Five Poems by Ross Jackson

 

A day of poking around

 

I’m working on a way to walk

very late to report for nothing

snacking on a slice of sunrise

orange flower rods from potted aloes

popping my eyeballs out on stalks       

making time for a cat nap

for a half dream tuned to

river’s spooling

mid-afternoon riding

smooth as drifting gulls

sunset’s getting on

with its reddening business

by the time I return home

ice cream clouds of vermillion

tangerine and rose

summer’s floral darkness

did my bedroom out with jasmine

gladly I stand at sleep’ s open door

my eyes taking bites

from moon’s tropical fruit

 

Adolescent out on a lifetime stroll

 

plain boy, frail moods

solitary life

wanders frozen city tonight

a world which sweats

with always distant women

 

he’s scoping out

those glowing homes

suspended from granite slopes

apartments stuck on an ice plateau

residences lit from inside

 

festive as Chinese lanterns

thrilling places, he supposes

filled with all the women

he fears he’ll never get

to see up close

 

striking out at midnight

knife edge image

in dream engorged sky

that of a crow

on glowing circle of a supermoon

 

delusions drowned like spiders

in channels beneath the ice

 

Written in the year of the monkey

 

Had we not already dreamt it

it would have arrived by imagination

what living would be like

beyond the realm of our cosy trees.

 

Why not, just swing and play in shiny rainforest

swing and play in shiny rainforest

swing and play in shiny rainforest?

 

To put it in reverse

had we not imagined it

it would have been already dreamed of---

that infinite beyond

 

but ever since, haven’t

we worried too much

about missing out?

 

since losing our grip on an earthly branch

we’ve cut a dainty pattern

too much thinking, not enough tumbling

lost our joy when we lost our tails

 

been left

with rotten tasting

synthetically coloured fruit.

 

Recurring dream at the junction of asleep and awake

 

bush flies every wrinkled hour; shapeless jazz on repeat

taste my flavourless oxygen, do calculus on my breathing

prescribe me anything for persist-less sleep

this recurring scenario tossing, tossing…

across my tattered brain

and it won’t give up---

now the warm wind                     she drags

something off                  the warm wind dusting

the platforms of the station

caressed by warm wind

at the edge of cement and a fall to the rails

he wants it sordid, so she        drags

something else            off

along timber racks lacquered by moonshine

timetables shudder in summer night wind

as she                        drags

one last thing off

signal red glows

on black train now passing

at the junction of asleep and awake

 

After reading Charles Bukowski

 

a full-sized man

hires a naked lady

to spar with him

over seven rounds

truly, he does

 

pity her little fists don’t

entirely fill

the boxing gloves he supplies

but don’t you worry

for she’s a natural

not in a ham-fisted way

and he’s too slow

a sucker for a sucker punch

 

after twenty minutes

she tells him, ‘For what you’ve paid

the time is up’

then puts in a quick jab in his gut

 

after which, he manages

to say through

bloody teeth

‘I’ll need you again next week

but make sure

next time

you knock me out cold

and no mistake’

Ross Jackson lives in Perth, Western Australia. He has had many poems published in poetry websites and literary magazines in Australia and his work has been accepted in the UK and Ireland.

‘Time alone on a quiet path’ came out with University of Western Australia Press in 2020.

Five Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Hive

 

The ukulele, not best for Danny Boy,

means unaccompanied, we gravel to begin;

our chariot choir sings high and low,

though jointly note the middle range.

 

Despite harmonious melody,

the Dublin-born disputes the tune

is Londonderry Air, an Ulster name.

But with Guinness I have heard

plantation words alongside craic,

and Prot bars resound republican.

We warble words with the chorus girls,

a hurting leg, Jack's grunt refrain.

 

Out the door, politics; here we laugh

at wheelchair three point-turn or six

in this space, confined, it’s like

our repartee, the discourse of humanity,

Areopagus of fun.

 

Kim, the crochet girl has brought a bag

of kitchenalia to identify.

This largely plastic crowded tray

whets few appetites today.

 

With glove stretchers, I had never need

of tongs to empty sauce sachets,

or the mango stone remover,

the sandwich cutter which prevents

squashed jam seeping from bread edges.

Yesterday sachets and mangoes

were not in the scullery,

or indeed between my teeth,

while butter or jam were choice,

and crustiness, grandpa's trait,

an ingredient of life.

