Following the award of the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature to the American poet, Louise Gluck,Belinda Cooke explores her early work which is conveniently gathered together in Carcanet’s The First Five Books (1997).
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Louise Glück (b. April 22, 1943) is an American poet and essayist. She won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, whose judges praised ‘her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal’. Her other awards include the Pulitzer Prize, National Humanities Medal, National Book Award, National Book Critics Circle Award, and Bollingen Prize. From 2003 to 2004, she was Poet Laureate of the United States.
Glück was born in New York City and raised on Long Island. She began to suffer from anorexia nervosa while in high school and later overcame the illness. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia University but did not obtain a degree. In addition to being an…
Today I welcome Darren Beaney, one of the hosts of Flight of the Dragonfly, to talk about a poem from his debut collection.
Hi Nigel, Happy New Year to you and thank you very much for asking me to talk about one of my poems from Honey dew (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020)
Honey dew is a collection of 21 love poems, with the focus being on my wife Jo and our relationship. I have tried hard to write a series of poems that are not too schmaltzy or soppy, instead trying to express my feelings in my own way and in my style of writing. Most of the poems in the pamphlet were assignments for my MA in Creative Writing, including the one I have chosen to discuss – Surfin’ girl.
Surfin’ girl was one of the first poems that I wrote for the MA. I was taking a module…
Both the weft and warp of this poem are mine. The inspiration I owe thanks to the artist, a friendly word and a caring heart and of course the Moon herself.
Full and bright, the night alight with skittering scatters and chitter-chat of sated rat. The vixen barks to her mate, and beneath the walls, creatures slither and crawl, while mice and voles in the shadows hide as feathered wings outstretched glide–and bide.
And shall I call it owl moon? A moment in time, perhaps not real— Imagined flights, unseen sights, but the planets spin, the stars glow and go about what they do, and the owl does, too, with a hoot to the world, he dives, survives—though it’s fate—not feud, the hunters and the pursued.
All the questions, unanswered, still are asked— the moments gone, past to future and to past–
but listen– the fade of argent song, the hummed goodnight, as trills and twitters awaken dawn’s light.
-Merril D Smith
MH23
AuxBarricades!
They built gallows, crashed through police lines, smashed glass. Someone was beaten to death. Life was crushed out of someone else. Shattering, scattering everywhere. He had been in the thick of political riots
all over the world, some against the Right, some against the Left, some against the tax on gas. He never thought he would find himself in such a thing at home, the seat of democracy defiled.
A woman walked away wiping her eyes on a piano-print scarf, “I was MACED!” she cried. “I didn’t even get inside.“ Why did you want to go inside the Capitol? “Because it’s a REVOLUTION! “ she sobbed, collapsing on her companion’s shoulder.
What surprised me most were the grandmothers said the journalist, standing off to the side with their children and grandchildren, looking like they were saying yes, this is what I want, yes. The grandmothers.
-Holly York
OwlMoon – KR23
Stop the car. I saw something white. Was it a flash of light ? Certainly bright.
It seemed to go up to that tree and yet the Moon was behind me. I’ll get out and see. “Owl”.
22,Ja,2021 for the twenty-third of. -Alan Gary Smith, inspired by Paul Brookes and the painter Kiroji Roige.
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
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 […]
Was there once color in your dust and shadows, did a sea of turquoise and cobalt dance in ripples to shimmer, prismed, like stained glass, vibrant-hued in the light of stars, and sun, and Earth—
I saw it rising blue above your horizon, the color of dreams, of sky and sea, but here– here, it is the color of awe and yearning. It is the color of home.
-Nevvaeh Ashcroft (one of Paul Brookes granddaughters)
The Calm
You want to be with Grandad?
my wife says as granddaughter exits her arms and nestles in the pillow of my chest, coddled in my arms that do not let her fall from my lap, sobs, her little heart beats ratatattat on my chest. My daughter, her mother says,
She knows where calmness is.
-Paul Brookes
A GRANDMOTHER’SSORROW
Locked up in the attic three empty cribs rot as they rock, Ruffled cot blankets with frayed edges curled up in sorrow No innocent babies chewing at monogrammed corners……
A teddy bear, stuffing escaping, slumps down in a corner Exhausted from waiting, his once golden fur bald with age, Hoping soft fingers will hold him just once more with love
A Hornby train rests at the station, awaiting assignments, Freight wagons coupled, the station clock stopped at eleven Passengers idling on benches immersed in a time -warp…
“Cuckoo, peek-a-boo” shouts the undaunted cuckoo each hour, “Cuckoo, come on, little ones, time to get up now and play!” His entreaties are met with an ominous, deafening silence And the cradles keep rocking and rotting away in despair.
