your backsides in gear and get down to work."   

It was Sunday.
I heard a gunshot, not so far from where I was standing.
The rain was falling hard now,
it bounced off my helmet like pennies in a sweet jar.
Ting, ting, ting.
Mud had begun to rise further up my legs.
It smelt dirty, hot, and miserable.
This was a long way from home.
I missed the sweet smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning,
and fresh cereal on Mondays.
I was jealous and hated that I had to eat out of a grotty metal tin;
cold beans, hard rice, dirty water.
I can only moan to myself, in my head, inaudible to the rest.
My friend died yesterday.
A bullet zipped through the night air and pierced his left lung.
Unstoppable.
Now, there was more gun fire up ahead.
The air was thick and heavy, suffocating.
I dropped to the floor, repulsing as the dirt invaded my eyes.
With my vision blurred, I crawled to a fortress of rocks.
Looking around I saw an arm leave its body,
a sea of red followed.
The medic attended.
The captain was shouting over the radio for help.
The bullets became heavier and the noise became louder.
I could hear my own breathing over it all,
my heart was beating too fast.
The heat from the blaze seared my skin like boiling water.
I gripped my gun, pulled it to my chest, trigger finger ready.
I thought of home, of the sweet Sunday pancakes.
I looked up to the sun.

© Nicola Copeland 

British soldier who died from wounds named

Nicola Copeland, 25 years old, started writing poetry about 5 years ago. She is studying towards a Masters in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University and blogs at nicolacopelandblog.wordpress.com

It seems that due to a ghost in the machine no poem has been posted for today so I have decided to use this opportunity to put out a call for submissions.

Come on guys, it is time to shake off that comfortable and euphoric drowsiness brought on by the excesses of the festive season, time to get your backsides in gear and get down to work. If she doesn't have at least half a dozen bright, quirky, powerful submissions before tomorrow tea time then Auntie Abi will be forced to get quite cross. You won't like it, children; indeed, you won't like it at all. :-)

Sun factor fifty sits idly on the glass shelf with the ‘deet’.

Shrewd intentions
Covered under
A Foggy blanket and mist
To cross the border
And stab brothers in the back
Chopping off heads
Looting things
Is shameful!

Borrowing
A glass of bravery
A bowl of humanity
A small plate full of honesty
And less self-righteousness
Would have been better!

Here in Cornwall, so far as the weather is concerned, we have had a dismal beginning to 2013. For much of the time a heavy grey mist has engulfed the beauty of our landscape and, in the intervening periods, we have been treated to - yes, you've guessed it - yet more heavy rain. Because of this, like Jessica Traynor in Nollaig Na mBan, I too could wish for 'a day disrobed' that looks beyond 'January's darkness/to search for the horizon's light'. Equally, I could wish for 'a little more promised each day'. On Tuesday, however, far from the promise of light, David Mellor's  It's Breaking News reminded us of the media's appetite for tragedy and of the fact that, all too often, the perpetrators of the most terrible violence are 'rewarded' by a perverse kind of celebrity while 'those who have gone / have no name'. Here at Poetry 24,  we ended the year sadly in the shadow of the Sandy Hook shootings and, with the greatest respect to the poets who wrote so powerfully in response to that tragedy, we hope and pray that this year no such poems will be penned.

(or The Lament of the Ageing Worker)

Australia Ablaze.
The 100 year fire
is here and labelled,
catastrophic.
Australia was always a tinderbox
and always on
a knife's edge.
Just because
the 100 year fires
now happen
every five years
and last month
the Storm of the Century
hit Brisbane.
I'm sure that
this means nothing.
And we can
maintain our
lifestyles just as
long as we want.
Even if we are wrong
it will not happen today,
we can do nothing,
but make our children pay.


© Hamish Mack

Australia burns: desperate battle to hold off infernos

Hamish is a 51 year old New Zealander. He has been writing poetry for a couple of years.

which for me                                                                                                                                              
might make it easy to lose weight
and dodge bullet fire

even greater news is sugar remains a must
to provide sufficient energy in order to grow

stand up straight

as bone by bone by disc
they remove your spine
and pelvis

suck out the entire skeletal structure

impact upon our kind is instant
requirement to exercise in order to maintain constant
shape

else slug-like our muscles contract

once deflated we are able to disperse
ourselves through the tiniest gap
just like Fluey

a third of the impossibles (dream on)

© Philip Johnson


Make high levels of fat, sugar and salt in children's food illegal


Philip Johnson appeared in The Ugly Tree, Poetry Scotland, Emergency Verse, Write Away, Caught In The Net, Red Pencil, Writer's Hood, Transparent Words, The Robin Hood Book. He works in elder care.

(In Ireland, the feast of the epiphany is known as ‘Nollaig na mBan’, or ‘Women’s Christmas’)

It’s all over the radio this year
as if no-one ever noticed it before -
all talk of women celebrating
with their ‘women’s foods’
(goose and tea as opposed to the men’s
Christmas of whiskey and beef).

Well thanks a bunch for this grey-washed
little nothing of a day, tangled up
in broken Christmas lights,
the pudding still mouldering
in the back of the press
like a rusted civil war-era bomb.

