I knew the woman who
walked into the river that winter
it took three days to find her
bundled like a sleeping swan
in the frost-sharpened reeds
I was a child in those days
even mud-heavy emptiness
was something to make into a song
practised silently over tea
before going out to play
the new game of Drop Down Dead.
Andrew Turner (UK)
2017/08/31
Whatever Happened to Infinity
They call me Nowhere; a non-place
known, at least, to non-people —
They think. But a where cannot
not exist and be a non-position.
Thus logic wins its arm-wrestle
with the Theys and the question.
And I might have a brother nowhere.
Let’s not stop at two. Everywhere
that isn’t somewhere’s nowhere, Brother:
on my right — nowheres in the noughts,
on my other — legion. Simple addition.
Cheers for Nowhere the mathematician.
I’m in love with Anywhere, leader of vague;
queen of can’t-pin-me-down-ness, blipped
into the gap between somewhere and yonder;
my lover, lost wanderer — Anywhere;
unseen but known to be somewhere;
alluring in her wherever.
Then omnipotent Everywhere, god of where-ness
king of location, in every corner
of planets and space. E.W. — slang for Universe.
But he’s only position and place-ness. Our cousins,
Thing-ness and When-ness, each harbour
their deities — Everything, All and Eternity.
E A M Harris (England)
known, at least, to non-people —
They think. But a where cannot
not exist and be a non-position.
Thus logic wins its arm-wrestle
with the Theys and the question.
And I might have a brother nowhere.
Let’s not stop at two. Everywhere
that isn’t somewhere’s nowhere, Brother:
on my right — nowheres in the noughts,
on my other — legion. Simple addition.
Cheers for Nowhere the mathematician.
I’m in love with Anywhere, leader of vague;
queen of can’t-pin-me-down-ness, blipped
into the gap between somewhere and yonder;
my lover, lost wanderer — Anywhere;
unseen but known to be somewhere;
alluring in her wherever.
Then omnipotent Everywhere, god of where-ness
king of location, in every corner
of planets and space. E.W. — slang for Universe.
But he’s only position and place-ness. Our cousins,
Thing-ness and When-ness, each harbour
their deities — Everything, All and Eternity.
E A M Harris (England)
2017/08/09
Ceyx azureus
There,
on a bough of wattle
jutting over water,
a little azure kingfisher,
Ceyx azureus,
sits.
Blue as a summer sky,
bronze-breasted,
stump-tailed,
squat,
with long beak disproportionate,
it waits.
I know that if its
keen eye spots a fish
it will dart down
and splash
and instantly be back there
with its catch.
The summer day being long,
I take a spell from busyness
to sit
in stillness
like this little bird
whose business is stillness.
I watch the kingfisher
watching for fish.
Yvonne Deering (Victoria)
on a bough of wattle
jutting over water,
a little azure kingfisher,
Ceyx azureus,
sits.
Blue as a summer sky,
bronze-breasted,
stump-tailed,
squat,
with long beak disproportionate,
it waits.
I know that if its
keen eye spots a fish
it will dart down
and splash
and instantly be back there
with its catch.
The summer day being long,
I take a spell from busyness
to sit
in stillness
like this little bird
whose business is stillness.
I watch the kingfisher
watching for fish.
Yvonne Deering (Victoria)
The Wren Boy
I must have been having the time
of my life the year I started singing,
trying hard to remember the words,
but high on applause and silver.
In the lounge bar of a pub
in Swinford I tried out a repertoire
I’d culled from The Clancys and mixed
to a Home Counties hybrid.
Shock-headed, crowd-pleasing,
I might have been one of their own,
giving them back The Irish Rover,
The Woman from Wexford Town.
Lured by the promise of easy pickings,
I tagged along St Stephen’s Day,
togged out as a mummer,
and welcomed for miles around.
Strapped across her shoulder,
my cousin lugged her squeezebox,
melodeon, whatever, down lanes
and over fields. At each house
we stopped I gave them my party piece,
while across the buttons and keys
perished fingers danced
like spiders on warm stones.
David Cooke (UK)
What's a wren boy?
of my life the year I started singing,
trying hard to remember the words,
but high on applause and silver.
In the lounge bar of a pub
in Swinford I tried out a repertoire
I’d culled from The Clancys and mixed
to a Home Counties hybrid.
Shock-headed, crowd-pleasing,
I might have been one of their own,
giving them back The Irish Rover,
The Woman from Wexford Town.
Lured by the promise of easy pickings,
I tagged along St Stephen’s Day,
togged out as a mummer,
and welcomed for miles around.
Strapped across her shoulder,
my cousin lugged her squeezebox,
melodeon, whatever, down lanes
and over fields. At each house
we stopped I gave them my party piece,
while across the buttons and keys
perished fingers danced
like spiders on warm stones.
David Cooke (UK)
What's a wren boy?
2017/08/02
Purple Lady
Big City
Busy Street
People catching buses
Sit down
Wait for bus
Next to purple lady
Busy busy
Coming and going
Lady unmoving, staring
Odd smell
Is it me?
Hope not
There again
This time stronger
Sweet but unclean
Purple lady
hands unsettled
Mumbles under breath
I look at her
I look
I notice
Short hair once highlighted
Clothes seem neat
Like for travelling
She wears a zipped up purple jacket
Neat and tidy over black pants
Cowboy boots underneath
Clean complexion
In her 30’s
Rather pretty except
Staring vacantly
Waiting for the night
Alone and withdrawn
She is not catching a bus
Should I offer to help?
Last few times
I received fear and anger
I hesitate
Bus arrives and I am whisked away.
…
A few days later
Walking in the crowd
Face marked with dirt and a white smear
Clothes are the same but
Dirty and unkempt
Greywhite t-shirt hanging out raggedly
The days have been unkind
She is washed away
River of people
Lost in the crowd.
I am filled with sadness, loss, and feel ashamed.
Kim Robertson (Queensland)
First published on the author's blog
Busy Street
People catching buses
Sit down
Wait for bus
Next to purple lady
Busy busy
Coming and going
Lady unmoving, staring
Odd smell
Is it me?
Hope not
There again
This time stronger
Sweet but unclean
Purple lady
hands unsettled
Mumbles under breath
I look at her
I look
I notice
Short hair once highlighted
Clothes seem neat
Like for travelling
She wears a zipped up purple jacket
Neat and tidy over black pants
Cowboy boots underneath
Clean complexion
In her 30’s
Rather pretty except
Staring vacantly
Waiting for the night
Alone and withdrawn
She is not catching a bus
Should I offer to help?
Last few times
I received fear and anger
I hesitate
Bus arrives and I am whisked away.
…
A few days later
Walking in the crowd
Face marked with dirt and a white smear
Clothes are the same but
Dirty and unkempt
Greywhite t-shirt hanging out raggedly
The days have been unkind
She is washed away
River of people
Lost in the crowd.
I am filled with sadness, loss, and feel ashamed.
Kim Robertson (Queensland)
First published on the author's blog
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