Sail Away

Sundown sails twirl,
at ballerina’s bow
the day dance ends.
Wake nudge turn home,
evening shadow calls.

Twilight shroud, sun
slides mouse quiet,
into dusk’s dim bowl.
A little death…it slows.

Under manta’s shadow,
thoughts leave the isles
and cold water corals.
Even solitude must end.

And coarse hands yearn
for warm water, soap
and a fish supper.
Sailor songs by the fire.

– © Dai Fry 21st March 2020.

Conveyances

I got your message.
It wasn’t tucked in a bottle, sealed
In the traditional way with cork and wax,
Set to sea
On the off chance of
Someday being found.

It was somehow more direct,
And yet, more subtle, written
In the sunshine
Reflections
On the vast waters
Of your soul.

It’s frustrating, at first,
When information’s not delivered
Where and how we’ve sought so long.
Sometimes though, it’s more important
To receive what’s freely given
Than fulfill the cliche’s of expectation.

-st

I Decide

whether sun on the horizon
rises or falls.

whether gust fills my sail
or empties it.

whether the signs
are a warning or a delight.

whether my rudder
is into or with the waves.

I trust in these hands, eyes,
strength to make it happen.

I make the day and night.

-Paul Brookes

Blink

I started making lists,
searching the horizon
and waiting for sunset
to pull me gently under.
I never believed in this
race against time or the
infinite nature of the sun.
Every moment is lost
before you can hold it
in the palm of your hand.
Every breath is a blade
when sorrow takes root,
and the heavy texture of
darkness weaves itself
into the blink of an eye.

-Susan Richardson

Evenings by the bay

Fishing in the deep sea
produce endorphins in me.

There is a rush
and then

there is a calm.

-Jay Gandhi

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell

Faux Castle

Look at my glazed ruin
glass light, dry storm.
Rainbow’s home.

Anger sustains
though element gouged,
flag-wind, see my pride.

Faux castle, your ravens fly.
Plague’s sustenance,
last in the line.
Prepared for legend’s time.

Bone brittle, I crumble
brick powder, wormed wood.
Held in charms of
viral salts, corrosive winds.

My house is a closed mind
beyond the mildew line,
but at last it slowly opens
to lick and lash of stormy seas.

-Dai Fry

The Ruin

is a mask as you can see daylight
through the holes for your eyes,

Put the ruin on your face
when out in public
to avoid other folk being infected.

The ruin is reusable as it is washable
and there is plenty of room
for ventilation. Some ruins

are grander than others. Disposable
ruins pollute the oceans of good sense.

Use your ruin with due care and attention
to the needs of visitors. Don’t let them

get too close or you will lose your heritage.
Your voice may be muffled.

–Paul Brookes

Adumbration

Queen Anne’s Lace
And black crows frame
My mental imagery,
Succumbing to the Rule of Thirds.
Until, there’s only room to run off the page.
But white cobwebs will remain

In the corner, and darkness will always flee
From the recesses
Of my mind,
As birds in flight,
Not unlike a militaristic
Rule of Thirds for deployment.

-st

The Violence of Sound

Parcels of darkness take to the sky,
storm warnings that strip the skin
from men’s bones and swallow
the blood of entire generations.
Heavy wings blacken the sun,
pulling fire into relentless beaks
that release screeches of doom.
The violence of sound scars agony
into stone, shatters windows that
slice into the marrow of families,
leaving their whispers scorched
and crumbling in the ruins of time.

-Susan Richardson

Duty is a Heavy Burden

It looks like a ruin,
But the spirit of the old king
Hung out for a long time,
If you can pardon the pun.

Now it is a skeleton
Of stone and beams,
Tower tops crumbled,
Though the foundations remain.

To be sovereign in to wear
The landscape like a cloak,
To adorn your body with
The hopes and desires

Of all the people and hear
Their cries with open ears.
They say it got too much for him,
The constant jibber jabbering,

So he took things with his own hands,
Literally. One day they found him,
Swinging in the great all, above
A gilded table, a king’s fit feast.