What I wish for now is a day disrobed,
shivering in a slicing wind,
to remind us that this is no ‘little’ Christmas
but a day for casting the mind
past shedding pine trees,
through January’s darkness
to search for the horizon’s light;
a little more promised each day.

© Jessica Traynor

Are You Celebrating Women's Christmas?

Jessica Traynor is a Dublin poet. Her poems have appeared in SouthWord, the SHOp and the Moth and she has won the Listowel Poetry Prize. Her blog is jessicatraynor.wordpress.com

He didn’t walk three hundred miles
Just the final stages
But he outlived them all
The last of the Jarrow Marchers
In nineteen thirty six
Protesting against poverty
And closure of the shipyard
Two hundred unemployed men
Marched down to London
With eleven thousand signatures
For respect and recognition

Now Con Sheils aged ninety six
Has completed life’s long journey
To join his comrades in heaven
Behind the golden gates
Rage against poverty
Rage against hunger
Rage against unemployment
Rage against exploitation
To the tune of the harmonica band
Con Sheils last of the Jarrow Marchers
Has reached his destination.

©David Subacchi.2013

Last Jarrow marcher dies

David Subacchi is a well known poet and performer of his work especially in Wales and the North West of England. He loves to write about the news and is a regular contributor to Poetry 24. His collection ‘First Cut’ was published by Cestrian Press earlier this year.

We’ve put them back in power but
Lost the protest
And song
Don’t storm the barracks
Only the boxing day sales

It’s 1979  and we’ve put them back in power again
Singing power ballads on x factor while our power is cut off
Queue up at food banks while RBS ration their mass profits to a select few
Not you

It’s 1979 again
But were motionless
Sleep walking
Without out a care in a world
Clapping to the Olympics
And diamond jubilee
Gushing over the royals
And some has been celebrity

But we're happy and jolly
With crisp brand new credit card and satellite deal
Smart phone and new full on eye lashes
Which blacken
What’s really outside

It’s 1979 again and over and over again.

© David Mellor

Winter of Discontent: massive strikes in UK protest Government Auterity

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.

Today we must shake out our spotted sheets
and bring our soiled linen to the light;
we must fall on our knees confessing our faults
and scour our kitchens for stains;
and with what stern purpose we must seek
those specks that infect our murky hearts,
sweep them out and sluice them down,
that our starkest imperfections be undone.
And, today, too, we must lather and scrub
till our sins are all rinsed clean;
when our souls will shine like brand new pins
where seraphim may dance if they will;
and today we must launder the rags of our guilt,
and lift and beat the carpets of our shame;
bleach the great bowl of our wanton lust
and not omit to scrub around the rim.
We must roll up our sleeves and find mete grace
in the scalding and the starching of our hearts,
our salvation in our cooking pots and
our glory in the great gift of our days.
All this we must do with a blessing on our lips
and humility and patience in our hearts.
Father, you forget: we are half of all there is;
and we think we will be handmaids no more.

© Abigail Wyatt

Priest attacks women for not cleaning their houses

Abigail Wyatt lives in confusion near Redruth in Cornwall where she is heading straight for damnation. She does as little housework as possible and frequently serves cold dinners.

you touched my forehead
oh mother!
it brought me serenity
a flame of chillness went inside
which slowly coerced my body and soul
flowers started blooming in winter

I am born alive!
not allowed to be dead in the womb!

my dreams were clear
had the strength to achieve it
oh mother, I want to be adorned in your favorite collection.

I opened the box of surprising pearls
I had so many of them
beautiful, neatly carved
and I wanted to gift you mother
a beautiful pearl from it
for you to keep it on your lap
or to be decorated in your jewels

for I am born alive!
not allowed to be dead in the womb!

but you left astray this pearl
and went to heavenly feast
you may have reasons mother
but forgot that
she will be tinged not with the brightness of colors
life would leave her with dreadful colors

how can you do that mother
to your own creation
I am but a part of you
am i not you?

now i wait here alone
with shattered dreams and broken heart
for you to hold my hands firmly
I no longer need to feel insecure
in my mother land.

© Radhika Mohan

Delhi gang-rape victim dies of organ failure

Radhika Mohan is a researcher in the Indian Institute of Technology working on understanding Resilience. She likes to pen down her thoughts about experiences that life brings. Dreaming about and working towards building a resilient youth culture who have high self-esteem, high frustration tolerance who can delay gratification.

Figures checked
Targets met
Good stats
Congrats
Playing the part
Playing the part
Deals completed
Lied and cheated
Villa in Marbella
Daughter’s gymkhana
Go with the flow – chart
Go with the flow – chart
A takeover bid
Spent thousands of quid
On house extension
Redundancy mentioned
Play it smart
Play it smart
More rumours than holes at the golf course
“It’s bad, but it can’t possibly get worse”
More empty desks, car park spaces
The colour of fear on people’s faces
Don’t fall apart
Don’t fall apart
Plants wilting
Tables tilting
Walk away
Nothing to say
Fall apart
Fall apart
Devastation
Stagnation
Alienation
Realisation
Fresh start
Fresh start
Follow your Heart
Follow your Heart

© Joy France

Chester Comet staff laid off before 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.