Day Eight

i speak, but You do not listen by p a morbid

Charon by Marcel Herms

“Willing Subjects“

Frugally foraged plants
In situ – pricey house?
Indoors blends with outdoors
Outdoors an extension
Of the living quarters
Indoors an extension
Of the natural world
From my vantage point in
The best armchair there is
The best details are drawn

“A Willing Subject”

Kind genuine eyes
Mirrors these values
And there’s no choice
The artist must capture
This purest form of beauty
If they a willing subject want to be

-Lydia Wist

For All I Know of Fear.

Forever in the moments
when the anger presses near –
disguised from head to toe
in the dirge and in the gear
and I have known of men in Sodom
and I have watched them disappear.
If you could bring me kindness –
then I would bring you fear.

I taught well enough on poetry
wrote the hate-lines and the jeers
in the dive bar and the trap house
with the broken, formless queers
and I want each man to know of,
you, fair mutineer
who sang the blues in Summer
when I sang on in fear.

I could play the blessed music
on our nights out on the pier
swim the waters of your tongue
from the darkened to the clear
while the spirit from your reefer
crawled my neck into my ear –
that was the night you saw me clearly
while I watched on in fear.

To the West Village in Autumn
watch the ghosts of Summer cheer
over whiskey by the boathouse
over dreamers flooding near
while a song you don’t remember
dwelled within your silent tear.
I would hear the words you whispered
and think nevermore on fear.

But there is a line outside the church-yard
and there is a ringing in my ear
there’s a hate that’s taken over
and it’s asked us what we hear
it’s a playground in the shadows
of a bitter, pointless spear
it’s a city built on nightmares
it’s a lifetime lost to fear.

-Liam Stainsby

Mogul Meets Charon

The dead do not always leave willingly
They dig in their heels, summon lawyers,

thumb their noses at the Ferryman
It was predictable you would violate

tradition, incite sedition, refuse your final
ride. You swore an oath by the Potomac

and broke it the same day. What is a river
to a god, but something to vanquish

between tee times? A baptism to bestow
super powers? Even Achilles found

he was not invincible. Nighthawk will
come for you at the appointed time

The psychopomp of your choice will ferry
you to Hades, a silver dollar on your lips

The American people have spoken
Celtic is in the House

It is what it is

– Gayle J. Greenlea

Dark River

River’s teeth salivating,
waiting bowed, primed
for mastication.
Time has named me
my psychopomp.
Charon’s boat awaits.

Now in journey’s time.
wood sits hollow a
bouncing on water’s skin.
A coin to the rower,
bent arms racked. To
take me speedy and dry
through deep gates.

Leaning back over
the stern
Stretching my arm
far over life’s stream,
I let my ray-bans slip
into the dark river.

-© Dai Fry 7th November 202

Offerings

We opened the patio doors and windows,
curtains wafted like veils. She was laid out
in the corner in a pink floral dress,
like a bouquet in a wicker basket
floating on a white cloud.
When the mirrors were covered
and mass was said>br>
we slotted a coin under her tongue;
paying for her passage –
covering all bases.

-Gaynor Kane

THE OFFERING

If the moss peeled itself off the stone wall –
hundreds of eyelets unhooking from the surface –
it would fall into a velvet evening dress
that would swish past the beds of fern
and the ivy cross-stitching twigs to birch trees.

It would glide over the mud that runs smooth
at the edge of the falls and pause to listen
to the wind as it conducts the rustle of leaves
and the brook’s crystal-cut spray; to watch
butterflies dance over blankets of wild garlic.

It’s to the wearer of this dress
that you offer a tarnished two-pence piece.
Push it into a dry pocket in the wall
until your index finger can go no further
and promise that one day you’ll return.

-Susan Darlington

Charon

There is no getting away from it,
the end, no escape;
the dark river beckons that leads to a darker sea.
There is no escape when the time comes,
but does the order have to be so cold?

They accepted, antique minds formed in the military mould,
minds that understood only obedience
and the swift implacable justice of the stars.
But we, I?

Who is this messenger who will not even show his face,
whose the silent barque that slips through oiled waters
with only one destination, no sight-seeing along the way?

I will not pay to have the journey made easy.
I will not take the hand that pulls free souls from life
to cross the water.
I will not go silent slick as oil into the shadows
where no bird sings, no joy in green things shooting
breaks the chill and profound silence.

If there is to be no more light,
I can at least refuse the nothing of oblivion,
and embrace the vast unsleeping comfort of the night.

-Jane Dougherty

Hockey Styx

I hate wearing the mask
but they say it protects
me and others from
the deadly teeth-bearing fungus,
a hoax for sure. Whether
I’m offsides or icing,
frozen crystals fly
from my skates as they slice
grooves into the silvery
surface. An assist!
A goal! All I need
is your blood for my Gordie Howe hat trick.
Come skate with me across the river.

