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Alun Robert | The Poetry Village



Springtime At Love Lane Allotment

Higgledy-pigglety
allotment over-loved
verdants through ochres
weeds across paths
deciduous uncoppiced
leaves deep in dank borders
blossom with fragrance
fresh buds screaming spring
above last year’s residue
over-ripe, unpicked
flight of the honey bee, swallows
everything in sight, on site
a legacy of last legumes
of broad beans, haricots
of cabbage and caulie
sprouting from the warmth
arriving in late spring
blistering sheds unpreserved
tales flailing through doors
unhinged by those ancients
supping leaf builders
from oddments of porcelain
two sugars, full-fat milk
a tradition out there
with natter, much chatter
community gardening
mankind at peace
with nature en frolic
two miles from the sea
two light years from traffic chaos
of downtown Rye roads
higgledy-pigglety.

A Scot of Irish ancestry, Alun Robert is a prolific creator of lyrical free verse achieving success in poetry competitions. His work has been published in British, Irish and American literary magazines, anthologies, ekphrastic responses and the web. He was September 2019 Featured Writer for the Federation of Writers Scotland.

 

 

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A Pretty Kettle of Fish – A Pretty Kettle of Poetry

I’m impossible
Wanting the implausible.
Is it me or is it you?
My fishing boat on blue.

I’m unshakeable:
My resolve unfathomable.
Why can’t I sleep?
My heart wrecked down deep.

While hearing the siren
Bait underworld men
Old boys in cafes
Think out their days.

I’m so impregnable
But indefensible.
When will it ever finish?
A pretty kettle of fish.

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Friday the thirteenth #poem #poetry – Short Prose

don’t wait for me
please find another lover
I’m riding camels with the Bedouins
I’ll enter Alexandria by morning
the day Mark Anthony committed suicide

don’t wait for me
please find another lover
I’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth
the Friday which forever will be feared
the smell of burning flesh is choking me
the Knights Templar are shedding tears

don’t write to me
until I’ll write to you again
lonely sunsets murmur in brown fumes
and in the night before His resurrection
like Mary Magdalene
I’m looking for a tomb

please read my Spillwords Author of the Year (2019) interview here 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Liliya Kulianionak; Shutterstock; [link]

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My poem “Resurrection Party” published by Voicemail Poems – always open for submissions – Trish Hopkinson

I’m so excited to have another poem published by one of favorites–Voicemail Poems! My poem “Resurrection Party” is included in their Winter 2020 issue, along with some really great recordings by several other poets, including Ariel Francisco, Usman Hameedi, Sarah Matthes, and more.

Resurrection Party” is a poem of recovery. It’s important to me that this personal poem is out in the world. Special thanks to Tinderbox who originally published it in 2017. Many of you know that in 2015 my son (21 at the time) was in a horrible accident in which he was hit on his bicycle by someone in a pickup truck in downtown Salt Lake City. He nearly lost his life. Recovery was difficult, but he made it through and I’m grateful every day that he is still the same amazing, creative person he was before the accident. His personality definitely comes out in this poem.

You can also still listen to past issues, including the one with my poem “Waiting Around” from 2015.

“Voicemail Poems is an online magazine and podcast that highlights the intimate and raw voices of new and established writers of all styles. Poets submit to the magazine by reading their work to a voicemail box. Our favorites are picked seasonally and published on our website (voicemailpoems.org) and our Soundcloud (soundcloud.com/voicemailpoems). We also publish a specially-hosted podcast episode after each issue.”

Click here for submission guidelines.

DEADLINE: Open year-round, rolling issues

SUBMISSION FEE: None

FORMAT: online & Soundcloud audio

SUBMISSION METHOD: Call in and record

FORMS: poems

PAYMENT: None

Facebook Profile: https://www.facebook.com/VoicemailPoems/

Twitter Profile: https://www.facebook.com/VoicemailPoems/


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Along the Unhallowed Way | Write Out Loud

 

To the sound of scrunching leaves and traffic

This ol’feller  pushes t’other ol’bloke in a wheelchair

Down a dreary Salford road in late November.

Always talking, talking of nothing,

Talking of everything,: the past and what’s t’be.

What it takes and never gives back. The load.

With wheels of fire and halos running all amuck

These two desperados meandered along past

The pound shops and the bookies and the booze 24/7ers

They know all these places very well. Too well.

Dave pushes Gaz through the kebab and fag litter

Outside Hope’s old A & E, past the smokers,

Through the entrance, towards the woman,

They’ve come to see; their lovely mam. 

