Great Collection of Poems

My life is not supposed to be like this.
The air strike
lights up the night sky as bright as day.

Mother puts my head in her lap,
I feel her stroking my hair.
Pain rises in waves,
crashing into me.
My eyes, unable to focus,
my hearing capable only
of taking rhythm and cadence.
Slowly words begin to take
on discrete sounds,
then come meaning
and comprehension.
Mother tells me
I will be saved.

When a person dies, the people cry.
I can see mother crying.
Dream fragments
float past behind my eyes.
Life hasn’t been fair to me.

© Amy Barry

Israeli aircraft strike crowded Gaza areas, civilian death toll climbs 

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.

An ancient oak crooked countless gnarled quivering fingers,
beckoned to a child to explore the wildwood.

Inquisitive, the child proffered a few tentative steps, was awestruck
by a pedunculate oak's huge gaping hollowed mouth screaming age;
maybe it sang songs of joy,
or ululated howls of grief for owlets
having fledged or perished there,
its fallen leaves, tears shed.

Empathy with avian misfortune was overtaken by admiration
for this mighty symbol of England,
an affection born of a child's curiosity,
his love of Nature's gifts,
his respect for its occasional brutality.

He has seen those gifts of elm, oak and ash,
some of our Nation's most stalwart sentinels
stand steadfast against gale
and the blight of disease and decay,
has observed the transient seasons defined
by landscape's changing face,
bare and stern in Winter, become Summer's smile in May;
but this smile, no longer a child's, grimaces,
for our trees, Nature's treasures and our National heritage
face the grimmest of fates.

I, who was that child welcomed to the wildwood,
whom Nature beguiled,
who railed against Man's intrusiveness,
see Man, now, as the saviour, the benefactor
who can save our trees under assault from Nature itself,
from deadlier weapons, fungal infections,
that if left untreated,
portend a sadder fate,
though too late,
much too late
for our stately elms
and scattered ash.

©  James Gordon

Now oaks at risk: The symbol of England is hit by two killer diseases

I have been writing poetry most of my life. I have always been interested in Nature and many of my poems reflect this as well as my art.

Pure high school drama at its worst.
Immature school girls whine, argue, and bitch.
“I don’t care” vibes dwell in my headaches.

Taylor Swift, Adele, Ellie Goulding pop era.
Clique time, social status, most racist in history.
Stop trying to make YOLO fetch -
it’s never going to happen.

At school we learn everything
needed to be successful at breathing.
Teachers are so insightful, almost genius.
Feeling that I belong, never listen to the past.
At least they give us a clean environment.

Indie style clothes only,
Hollywood breathes cigarettes,
fashion trends of the old ages.

The apocalypse is coming soon,
I can feel in the heat of debate,
we never realize the best times,
the level of the absurd world.


© Samantha Seto

English 'YOLO' voted top German youth word
What is YOLO? Only teenagers know for sure


Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Carcinogenic Poetry, and Black Magnolias Journal. She is a third prize poetry winner of the Whispering Prairie Press contest. (@samantha36seto)

(honestly)

I think I was nine and a bit but not ten
‘cos the hay was down when the vet came
to the barn that smelt of bleach
that inside would soon be limed again
my calf was not sucking and the harm of the year
and his ribs were actually in real life outside his belly
and I felt between my thumb and fingers
the curl on his head and I smelt his coat
and heard the adults shouting
and the vet said a word I never heard before
and he smelled porter or sweat or maybe smoke
and he shouted into the Cortina boot

bastard leaves me a gun but no cartridge
I was nudged towards the door but sneaked back inside
so soon I would understand
the laughing demand for a substitute
the grunt and the spit as he stood over
my calf and brought down the pickaxe so fast
on his curl and the blow was just excellent
for my calf had slept all morning
only his nose twitched now

soft whores like ye would lave him suffer
I heard the sound of the axe again in my ears which
made me bite my cheek to make it go away so hard that I
tasted blood and wet one welly but no one saw
and ran up to the fort on the hill
licked the rain on my lip
and heard my uncle say very loud to the vet

you’ll not get paid for that
and looked down as the car drove off
and looked down as two tall men dragged
two shovels and my calf across the yard towards the small field
(where there was no river to poison
and which wasn’t suited to turnips
and hadn’t many stones that would slow the job
‘cos we had picked them summers before
only a place for dead animals)
and begin to dig
so I took off my wet sock and squeezed it hard
and hid it in my pocket
and after that I was dizzy and spitted only a tiny sick


© Noel Loftus

Terminally ill woman tells High Court she wants to die with dignity

Now there is a melancholy,
now there is a chill,
now some addled trip reveals
teacher took our babies years.

Redressed the chosen few.
Washing cycles to its end,
wakes us to hang out.
This silence is resounding, pounding.

Fridge looms into view.
Forehead rests on freezing things.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.