-Holly York

:: do not wish ::

day 8.
or any day. do not wish to hide
do not wish to run

to take the boat and steer
to take the hiatus i fear

it crossed so many times
each time delivering
some time sinking

while we are shouting that
we do not wish to die
my son

***

wrote of it before
the last crossing

having paid the price we hope to be delivered
knowing that in depth we drown

***

the island blessed
sandy tracks to wander
in memory
like birds we flew

now it comes commercial
no crossing

-..sbm..

I speak but you do not listen

Flame balances upon wick
nourished by candle, the wax
of each day pools at our feet,
we speak of greens, chartreuse,
collards, the gelatin of leaves,
citrus once flowered within us
each breath an exhalation of spice.

Words we carve from shell fragments
sea polished , you could assemble
into a conch of hearing,
or fill glass jars for another day,
oystercatchers dig me out of wet sand,
black skimmers thread the needle
stitching each wave, tumbled smoothness
another black bird comes for me
feathered with night
emptier than moon,
my words remain for you
scattered, shards of tongue.

TC8(1)

You say silence is the bolster
these dreams rest against,
eyes and lips are the easiest
memory, hands already out of focus.

The voice swims around in my head
sometimes surfacing, an exhalation,
then the deep breath, somewhere
once we held delight in our hands
briefly, how easily the sea
fills my mouth with bouyancy
how slowly your image
fades with memory.

MJS8(1)

Tree of breath, rooted in sternum
spine of green, flowing limbs,
we establish thicket in the understory
of utterance, oak and palm
sweetbay and cypress,
flesh you cultivate, tassled
heavy with milk we scrape from the corn
for gritted bread,
we consume so much verdure
grinding the bones
of this land for a last supper
before the reckoning.

Charon

River was not meant for passage
outflow and drainage of a basin
unremarked by travelers, seeking
the headwaters only to circle back
to the ford, a steep bank
rickety quay.

“The bed is both river and ferryboat”
he would say, standing over me
one hand of tide on my thigh
“We can haggle over the price,
but you’ll pay”
loose change on the sole,
floorboards have defined my life,
river curving as spine, boat
gently rocking, steadily making way,
fragrance of a dark shore
filling all my senses.

-Peach Delphine

 

1. PA Morbid

The silent moon
They stitched up her mouth
to silence her, reached for her eyes
to stop her tears –
mercury falling on the rooftop –
stars streaming from the sky –
but she slipped from the grasp
of their red hands.
Crescent she cuts like a blade,
full she floats high,
secrets building inside –
a mountain of words,
fear, anger –
she vomits them into
her mouth,
swallows them again,
afraid of choking.

2. TC12

Conversation with Sigmund
So Herr Doktor
what do you see?
Peering through the mist
into my broken dreams,
my ugly fantasies,
my thoughts unspoken.
Your bright eye
inspects my faults,
my empty breasts,
my cold hands,
the lies I whisper
and the truths I swallow,
like ice-cubes,
freezing as they burn.

3. MJS8

Live with the generosity of trees
she told me, hands open
to give. A bird might fly from them.
She gave like a rose bush gives
scent and colour, gave freely,
abundantly – her eyes
were apples, and her lips were apples,
her hands open like flowers,
she gave with gratitude.

4. MH8
Charon

if you ride with me
I’ll teach you to forget –
first your reading glasses,
and the names of friends,
of children – they will fade,
almost unnoticed. Your wife
will disappear into the smoke,
your childhood will just slip away,
then words will go, un-needed,
and unheeded, until
you’re blank, white clean,
nuzzling for the nipple,
wailing in the night.

5. TC8

Winter nights
A face emerges,
blossoming like a bruise spreads –
maybe moonlight
casts a sort of spell,
a grey veil. Maybe
it’s just shadows,
smoke hanging too heavy
in the winter air.
My breath forms clouds
in front of me,
my own breath
deludes me.

-Sarah Connor

8. Charron, Untitled

teeth bearing fungus
smiles, beguiling
legend’s river
never crying:
styx, held in darkness
self, awareness

-Sarah Reeson

Bios and Links

-Terry Chipp

grew up in Thurnscoe and ia now living in Doncaster via Wath Grammar school, Doncaster Art College, Bede College in Durham and 30 years teaching.

He sold his first painting at the Goldthorpe Welfare Hall annual exhibition at the age of 17 and he haven’t stopped painting since.

He escaped the classroom 20 years ago to devote more time to his artwork.  Since then he has set up his own studio in Doncaster, exhibited across the north of England as a member of the Leeds Fine Artists group and had his painting demonstrations featured on the SAA’s Painting and drawing TV channel.  Further afield he has accepted invitations to work with international artists’ groups in Spain, Macedonia, Montenegro and USA where his paintings are held in public and private collections. In 2018 he had a solo exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and a joint exhibition in Germany.