Afterwards, nobody else wanted
To take on the role, said it was
A poisoned chalice – power can
Sometimes go either way, as we know.

-Ali Jones

Freedom Returns

Now the caged birds are free
to sing & sway in the air.
The kind king has returned,
the fort has been seized—
the flag has been hoisted.

-Jay Gandhi

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.
The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

River Dixon

has unknowingly found himself trapped in the incessant heat and beauty of Arizona. It is here, along with his family, that he finds solace stringing together words in an attempt to find a structure or sequence that may one day make sense of all this.

Links:

http://thestoriesinbetween.com
http://pottersgrovepress.com
http://amazon.com/author/riverdixon

Twitter @Potters_Grove

Interview

1. When and why did you start writing poetry?

It’s difficult to say when, exactly. Growing up, I was always writing something. Poems, stories, songs; whatever struck me. As to the why, I suppose I’ve just always had a desire, or motivation to try and create something worthwhile.  Along with that, I’ve always been quiet and withdrawn. Never comfortable around people. So, maybe, my attempts at the written word are a way to compensate for my failings with the spoken word. I think we’re all looking for something, and writing is my medium in the search.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Emily Dickinson. I’m not sure of my exact age, probably in the third grade, but I saw a list of famous people who had the same birthday as me. Her name was on the list and I was curious as to who she was. I went to the school library and found a collection of her poetry. I’m sure I didn’t understand most of it, but something in her words hooked on to me. From that day forward, I spent a lot of my recesses sitting under a tree reading her and Virginia Woolf.

2.1. What did you find in Dickinson and Woolf?

I think a lot of what fascinated me with them both was not just their work but each of them as a person. With Dickinson, the fact that so much of her poetry remained unknown until after her death. There’s always a certain romanticism associated with the artist who leaves behind such a literary legacy, having never achieved any recognition in their lifetime. Her reclusive nature. How she spent a great portion of her life in isolation. I wanted to know why. And the “darker” themes of her work appealed to me. And not just her poetry, but the collections of her letters that have been published. It’s possible that I have spent more time with her letters than her poetry.

With Woolf, I read about her life before I actually read any of her work. The sadness of her days, the manner in which she took her own life. I thought about that a lot. And I think that is partly how I eventually came to understand/believe that there is a certain beauty to be found in tragedy.

2.2. Why did the “darker” themes of Dickinson’s work appeal to you?

Hmm. That’s a good question. I’m not entirely sure. It’s just something I’ve always been drawn to. There’s a lot of hands reaching out of the darkness. I think there’s a part of me that wants to find a way to connect with even just one of those hands. And in acknowledging my own selfishness, perhaps that connection can help me to understand some of the things I carry with me. With so many voices screaming into the void, why is it we never seem to hear one another? I want people to understand that they are not alone. And with that, convince myself of the same.

2.3. So how is poetry a means to say to others that they are not alone?

Words have the potential to break through the belief that we are all alone in this. That nobody understands or cares. When we come across a piece that we can relate to, that feels as if the author were writing about us directly, then a degree of that loneliness falls away. Staring at a page of sequenced words and realizing that I am not the only one who feels a certain way is a powerful thing. I believe that we are all connected and that poetry has the ability to rekindle that connection.

3. How aware are and were you of the dominating presence of older poets traditional and contemporary?

A dominating presence in regard to what exactly? As far as personal preference, I’m definitely more interested in contemporary/free form styles. I realize there are some people who subscribe to the school of “proper” poetry, but I’m not one of them. Nothing against it though. I’m a believer in writing whatever you want, however you want to.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I take advantage of any time that I am able to devote to writing. It varies. First thing in the morning is preferred but I often find myself scribbling into the night.

5. What subjects motivate you to write?

I rarely write anything starting off with a subject in mind. What happens is, I tend to get a word or line stuck in my head and I go from there.

