Mam at Coronation Street. Fought Cancer for seven years.
I Watch Athletics With My Mam
All house mirrors have been removed. I sit on her soft bed, rest an arm on a spare pillow. Mum’s pillows
stack behind her as we watch a tv placed where her dress mirror stood. Once she cried as her hair fell out. She cried as she gained each pound weight
because she takes the chemicals to stop her dying, stop the spread. Once she was ‘petite’, now Mum’s fat jowls, bingo wings slop on the bed.
Together we watch lithe bodies, sharp muscle tone dash for the end. Her home is spotless, a show home. Every day we polish, scrub,
vacuum, she wants it welcoming. She nods off half way through the 100 metres, I soft clap the winner as she would have done.
I remember good times, and smile at her laughter, gleam in her eyes when she sees another winner dash over the race finish line.
Meanwhile, she looks forward to Oakwell, a new fan of Barnsley FC. I never go as I don’t like football, regret my selfishness
and time not enjoying her life. She will sit in her hired wheelchair yell and clap at their confidence, vitality, their will to win.
Note: Mum died of cancer in 1997
-Paul Brookes
FINDING THE RIGHT WORDS Last visit to a friend dying of ovarian cancer
She is propped up with cushions, a glass of lemon barley water on a tray beside her,
polo mints spilling from a packet. I sit on the sofa beside her; She fumbles with the TV remote;
a huge cartoon dog dashes across the technicolour screen. I pass her the silver-framed photo,
the two of us at primary school, broad grins and NHS glasses, all gappy teeth and optimism.
She startles as a bird hits the window and clings on to me tightly. I draw back, shocked by her fragility;
stick arms like bird’s legs, breath wreaking of sulphur and disappointment
Maybe she senses my dilemma? Tears well up in her puffy eyes We had a wonderful childhood, she says,
Shall I make us tea? My voice is shaky She nods, attempts a weak smile
I fight back the tears Please, just keep going a little while longer… She lowers her eyes, averting my gaze
But I know in my heart of hearts that sadly I have to let her go, This will probably be our last time together
-Tim Fellows from his pamphlet (See below)
Bios And Links
-Tim Fellows
is a poet and writer from Chesterfield whose poetry is heavily influenced by his background in the Derbyshire coalfields – family, mining, politics, and that mix of industry and countryside that so many mining areas had. People can email me at timothyjfellows@gmail.com for a copy of the pamphlet
As night settles, her dark vigil begin Guiding shadows every night Watching over all hunted by demons within Calling lost souls to the light
As countless as the stars her kin Find at her side, respite from the daily fight All those made to feel uncomfortable in their skin Feel recharged by her watchful caring sight
When teary sorrow and stormy fears set in Her birds catch nightmares in their flight As she new rainbow dreams spin Mistress of watery midnight
She chants the words– like tiny birds they fly from her lips, the magic drips, and she slips fever-nipped to the riverside.
Is the reflection hers, or some other– who might have been spirit or grandmother? Is it past or future, what was, or what will be? In the water, what does she see? Stars and moon, earth and loon, sky, earth, all upside-down, she can’t decide
as she gazes there, unaware of time– it seems like ages– but only a moment has passed— and when it’s over, she’s still not clear what she has seen in the bits and flashes— they collide,
the feathered-darkness and eagle-sight— the stark gloom and the brightest light, both appeared, both are here— under Orion’s Belt, they glide,
and she knelt while the moon was rising, now midnight blue shifts and drifts to eastern pink, and as the wind sighs she watches doves soar, with coo and cry, to vanish—somewhere far, up in the sky.
-Merril D Smith
Undercover (CO4Feb)
If you interrogate the cormorant he will tell you how he hangs himself out to dry on the shale outcrop by day, wings open in submission. He will explain how he roosts on the cliffs, one eye open to see the smugglers come in hoods, candles in hand, dragging their bound loot to the pickup spot. The lookout lowers his hat, checks for trouble, ignores the birds sleeping like headless corpses on the rocks. This beak has more to tell; but it will cost you. Moonshine flashes on the water, a cold torch to mark the time. A boat slips into the cove. A breath, release the bird, and wade to catch the turning tide.