His pictures cover a wide range of styles and subjects from abstract to photo-realism though he frequently returns to his main loves of landscape and people.

Visitors are welcome at his studio in the old Art College on Church View, Doncaster.

e-mail:  terry@terrychipp.co.uk

Facebook:  Terry Chipp Fine Art Painting

Instagram: @chippko.art

-Marcel Herms

is a Dutch visual artist. He is also one of the two men behind the publishing house Petrichor. Freedom is very important in the visual work of Marcel Herms. In his paintings he can express who he really is in complete freedom. Without the social barriers of everyday life.
There is a strong relationship with music. Like music, Herms’ art is about autonomy, freedom, passion, color and rhythm. You can hear the rhythm of the colors, the rhythm of the brushstrokes, the raging cry of the pencil, the subtle melody of a collage. The figures in his paintings rotate around you in shock, they are heavily abstracted, making it unclear what they are doing. Sometimes they look like people, monsters, children or animals, or something in between. Sometimes they disappear to be replaced immediately or to take on a different guise. The paintings invite the viewer to join this journey. Free-spirited.

He collaborates with many different authors, poets, visual artists and audio artists from around the world and his work is published by many different publishers.

www.marcelherms.nl

www.uitgeverijpetrichor.nl

-Jane Dougherty

writes novels, short stories and lots of poems. Among her publications is her first chapbook of poetry, thicker than water. She is also a regular contributor to Visual Verse and the Ekphrastic Review. You can find her on twitter @MJDougherty33 and on her blog https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/

-Peach Delphine

is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast. Former cook. Has had poems in Cypress Press, Feral Poetry, IceFloe Press, Petrichor. Can be found on Twitter@Peach Delphine

-Dai Fry

is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter:  

@thnargg

Web: http://seekingthedarklight.co.uk

-Susan Darlington

Susan Darlington’s poetry regularly explores the female experience through nature-based symbolism and stories of transformation. It has been published in Fragmented Voices, Algebra Of Owls, Dreams Walking, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. Her debut collection, ‘Under The Devil’s Moon’, was published by Penniless Press Publications (2015). Follow her @S_sanDarlington    

-Holly York

lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her two large, frightening lapdogs. A PhD in French language and literature, she has retired from teaching French to university students, as well as from fierce competition in martial arts and distance running. She has produced the chapbooks Backwards Through the Rekroy Wen, Scapes, and Postcard Poetry 2020. When she isn’t hard at work writing poems in English, she might be found reading them in French to her long-suffering grandchildren, who don’t yet speak French.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an award-winning poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, “Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel Zero Gravity at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Astronomy Magazine, Headline Poetry and Press and The Australian Health Review.

-Helen Allison

lives in the North East of Scotland. Her first poetry collection ‘ Tree standing small’ was published in 2018 with Clochoderick Press. Her work has appeared in journals and magazines in print and online and she is working towards a second collection.

-Lydia Wist

Like someone who tries out hats or other samples before making a final decision, experimenting with different ideas and techniques is how Lydia spends some of her time. This allows for other portions of time to speak through the lens of fiction, creative nonfiction and art. You can find her work at Cargo Collective , Lydia Wist Creative and on Twitter @Lydiawist.

Website links:

https://cargocollective.com/lydiawist

https://www.facebook.com/lydiawistcreative/

-Sarah Connor

lives in the wild, wet, south-west of England, surrounded by mud and apple trees. She writes poems to make sense of the world, and would rather weed than wash up.

-sonja benskin mesher

-Liam Stainsby

holds a bachelor in English Literature and Creative Writing and is a secondary school teacher of English and Creative Writing. Liam is currently writing his first, professional collection of poetry entitled Borders that explores poetry from all around the world. Liam also Co-Hosts a movie discussion podcast entitled: The Pick and Mix Podcast. Liam writes under the pseudonym ‘Michael The Poet’ 

Links: WordPress: https://michael-the-poet.com/

Twitter: stainsby_liam

Instagram: Michael The Poet

-Sarah Reeson

is 54, married and a mother of two, who has been writing and telling stories since childhood. Over the last decade she has utilised writing not just as entertainment, but as a means to improve personal communication skills. That process unexpectedly uncovered increasingly difficult and unpleasant feelings, many forgotten for decades. Diagnosed as a historic trauma survivor in May 2019, Mental health issues had previously hindered the entirety of her adult life: the shift into writing as expression and part of a larger journey into self-awareness began to slowly unwind for her from the past, providing inspiration and focus for a late career change as a multidisciplined artist.

Website: http://internetofwords.com

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers three options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger, or an interview about their latest book, or a combination of these.

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.

Trish Bennett

is an Irish writer who grew up on the Leitrim/Fermanagh border.  She spent her youth changing jobs, careers, and cities, not realising that she was building up a lifetime of shenanigans to tap into later on, when she gave in to the urge to write.

