Petrichor

Forests feel no fear,
the miles go on,
so many behind us.

Fear not, you are
who you are,
until you forget
where your shadow falls.

Jump into the lower branches,
open your arms wide,
to gather in the trees,

when the moon goes out
you will know the way,
your hands will give you,

a second chance, don’t be afraid
to empty yourself of sound,
try to be alive for longer.

Failing is fine, the best part
of the heartwood is where
you are going, with dead friends,
passing through like falling mist,

tune out, tap in.

-Ali Jones

The Language of Trees

Confession #1:

I’m no good at drawing, but I
Always thought I was pretty good at trees.
Don’t tell them.
They might whisper it
To one another through their
Underground fungal tendrils,
The ones the scientists call “mycorrhizal networks.”
Then, I would be embarrassed by my muse.

Confession #2:

It’s silly, but I think I understand the trees.
And, on bad days,
If I could get deep enough into the woods,
I’m sure they would embrace me, envelop me
In their stillness and strength,
Maybe even mistake me for one of their own
Instead of the imposter that I am.

Confession #3:

If the trees could see me
For who I am,
I have a feeling
They would keep me anyway.
It’s the way of trees–
To listen first,
Then speak up
For their neighbors in need.

Confession #4:

It turns out I don’t yet know
The language of my muse.
But they know mine.
It’s a skill, to know as we are known.

-st

Let Me Pass Through

city walls that bind all your threads together,
walk through this wood,
let your cityself take same walk,
see buildings as lone trees,
homeless hostel is an oak,
butchers, a willow that bends
down over the stream
where jammed traffic swims.

A dead bird breathes,
animated by flies,
is a man in the corner who sings
the blues to passers.

That fall of a leaf
a tickertape homecoming parade.
Your pavement footfall
echoes in my forest.

-Paul Brookes

Fog Rolling In

The neighborhood of my first steps,
first crushes
first kiss,
was a place my Mom called, “The Hill”.

It was a neighborhood born into sunshine,
cul-de-sacs trodden over by barefoot kids
who played outside almost every day,
walked home from school
unhurried,
unafraid.

On the handful of rainy days
that fed our thirsty streets,
Mom picked me up from school
in her powdery grey fiat,
rain turning the windscreen into an ocean.

I remember her happy on these drives,
meandering up roads so steep,
we could feel the car swaying in the storm.
We sang along
to the soundtrack of Evita,
accompanied by the beat of the rain.
She was always Che.

As we traversed the battered spiral of streets,
arriving at the final climb
to our shrouded suburban kingdom,
she would smile as big as the sun,
take a long deep breath and squeeze my knee,
“Do you see,”
she’d say,
“the fog is rolling in.”

=Susan Richardson

Just Anther Relationship

-Jay Gandhi

Bios and links

-Jane Cornwell

 

Anchor

It has been noted in the village,
that she only ever goes to church,
when nobody else is there.

It has been said that she does not
require a congregation, prefers
to air her petitions to stone in secret.

We have watched her sliding by
on that old fashioned bicycle,
chain purring like an elderly cat.

She smiles, but does not stop,
not for anyone. Once I caught
her coming out of the church,

manoeuvring the great North door,
that rides beneath the constellations,
as love spins the universe round.

She did not leave immediately,
but processed from yew to yew,
wishing them well, enquiring their health.

At the time I thought it strange,
but now I understand – nature moves
on what priests hold in their hands.

-Ali Jones

Religious Figures

Shadows of figures
Move in and out
Around the churchyard
At ease,
Carrying only their burdens,
Or their joys,
Taking for granted
The vastness of the space,
Regardless of its
Actual dimensions.
Its openness reveals the
True weight that ails
Mortals comes from within,
Not without.
The sun that shines, or rain
That falls, appears to be brought,
Not bought,
Nor borne of environment.
Sometimes the churchyard
Is more freeing
Than the church.

-st

Our Unicorn Spire

rises from the head
of a wild, untameable animal
with frozen strength and agility.

As a schoolboy I placed
paper over a stone in the walls
built to hold this force,

asked to rub with coloured pencils,
or chalk to get the complex
lines and changes I was more

distracted open mouthed at the horn spire.
We entered the beast at Easter,
Harvest and Christmas.