-Hilary Otto
KRFeb4 Winter Forest
Winter graffiti
Branches scrawled in black tag the white landscape, write their story in a weak winter sun. Birch trunks like mirrored legs reflect a few leftover maple leaves underfoot, or is it instead a splash of bright blood? Shadows of scratches. Bird tracks slash the path.
is an artist working in glass, metal, fibre and paint. Sometimes her work is based on photographs, but more often, she creates in the moment. She loves to play with texture and colour.
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.
RedCat’s love for music and dance sings clearly in The Poet’s Symphony (Raw Earth Ink, 2020). Passion for rhythms and rhymes, syllabic feets and metres. All born out of childhood and adolescence spent reading, singing, dancing and acting.
Her writing spans love, life, mythology, environment, depression and surviving trauma.
Originally from the deep woods, this fiery redhead now makes home in Stockholm, Sweden, where you might normally run into her dancing the night away in one of the city’s techno clubs.
is a historian and poet. She lives in southern New Jersey, where she is inspired by her walks along the Delaware River. She’s the author of several books on history, gender, and sexuality. Her poetry has been published in journals and anthologies, including Black Bough Poetry, Nightingale and Sparrow, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Fevers of the Mind.
-Godefroy Dronsart
is a writer, teacher, and musician currently residing near Paris. His poetry has appeared in Lunar Poetry, PostBLANK, Paris Lit Up, The Belleville Park Pages, and Twin Pies Literary among others. His first chapbook, “The Manual” (Sweat Drenched Press, 2020), explores the space between poetry, prose, and gamebooks. He has a sweet tooth for all things experimental, modernist, and strange. Follow him on Twitter and his Bandcamp for electronic explorations.
-Joy Fleming
Born in County Down, Joy has studied, mothered and worked in Scotland since 1980. Brief excursions to follow her heart, back to NI mid-1990’s and England for first round Covid-lockdown ’19, Joy is currently back living in Glasgow. Joy’s first poem was accepted as part of the C. S. Lewis themed Poetry Jukebox curation A Deeper Country in Belfast in 2019. This poem, Ricochet was published in The Poets’ Republic Issue 8 Autumn 2020. A love of reading poetry is now accompanied by sporadic writing of poetic lines which spill out as an apparent by-product of processing dark and sorrowful days.
-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.
-Alan Gary Smith
A Lincolnshire Ludensian living in Grimsby who built up his poetic stance after visiting Doncaster and Mexborough during his real ale and comedic music searches. Surprised to find a recent DNA check leaned heavily towards being a strong mix of Scottish, East Yorkshire and Lincolnshire. A sixty year old baldy who loves Julie, astronomy and chocolate; after giving up on football and telly.
-Hilary Otto
is an English poet based in Barcelona. Her work has featured in Popshot, Black Bough Poetry, AIOTB, Ink, Sweat and Tears, and The Blue Nib, among other publications. She received her first Pushcart Prize Nomination and performed at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival. She tweets at @hilaryotto
-Jim young
is an old poet living in Mumbles on The Gower. He does most of his writing from his beach hut at Rotherslade – still waiting for the blue plaque
Anjum Wasim Dar was born in Srinagar (Indian Occupied )Kashmir, She is a migrant Pakistani.Educated at St Anne’s Presentation Convent Rawalpindi she has a Masters degree in English Literature and History ( Ancient Indo-Pak Elective) CPE Cert.of Proficiency in English from Cambridge UK. , a Diploma in TEFL from AIOU Open Uni. Islamabad Pakistan. She has been writing poems,
articles and stories since 1980.A published poet Anjum was awarded Poet of Merit Bronze Medal in 2000 by ISP International Society of Poets and poetry.com USA .
