One Poem by Lynda Tavakoli

 

SO MUCH WASTED GOOD

In his sickness

someone tells him

there will be a tomorrow

for those others,

that beyond their

raw-boned wasting

there are skeletons

they must still call hope.

Yet, one more year ebbs

as a world moulders

in its own self-interest,

knowing that the saddest

truth is just how much good

he could have done,

and didn’t.

Lynda Tavakoli lives in County Down, Northern Ireland, and is a professional member of The Irish Writers Centre. She has won several international poetry and short story awards and been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Lynda’s recent poetry collection ‘A Unison of Breaths’ is published by Arlen House and her digital book with video ‘Unbroken/The Gaza Poems’ is published by Live Encounters Publishing.

 

Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

Crow Logic

For a long time I wanted  

to wake 

before the snow finished falling,  

to walk between trees whispering  

in the old language of sleep.

A crow lifts from the fencepost,

black script against a pale sky.

The air folds around its wings.

I keep a chair by the window.  

Each morning I practice forgetting  

the names of things I love  

so I can relearn them—  

each syllable a thawed river,  

each sound the heart’s slow clock.

Odysseus Meets the Rock and Roll Poets in the Land of the Dead

They wait for him among the shadows,  

guitars slung low, cords snaking the dust.  

Jim leans against a glowing column,  

reading from a frayed and burning page.  

Janis hums a blues that shakes the air,  

and even the shades fall still to listen.

Odysseus has heard sirens before,  

but never voices this wild and cracked.  

He thinks of Ithaca trembling in sleep,  

his wife folding moonlight like linen.  

Her voice moves through the static of years,  

calling his name across endless waves.

Hendrix tunes a lyre made of thunder,  

sparks leaping between his restless hands.  

Kerouac drifts by in a blur of smoke,  

murmuring the road just runs below.  

Achilles stands near the edge of the pit,  

his heel tapping time to the riff.

Odysseus wants to ask about home,  

how to forgive the sea and its silences.  

Instead he strikes a bronze shell,

beating a pulse through the field of skulls.  

Morning flickers against his shield,

as the echo of a song rings in his bones.

The Surrealist Entrepreneur

He opens a shop that sells forgotten mornings.  

They arrive wrapped in pale smoke,  

prices scribbled on seed packets and ticket stubs.

Business is slow, but sometimes an old woman  

wanders in asking for the smell of snow  

just before it turns to rain. He finds it  

in a drawer under a tin of lost buttons.

On Tuesdays he markets anxiety in small bottles,  

the kind you twist open in meetings.  

At lunchtime he feeds coins to the copier,  

waiting for it to print a better childhood.

In the corner stands a telephone  

that calls no one but the future.  

It rings only during thunderstorms.  

He lets it ring.

Each night he counts the inventory:  

two and a half daydreams,  

a jar of distant laughter,  

one burnt-out idea still smoldering.

Before bed, he writes invoices to the moon,  

signs them with disappearing ink,  

and whispers the slogan he can never recall,

something about risk, something about love.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Shire (Berkshire County, in Massachusetts, that is). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion and The Li Bo Poems.

One Poem by Marguerite Doyle

 

The Last Inventory in the House of the Magdalenes 

 

We wore our hard hats, and followed orders and the foreman’s

broad shrug onto the debris field. The corrugated skirt

of the sheet-metal door groaned under his weight and we slipped

into the dark. In the single-bulb gloom of the cavernous hall

we paused beneath signs of attrition and the Virgin’s stone halo.

Blueprints lay strewn on the floor. Sledgehammers and saws,

a prepacked egg sandwich, spirit-levels to even out a new aspect

on the world. We descended the steps, treading our way along

damp corridors and the tight-lipped catacombs. In the labyrinth’s

rib we worked quietly, whispering as we filtered and combed

and sifted. We were the reclaimers of forbidden things; the women

who came to mark down in neat ledgers the items of a life—

her kiss-lock bag, fragments of a letter from her mother, old Kodak

photographs of a family outing to the park. Our arms could not

bear the load, how precious they were. Not relics or artefacts,

but the umbilical threads of her essence gleaned from the vaults.

Later, we walked through rooms; doors gaped on the edge,

webs brushed our faces, ceiling fittings dripped stalactites. In fear

of shock we paused at windows to look past the bars, to glimpse

the women who never left the laundry’s boundary. We came back

on shards of glass into a nimbus of pure sunlight, cradling

the echoes of the women, who they used to be, like babes in arms. 