 

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A Virtual AWP (by Nin Andrews)

 

AWP has come and gone, and as you know, many poets and writers and books sellers and editors missed it, believing it best that they not travel or socialize or present their books or new poems during this time of the coronavirus. I wanted to do a post or two featuring a few of the poets and writers I would have liked to have seen, had I been there, had they been been there, had things been different. 

The first is the poet, Amy Woolard, whose much-awaited first book won the Alice James Award. Her poems are smart, sexy, dark, witty, and surprising. I think that if I had bought just one book at AWP, it would have been her collection, Neck of the Woods. Here’s a poem by Woolard, first published in April 2018 by The New Yorker

 

Spoiler

Was born a shamble. Was raised, as many, by a marrow & a follow.

Made first fortune before first word. Had it made. Follow left

The house each morning. Marrow worked to the bone. One

Sinister, one borrow I loved more than my own stalled self;

Early knew for certain one tomorrow I’d make a great ain’t. I

Lived from we to we. Tried to save my crumpled singles. Put on

A bold lip, pulled firm on my love like hinging down

A set of attic stairs. What a racket. What a small cord

Attaches us. My heart, still the spelling bee I throw each time

On purpose: we had words, then slept like ice in the slit

Of a tucked top sheet. After a spell, sure I slow-ached, sulked

My way awake. Once upon a table: coffee with chicory & make-

Shift bliss. My eyes, bigger than blue-plates—truth, it was almost

Too much to swallow. Took it to go. Clocked myself out. A time

Or two had my lights knocked out, my knee socks knocked off,

But soft. But still—a ceiling fan, a sill, & a souse who hung

On my every world. No two ways about it; I fell for us, hot &

Mussed as all get out. Took my Eastern time across to the Pacific,

Doubled down & doubled back. Put my face in the path

Of another’s full-palmed slap—struck by how dumb I was

Struck. Inked myself clear until I was sure as sure was

Numb. Got my house in order but never quite could give up

The drink, the way it confects me, the way I stay spoked

With what wrecks me. Curled myself all the way inside

The inside of our last joke, the punched line we lured

The most, as thicket as our thievery, our ashed plot

Unfallowing me like a neck’s own woods toward a choice

Choke of light: I can’t imagine, I reckon I can only imagine.

 

Next, I would not have missed Denise Duhamel’s reading in which she was to read poems from her next book, forthcoming from the University of Pittsburgh Press, including this one, originally published in The American Poetry Review, September/October 2019, Volume 48, No. 5:

 

DEAR MEMORY,

What have you done with my keys? I blame you 51ZaLccT+uL._SX373_BO1 204 203 200_

though it’s hard to hold a grudge these days

because I usually don’t remember

why I was angry in the first place. 

I look at a person sure she’s done me wrong

though the inciting incidents are lost. Former students

seem familiar, but their names disperse like cigarette smoke

blowing towards a stool where I once drank myself sick.

Now I’m not even sure what city that bar was in,

the welcoming pink neon letters, another cloud,

as though I am looking at tiny print

without my reading glasses. I was on a pink cloud

when I first stopped drinking. In fact, I once looked up

at the moon, weeping in gratitude. So there,

I do recall something! I was walking across

the Brooklyn Bridge in an ex’s sweatpants

though I’m not sure anymore of his name or if I ever

gave those sweatpants back. I’m usually halfway through

a movie on Netflix when I realize I’ve already seen it,

probably in an old-fashioned freestanding theater,

perhaps a matinee or a midnight screening. 

Perhaps a popcorn bucket on my lap—

that is, if I wasn’t on some fad diet. 

Did I take my pain pill or not? I’m drinking water

but not sure I can detect that bad taste all the way

back on my tongue. Maybe I have been drinking

more water than I thought. Is it time to go

to the gynecologist again? The office usually sends me

a reminder postcard, but today I’m holding

a letter from the Breast Center saying it’s time again

for my mammogram. I usually get a prescription

from the gynecologist about a month beforehand—this is how

it’s been the last few years. I wonder if my doctor is retired

or dead. I would call him, but I have forgotten his name. 

It begins with an S and I think I remember the exit. 

I look through the stack of business cards

I save for moments such as this, but no card for him. 

I go to take out the recycling just moments

after I took out the recycling. I stand at the fridge,

its door ajar—the cold lightbulb, an idea for a poem

which I’ve also forgotten, a sublime dream

that woke me in the middle of the night, a sublime dream

I was sure I’d never forget. Ah, here is my key ring!

But this gold one with the big square head—

what lock could it possibly open?