She has settled in County Fermanagh in Northern Ireland, along with her husband, daughter, parrot, dog, two cats, and three hives of honey bees.

Bennett writes poetry, memoir, and short stories.  The main themes in her work are the landscape of her people, the natural world, and the antics of her family, and other creatures.

She’s widely published in print and online, and has read her work on BBC Radio Ulster.  Bennett’s won The Leitrim Guardian Literary Award for poetry, twice, and has been a finalist in over a dozen poetry competitions in the past few years, including The Allingham, North West Words, The Percy French, Head Stuff, Bailieborough, The Bangor Literary Journal, and Hedgehog Poetry Press.

Bennett performs regularly at events and festivals because she loves to connect with people through her words.

Twitter: @baabennett   Facebook: TrishBennettWriter.

The Interview

 

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

A lot of my poems start out as memoir or fiction. When I look at the draft that I’ve written, I decide whether it works better as a poem. My work these past few years has more power when expressed in the concise language of poetry.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I was introduced to poetry by my two primary school teachers, Mrs. White, and Miss Gallagher. As a child, I loved rhyme in poems. When I got older, my Dad influenced my love of Yeats as he was a big fan of his poetry. I lived in Sligo and visited many of the places mentioned in Yeats’s poetry.

The first time I realised how entertaining performance poetry could be was when I was having a drink in our local pub almost twenty years ago. Seamus O’Rourke, a fellow Leitrimite, performed his piece about plastic-bags. His wit and skill blew me away and I remember thinking, I wish I could do that, yet I was horrified at the thoughts of trying.

I worked as an Engineer of one sort or another for most of my working life, and it wasn’t until my late thirties that I gave in to the call to write. Ruth Carr ran a brilliant Creative Writing class at the Crescent Arts in Belfast. She’s to blame for introducing me to contemporary poetry and encouraging my writing.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

I was turned off poetry in Secondary School by having to study poems written a century or two before, by middle-class Englishmen. As a teenage girl living in rural Ireland in the 1980s, I couldn’t connect with any of them. I don’t recall there being any modern poetry or Irish female poets on our English curriculum in Ireland at that time. Thankfully, things have changed for the better since.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I was born in Winter and have a love of the dark days. I write, edit, or read poetry most days once the wind and rain sets in at the fall of the year. When Spring and Summer kick-off, the days are bright and busy, and I find it harder to write. I’m also a beekeeper which means I spend my free-time in Summer preoccupied with the shenanigans of my bees.

5. What motivates you to write?

Deadlines are a great motivator! If there’s no deadline, I write when something gets to me, like an image, or a phase someone says that sticks in my head and won’t leave until I write about it. I suppose you could say, I write to exorcise demons.

I wrote diaries as a child and teenager, stopping when my antics became too incriminating in my twenties. While going through old stuff during the first lockdown, I found a poetic rant about the state of Ireland that I’d written when I was 18. It seems I’ve always written something when I was annoyed enough.

6. What is your work ethic?

When it comes to writing, as with everything in my life, I go by the old cliche, Feel the fear and do it anyway. Those who know me know how terrified I am before a performance. Despite the sickening stage fright, I still go on, because I’ve learned that the fear keeps me focused on stage, and if I trust the muse, everything will be fine.

When it comes to writing, I keep at the bloody thing until it clicks together when I read it. I can’t explain what clicking together means as this is different for every writer. I keep editing, often as many as 25-30 revisions (especially for the longer memoir poems). I often work on twenty poems at any one time. Some poems, I leave for ages until I figure out the ending. I send them out into the world when I’m satisfied they’re as good as I can make them, and there’s a place where they might fit. Then I suffer imposter syndrome, kicking myself for thinking that the poem was good, and for even thinking that I can write. I’m high as a kite for at least five minutes when somebody publishes it.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I’m not sure. I was a big reader in my youth, read everything and anything, except horror and poetry. I should’ve taken that as a sign…

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

I can’t answer this because there are far too many! It’d fill the page, and besides, I’d be afraid I might give them swelled heads. Can’t have writers getting confidence in themselves. It’s just not done.

9. Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I’ve a full life outside of writing. It’s being busy doing the other stuff that feeds my writing. When there’s no other choice and the demons are too great, I write.

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

I’d quote Hemingway,

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter, and bleed.

I’d also advise them not to become a writer. There are far less torturous jobs out there, normal jobs that will pay handsomely for a quarter of the work that you put into writing. I know, because I’ve worked in those cushy jobs.

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

I’m meant to be working on one anthology of poetry, but the damned thing has morphed itself into two. Both need a lot of work as I keep adding new poems. I don’t want to say much more about them as I don’t like to talk about my work until it’s ready for review. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it.