 

Note: The last Magdalene Laundry, where unmarried mothers in Ireland were incarcerated, closed in 1996.

Marguerite Doyle is a Best of the Net Nominated Poet and holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Dublin City University. Her poems have been published in Vallum, Reliquiae Journal, The Seventh Quarry, The Galway Review, The New Welsh Reader, Dreich and previously in Lothlorien Poetry Journal. Marguerite’s poetry also appears in the Dedalus Anthology, Local Wonders: Poems of Our Immediate Surrounds and The Ireland Chair of Poetry Commemorative Anthology, Hold Open the Door. She has been Winner in Category for the Trócaire / Poetry Ireland Competition and was both shortlisted and highly commended for the Anthology Poetry Award. In 2024 she was winner of the Poets Meet Painters International Poetry Competition, as part of Kenmare Arts Festival, Co. Kerry, Ireland.

 

 

Five Poems by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

 

holding on to moonlight

the child slid her sleepy finger softly down
between her bedroom curtains
they parted an inch, then six or more

the super-mooned sky silvered her young face
and fey clouds drifted over lunar landscapes—
they filigreed her wonder and her round saucer-eyes
in awe, she promised a goddess she did not know
she’d hold this blessing safe and sound

next night, the super-moon was at its height
the girl filled a saucer with water
placed it on her dusty windowsill and waited—

in time, moonlight reflected the moon’s perfection
as it seemed, born again through liquid elements

desperate not to lose the sight
the lass covered the shimmering disc
with a dark, woven teacloth to hold it fast
beyond escape

then she realised her mistake, the moon she cherished
had vanished

in truth, it could only light her face and mind
if she was brave enough to watch—
and trust its moon-nature to reveal itself
in magic, transient moments
and shine, shine, shine

 

Mam-gu in 1950s Merthyr

53 Wellington Street
rented, toilet through the dark coal-cellar
a wooden board with a hole
newspaper to wipe
ghosts to dread

our kith and kin had died in this house
since Mam came here in the 1930s
old folk and young (TB took its toll)
my Mam-gu nursed each one
gentle-handed

once, sick with a tooth abscess
she’d washed vomit from my sticky hair
I loved her and though she never said
I knew she loved me

I wasn’t the only one, my cousins
were minded by Mam
while their mothers’ worked
(one sold sweets, pick ‘n’ mix
in Woolworth’s on the High Street)

I lived far away, and wished I didn’t

Mam magicked food from her tiny kitchen
blueberry and apple plated tarts
with sweet, yellow Bird’s Eye custard
roasted salt-marsh lamb with home-made mint sauce
and hot, thickened onion gravy
mashed potatoes and peppered cabbage
fresh white crusty bread with Llanbedr salted butter
she served it up, quietly happy
if we cleared our plates and asked for seconds

in Mam’s street her neighbours knew
she’d share: bring cawl when times were hard
entertain children, or keep watch
by open coffins after death

I never saw her sit for long and take her rest
her labours were her life, even at night
I’d hear her chat in Cwmraeg to my Taid
(who liked his pints of beer); when he slept
she’d empty his piss from the chamber pot
hidden beneath their bed: I’d hear her
creeping down to the cellar
footsteps tired

Mam’s unpaid work sustained our tribe
laid values in our hearts for life

I’d give the earth
to smell her sweet-salt neck again
touch her rough-blotched hand
and see her gap-toothed smile

 

The People’s March for Jobs 1981

On the coaches, men and women join their voices:
in unison they rally round and sing aloud
the Internationale—
bass and baritone, alto and soprano.

Once arrived, they march for jobs, march for rights,
march for peace, and march for freedom
from the grind of mundane exploitation.

Folk bang drums, play fiddles, blow tin whistles,
and yell slogans loud and clear:
Jobs not Bombs and Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out.

Their feet pound London’s grimy pavements
for opportunity, equality and fair wages.

Back home in the regions, proud men raise pint glasses,
whilst unpaid, domestic labour reclaims the lasses.

