https://www.iambapoet.com/poets-wave-two

May 1

..looks like you are drowning..

part one

looks like you are drowning &
hope i am wrong. i can see the
struggle
the turn about in water.

i have done that too
pat says that i have paid the price
but i wonder

i hope
you survive
come clean
bare
your feathers.

fly high

if not
i will lay a petal
and think of you

as i think of the others
that drowned before you
that had no feathers

part two,

it looks like you are drowning
again
shall I jump in to save you and maybe
sink myself
or shall I wait to see
to lay a flower at our feet

part three

maybe you are not drowning really
that I made it up and you are dancing
like the others

while people die and we lay flowers
in memoriam
corona

part four

you are floating maybe; I did that for hours
went spongy, now face reality and
I still think that you are drowning
like the others.

-sonja benskin mesher

concrete reasoning

gray day: i am
out for a walk when
a sidewalk camellia
begs myriad questions:

runaway bride?

garden club mishap?
rejected proposal?
hothouse runaway?
centerpiece rebel?

confronted by the unexplained,
the human drive to make order from chaos
is relentless.

whatever the story,
the end is the same:
beauty appears and
we can only wonder …

with a schedule to keep
and no answers at hand
i press onward,
feeling the inner bloom
of nascent gratitude.

-Rich Follett

MF 1

*

Every time I find clay in the garden, beneath a rosebush, say,
I find slate too. This is just something I have noticed over the
course of a year. It is not necessary to mention these things,
especially now, I suppose. I am not happy unless I’m pouring
something – tomato feed. I am Philip Levine’s Burial Rights,
I recall Bei Dao. These days, I feel the trick to a good carpark,
to feel anything, is my proximity to this flower arrangement.

JK 1

*

A story of three fish might be
fish bones in a field for birds.
Koi feeding, koi feed in a
garden centre, at the next
junction. Fish bent back over
backwards, in blue paint.
Scattered to the water’s edge
a handful of dirt, to a handful
of colour, blue scales at the
centre of the field, a water
mark, a stone left unturned.

-Alex Mazey

The Life of Petals

We use flowers to mark occasions–
Weddings and funerals.
The petals linger only briefly,
But the sentiment still hangs
Heavy in the air, years after
Like pollen
That settled over and over again
On our patio table and chairs,
All those long Midwestern summers
When heat robbed our lungs of breath. And
Wildflowers, not cut-storebought ones, marked a different time,
Of an everyday type.
Now, cut flowers feel gluttonous to me.
And petals bless us with
The gentleness of how life ought to be.

-st

Utopia Burning

Warnings ignored from many a social
self appointed warlord
Echoes of dissident discord striking
a high-pitched off key note
As hungry flames lick and lash causing
an apocalyptic molten urban and
suburban foretold mess
Whispered by familiar oracles
their verbal miracles documenting their
fiery cautionary chronicles
Of systems slowly imploding temperaments
exploding fake veneers and smiles
exfoliating as ignorant masses squawk
for a helping hand from those
witnessing their demise and burning
squirming shedding acid tears for
Utopia burning…

© Don Beukes

Still Silent

No sound, water jelly flat,
so still it hurts my ears.
Even sun slides silently
into autumn’s metal light.

All jamboree, clang and din
now far away in time.
Even breath is offensive here,
in case of ripple and slapping rocks.

I cannot read or turn a page
lest a mumble or paper scrape,
escape and shatter the loch.
Like a breaking glass to
a rousing cheer,
as all that knowledge gets out.

So I stare at reflections
in late day waters
reliable quiet, but maybe
their heat is not that hot.

©️ Dai Fry 30th April 2020.

The sweet flower’s heart
Wilting on the cold, hard slab
My love’s final gift

-Carrie Ann Golden

Camellia

You lay beautiful and gasping
alone on Tithonian stone.
A sudden fall from grace,
petal broken angel:
forage for sweeper winds.

Transient as summer days.
Temperate these forevers soon
fade to winter grey.
Dog-day memories
cannot abide short-day cold.

What are you,
I wonder?
A love certified in
Bacchus’s dance
or a loved one
certified and boxed
in tears and brown ale.

©️ Dai Fry 30th March 2020.

The giant fish takes back the myth

The morning before she was to become a story
the sea was baited quiet, the kind that silks

all desire down to swish. To decide to leap
from one cool world to another just for breakfast

is to bare your colours to the scaling knife of the wind,
and she did – her fireback beacon launched

for the brief protein of flying legs. How often we fail
to see that dark hull waiting, we beasts so full up

with the rush of living for our risks.
And the shape of the poised hero held no meaning, to a fish

but oh the shimmerhook, like all the moons
her eye’s nightcoin had ever purchased

from deep beneath the water, and there is the lust, the swish-
-and want. The glowworm crescent to silver her belly.

We all want to shine in fullness.
Only heroes are given names in these stories.

