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Poem – Talking to Actresses by Helen Burke September 2, 2016

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Talking to Actresses

We meet the four of them in the green room ..
And they seem amazed we are there .
They are each like jewelled butterflies , fluttering and vying
For attention .  But if you ask ….
They will deny this .
They are modest , unassuming ..one wears a child’s bow in her hair.
Another patent leather shoes.  The fourth older one looks glum.
Already they have started being nice to her …
So she knows its all over ..bar the shouting .
The pretty one makes us coffee but forgets to put the coffee in ..
It’s all such a joke to her.
The famous guy comes in …they all slink past him , brush a breast , a leg against him
In case he’s in any doubt.
He’s not.
We try and ask about the play ..but they are like bucking broncos
And we get nowhere.
The pretty one is nibbling a lettuce and air sandwich ..the older one munches down
A massive Cornish pasty .  The other two share couscous like some kind
Of shamanic ritual .  Hollywood ..Hollywood ..one laughs …
That’s where I’m bound.  Her voice is like a fork being put back in a drawer
The wrong drawer.  Charming is as charming does the older one mutters ,
Bits of pasty clinging to her leotard.
They all cross and uncross legs like a disease and flick their hair
And smile as if we are mental patients ..to be tolerated as an interlude
In their incredible journey lives.
They will not remember us within the hour .
The spotlight shines from their unforgiving eyes.
A tree falls in the room .
A dead body is lugged in and left to bleed.
They step over both .  Kick their legs up high .
Head for the beckoning stage.

BIO:

Helen Burke has been writing poetry for 42 years she also writes short stories , plays, comedy sketches and does painting and visual art. She has a new collection called “Today the Birds Will Sing ” coming out with Valley Press in the next couple of months.

Her work has been widely published and anthologised.  She has won a number of competitions such as Manchester International, Norwich, Suffolk, the Yorkshire prize, Southport Comedy, Jersey, Devon & Dorset, Torbay and many others.

Her work has been published and distributed in America by www.origamipoems.com, based on Rhode Island, she has 15 chap books with them, having formerly read at Roots in Providence. She has recently been made an honorary member of Ocean State Poets

 

Poems by B.Z. Niditch – Unsure April and Holding On August 26, 2016

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UNSURE APRIL

Dawn is heating us up
the still breeze
is a memory off shore
another dog day
in an unsure August.

HOLDING ON

With a fragile flower
you hold on to
here in the windy city
at the zen garden
so why fear
the early morning
when we put on
Dusty Springfield,
it was a long icy winter
which finally passed away
at the early hour
along Lake Michigan
love glances at your guest
from the beach house
as we remove our swimsuits
together and dive off
the dock,
on your quivering face
there is a limpid smile
you had in sleep.

BIO: B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Poem by JD DeHart – I Don’t Believe in Arrogance August 23, 2016

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I Don’t Believe in Arrogance
 
I don’t believe
in vanity, she said, before
wrapping herself up
in the mirror’s love,
I don’t believe
in anger, he said, before
splashing himself with
crimson firelight,
I don’t believe
in arrogance, he said, before
building himself a pillar,
climbing atop it,
then tumbling down.

 

 

BIO: JD DeHart is a writer and teacher.  His chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is available from RedDashboard.  You can visit one of his many blogs, http://rustedroselit.blogspot.com/, and submit your own writing there.

Poem by Donal Mahoney – Baton Rouge, St. Paul, Dallas August 13, 2016

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Years ago Rodney King,
after his beating in LA,
softly asked America,

“People, can we all just
get along? Can we stop
making it horrible for
older folks and kids?”

Not yet, Rodney.
But rest in peace.
We will try again.

BIO:

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/ and some of his newer work at Eye On Life Magazine.

Poem – Ten Candles by B.Z. Niditch July 16, 2016

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TEN CANDLES

 Riding on my bicycle
on the Boston Common
with a broken right arm
and break in shoulder
after soccer practice
hurting from a bully’s wound
in days of Mercurochrome
still smarting on your body
of thought when left
with a shadow of memory
yet your anger smolders
over a first leather jacket
from your birthday party
after seeing
a James Dean movie
here on a June day
you walk with a free ticket
to the Fine Arts museum
a pug on the sidewalk
accompanies you
with a Van Gogh postcard
from your Dutch uncle
still intact
in your side pocket
by your broken sunglasses
from today assaults
of an insensate encounter
you climb up
the art house steps
waiting to visit the moderns
taking out your oils,
notebook and poet’s pen
unwilling to take any blame
for being a child.
BIO:
    BZ Picture 12

B.Z. NIDITCH is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.

His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including:
Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii
Review; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech
Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest);  Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.

Poem- A Van Gogh Moment by Helen Burke July 11, 2016

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A Van Gogh Moment

I am having a Van Gogh moment when
all the flowers are leaping out from the soil
and capturing the sun and the rain –
and the blue flowers dance their way out of pain –
Yes, Yes ! ,I am having a Van Gogh moment.
I am in control ,  I tell myself , shout , in dribs and drabs
but the fireplace keeps talking to me and the dancers little hands
(I brought her in from the rain ) through the mirror, they  are laughing .
And the letter I write is a spiders revenge.
I am having a Van Gogh moment.
Surprise, surprise !! sings the café owners dog
and the rippling corn of the green sea beckons me,
and the stars in my eyes whirl like oysters and
the clams Gaugin has brought us for tea
are repeating their alphabet by twos and by threes.
I am having a Van Gogh moment.

 

BIO:

Helen Burke has been writing poetry for 42 years she also writes short stories , plays, comedy sketches and does painting and visual art. She has a new collection called “Today the Birds Will Sing ” coming out with Valley Press in the next couple of months.

