Three Poems – Agboola Tariq A.

rfredekenter's avatarIceFloe Press

Reaching God


In the silence of dawn, the adhan calls this body.
I feel God’s lips kissing my heart to renew my faith, so I
sit in a corner beside my shadow where my hands receive dua
from the edges of my mouth. I urge to pluck the moon for God to see
where this body lies, where the devil hides under the cloak of
my dark skin. I pick a rosary and repeat God’s name
till my voice breaks, still, the pieces ring in my head telling
me other names of God. The sun breaks through the darkness and
there’s a vale inbetween that separates my ego from myself. Like
a dark boy who just washed away his s(k)in, I could feel His presence
in the veil of my body which has turned a sacrifice for reincarnation.

who needs a man a boy like me?


let me sing sweet…

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Mark #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth Please join John Beal and I in marking this awareness. I will feature your draft published/unpublished poetry/short prose/artworks about mental health. Please include a short third person bio.

SAD

Skull castle keeps all safe
from the outside darkness
descending into winter
eyes hopeful for return
solstice special anniversary
meaning more than most
the rebirth of life and light
not just a symbolic turning
but a real time event
which allows the drawbridge
to descend once more
and the black isolation
to end

JAB

Bios and Links

John Beal

Native to Mexborough, lives with his wife Vicki, in the house where he was born. Growing up surrounded by the pollution of the local industries, from a young age he developed a deep love for the natural world, escaping whenever possible to Old Denaby, the rivers Don and Dearne and the local woodlands and wetlands. He was sixteen when he first started to write lyrics, then turned to poetry, which he has been unable to stop writing ever since.

Sunrise Concertante – Dawn Chorus

Patricia M Osborne's avatarPatricia M Osborne

Sunrise Concertante

Pleased to have my poem Sunrise Concertante up on Paul Brooke’sThe Wombwell Rainbow

Do pop along and take a peep. Go HERE

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#InternationalDawnChorusDay Sunday 7th May. Please join Francis Powell, Patricia M Osborne and I in celebrating the dawn chorus. I will feature your draft or published/unpublished poetry/short prose/artworks about the dawn chorus. Please include a short third person bio

Red-eyed Aurora

Dawn arrives
as a toddler
on the threshold,

full of infectious laughter
and
energy for the
tired workers.

The sky is alive!
Blues-scarlets-reds
colour the
waters,
a new art-work
is daily created
by a hand, mysterious.

Eos,
rosy-fingered once
as seen
by Homer, Hesiod and ancestors

inspired
Monets and Turners, among others.

In an age of wild fires
changing seasons
climate extremes,

she
gasps in the smog
but
continues daily visits
cheering up the
birds
and animals.

Sunil Sharma

Shift Change

The sun’s sleepy eye peeps
over the horizon,
reminding owls their shifts
are done, time to leave
their posts on light poles,
cease hoo-hoo-hooing.
As owl song fades,
the day-shift birds punch in.
Meadowlarks whistle sweet
and gurgle at the coming light.
Robins crystal wistful whistle
brightens up the gloomy skies.
Sparrows chirp and rasp hello.
Goldfinches warble crisp and short.
Crows caw caw! caw!
caaaawwww!
Blue jays scream and screech.
Without conductor
this mad chorus ushers
morning in.

Nolcha Fox
Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu

IT IS NOT ABOUT DAWN

It is about that moment
before the dark time breaks,
being present in the silence,
standing still in an exact moment.
It is all about when that first bird sings,
first light,
the fact that there is an order
that layer upon layer
sculpts the day’s beginning.

It is about discovering how long it takes
before the crow starts to echo back
with his rough
cruck, cruck.

DAWN CHORUS

Your bed was a lazy lover,
warm and familiar, holding you.

Yet soon the birds would be waking,
mapping out a set of songs
to greet the moon-washed sky.

I waited for you to free yourself
to stand and listen as the mist thinned
so we, too, could welcome the new day.

Sue Finch

Solfège

I hear the morning rise above the light
bells of the garden-chime, sounds
swing in vocable colours, vibrating
rainbow hues.

Somewhere outside the wind
tones are playing; soft-pitched
syllables and timbres diffuse.

On the lone wooden stave
that props up the washing-line,
a solitary blackbird is singing
the blues.