 

Because the baby has been born

half-knit blue cardigan

has sleeves now turning pink;

desultory chair exercise

brings the needles overhead.

 

This group, hive christened,

and we its bees;

some come from ever-silent rooms

and travel here without sound,

broken-winged, as if the sting

already taken from our tale.

 

Once my thought-question

slipped from lips;

it might have searched opinions,

we could have shared spoken debate,

we might have made a meal of it.

But when the leader googles phone,

the answer served on a plate,

then beehive becomes an igloo still,

snake-charmer's basket on its head,

and honey comb cannot mature.

 

The yellow high-viz jacket wears

a button hole, woollen daffodil,

but insists it to be a crocus flower.

In stitches

he offers me its curling bloom to smell;

we are back to buzzing

and that perfume claims the room.

 

First published online by Eunoia Review 6^th September 2019

 

 

The House that Moved

 

Told moving house a major stress,

but where the emphasis?

My relocation, focal site,

transferring home from house.

The change was of my fixed mind-set,

with salt drips reaching tongue,

half-empty cup now overflows,

I feel it in my bowels.

 

Never chessboard gambit, clever,

nor shift, a change of gear,

timely initiating - but

fresh rhyme, new paradigm.

Stone lintel long-divorced from wall,

each hang had its own song,

put-up-with hatch that I moaned, now

anointed without oil.

 

The tin bath is my jacuzzi,

gas ring my Aga range,

my outhouse mangle, laundromat,

sea shanties I sing there.

Before door shaped the bell lost flex - 

but like the clapper swing;

beneath, the scraper where I tread,

soiled boots swop for my soul.

 

Still sat, I stare through the pained glass,

cracked, garden, easy whin,

built on dolerite foundation,

now this my box on sill.

Kites pennant, hawks stoop, thermals swoop,

vigilante cloud patrol,

while even storm petrel coastguards

serve lookout for my byer.

 

First published online by Allegro Poetry 1^st December 2019

 

 

Jude

 

My title, Jude, you understand?

If but a hardy soul, you should.

Perhaps my verse is not your space

but yours the access - trace my mind.

Why can you not hear what I voice

and, taken plunge, still get it wrong?

I’ll write, gazing in crystal ball -

if yet unseen, your wiring’s poor.

I’ll use the info learned at school -

for poetry found learnèd brains.

Perhaps I’ll translate, common state,

and then you’ll celebrate as found?

Now what I share is something known

or else the poem’s not owned, mine,

but common knowledge, commonwealth,

and recognition not my deal -

the common touch still calls for breadth -

but as I’ve finished, up to you.                                       .

 

“But, friend, we seek a commonplace,

that least you write, available,

not easy grace for trampling swine

but observation, chiming bells.

So, application to the task,

my answer only if both work,

and then the page that typist typed

has archetypal emphasis.

So, come together, pilgrim road,

discover what’s new in our world,

inherent posers, if we ask -

an entry point, art comprehend.

If bounded, wedded, stewardship

it might be both, best understand.”

 

First published online by Zero Readers 13^th December 2021

 

 

Dream Catcher

 

Feathers for the eagle height 

but also pickings, platform stilts,

the elder laid for vulture beak,

to raise both prey and prayer light  

into thermal vista scape.

 

The catcher, circle, cycle life,  

clear space to blow the riff chaff through,

but geometric lacing too

that meaning scenes of dreams, peace, strife,  

flit skein, the skin, cat’s cradle skim.

 

As old men dreams turn visions, young, 

and maintain hope for tested, tried,

it may be campfire lore will tell

of who we were, when sighs were sung,  

which then burn brightly, wind inspired.

 

First published online by Poetry Potion 2^nd April 2022

 

 

What the Greenman Sees

 

Bed time story, fairy tales,

pillow talk aswirl as drift;

woodland folk amongst the spruce,

pines where Ariel released,

birch, mesh mycorrhizal routes,

fly agaric, polka stool,

lacewing whisper on the seat,

dangle legs, passed crane fly mist.

 

Pheasant chicks, gamekeeper’s gun,

poaching, scrambling in the gloom;

spider eggs in silken sacs,

elven breakfast, steam pot tips

coddling toxicity,

snuffle, sips, arachnid cup,

dryads, Green Man watch from branch,

truffle boars scent riches deep.