 

I would also have gone to a book signing by Sheryl St. Germain, whom I had the good luck of hearing read at the Lit Youngstown Literary Festival last fall, a festival I highly recommend to any poets and writers looking for a smaller conference to present their work. St. Germain’s heart-breaking poetry book, The Small Door of Your Death from Autumn House Press and her stunning memoir, Fifty Miles, from Etruscan Press, tell the story of addiction, her son’s death, grief, and more. Here are two excerpts from Fifty Miles: 

 

50 Miles FINAL COVER 10-1-18

The Amaryllis Bud

opens slowly over the weeks after his death–it will be in full bloom come Christmas day. Grief doesn’t come into one fully grown. It’s slow, long-living, not like this potted amaryllis, a gift that will die soon after blooming. No, grief’s roots go deep, touch enough to last a thousand years. 

January 9, 2015, 3:18 a.m.

You’re dead a month today. Tonight one of your songs comes to me in a dream, you know, the one you called “weekend beats slow,” the one you said was less a song than a collection of beats?  Over and over it runs through my head, insistent, until it wakes me, and I can’t help but feel you are trying to speak.

    If you do come, I guess it will be in ways that are not embodied as you were on earth. I’m selfish, though, and want you back as you were, as a suffering, beautiful young man. But thanks for the music, if that was you.

    And, if it was some vision I created from the bowels of the unconscious, some hallucination, well, bring it on. 

 

 

                                        

Amy Woolard is a legal aid attorney working on civil rights policy & legislation in Virginia. Her forthcoming debut poetry collection, NECK OF THE WOODS, received the 2018 Alice James Award from Alice James Books. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Poetry, Boston Review, Ploughshares, Fence, & elsewhere, while her essays and reporting have been featured in publications such as Slate, The Guardian, Pacific Standard, and The Rumpus, as well as Virginia Quarterly Review, which awarded her the Staige D. Blackford Prize for Nonfiction in 2016. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Vermont Studio Center, and the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference. She lives in Charlottesville, Virginia.

Denise Duhamel’s most recent book of poetry is Scald (Pittsburgh, 2017). Her other titles include BlowoutKa-Ching!Two and TwoQueen for a Day: Selected and New Poems; The Star-Spangled Banner; and Kinky. She and Maureen Seaton have co-authored four collections, the most recent of which is CAPRICE (Collaborations: Collected, Uncollected, and New) (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2015). And she and Julie Marie Wade co-authored The Unrhymables: Collaborations in Prose (Noctuary Press, 2019). She is a Distinguished University Professor in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami. 

Sheryl St. Germain is a poet and essayist whose work has received numerous awards. Her most recent book, a poetry collection, The Small Door of Your Death, was published by Autumn House Press in 2018. For 14 years, Sheryl directed the M.F.A. program in Creative Writing at Chatham University in Pittsburgh, and is co-founder of the Words Without Walls program.

         
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Prose Poetry -Tanuja

Tanuja

Mohammad Zahid Hossain
**********************

Tanuja is writing to you after a long time.
Look at how long it was spent
Now I see only morning and night
No afternoon and twilight, however.

Sleep deprivation is regularly called by the mother
It’s time for the baby to get up
Then walk through the familiar royal palace
Kolig Known Office
That familiar is a regular act.

Sometimes in the name of night at the end of the day
Do not understand it is time to return
Tanuja dragged me home at night
Feeling depressed, returning home regularly.

Mom gets dressed in bed
After dinner, I was left alone for an hour and a half
Rimzhmi is called rain in the sky
I am in the rain every day
There is only emptiness and loneliness around
The poison does not leave me
You don’t have that lost afternoon
There is no teenage boy selling flowers that afternoon.

There is no shopkeeper under sodium lights
There are no stupid words of that day
There are only fools and fools.

Tanuja know there’s not much else
Not that stupid good home and stupid feeling
The dust that lies in the dust of the mind.
Look how different Tanuja’s life is
Look at how often death comes from fear.

Tanuja I am not the foundation anymore
You have no fear of losing
You have no hope of getting it.

Tanuja long thought to write to you
Every day I write a little bit regularly
No night to finish.
Simple life is going on somehow
You know, there is no fear as before
Fear of losing You fear of losing.
No fear calls me back.

That eternal bride has also left me
I remember talking about a widow
I am talking about a scarcity bride.
Tanuji left me
Absolutely farewell has been left forever.
Which is why I left you at the end of a twilight.

Tanuja I did not even know that day
For example, I am not a vet even in today’s night.