For her need she was translated
into an island, and I am running the delicate gasp of her jaws

in the shape of this coast, forever straining for the hook
and still called only fish

even with all we have made of her. Every time I desire
to transcend my quiet water, I forget the heroes

and leap from her skin, and hope
that landing empty

but with one eye fixed on the moon
every night after this will be enough.

-Ankh Spice

Beheaded Camelia’s

delicate red petals last longer on the less travelled path.
Flash of disappearing red lace, paper thin survival.
Unbroken in bright sunlight, bright on grey stone.
Destruction stays at home to avoid destruction.

The red wing is allowed space to revolve reflect in water.
“Temporary” like the word “soon”, a duration undecided.

-Paul Brookes

Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/12/18/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-alex-mazey/

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com.)

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at http://www.richfollett.com. He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams
or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-Anjum Wasir Dar

Born in Srinagar (Indian occupied Kashmir) in 1949. My family opted for and migrated to Pakistan after the (1947)Partition of India. Educated in St Anne’s Presentation Convent Rawalpindi.Graduated with Distinction in English Lang. & Literature in 1968 from the Punjab University. Won the All Round Best Student Cup.1968.
Obtained a Masters Degree in English Literature/American Studies Punjab University P.G. Diploma in TEFL from Allama Iqbal Open University Islamabad and a CPE from Cambridge University UK (LSE British Council)1991 Developing Educators in Pakistan Training Course sponsored by IFC & Bradford University 1999.Bronze Medal Poet of Merit Award by International Society of Poets & http://Poetry.com USA 2000 7 Times Winner NANOWRIMO, (National Novel Writing Month)
Adventure Novel ‘ The Adventures of the Multi Colored Lead People’ in the printing process.
Educator Writer since 1990 Editor College Magazine
Creative Writer English at Channel 7 Pvt Ltd Islamabad.National Education Award Winner 1998 for Research & Publications.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.

now

lives and works in North Wales
as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society
The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide.
Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/10/16/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-sonja-benskin-mesher/

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/11/02/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-don-beukes/

Liaisons

In summer time, head to the cemetery,
out around nine o’clock, where birches drip the days
and you’re freshly plucked and razored
into what you think is your best self.

You’re meeting friends, supposed to be going
out with a boy, some years older than you
and you don’t know his last name, but covet
his leather gloves and biker jacket, para boots

with stories to tell. Your friends have sticky palms
and cider on their breath, the ground is flecked
with rollies; it’s August and you are still young,
until September comes and moves everyone on.

You kiss the boy on the cheek, maybe take it a little further,
fingers in zippers and the soft sounds of birds,
a gnat swarm suddenly veils you, a graveyard bride,
or a gothic pop-song caricature of yourself.

Later, you lie on the earth and play dead.
Imagine what it would be like to spill into the soil,
while others tell themselves that everything will be ok.
Night rises, fix up your lipstick, kiss the boy

on the cheek again, say thank you,
because that’s what your mother taught you;
that manners are as important,
as the way that you live.

-Ali Jones

The Cobweb’s Breath

Cobweb’s breath dew sticky,
comes over the shoulder
from the back. Hairs
rise from their quiver.
Were I to touch your stone,
would we be holding hands… again?

There is a transparency here
where your roots spike
through the sorrow of long grass.
Under church eyes and iron fencing,
Where we take our visiting hour.

I sometimes wish you
had been burnt in
the gas hot fires.
Then I could have
held you up to the winds.

You may have embraced
cliff-skies and turbulent spirals.
Tree hung dappled brooks
and fresh water meadows.
Casting off your glooms
as you once tossed your hair,
in a shower of grey dust.

But I like this garden
with a parlour’s quiet,
wild flowers abandoned
to this overgrown place.

Where we nearly hold hands
sipping our tea from a flask.

-©️ Dai Fry 29th April 2020.

Tiger Lily

He was playful at the end,
surprising me with treats
when I appeared at his door,
sneaking pieces of chocolate
from his wife’s private stash,
sharing the spoils.
He ate whipped cream without a spoon,
slept in his favorite suede shoes,
told me he wished he could fly away.

He will never be entombed.

He will be given back to the earth,
mingle with the roots of trees,
become the soil that cultivates life.
He will be branches that touch the sky,
leaves rustled by a gentle wind.
He will be a field of sunflowers
that greet the day,
rolling hills that stretch
to the edge of night.
He will be a tiger lily that blooms bright
for just one day,
reminding me to breathe,
to treasure what is beautiful,
what is fleeting.

-Susan Richardson

Moksha

Today the spirits are partying
while the corpses are dancing
in their graves.

They have done it!
They’ve broken the loop
of birth & death.

All these souls are free of regrets
for they can’t repair anything now.

The loads of setting things right
in the next life have drowned.

The manipulative manual
is in tatters.

Having broken all the shackles,
having won the ultimate battle,

there is one thing that’s
irking them now:

Why didn’t we live like this
in the very first place?