5.1. Please could you give an example from a recent poem that you wrote how it developed from a word or line that stuck in your head.

There’s really nothing exciting or interesting to the process.  With my piece, I Understand Goodbye, it started with the line ‘my failures surround me’ and thinking of that, I just wrote it. For poems, I always jot down a rough draft in a notebook, and then I smooth it out while typing it up on the computer. That part varies from piece to piece, as some require very little editing while others require a lot. And quite a few of them end up getting deleted because they’re garbage.

6. How do the writers you read when you were young influence your work today?

I would say their main influence has been more on outlook than style. It seems to me that the writers I connect with have something to say. That’s what I strive for. Not merely to just say something. With people like Dickinson, Bukowski, Capote, Plath, Woolf, etc. I feel like the time I have given them has in return given me a substantial return on my investment. I would hope that some people feel the same when they read my work. I want it to be worth their time.

7. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

I don’t want to come across as rude, but I don’t care for questions like that. It’s too much of a rabbit hole. There are a ton of writer’s that I enjoy reading for various reasons. I respect their work and find value in it, but admiration? Not really.

8. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

Don’t compromise. Write what you want to write. Avoid trends. Be weary of anyone who tries to tell you there are strict rules that must be followed in order to be a writer. Don’t subscribe to industry standards. Don’t spend all your time talking about writing or thinking about writing, just write.

9. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I’ll have another poetry collection coming out later in the year and also a psychological horror novella.

Revisiting

If we could go back, would you come too?
Here, let me take your hand and let’s slip
out of the car. It is probably a Ford Cortina,
or something similar, never a Ghia though.

Do you have your anorak? Yes, even though
It is summer, you will need it, if you want to follow.
And what about those shoes, are they grippy enough
to let you travel over the stream like a wee sprite
Bounding from rock to rock? Come. Isn’t it amazing?

How things are done here? No joins are needed
Because the whole is much stronger than the parts,
balanced in equilibrium, the story travels on past
that solitary elder, that must be bird strewn.
Trees don’t really grow here, and now I come to think

It is odd to try to claim any part of the earth as our own.
I always like the architecture of stone balanced on stone,
holding up like magic. But now I think of something else,
an attempt to announce our presence in a landscape
which barely notices that anything so small is here.

-Ali Jones

Stone Tears

This dry stone wall, a broken mountain.

-Dai Fry

False Barriers

Rock walls fitted together
Follow the slope of the land,
Aged bones
Leaning into one another,
A study of the past,
A barrier to the present.
Come, break down walls with me.
That we may run through
Unfettered fields, into the future.

-st

My Stone

The bones of earth are its stones.
decaying in their own slow time.
All my dead dears are marked by stones.
An Indian guru once gifted my dad black stones
he carried till his skin showed more of his bones.
My mam, sister and nanna are marked by stones,
Yorkshire stone in a graveyard of stones.
Speaking in one of her final breaths
My nanna told me where her breath
must be buried, the placement of stones.
My mam died on a day buffeted by gusts
and now I see the dead in every sweet gust.

=Paul Brookes

Chosen by Time and the Sky

I haven’t been sleeping,
stuck in the affliction of toss and turn,
thoughts tethered to the moon
and far away places.
I press my cheek to the window pane,
close my eyes
and imagine something beautiful
just beyond the glass.
A landscape with open hands,
offering itself as a canvas to the seasons,
succumbing to a palette of colors
chosen by time and the sky.
I see the rich reds and golds of Autumn
stretching to the edges of sound,
where everything falls into darkness.
I watch the colors transform
with strokes of charcoal and silver,
taste the first snowflakes on my tongue,
breathe in the scent of the soil as it freezes.
The winter in my mind
settles on barren branches,
and I remember my own emptiness,
my own silence.
I open my eyes to a scarred
window screen,
peer down at the filthy sidewalk
waiting with gaping jaws
to swallow my fantasy,
and remind myself,
it won’t be this way forever.
One day I will stand next to him,
reach out to touch the smooth grass,
take in the rolling fields with all my senses,
and know I am finally home.