 

Wych hazel rods, divine in bend,

cider apples, tempting tree;

bite and die, the mystery,

pesky, pixie, goblin folk

tenant glades, though few will see -

will-o’-the-wisp, marshy light,

foe-conjured hours, dread of night -

friends we become, sheets, dawn, wights?

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies.

His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/     

 

Two Poems by Dr Anushna Biswas

IN QUEST OF ETERNAL IMAGE



Through the canopy of trees I see the moon

You said, Mother, when young, moon reflects dream

I close my eyes to visualize it in light dim

But you are nowhere to be seen



In search I turn to sylvan wood

And hear the nightingale sing on peak

Woods lovely dark and deep,

I could smell the jacaranda flowers loom

Now is spring, nature bursts with bloom

My roving eyes track your smiling face,

In play of jolly fireflies in grace

But you are nowhere in chiaroscuro of space

.

In angst I rush to the sea

Its vast waves crashing against the mound of sands

Barefoot I meander through coloured shells sprawling in degree

Then pick up the pebbles watching fishermen fishing in spree

I take a deep breath and look for your face in the sea

An agony fills my soul as seeking your image

But you are nowhere to be seen in given range



Back to city, a vision to pry

Now I know hard I may try being keen

But sorrow has it dry

Now plausibly you are nowhere to be seen.

But in me.




ELEGY



Nine and a half months

Squeamish

Nausea

Bursting of the water bag

Pain of parturition

Separation from the umbilical cord

Blood

Birth

She shows me the light of the day.



Then she nurtures the seed

Water

Food

Nutrients

Proteins to right need

She helps me to gradually spread my wings



She feeds

The root

The stem

Till it does not bear fruits

And makes me a complete woman.



Then she contracts the virus

To protect me

To save me

From virus,

She cannot breathe

Doctors utter their sermons

Critical

Diabetic

Covid

Pneumonia

Nothing in their hands

This time she spits blood

Phlegm

A Video call

One last kiss to her daughter, me

Next day

Catastrophe strikes

The pain grips me gasping

From now on I am struck to carry


Her pain of parturition returns to me.







Dr Anushna Biswas, Literary Critic, Poet and Feature Writer of The Indian Express Group of Newspapers. Also former Lecturer and head, Department of English at Tagore University Distance Education. Published eight books of literary criticisms, contributed essays and articles in The Indian Express Group of Newspapers.

Four Poems by Wayne F. Burke

 

Purgatory

 

thou shalt not steal

or feel

or deal from the bottom

of the deck (no matter

how stacked against you)

so help you

god almighty will strike you

dead, deader

than a doornail

or email never sent,

you will go to Purgatory

and sit, waiting, 20,000 years

with hands in your lap, speaking

only when spoken to, the

magazines on the rack

dog-eared, thumbed through:

LIFE, LOOK, HIGHLIGHTS

(find the hidden items in the

picture: cat, dog, key, mouse,

louse, yourself...) the nurse

will call when God is ready.

 

 

Abe

 

a new book out

on Lincoln

I read--

I've read a lot

of them, books

on Lincoln:

not a city lot

or a car lot

but a load of

books

on Lincoln,

that son of a gun,

that turkey;

his wife was kind of a witch

his son became kind of rich

and he managed

his war better

than Johnson

done.

 

 

Bill

 

the table slides into

place--

the booth is a capsule

I am riding into

space

with the New York Times beside

me;

the waitress,

a distant galaxy

hovering

in space/time

arrival with the

check: $5.56,

as Lincoln,

grim as a sailor

in a squall,

takes the scene in

with his green eyes.

 

 

Dead

 

August lingers like

an uninvited party

guest;

everyone is on vacation

or else they've died and

turned grey as the

statues in the park--

dead as the old days,

as the old ways--

dead as the brain cells

of those who do not

use them; dead

like the moon, like

Latin, like this town,

like my Aunt's stillborn

baby: lifeless, nameless,

almost forgotten.

Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online (including in LOTHLORIEN Poetry Journal). He is author of eight full-length published collections of poetry--most recently BLACK SUMMER (Spartan Press, 2021), and one collection of short stories: TURMOIL & Other Stories, Adelaide Press, NY,NY, 2020. He lives in Vermont (USA).