Louise Longson

A blanket of orange fire
illuminates the sky
not a soul to be seen
as birds murmur distant songs
and a river reflects
the power of a sun
glowing in all it’s majesty

Francis Powell

Sunrise Concertante

Burnt golden rays break
the night-time sky,
beating on the Ouse’s slow crawl.

Air-warmed sweet-grasses
fan fragrance into the wind:
marsh marigolds shine.

A blackbird’s
chromatic glissando sweeps

towards the riverbank.

Swanking his red tuxedo, a robin
trills to join the recital

as elm silhouettes dance,
watching their mirror image.

The mistle thrush flaunts
his speckled belly. He takes his turn
to chant – introduces

hedge sparrows who chatter,
boast brown suits.

A cadenza call governs the concerto–
plump skylark makes his solo in the skies.

Shades of light peep,
geese chevron across the blue,
noses down, necks stretched, wings

spread wide. Honking their signal sound,
they climb the horizon and sky-fall
on to daylight’s iridescent waves.

Patricia M Osborne

A Dawn Chorus (Vacana 11)

O, Lady of the Breath.
how to arc in your air?

A dozen or more tiny caves
sing you into the world

from the trillbudded barkskin
volume and delivery

a root that connects with
its origin tree,

broadcasts to my ears,
territory songs,

and chat up lines, a Saturday
night on the town played out

on a morning before the wormshop,
home repair, teach bairns how to fly,

Paul Brookes

Bios and Links

Sue Finch’s

debut collection, ‘Magnifying Glass’, was published in 2020. Her work has also appeared in a number of online magazines. She loves the coast, peculiar things and the scent of ice-cream freezers. You can often find her on Twitter @soopoftheday.

Louise Longson

Late-blooming poet Louise Longson started writing ‘with intent’ in 2020. Now aged 60, she has been widely published both in print and online. She is the author of the chapbooks Hanging Fire (Dreich Publications, 2021) and Songs from the Witch Bottle (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). She works from her home in a small rural village on the fringes of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire offering a listening service to people whose physical and emotional distress is caused by loneliness and historic trauma and abuse. Her poems are inspired by bringing together her personal and work experiences, often seen through the twin prisms of myth and nature.
Twitter @LouisePoetical

Patricia M Osborne

Sarasvati Magazine (Indigo Dreams) Published 2017
Taxus Baccata (Hedgehog Poetry Press) Published 2020
Ingénue Magazine Published 2020

About Patricia M Osborne

Patricia M Osborne is married with grown-up children and grandchildren. In 2019 she graduated with an MA in Creative Writing. She is a published novelist, poet and short fiction writer with five poetry pamphlets published by The Hedgehog Poetry Press, and numerous poems and short stories appearing in various literary magazines and anthologies. Her debut poetry pamphlet, Taxus Baccata, was nominated for the Michael Marks Pamphlet Award.

Patricia has a successful blog at Whitewingsbooks.com featuring other writers. When Patricia isn’t working on her own writing, she enjoys sharing her knowledge, acting as a mentor to fellow writers.

Review of ‘My C&A Years’ by Roger Waldron

Nigel Kent's avatarNigel Kent - Poet and Reviewer

One of the features of poetry to which poets aspire is a distinctive voice; to write poetry that the reader recognises could only have been written by that poet. It does not take long, when reading My C&A Years (Dreich 2022) to realise that Roger Waldron’s poetry has achieved that unique voice and that is has an inimitable perspective on the world.

The first poem in this pamphlet, Fly on the kitchen worktop, is typical. Waldron writes: ‘I’ve just swotted/  a fly with a Poetry Book/  Society Recommendation/ I know   you would/  understand my actions   if/   I told you it was my last act/   on a rather stressful day.’ Note the conversational, anecdotal tone: there is a sense of familiarity here. Waldron assumes a personal acquaintance with his reader, he expects us to understand where he is coming from. Equally characteristic is the fact that Waldron gives this inconsequential…