Age made work superfluous.
What a useless word.
A curious collision scythed
through a humbled mind,
saw a cruet in the thin hands of a boy. 
This house is creaking cold and old and
floorboards smell of dust.
Oil has work to do.
Teacher took our babies years.

Three pm on Monday, they have will to run
and run and bless them on their way.
And we would do that too if we had will.
Hid. Safe. Spouse has life beyond us,
is soothing mental friend
whose partner, they said, leaped (hunting sanity once craved).

Decades slipped away when asses
bray was eight miles loud
across two thousand years.
Teacher took our children,
left back a mighty task.

A mirror in the hallway
is the stranger who resides here.
Hello mister always can,
and mister never could.
How are you our brother, sister, how are you, yourself.

Washing cycles to its end.
This silence is  resounding, pounding.
Could we begin again.

© Noel Loftus

Quinn 'spent €327,000 in year'

Noel Loftus is a member of ward9writers based in Mayo and enjoys very short bursts of inspiration tempered by long periods of work.

Dust clouds swirl
on pools of sticky blood.
Bullets fly inches above her head.

Muffled, strangled cries.
Maggots on decomposed bodies,
severed heads and limbs.

Her fingers rake
through bloodied bodies,
her gaze darts frantically around.

Her father’s boots-
Papa’s dying breath,
did he recite the Shahadah?

Sounds of shelling, shooting-
funnel in her ears,
replay in her head.

She doesn’t have time
to moan or whine
about her fate.

She has little choice.

©Amy Barry, 2013

Syria: no child safe from the bloody conflict

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.

We started the week with "Jack's Alright" by Laura Taylor which pretty conclusively shows that things with Jack are decidedly not right. There is a lot in this poem that is arrow-straight into the modern human condition.
Haikus made a welcome appearance at Poetry24 from Máire Morrissey-Cummins. I love these small, dense poems about such a wretched episode.
 The Magdalene story was revisited by Jessica Traynor in 'An Education in Silence" on Wednesday. We can take some hope from such good poems arising out of such terrible times
On Thursday Barbara Gabriel's poem 'Step on a Crack' highlighted the sex-trade in young girls through the example of Latino girls being traded. Poetry does not get much more hard-hitting than this and we are honoured to be able to publish this poem.
John Saunders' 'Sacrifice' told simply, yet powerfully, of the decision made by Burmese monks to burn themselves to death as a political process. There is great dignity in this poem and great bravery.
Caroline Hurley's poem 'Collectable Things' pointed out the rather abysmal record that we have as stewards of the environment and also compared it to our  personal relationships.
Well it was a challenging week of poetry that confronts us with the less stellar sides of our natures. As such it performs a vital task if it can keep us honest. As I mentioned there is a a fair amount of the better sides of our natures on display from the poets, themselves. Thanks very much to everyone who contributed and please keep it up. We always need more submissions. Have a good week.

Silently, invisibly, a gentle wind glances off the ways
of things that seem filled with the intent to be watched
and weighed; the disasters or crimes, set by places and by times,
at war with what can’t be compelled and is often lost.

Conquistadors compounded cultural estates.
Darwin, the Dutch, Wallace & Co, helped themselves
on islands explored. They reached out and effortlessly
wrung the necks of fearless birds as though plucking apples;
as if the trust of the predator-free creatures was begging
to be exploited and to be thanked with extinction.

Renaissance men libelled the gristly dodo, calling them disgusting,
lazy-arsed beasts while guzzling them down to the last one.
For state bounty, the Tasmanian tiger, reigning over the food-chain,
was hunted from its livelihood; the final thylacine expired as
the Nazi holocaust gained ground. In this twenty-first century,
remaining rhinos risk carnage by poachers hacking their cornucopian horns
that leaven medical brews, gild weapons and ornamental figaries.

Evidence they existed; is that enough to palliate the loneliness of
human spirit first prognosticated after mass buffalo slaughters?
Like seeds that need to be constantly watered and lit before sharing
their natures, conditions must be attended to conserve companion species;
in the same way that love, once neglected and bled, can degenerate
to seem like a dead shell, just a punishable collectable thing.

© Caroline Hurley

Natural World: Flight of the Rhino

Flight of the Rhino

Caroline's poems have previously appeared in Poetry24 and they have also been published in The Electric Acorn and threemonkeysonline.com. Clebran.org featured a chapter from her novel and some flash fiction. Her current focus is on young adult fiction and screenwriting. She lives near an Irish bird reserve.

Your final act
using what is yours
to make the point
you are in control
and they cannot
diminish your dissent.

You have righteousness.
This is the end of you
and all they can do
is watch you abandon
your young body,
unable to punish.
You have won, Bozu.

© John Saunders

Two Tibetan monks self-immolate as anti-China protests continue

John Saunders' First Collection After the Accident was published in 2010 by Lapwing Publications, Belfast. His second full collection Chance is available is due for publication in March 2013 by New Binary Press