-Amy Shelton. She has a collaboration with poet John Burnside called Melissographia as well as a new body of work in progress with him too – Bee Myths. There is a recording of John Burnside reading Melissographia here. http://amyshelton.co.uk/melissographia/
There are a few signed limited edition hand made Melissographia books available on her website.

– `ees by Neal Zetter

I’m A Bee by Neal Zetter

The Day I Became a Royalist.

The memory of that day’s still sweet,
the way the sun filtered through hedges
beginning to explode
with blooms of hawthorn and chestnut;
the coconut trace that floated up
from yellow bubbled whin;
the excited buzz from her fans,
humming as I set to work.
Deaf as beetles they were,
yet they danced their tales
while their friends watched
and felt the vibrations.
I longed to dance too,
but my rebel feet refused.
I looked the part.
In fact, I was smoking,
with all the right gear to meet a Queen.
No high fashion, fascinators,
stilettos or frocks,
demure — in loose white,
a veil over my face,
and gloves.
The roar arose from the crowd.
Herself was close.
Royal guards drew lances,
made charges as if to say, ‘Your kind’s not welcome here’.
I worked on — ignored the line,
like my Father before,
when I was a child.
When her Highness appeared in my frame of view,
maybe it was the alien look of her dress,
poured out in layers like dark chocolate,
or maybe it was her long legs,
that could do with a rub of the razor,
that made her look huge.
She walked that confident walk
of a girl at the top.
Her retinue fussed, had respect.
While her signature scent was strong,
they remained happy, loyal
content.
My senses captured it all
in a way no camera could;
that joy as I watched them dance and hum,
the chinook noise from drones,
the scent of our land collected, condensed,
mind-stamped into my memory cells,
that brought me home to childhood days
when my brother and I dug sections of gold
on our Fathers return.
The memory’s still sweet of that day
when I turned,
on meeting the Queen
of Apis Mellifera Mellifera
my black honey bees.

-©Trish Bennett ( Highly Commended, The Bailieborough Poetry Competition, 2018.
Previously Published
The Leitrim Guardian, 2019, Editor: Bláithín Gallagher.
Poethead 2019, Editor: Chris Murray)

God Bless the Bees

The Mother,
cocooned in Leitrim,
takes out her frustration
on wandering roses
and other wayward strays,
who assume
they can travel freely
in the empire of her garden.
She’s terrified of bees
or she’d have
the secateurs gripped
in her arthritic hand
while she hoists
her cobalt knee
onto a wobbly stool
to stand and butcher
the bumbled
Berberis Darwinii.

-©Trish Bennett(Previously Published
pendemic.ie, Online Pandemic Journal, 2020, Editors: Joy Redmund, Ruth McKee, Niall McArdle,
and Liz Quirke.)

Sing me a bumblebee

brass-banded and bilious,
euphonium-voiced
pollen-plucked and tucked
in his little tucker bags.
Lend me a feather
from a bold herring gull
shanty-mouthed wave-skimmer
to paint me a dream
as sea-green and incorruptible
as the jolly fish-boned sky.

-Jane Dougherty

Waiting for Bees

Crocus fingers snow-tatters.
Sun coaxes purple, orange.
Cups brim, succulent saffron
offered to the sky.

Earth rotates.
Shadows wake.
Winter’s breath reminisces
with evening.
Flowers pack their cups,
pollen tucked.
Heads bow.
Darkness spits
snow.
Day after night after
day they set their table, cloth ragged, main course
glistens gold,
seven days.
They wait for bees

who never come.
Wilt, heartbreak-fists’ curl
and starvation,

swallowed by Earth’s dry
empty mouth.
————————

As Summer Falls Away

Rains fell in sheets, water rose
ankle high. Long slow gray day, a day
for curling with cat and book in bed.

Then, the wind.

White skies’ blue
brightness blinds, wind pushes
powder-heavy banks; ragweed, goldenrod,
sedge grasses, heads nod, bow, capes swing
back, a flourish. Last bees not warmed
enough to harvest.

Hurry, autumn.

Iron-weed lace, a paradox,
echoes deeper purple. Asters open
royal lashes, gaze a final time
at September.

Next, the leaves.

-Rachael Ikins

Bee Safe

Cut eyeholes in an old bucket.
Stuck an old welder’s visor
on the eyeholes. Stuffed and taped
an ancient towel under the rim.
Got my mate to tape welder’s gloves
to my thick jacket and my wellingtons
to jogging bottoms. Put bucket on my head.
Mate stuck it to my jacket. I struggled
through the small hole. Cost a packet for radiation
suited cocker to remove hive from out of our roof.
I’m sure all bees are gone. Couldn’t hear them.
Couldn’t bloody breathe, my visor misted up.