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Poetry Showcase: Stephen Kingsnorth (May 2023)

davidlonan1's avatarFevers of the Mind

Swaddling

It was summer when she passed - we knew come spring she would not last. But as fresh buds broke from dead wood, the tree stump bark cork cambium erupted, unexpected growth, we set our minds to recreate, wrapped in those tie-dyes, student years, free spirited, our crazy route - wherever wheels led, patchwork quilt. The golden beetle, sixties beat, with petals painted engine end, exhausted smoke, herbaceous mist, above tired tyres, poor tarmac grip, we blared our Massachusetts air. Amongst pricked gorse of butter milk, where heather bushed in purple rug, and ling blushed swags for peewit wings, we reminisced on heath surrounds with lizard whips and butterflies. We lay on turf, moss bed of peats, shared sunbathe near an adder brood and watched the glare drop from our earth as cool pulled lower down the snake in the question mark, our beading eyes, saw what we knew…

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Meet The Poet: K. Iver

miss yerem's avatarpoembypoem

K. Iver (they/them) is a nonbinary trans poet born in Mississippi. Their book Short Film Starring My Beloved’s Red Bronco won the 2022 Ballard Spahr Prize for Poetry from Milkweed Editions. Their poems have appeared in Boston Review, Keynon Review, The Adroit, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. Iver is the 2021-2022 Ronald Wallace Fellow for Poetry at the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing. They have a Ph.D. in Poetry from Florida State University. For more, visit kleeiver.com. 

What does your memory smell like? 

Pine, cedar, smoke.

What do you want your future to taste like?

Skin, sweat, tongue

Favourite line of a poem right now?

“When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending…” By David Wojnarowicz

The poet/the poems that give you life?

There…

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A History of Poetry Comics #13

JB's avatarJB

(Our first two-parter! bpNichol continued …)

There’s so much more to blow your mind about the poetry comics of bpNichol.

Nichol brought his obsession with language and words to his comics and drawing. One of the restraints of comics Nichol explored was frames (see AHOPC #12). Drawing also gave him a way to make words tangible for the reader. He’s quoted in the introduction for bpNichol Comics (Talonbooks, 2002): “how can the poet reach out and touch you physically as say the sculptor does by caressing you with objects you caress?”

To that end, he found ways to incorporate letters, the alphabet, and words into his drawings and comics – blurring the line between pictures and words. Here are examples of Nichol’s use of letters/lettering in his art.

Frame 3 by bpNichol originally from love: a book of remembrances (1974) reprinted in a book of variations (Coach House…

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Guest Feature – Sue Finch

Patricia M Osborne's avatarPatricia M Osborne

It’s a delight today to introduce poet, Sue Finch, to Patricia’s Pen. Sue has come along to tell my readers about her poetry journey. Without further ado, it’s over to Sue.

My Poetry Journey

Sue Finch

My poetry journey began when I was chosen, aged ten, to read one of my poems at my primary school’s Harvest Festival. My mum and nan were in the audience, and I loved the fact there was a lectern and I was reading. A kind teacher rolled my sleeves up for me before I took my place!

At teacher training college I studied creative writing, and Vicki Feaver was one of my tutors. I have happy memories of creating and redrafting my poems whilst listening to Leonard Cohen before bringing them to the workshopping sessions. When I saw Vicki’s poems that I admired in print, I felt drawn to setting this as a…

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Two Eco-Poems with Spoken Word by JP Seabright. Art by Moira J. Saucer

rfredekenter's avatarIceFloe Press

CRY ME A RIVER


Cry.
Cry me a river.
Cry me an airlock.
Cry me dried moss and withered tree roots.
Cry me blue plankton, brown fungi, green grass.
Real grass, green grass.
Cry.

Cry.
Cry me an ocean.
Cry me the sound of running water.
The drip drip drip of raindrops on leaves.
Of water swelling stems and branches.
The rushing sound of the sea in my ears.

Cry me chlorophyll and photosynthesis.
Cry me carbon-based lifeforms and morphogenesis.
Cry me lungs on fire, the Amazon rainforest.
Salt lakes and volcanic springs.

Cry me cracking icebergs, glacial degradation.
Coastal erosion, the splintering of seasons.
Cry.
Cry me the flight of the humble bee.
The starling’s migratory path.
The wandering albatross soaring over the sea.

Cry.
Cry me an oxygen tent.
Cry me a blazing sunset.
Cry me the silver sliver of dawn on the horizon.
Cry me genetically modified…

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