-Jay Gandhi

Writing My Epitaph

My ghosts already haunt me.
Ghosts of poor choices and
Things I shouldn’t have said;
Ghosts which sneak up around my grave, and
Show me those deeply-buried,
Long-loathed parts of me
That haven’t fully decayed.
The rotting, fleshy bits hanging in
Their grotesque way,
Reminding me they wait for me
To address their presence, pick them apart and
Bury them again so they may properly deteriorate
Into fertile earth for healthy new growth.

When they come haunting,
My ghosts make a compelling case.
They are translucent, persistent things,
Not unlike the memories they dredge up to share with me.
Sometimes, they nearly convince me I’m already dead.
But why is my headstone blank?
My ghosts don’t understand, but as
They walk me through graveyards,
Instead, I see orchards of opportunity
Ripe to harvest in good deeds for
My future epitaph.

-st

Our Blue Mary (A List Poem)

A caged bride
A dog called what
A salamander’s wool
Age is only a number
Aniseed
Blue Hawk
Escaped
Fingerprint
Found
I decide
In a grain of sand
Kill it my sister
Let me pass through
Midwinter is
My flame
My stone
On the road
Our spired unicorn
Our Unicorn spire
Path of seeds
Silence
Soundtrack
The cost is prohibitive
The one hand
The ruin
The Rung down
The Stag
This egg asks
Trees hold hands
You Meet

=Paul Brookes

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers 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.

 

Keiran Goddard

(b.1984) was born and raised in Shard End, Birmingham and educated in Oxford. His debut collection was shortlisted for the Melita Hume Prize and he was runner-up in the William Blake Prize. He has worked as in policy and higher education and now runs a small foundation focused primarily on the climate crisis. He is the author of numerous academic articles and is a policy fellow at the University of Cambridge. His other interests include wine, philosophy and pop music. Goddard’s second full-length collection, Votive, was published by Offord Road Books in 2019.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

I first came to poetry through song, pop songs in particular. When I was about nine or ten years old, I would transcribe the lyrics from my favourite songs and then mix my favourite lines up to make a “new song”.

In some sense, dimly, I think I was already aware that language could have a particular kind of intensity if you arranged the images and the sounds with enough care ( or sometimes with enough carelessness, come to think of it )

‘Meaning’ is a complicated, conflicted word, but essentially that is what I was always aiming for. I eventually realised that the intense compression and focus of a poem was paradoxically the most reliable way of opening up the world and accessing its blurrier and more beautiful edges.

I know that is unfashionably earnest, but there you go. I felt it when I was a kid, I knew it when I was a teenager, and I stand by it even now.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Like many people, I had one brilliant teacher that changed everything for me. I was maybe fourteen or so when I met her. I’d hardly read any books before then, let alone poetry. I’ve been making up for lost time ever since, I suppose.

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

I can’t say I was, really. I didn’t know much about the poetry ‘scene’ when I started out, and oddly enough I think this probably stood me in good stead. I did have the vague sense that all of the awards were being shared between the same group of tedious old lads. And I was sort of correct about that.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I take notes constantly, and most days I’ll note down a handful of phrases, ideas or images, usually around a particular theme that I am exploring at the time.

Later, I will take a week or so, book myself into hotel in a city where I don’t know anyone and spend all day every day writing, aiming to shape the scraps into something more coherent.

Rinse and repeat.

5. What motivates you to write?

Writing is the way I understand the world. Or maybe it is the way I approach the various ways in which I do not understand the world. I’m unsure which. Either way, it feels utterly necessary.

6. What is your work ethic?

For what it’s worth, I think the notion of a ‘work ethic’ is pretty damaging, and has historically been a sort of quasi-religious injunction leveraged against the interests of labour by the forces of capital.

But being less wanky, and taking your question at face value, I’d say:

I’m naturally lazy, so I have to structure my days to counteract that. I have a fairly demanding day job as well as various other academic commitments, so if I didn’t actively make time for writing, it just wouldn’t get done. So in summary, I work hard, but it doesn’t come at all naturally.

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

My early work was hopelessly derivative of the poets I loved, all the predictable ones; Eliot, Yeats, Plath, Dickinson etc.

A little bit later I fell pretty hard for Elisabeth Bishop, Rilke, Paul Celan, R.S Thomas and Anna Akhmatova.

Looking back now, I think there are a few things that have persisted in my work that I can see in all of these writers. Concision is one, musicality is another, as is a general willingness to mix the erotic with the theological.

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

I’ll try not to overthink this. So I’ve recently loved books by: Layli Long Soldier, Anne Boyer and Michael Symmons Roberts.

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

I’m not clever enough to answer this question. But I would say that some things aren’t exactly choices.

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

I’ve just recently published my second full length collection, Votive, and am tentatively working on my first book of non fiction. I’m most interested in hope, gift and fetish, so I suspect it will take shape around those themes. Eventually…