-Paul Brookes

Silence

The thing I fear is the silence:
when the buzzing stops
because there are no more bees –
the belly hum buzz
that dances from nectar to nectar
the silence that falls
when the sun goes down
and the birds quieten
a reminder that there could be
a world without a blackbird
calling tumbling notes
from a sleek throat,
without rook
gently reminding rook
that they are friends,
without skylark promising
joy effortless
and the silence of sea water
grown sluggish
half plastic
holding death afloat
silver belly turned
towards a yellow sky
and the silence of a forest
where every tree
is just a dream.

– Sarah Connor

Being requires exploration. By flowering, we heal.

She’d clattered up the stairs, along the corridor, and into his lab, clutching a black linen bag to her chest. She’d begged him for help. He still wasn’t sure.
“You realise it’s a particle/wave ionisation device? It will move you in time, or space, but it’s not perfected yet. You could end up anywhere. Any-when”.
They could both hear the footsteps in the distance, coming closer.
“There’s no other way. Please -” she begged him – “Do it”.
And he flicked the switch.
When the guards arrived, he was alone, tapping away quietly on his keyboard. They ripped the lab apart, but there was nothing to find.
Twenty-seven years later, he still thought about her from time to time – wondered if he’d done the right thing, why she was so desperate, where she’d ended up. Somehow it wasn’t surprising that, as he tidied up his desk, just after 6pm on Friday 17th June, she appeared in corner of the lab. She looked dazed, walked over to him and touched his cheek gently.
“You got old” she whispered. He nodded, silent.
She opened the bag, then, and showed him something he had thought he’d never see again. Bees. A roiling, buzzing mass of them. He turned to look out of the window, at the grove of almond trees, that had blossomed but not fruited for the last seven years.
When he turned back, she saw that he was crying.

-Sarah Connor

-Dr Butler by Terry Chipp

-Celebrity by Marcel Herms

Celebrity Dr. Butler

1979: sleazy outcasts
hidden by red shift
microphone poised
suited and booted
making history
fading, obscurity

-Sarah Reeson

..day 7..
:: day of the dead ::

so it was yet no one did anything

here

drew on experience
kept quiet
for no one
hears

they are dead
as deaf as a dodo

***

deaf as the man upstairs
dead as the designer now

the virus got them

they came with moustaches
all curly waxed
but it still got them

the day of the dead

..sbm..

Decline of a celebrity president

The unscalable wall should have been a clue
that you felt your celebrity slipping
like the makeup staining your collar orange
or your hair with its dendritic reveal of scalp,
pale as a baby’s cheek.

Barricaded in the mansion you once described
as a dump, you hunker down with letters
from Vlad, reminiscing about better days
when you rolled a tank onto the White
House lawn and lit the sky with war planes,

show of strength from the American strong
man. Far cry from the Covid king who wheezed
up stairs to the balcony to tear off his mask
in defiance of weakness and precarious
masculinity.

Mar a Lago is a distant dream in your self-made
prison. Chants from protesting masses no
longer inspire the desire to clear streets
with military might for a theocratic photo op
Honestly, nothing is fun like it used to be,

the mirrors now draped so you don’t see
your skull emerging from its chrysalis
or the faces of the hundreds of thousands
now dead — ‘Not my fault!’ — you shout
to no one but the Secret Service. ‘Chai-nah’.

Days of power coming to an end,
you console yourself with a call to Erdogan
but he’s busy plundering Syria’s oil.
Perhaps you should have foiled that ugly
business with Khashoggi, but MBS had you

and Jared by the short hairs. Outcast.
Maybe if you’d gotten a dog, suburban women
would love you more.
You reach across your bed to fondle the worn
Copy of Der Führer’s speeches — not that you

read — but it comforts you. Being anointed
by God yourself, you can relate. Make America
great! Fake news! Enemy of the people! Lock
her up! It was a good run. Would have lasted
longer, but OBAMA! Your crowd size was bigger.

A little snort of Adderall; maybe call Ivanka,
soothe yourself with Dr. Butler’s Hatstand
Medicine Band. If Sleepy Joe wins
you can always flog hydroxychloroquine. Yo
Semite, that peace prize should have been yours.

-Gayle J Greenlea

Dr Butler

He preens in preparation
For the next adoring patient
That will book and scrape
At his little polished feet
His moustache waxed in exact points
Pudgy flesh over stubby joints
He sees it a necessity
Definitely not a vanity
To have the latest silken cravat
Hiding from the public his newfangled
Words set to confuse the people of the day
As he sticks out his chin indignantly
And waits for you to pay

-AilsaCawleyPoetry2020

On Death

Morning stirs to the heat of melancholy sunrise
and a night spent in jeans,
the buzz of perdition rose through the static
on a dying TV.
Ghosts just out of view
remind us that
death is a cruel finality
or a sweet sympathy –
without choice
we choose the latter
and fit into a fated end.

-Liam Stainsby

Your hands

Yes, well, I never liked your hands,
too soft, too plump,
fingers knotting and unknotting
always moving

like some pale creature
down in the deep water
half-seen in the half-light,
glimmering, restless, hungering.