 

Life-Long Learning

Time was, she laboured
to change nappies, sing lullabies, to care—
three children needed tending
in tiny pockets of free time, she worked as a cleaner
earning pennies to buy better cheese and tubes of smarties
small luxuries, love tokens

Later, she studied, qualified
became professional and still cared—
within strict boundaries
her salary sustained household, holidays
and grew desires—
spending distracted her from emptiness

Now, at beyond three-score-years-and-ten
her work occupies her mind and soul
she creates connections through art
and gains community, she cares
and grows more authentic—
she knows time is ticking

One day, someone may remember
her smile, the squeeze of her hand, her words
her impatience and her weird sense of humour
but no matter, if not, she knows in truth
towards the end, through creative work
she realised herself: she cared

 

freelancer’s frenzy

ideas are not confined to set working hours
thoughts spill out in dreams and flood the night
until I’m drenched in wakefulness
sleep stung by buzzing brainwaves and early morning light

thoughts spill out in dreams and flood the night
I net half-formed notions and drag them into sight
sleep stung by a buzzing brainwaves and early morning light
sore-eyed, I scribble notes on paper, bladder taut from mugs of tea

I net half-formed notions and drag them into sight
pick ‘n’ mix examples with exercises, and aim for alchemy
sore-eyed, I scribble notes on paper, bladder taut from mugs of tea
I’m dizzied by low blood-sugar and fizz with anxiety

I pick ‘n’ mix examples with exercises, and aim for alchemy
this is the work I tend and love, a creative delight and yet
I’m dizzied by low blood-sugar and fizz with anxiety
as I plan workshops for others to find their voices and write

this is the work I tend and love, a creative delight and yet
I’m terrified my mind will empty
as I plan workshops for others to find their voices and write
might I arrive wordless, tongue-tied, with nothing left to share

I’m terrified my mind will empty as I plan since
labour is not confined to set working hours
might I arrive wordless, tongue-tied, with nothing left to share
drenched in hyper-wakefulness                                                              deadheaded by 

exhaustion

 

 

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017]

Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Lake and Dreich.  Her first chapbook was 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), [Hedgehog Press, 2019] and her pamphlet is 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' [Hedgehog Press, 2024]. After a career in Probation, Mental Health Social Work and as a Practice Educator with an NHS Trust, she is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts. 

Seven Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Puff, the Magic…

 

Those dragons, aways women - why?

For, her indoors - that’s what he calls,

as too landlady, or the boss,

but female only - what’s the cause?

It’s not the makeup, face flesh art,

unless it’s warpaint, statement stance;

mascara, shadow, eyes red, blue,

puff powder magic, warts and all.

 

It was not me, the woman said;

it was not I, the snake instead,

but I count dragon which I chased,

a foiled attempt to drag me down.

There’s myth about that flaw was mine,

but Puff was magic, always youth,

down by the sea in innocence,

as I grew old, asthmatic wheeze.

 

So is it fire, that flaming tongue,

flared nostrils, he obsequious,

or nagging pain, worn wearisome,

with lash of falsely telling tales?

If dragon’s known then less to fear,

unless our quest is focussed there.

Obsession often queers our pitch

at knight time, fighting in their dreams.

 

Ironical, our patron saint

not even English - Turkish lad -

defeating dragon - still his brand,

but like St George, our myths merge, mix.

Flag’s celebration, weaponised,

creed, colour, immigrant now beast,

with wings spread, spearhead tongue and tail

is this fear’s fantasy to build?

 

So who’s enthroned, the Dragon Queen,

as if a game played out on screen?

Not weight, bland brown, Kimodo, while

neither Welsh, red on green field.

How many dragons in my youth,

all overseen by lampshade art?

They were a saintly lot I guess,

like grandma bearing bony me.

 

Uncharted

 

Here’s AI up the Amazon,

‘Shop pirate fiction’ the command;

though locals there indigenous,

and not piratical at all.

But that is what our stories for,

to prompt imagination’s call,

evoke the questions we should form,

as revel, stored experience.

 

Cut coconut, walnuts on board,

with stranger wooden disc on deck.

Intrigued by metal ring around

what is this instrument about?

Not ashtray of a later date

nor assumed compass, distant take;

some candle holder, clock work piece,

or further fiction on a plate?

 

So billowed galleons sail on -

no sale please note is cited here -

cumulonimbus onward blown

to rocks, palms, huts on treasured isle.

Turquoise sea, aquamarine scene,

waves flood the fiction, open book;

admire inventive artistry,

perspectives freed from normal frame.

 

So see a visual stimulus

to read, explore beyond ourselves,

accounts from far communities

with global spread in place and time.

But what is posed beyond ships’ charts -

part played by fiction from our start,

both skull and crossbones, history,

and turning leaves in mystery? 

 

 

Bonds

 

It’s argument of the old school,

that Ockham’s razor put to test,

narrated tale, short, simple state.

Delay dementia at all cost -

with active mind, argue, debate.

All logic check with rationale,

delight from past ‘compare, contrast’ -

such is the grammar, studious.