Her work has been widely published and anthologised.  She has won a number of competitions such as Manchester International, Norwich, Suffolk, the Yorkshire prize, Southport Comedy, Jersey, Devon & Dorset, Torbay and many others.

Her work has been published and distributed in America by www.origamipoems.com, based on Rhode Island, she has 15 chap books with them, having formerly read at Roots in Providence. She has recently been made an honorary member of Ocean State Poets

 

 

Poem – Football Isn’t Special Anymore by Stephen Philip Druce July 9, 2016

Posted by vscorpiozine in New Poets, poems, poetry, UK poets.
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Football Isn’t Special Anymore

 

Football isn’t special anymore –
not like when I was a kid.

Supporters all had smiles on their faces -|
football grounds were special places –
the young and the old, the rich and the poor,
but football isn’t special anymore,

there’s too much t.v. football on,
so the novelty’s gone,
a nil nil draw or a ten one score –
football isn’t special anymore,

the football t.v. show – spoilt mid-flow,
but the half time analysis – a screen intrusion –
we hoped it was entertainment,

but the diagrams of circles and lines
shattered the illusion, oh what a bore –
football isn’t special anymore,

football shirts once a nice simple strip
you’d be careful not to tear, now
an ugly kit plastered in advertising shit
you wouldn’t want to wear, oh what an eye sore –
football isn’t special anymore,

The ground announcer insults the fans by
yelling out – the team names – as if
they’re too dumb to know who’s walking out,

twenty two child mascots – an absurd a pantomime
as you can get – players holding hands with kids they’ve never met,
oh what a chore – football isn’t special anymore,

managers under duress – to partake in conferences for
the gutter press – punished with a fine if they so decline,

the t.v. camera work of the pitch is too busy,
irrelevant shots of all the worst angles – a birds eye view –
from a pigeon dangles – spins round and makes you feel dizzy,

the meaningless obligatory pre-match handshakes – to
encourage fair play gesture fakes, but snub out of spite
and it causes a fight – once we were friends but now it’s war,
football isn’t special anymore,

t.v. cameras spying – obliged to show close ups
of drama queens crying – fuelling the tension
with a troubled face mention, awarding them attention
as compensation for the sin, of the hefty prices they were
charged to get in – a rosy apple with greed at the core,
football isn’t special anymore,

there’s not one player worth paying to see,
not one with charisma, style or presence –
not one you’d really want to be,

the ball is so light it’s now a balloon –
bouncing high as a plastic moon, if
you kick it hard, it will catch the keeper
off guard – swerving two ways on its own,
so the scorers talent is still unknown,

the winners celebrate with an artificial routine,
of fireworks, glitter, streamers and confetti,
bouncing like puppets in paper spaghetti –
the silliest spectacle I ever saw,
football isn’t special anymore,

football’s now a non-contact sport, prompting
deceit by the penalty cheat, and players who choose
not to stay on their feet,

stadiums now all look the same – like a coffee shop chain –
bland, soulless, impersonal architecture – as if the tacky plastic
pictures on the outside won’t aesthetically affect ya,

poor kids in the community ignored,
by the clubs that don’t care –
that they can’t afford
to even get in there,

you’ll pay through the roof,
you’ll pay through the floor,
because football isn’t special anymore,

football isn’t special anymore,

FOOTBALL ISN’T SPECIAL ANYMORE.

Bio

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury UK

 

 

Happy Fourth of July… July 4, 2016

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to all our followers in the USA!

flagcupcakes

Poem by Rehan Qayoom – Upon Clifton Bridge July 2, 2016

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Upon Clifton Bridge …

After Parveen Shakir.

I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.

William Wordsworth. Preface to Lyrical Ballads. 1801, 1802.

 

Clifton Bridge
Well-travelled by the city Elite
Upon which the high and mighty Traffic Policemen
Are seen to perform their duties
Around the clock
Including, 6 or 7 undercover
Not even an unconcerned bird may flit its wings around them!
I saw her!
In a deep ochre
Gold sequined dress
Every fold aligned!
Her Lipstick so dark
That my eyes were drenched in it
Her Foundation dripping in the mid-May sun
Seemed to say
No amount of money can buy this*
Her face caked by the smoke of a cigarette
Stuck between her fingers drowned in clear blue Nail Polish-drowned fingers
With those captivating glances and such gesticulations
She could easily have been arrested by the Police under Clause 294
Parked at the Traffic Signal I thought
Any time now, this PC will hand over an arrest warrant
To this heroine of one of Minto’s novels
But before he could Book her
A car with a navy-blue Number Plate
Parked up
And she disappeared into it
Along with her Clause 294 persona
While the plain-clothed P. C.
Stood aghast!

* Literally ‘Wealth and beauty do not see eye to eye’.

BIO:

Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist, educated at Birkbeck College, University of London. He has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally.  He is the author of About Time.


 

Poem – Chime by Sanjeev Sethi June 28, 2016

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Chime

Chanteys, jingles, card-esque verse,
plainsongs, pop music and poetry:
each has its grid, its grapheme.
We have to fit into the frame, not
fiddle as with people and things.

 

PHOTO SELF(7)       Sanjeev Sethi has published three books of poetry. This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015) is his latest. His poems have found a home in Off the Coast Literary Journal, Literary Orphans, The Bitchin’ KitschCafé Dissensus Everyday, Section 8 Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Jawline Review, Right Hand Pointing, Revolution John, Futures Trading, The Aerogram, Thirteen Myna Birds, Creative Talents Unleashed, Chronogram, The Corner Club Press, Duane’s Poe Tree, The London Magazine, The Fortnightly Review, Ink Sweat and Tears, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, New English Review, The Galway Review, A New Ulster, In Between Hangovers,  Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

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