Sometimes its insides were full
of flowers and fruits, or holly
and candles. Mam said “Unicorns

don’t exist'”, and showed me pictures
of Narwhal and Rhinoceros. The village
church was more magical than those.

My unicorn was frozen
into stone and villagers hollowed
it out to make a church.

I still remember the teacher
asking me why I hadn’t finished
my stone rubbing. I stayed stum,

afraid of being called “silly”
or “he’s in his own world, again”.
It was wonderful having my school

next to a petrified creature.
When we studied fossils,
I wanted to point to the church.

I wanted to rub my hands over its flanks,
Imagined it breathing, knew graveyard walls
could not imprison it forever.

-Paul Brookes

No Rolling Credits

Beneath these massive marvels,
the bodies of those masons
are buried— without coffins.

The architects took the cake.
Queens plundered the fame.
From the woman

who placed first brick
to the man who applied

final stroke of brush:
all are dusted. Names

have been forgotten.

we never memorised
in first place

-Jay Gandhi

Relic

Vapid shadows of strangers
glide past her as if she is a ghost,
a relic fallen into mist,
but those who are quiet hold
the darkest secrets.
She sits in the eye of the sun,
stone bleached mouth
ready to unburden memories
from her fading façade.
She has comforted sinners,
pulled blood into her chalky marrow,
cajoled pennies from the arthritic fingers
of old women and men.
She has been a shelter and a jail,
inviting in the weary to steal their resolve,
locking doors and hiding keys.
She is the bitter crone that lives
in the pocket of a mother’s frock,
the lion hiding under a kind tongue.
Do not be fooled by the worn skin of her teeth.

-Susan Richardson

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 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 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.

Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on smashwords.com and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Website: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com
Twitter: @honestypoetry

The Interview

1. What inspired you  to write poetry?

Observations of the world around me, including the emotional impact of our experiences.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Mostly my mom, who is an artist, teacher, painter, writer. My dad also loved poetry and was, in fact, probably my biggest supporter besides my husband.

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

My parents introduced me to all things literature. We also attended a lot of cultural events, such as a “Shakespeare in the Park” series and many museums and intellectual events. When you are exposed to these avenues as a young child, they become a part of you and overflow into your writing.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I’m told I’m supposed to have one of those. 🙂

5. What motivates you to write?

Social justice issues are a huge motivation for me, and unfortunately the world always seems ripe with new injustices. I also use a term “emotional integrity” to describe some of the impetus behind my work, because I think reading and writing can help us to detangle our sometimes messy, emotional processes.

6. What is your work ethic?

I consider myself a hard worker, and I usually have several projects going. But as a homemaker and mother of two young boys, I’m not always in a position to be writing.

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

I still love Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Robert Louis Stevenson, Longfellow. I aspire to write well and in a lasting way, and in that way I believe they influence me.

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

Carmel Mawle, founder of Writing for Peace and editor of Dove Tales gave me an opportunity no other editor has afforded me. She not only published a few of my poems after I had had many years of rejections, but also became a friend who I have been able to email with from time-to-time, and has made time for aspiring writers in a way that the usual publishing world just won’t.

Rick Lupert, writer and founder at Poetry Super Highway uses his website and his own gifts to attempt to connect other poets online. He also runs a weekly podcast and invites live readings. It’s nice to see modern poets reaching out to use the technology online to connect others. (I see that in you, too, Mr. Brookes. And, again, thank you so much for your welcoming kindness to other writers!) We have such a rejection-filled industry, it’s refreshing to see that.

Mark Coker, founder of Smashwords.com started his e-book website because of his frustration with the traditional publishing world. When other methods of publishing have proven unsuccessful, it has been a great joy to be able to share my e-chapbooks via Smashwords instead.

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

Because I don’t have other skills! 😉 Actually, I just enjoy the fluid medium of writing.

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

Pick up a pencil. Know when to throw out the bad stuff. Don’t give up when you get rejected.

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

All of my e-chapbooks are available on Smashwords.com and my most recent one was titled “Silhouettes” (2019). It’s a compilation of poetry I wrote after my Dad died of congestive heart failure in 2018. The link is here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/923089

However, my most recent chapbook manuscript is titled, “Vision, and Other Things We Hide From” and it includes many previously published individual pieces, along with some never before published poems. It is currently out for consideration. It is my life goal to have a full book-length manuscript published by a real publisher.

https://13myna.blogspot.com/