-Sarah Connor

 

MY DOCTOR

Celebrity doctor-dapper,
shy spring flower
behind his giant
mahogany desk.
The little forked
tongue flickers,
tastes the air.
Pebble glassed eyes
brown infinity pools.
It appears that this time
all is well. Until the
next testing, adieu.
But I have to win
every time.
You only the once.

-© Dai Fry 6th November 2020

Dalí’s Hands

Mirror mirror in my hand,
said Dalí, pudgy paint-stained hands
unaccustomed to four-in-hand.
But how did he look in his hand
mirror unclothed by skin, out of hand
as he aged with trembling hand?
Persistence of memory, talk to the hand.

-Holly York

Celebrities

When the only thing that gives you pleasure
is to see yourself reflected in adoring eyes
then day and night the ticking of the seconds
are nothing but the punctuated syncopated
over-inflated dance steps of your cat walk life.

You admit of no bones beneath this flesh
no blood to stain and when you hear
the whining of the bombs you smile
and dip inside the portal of your parallel world
and pour yourself another drink.

There are people in this world and there is plastic
and some with glitter in their teeth that blend the two
inextricably mixed, never shaken, never stirred.

-Jane Dougherty

(Dr Butler)

“Dr Butler’s Day”

It’s a long day being an expert host conductor surgeon scientist researcher butler actor maestro lawyer defendant life saver deceiver guest performer judge server father groom tattoo owner spectre time traveller waxwork hologram

He considers his mirror image, alone, for a moment

He’s the best, he’s the best, he’s the best

No pressure

He straightens his tie

With military precision

(Extra)ordinary man

(Celebrity Culture)

“Flo/1910”

I was the first official celebrity in US history
You stay here and look what they did to me

I wanted to work I wanted to act
So they killed me in a car crash
So they brought me back to life
So they could make a fortune
So they surely made more than me

I took my own life at fifty-two
Not sure if it all had to do with my job
Maybe I would’ve done it regardless
So someone could make a fortune
From my personal things my very me

You stay here and look. What can you see?

-Lydia Wist

THE DOCTOR

The doctor dismissed all she said.
Ignored the scales crusted on her skin,
the magnetic pull of her blood
and the saltwater that drip,
drip, dripped from her fingertips.

It pooled under her chair
while he talked of medication,
post-traumatic stress and counselling.
His voice became the sea’s fading echo;
the shell in his throat the calm.

-Susan Darlington

Dr Butler

Nothing so elegant
as coarse bread, toasted
slathered in butter and guava,
some artifacts reveal themselves
polishing their way out of sediment.

When he was through
a wave and a blown kiss,
a last check in dresser mirror,
mustache and eyebrows snatched
to perfection, one last look and a smile,
shutting the door so gently,
“till next week”
no other bull could sniff flowers
so daintily, three crisp twenties
in the nightstand drawer,
the lingering musk
of his presence.

-Peach Delphine

Celebrity culture

The donation cup of cutting
is full, a heavier weight than word
or the gauze and tape of binding
all that was necessary to conceal
reveals itself as filigree
and tracery of blood,
once the gingerbread
of despair, now the signifier
of survival, after three
stomach pumps in one year
my oral fixation became uncontrollable,
the only thing better
was poppers and the laying on
of hands, like rising
from the river
made new again.

-Peach Delphine

Bios and Links

-Terry Chipp

grew up in Thurnscoe and is now living in Doncaster via Wath Grammar school, Doncaster Art College, Bede College in Durham and 30 years teaching.

He sold his first painting at the Goldthorpe Welfare Hall annual exhibition at the age of 17 and he haven’t stopped painting since.

He escaped the classroom 20 years ago to devote more time to his artwork.  Since then he has set up his own studio in Doncaster, exhibited across the north of England as a member of the Leeds Fine Artists group and had his painting demonstrations featured on the SAA’s Painting and drawing TV channel.  Further afield he has accepted invitations to work with international artists’ groups in Spain, Macedonia, Montenegro and USA where his paintings are held in public and private collections. In 2018 he had a solo exhibition in Warsaw, Poland and a joint exhibition in Germany.

His pictures cover a wide range of styles and subjects from abstract to photo-realism though he frequently returns to his main loves of landscape and people.

Visitors are welcome at his studio in the old Art College on Church View, Doncaster.

e-mail:  terry@terrychipp.co.uk

Facebook:  Terry Chipp Fine Art Painting

Instagram: @chippko.art

-Marcel Herms

is a Dutch visual artist. He is also one of the two men behind the publishing house Petrichor. Freedom is very important in the visual work of Marcel Herms. In his paintings he can express who he really is in complete freedom. Without the social barriers of everyday life.
There is a strong relationship with music. Like music, Herms’ art is about autonomy, freedom, passion, color and rhythm. You can hear the rhythm of the colors, the rhythm of the brushstrokes, the raging cry of the pencil, the subtle melody of a collage. The figures in his paintings rotate around you in shock, they are heavily abstracted, making it unclear what they are doing. Sometimes they look like people, monsters, children or animals, or something in between. Sometimes they disappear to be replaced immediately or to take on a different guise. The paintings invite the viewer to join this journey. Free-spirited.