It’s strange when two sites offer, dual,

a challenge in the jousting lists,

encounter being with ourselves,

dislodging errant night’s reproach.

That’s when I ponder what may be,

Sir Gawain, green in corridor,

that fluence of past disciplines,

not creeping, but delighting work.

Life’s learning, propositions stayed,

a voyage of discovery,

vocation, gifts for every trade

as complementary bricks in wall,

the binding bond that builds it all. 

 

 

On Reflection

 

Here’s corporate, anonymised,

cellular bodies, occupied;

efficient use, compacted space -

in case of fire, can route be traced -

a brand where people lose themselves,

amongst the herd of common mark,

compartments, hutches beyond hatch,

enhanced battery, human farm?

 

To doorway frames, vertical bars,

like lines laid down in corridor;

but not, I fear, secure unit -

enlightened wing, HM detained -

but packed into their padded dwells,

where muffled cries are medicate,

or straitjackets fit the décor,

both out of sight and mindfulness?

 

The art’s a job lot gallery,

though stripped, suggestive, bearing stare;

one hopes not a dementia home,

devoid of guiding prompts retained,

where muscle memory reclaimed

though music, photos, synapse aimed;

see curvature - diffused glass light,

door number, knob, fob, pic bracket?

 

But shapes predominate for me,

that lineage, family tree,

horizons that need stretching out,

the vert diverted by degrees,

like Verdigris of copper belt -

thus history, philosophy,

and antique dealer’s chemistry -

are these some tutors’ offices?

 

Describing what we see, a truth,

discerning what we view, may be;

ekphrastic puzzles, further work,

another look as some suggest.

The riddle focusses the mind,

event horizon interplay,

as I refocus on the blurred,

and question where the point is stayed.

 

Presumptions, visions doomed, dismayed,

poetic explorations flayed,

for grand designs imposed, implied

soon bite the dust, my theme decayed.

I float the options - poets should -

but choice conclusion, readers’ charge,

though when re-reading challenge, task,

ambiguous in word, phrase, marks.

 

And so I query, ponder clues,

for much fake news, disseminate,

dissembling forces to distract -

but what is fiction, fact, redact?

In boyhood trained to honest, trust,

so little knew, post-war corrupt -

those boys in blue, the Lodge, the Krays -

no clue, abuse, parents naïve.

 

Incongruent geometry,

sum math’s dept, university;

that is conclusive proof for me,

the theory tested, Q.E.D.

 

But now I’m certain.  Trompe l’oeil;

reflective glass, a cul-de-sac,

until that carpet couldn’t lie,

unless lens laid a foot away. 

 

 

Skittering Through the Woods

 

The autumn fall of dancing leaves,

with flutter flit, snow’s early flakes

fits well, suspected roots in Norse;

yet jerking bait across the pond

or pet at play, as tales of rat -

these neither sit amongst the trees.

 

Such scurry, dart brings deer to hart,

with flexing limbs as branch from trunk.

Though less appeal, the naïve child,

in carefree skitter, forest path,

where grim expected, witchery,

as lore dictates, some loss designed.

 

So which the scene to dream about?

The sympathetic season’s call,

fly fisher, art, outwit with sly,

that rat at play, as alert doe,

or fairy tale naivety?

No, scamper, scuttle, skip through glade. 

 

 

Drift

 

And what is it, night’s early chimes

in whiching hour of questions posed,

close questions from insomnia,

the what, why, wherefore model stance?

 

Exhausted, but for mind alert,

those queries flow, poetic muse -

what purpose should the verse fulfil,

and why should I be purposeful,

and wherefore opted marking glyphs?

 

So ponder, wonder, wander dreams,

adrift as testing how sound words,

a spell that tells of wizardry.

with grains that shift, forever sand

or snowflakes melting all around. 

 

 

The Hook

 

Hear factories, industrial,

when millstreams powered large machines,

noise travelled, spreading quickly, loud.

 

Did trout or salmon, channel, course,

or even coarser fishes there

sense spinning tales from waterwheel

through flicking tail, a fin or gills?

 

By gobbled worms and larvae laid,

detritus lying on the bed;

’mongst pebbledash and layered sand,

in crumpled sheets like widow’s weeds,

which tastes like gossip, pillow talk

in rising bubbles drowned in speech.

 

I heard them say, those river sprites,

like rainbows in the rumour mill,

without wait, using fishy scales,

the weight of evidence suggests,

and heard it from authorities,

reliable, so reel it in -

no better than she should be line.

A hook too popular by far.

 

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal.  He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com