Unfinished knitting lies strewn on the old nursery table, Pink and blue jumpers, white bootees and cute little hats, Crafted in faith by a grandmother eager for child-care But cast aside tear-stained, following years of false hope……..
Her face bears a smile though her heart is weighed down with despair Inner guilt screams that she should have done more ….. but too late! The cradles keep rocking and rotting away in their grief.
Oh, how I long for just one day Of loving time with family! Alas, they now live far away Oh, how I long for just one day A chance to laugh and chat and play And let our inner child break free Oh, how I long for just one day Of loving time with family!
It’s not their fault, their lives are stressed They’ve little time to think of me For them I always do my best It’s not their fault, their lives are stressed They’ve grown, matured and flown the nest My challenges they do not see It’s not their fault, their lives are stressed They’ve little time to think of me
And yet, I know they love me still I’ll love them till eternity Their heartfelt hugs warm up my chill And yes, I know they love me still To chat with them is such a thrill But when they call do they hear ME? And yes, I know they love me still I’ll love them till eternity
I’ve seen the childless Mother their friends, A granddaughter, Mother her grandma. There are black mommies Who mother white children, and vice-versa.
And, sometimes, moms for many reasons Can’t seem To mother their own. It’s true some women’s wombs grow Babies, but all women’s Tender-acts grow souls. -ST
Art work WELCOME HOME by my grand children Sana Fatima Mir Rayyan Sara Fatima and Mir Abdullah
Family Love the Natural Bond
My four grand children aged between 11 and 5, quietly took up paper and color pencils and while we waited for the landing of the plane coming in from Europe via the Middle East they put up their way of showing their love for ‘Maamu’ -(Mama’s brother is known as Maamu’). All the kids were fast asleep when ‘Maamu came home in the early hours, but the “Welcome” poster was lovingly posted on the door of his room. Family love is always the strongest natural bond .
The earth is as blue as an orange. The moon is as dimpled as a golf ball. I float in levity not in gravity. Old Glory on my sleeve is upside-down. Distress! Three shadow fingers point to the sand dollar in the center with its Christ symbols front and back. The barrier must be broken, though, before the doves of peace inside will fly.
-Holly York
In through the cracks (CO22)
The window leaks creativity today Shapes drawn in the sky, in the dust; we don’t discriminate. Today we are punk, we are modern: skeins of colour waiting for needles to make us whole. Our collections are eclectic; we focus energy in bright spots, in sudden waves. You may not believe in all the things we can achieve. Look how flawed our arguments, how loosely we hang together. You find us nebulous, far-fetched. You are double-breasted, coated with praise, accessorised with money. But all of us are patched up; even you have your snags. Our strength is in our outfit. We combine to get attention, to cover each other. Where is your shellac now? We have stolen your only flash of colour and glued it to our creation. Our prints are all over your designs. Our motto: Be. Wear.
-Hilary Otto
Bios And Links
-Kerfe Roig
responding to
KR “Moonsea” and CO22
An Astronaut Speaks from the Moon
Was there once color in your dust and shadows, did a sea of turquoise and cobalt dance in ripples to shimmer, prismed, like stained glass, vibrant-hued in the light of stars, and sun, and Earth—
I saw it rising blue above your horizon, the color of dreams, of sky and sea, but here– here, it is the color of awe and yearning. It is the color of home.
-Merril D Smith
Moonsea – KR22
Look at the Moon; that’s where I want to go. We can build a ship and aim for Tycho. Go through the void: a whisker from hell. Soar over Terra Sanitatis if all goes well.
Soak up the Tranquility. Feel the Serenity and have a good gawp at Mons Usov geology. Maria, step away from the Terminator.
21,Ja,2021(Moon phase: First Quarter, in Taurus) for the twenty-second of. -Alan Gary Smith, inspired by Paul Brookes and the painter Kiroji Roige.
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
Spread your wings Prepare for fantasy’s flight Adventure begins Come sail star studded space Expect unexpectedness
Open heart, open eyes, open mind Dare to fly free Dream the impossible Investigate with curiosity Trust inspirations gifts Yearn for the wisdom hiding behind the unknown
From nothing, something— a boom, a rush of feathered light, star-dusted gas swirl-twirls air, water into life. From the sea, we come from the deep-water blue, crawling, falling, squalling voices, reaching hands toward the azure sky—
from which, after the snow blows and goes, spring rains pitter-pat on rocks and stones, and from a pastel palette, petrichor will rise, like birds, into the air, but you won’t be here to smell it, or to see the flowers emerge slowly from cold, dark ground. Treasures thought lost, now found,
like time. Do we have more or less of it?
I don’t understand the time before time, without stars, an infinite nothingness beyond black.
The Wombwell Rainbow 