He collaborates with many different authors, poets, visual artists and audio artists from around the world and his work is published by many different publishers.

www.marcelherms.nl

www.uitgeverijpetrichor.nl

-Jane Dougherty

writes novels, short stories and lots of poems. Among her publications is her first chapbook of poetry, thicker than water. She is also a regular contributor to Visual Verse and the Ekphrastic Review. You can find her on twitter @MJDougherty33 and on her blog https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/

-Peach Delphine

is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast. Former cook. Has had poems in Cypress Press, Feral Poetry, IceFloe Press, Petrichor. Can be found on Twitter@Peach Delphine

-Dai Fry

is a poet living on the south coast of England. Originally from Swansea. Wales was and still is a huge influence on everything. My pen is my brush. Twitter:  

@thnargg

Web: http://seekingthedarklight.co.uk

-Susan Darlington

Susan Darlington’s poetry regularly explores the female experience through nature-based symbolism and stories of transformation. It has been published in Fragmented Voices, Algebra Of Owls, Dreams Walking, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others. Her debut collection, ‘Under The Devil’s Moon’, was published by Penniless Press Publications (2015). Follow her @S_sanDarlington    

-Holly York

lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her two large, frightening lapdogs. A PhD in French language and literature, she has retired from teaching French to university students, as well as from fierce competition in martial arts and distance running. She has produced the chapbooks Backwards Through the Rekroy Wen, Scapes, and Postcard Poetry 2020. When she isn’t hard at work writing poems in English, she might be found reading them in French to her long-suffering grandchildren, who don’t yet speak French.

-Gayle J. Greenlea

is an award-winning poet and counselor for survivors of sexual and gender-related violence. Her poem, “Wonderland”, received the Australian Poetry Prod Award in 2011. She shortlisted and longlisted for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2013, and debuted her first novel Zero Gravity at the KGB Literary Bar in Manhattan in 2016. Her work has been published in St. Julian Press, Rebelle Society, A Time to Speak, Astronomy Magazine, Headline Poetry and Press and The Australian Health Review.

-Helen Allison

lives in the North East of Scotland. Her first poetry collection ‘ Tree standing small’ was published in 2018 with Clochoderick Press. Her work has appeared in journals and magazines in print and online and she is working towards a second collection.

-Lydia Wist

Like someone who tries out hats or other samples before making a final decision, experimenting with different ideas and techniques is how Lydia spends some of her time. This allows for other portions of time to speak through the lens of fiction, creative nonfiction and art. You can find her work at Cargo Collective , Lydia Wist Creative and on Twitter @Lydiawist.

Website links:

https://cargocollective.com/lydiawist

https://www.facebook.com/lydiawistcreative/

-Sarah Connor

lives in the wild, wet, south-west of England, surrounded by mud and apple trees. She writes poems to make sense of the world, and would rather weed than wash up.

-sonja benskin mesher

-Liam Stainsby

holds a bachelor in English Literature and Creative Writing and is a secondary school teacher of English and Creative Writing. Liam is currently writing his first, professional collection of poetry entitled Borders that explores poetry from all around the world. Liam also Co-Hosts a movie discussion podcast entitled: The Pick and Mix Podcast. Liam writes under the pseudonym ‘Michael The Poet’ 

Links: WordPress: https://michael-the-poet.com/

Twitter: stainsby_liam

Instagram: Michael The Poet

-Sarah Reeson

is 54, married and a mother of two, who has been writing and telling stories since childhood. Over the last decade she has utilised writing not just as entertainment, but as a means to improve personal communication skills. That process unexpectedly uncovered increasingly difficult and unpleasant feelings, many forgotten for decades. Diagnosed as a historic trauma survivor in May 2019, Mental health issues had previously hindered the entirety of her adult life: the shift into writing as expression and part of a larger journey into self-awareness began to slowly unwind for her from the past, providing inspiration and focus for a late career change as a multidisciplined artist.

Website: http://internetofwords.com

-Gaynor Kane

is a Northern Irish poet from Belfast. She has two poetry pamphlets, and a full collection, from Hedgehog Poetry Press, they are Circling the Sun, Memory Forest and Venus in pink marble (2018, 2019 and Summer 2020 respectively). She is co-author, along with Karen Mooney, of Penned In a poetry pamphlet written in response to the pandemic and due for release 30^th November 2020.  Follow her on Twitter @gaynorkane or read more at www.gaynorkane.com.