She has worked as Creative Writer at Channel 7 Adv. Company Islamabad, and as a Teacher Educator for Fauji Foundation Education Network Inservice Teachers
paradise descends River of plenty flows on Good grows here with peace
Kerfe Roig ~ Cool Silver
some enjoy the snow and play, for them cold snow is a game, some lie shivering, no name- some build bonfires the same, sing dance and be merry for tomorrow is, no blame
will come to shine and light, my heart says forgive more, make happiness and space for others to share,
spend less save more, war looms ahead who knows what life may have in store,
-Marcel Herms “We Are Little Children Of The Sea Kleurets”
–Kerfe Roig, “What grows here”
Wishes in the Snow
We ran from the soldiers, out into the snow, into the birch forest, there by the trees, where blood bloomed like flowers, red in the snow— and I wondered if we’d be caught first–or freeze.
We ran from the soldiers, out into the snow– Manya whispered stories of when women were fish, and as the cold wind continued to blow, she told of sea-blue wonders and a come-true wish
of times and people long ago— before the snow.
We ran from the soldiers, out into the snow, and I wished for roses, sunshine, birds, sheep, but we were here, and where…
Under the frost and ice moons don’t despair The maidens quickening is soon near The winds turning warm and fair Singing budding spring for all to hear
In the grove of skeletal birch don’t feel sorrow Let the cold silver moonlight shadows spear Beneath the snow hides the seeds of tomorrow Let purple blue moonlight guide souls vision here
When the world is frozen, ice, snow, white Listen to what intuition hears Teeming life comes back with the light Spring’s awakening is soon near
I’m revelling in the fact that Stockholm is white and covered in snow. I chase blinding sunlight on snow whenever it’s there. The lengthening days are noticeable. Still in the core of most northerners lies the longing for spring.
All I have is memories of memories –like feathers, plucked and swirling –the fires they lit at the end,in places that had been kept darkfor years. Dancing. My fatherhanding over hollowed bread,a telegram that broke a woman. Bodies in the water. The horses, being led away,through the farm gate. Lost. A city full of women. […]
This feature is dedicated to the memory of Harry Hilgrove Lucas(1913 – 1991) who first taught me Old Occitan at Nottingham University and introduced me to the poetry of the troubadours (Ed.)
*****
The poems featured below have been translated from Old Occitan, also commonly known as Old Provencal, by Rennie Parker. The work of the troubadours and their female equivalents, the trobairitz, appeared in the South of France in the eleventh century and, from there, their influence spread across much of Europe and lasted for centuries. You can find more information here. As lyric poetry, these poems were intended to be sung and many musical settings are available on platforms such as YouTube and Spotify.
If you already enjoy, or would like to find out more about medieval music, a good place to start would be this version of ‘Farai un…
Victoria Chang’s collection of mostly prose poetry, Obit, published by Copper Canyon Press, calls on a literary tradition of loss that builds from the poets whom Chang references such as Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, and I would say more modern poets like Sharon Olds and even Ted Kooser in his discussion of the loss of his father. Chang is a Los Angeles-based poet who has reached that time in her life when she must deal with the death of the previous generation, and Obit is simultaneously about that loss and the strange position those who mourn are put into.
With the gravity of loss, any other concern seems trivial and moving on with one’s life seems wrong. She discusses that emotion most directly in “The Doctors” where she writes, “To yearn for someone’s quick death seems wrong. To go to the hospital cafeteria and hunch over a table…
1) Please describe your latest book, what about your book will intrigue the readers the most, and what is the theme, mood?
Catrice: I am working on my first chapbook publication. I expect this to be a selection across topics. I have several books planned. The books planned beyond that one are specifically themed. Themes I write about are a broad span of Spirituality, transcendence, trauma, consent, disability, healing,mental health, love, the environment, human nature, the cosmos, ancestral topics, cultural traditions, identity, dialect, food & culture, Orishas, and music I often weave my love of the sciences, math, astronomy, astral travel, biblical spiritual references, and futurism into my work.
The Wombwell Rainbow 