-Susan Richardson

Episode

All that I can see
are parched trees
& yellow grasses.

They remind me
of the shooting pain
that follows mania.

Family confiscates
my phone & laptop—
no social life.

Pills pin me
down to my bed.
Waistline increases.

In retrospect I know,
this too did pass.

But then, at that
instance—

All that I can see
are parched trees
& yellow grasses.

-Jay Gandhi

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell

The Secret Keepers

You would not believe
the things we have seen,
done here under a moon’s
full bone-white eye.

The man who wanted to win
came and looked at the stars
and measured our bodies
with his cold blue gaze.

We moved, a millimetre here,
a fraction there, so he never
quite got it right. We knew
his intentions weren’t exactly

as honourable as he told us
they were. There is no fooling us,
we who have stood here so long
that we have forgotten what we are for.

It doesn’t matter though, we shift and pitch
and always find a new role to play.
Sometimes we hold space for promises
and goodbyes, though we prefer other things.

It is true that we can’t be counted
at least not in human ways. We like
to tease and trick, because what else
are stones supposed to do with everything?

If we just hold on, we will become harder
and more distant, impossible to decipher.
This way is better for our kind, to keep
things going – understanding was never
part of the great diviner’s plan you know.

-Ali Jones

Sadness is a positive emotion
=====================

I want to drill holes
in the concrete ground,
thrust my feet inside
and stand in calmness.

Yes, I am lonely & alone.
My companion who promised
that she will face
every storm with me has left
before the first storm has began.

Near the railings of the ground
there are sunflowers
which sparkle in the sunshine.

Hope is trying hard to find me:
my feet are grounded.

-Jay Gandhi

Neolithic Era

Did the Neolithic
Gaze upon the dandelions?
Or, did they graze upon them instead?
And, what was the significance of their stones?

We tread upon dandelions,
And cover the earth in concrete,
Whilst searching the past for answers
To questions the present readily provides.

If only we would gaze upon the fields,
Bask in the sun,
Call our current existence to the task
Of plodding, yes, but lightly.

-Samantha Terrell

“For there is no man without fault, no man without a burden, no man sufficient to himself, no man wise enough to himself but we must bear together, comfort together, help together, teach and admonish together.” -T. ‘A Kempis

A Garden of Time

Flowers creep out from beneath the frost,
bloom through the chaos of battle fields
and the unrelenting wreckage of disease.
They weave themselves into the landscape,
spread fragrance over the backs of relics.
Some stand tall, with faces open to the sun,
others sit quietly, whispering on top of the soil,
strewn like stars over the expanse of seasons.
They are given as gestures of love and regret,
placed on graves and coveted at weddings.
I chose to have them inked into my skin,
petals sprinkled across my feet and ankles,
vines and blossoms winding up my arms,
spilling gracefully over my shoulders,
a garden of time that turns something ugly
into something permanent and beautiful.

-Susan Richardson

The Rung Down

ring of blue rocks eroded,
schtum inner circle,
gong orchestra gone

stand tuneless rock
dumbfound broken
notes drummed out

gust between clefts
spit spat rain flits
cracks, shatters clack

back into unheard
till heard by inspired
knock on rock echoes

Megalithic lithophones
ring of blue stones decoded
orchestra clangs elsewhere.

Yearly lion’s teeth clocks
gust blows into seed float
above and around, inbetween

stood standing memory site,
soundscape escaped
now found traced source
of sea carried sound

-Paul Brookes

Neolithic Flowers

Eternity’s span
this arch of stars,
counts time beyond
ten finger tips.

Into wicker’s rest.
Fill this grave
with a crush
of wild flowers.

Mixed meadows
delicate pastels
and fine perfumes,
grace your memory.

Unbearable grief
and beauty speak
under the voice.

Why must our ways
always be run,
through a curtain
of dying flowers
and falling tears.

© Dai Fry 20th February 2020.

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell