20 October 2011

a reflective poem

What's that? The sunglasses?
Well I have to wear them,
I’m reading poetry outside
And I’m sure you know
That of all the literary forms
Poetry is the most reflective.

Why? Well that’s obvious isn’t it?
Those verses, stanzas, haikus
They take up barely any room at all.
Even epic masterpieces
Tend to be confined
To the left hand side of the page.

This slim volume of poems contains
Considerably more brilliant white surface
Than it does absorbent inky scribbles.
Hence the sunglasses.

And what about the cowboy hat?
The leather jacket? The boots? And all that
Rouge and mascara? My delicately painted nails?
What about them?
Oh well I guess that I’m just a poser.

james price (Preston, Lancashire, 1987)

18 October 2011

with divine ovation

As a resident of Brinsworth,
she enjoyed the acreage and courtesies
of the artistes’ benevolent fund;
a sixty-four-fold companionship; reciting
nightly, verbatim, alongside coupons
from occupants and the jaunted
pastiche of their loyal visitants.

Colin, a fan first and nurse after,
makes an impromptu stop
ensuing her missed appointment
with Earl Grey and buttered
crumpets - there lies Eloise,
decubitus and stone cold dead.

A more courtly passing
you couldn’t have ask for, not
tethered by wires nor sprawled
across iron, like pets on vets’ tables,
but serene, elegant, at ease.

Colin shuts the door,
lifts the rejected analgesia
– morphine, a syringe-pump –
and self-administers the full 10 mls;
on closing her eyes, mouths
Bravo Eloise – now taking his seat
for the encore.

michael pedersen (Edinburgh, Scotland, 1984)

17 October 2011

when the track divides

When the track divides,
Shall we take it upon ourselves to divide also?
Or shall we hold on,
til our arms are outstretched
And our fingers reach out,
Like hopeless tendrils for hopeless love?

martha rowsell (Camberwell, London, 1987)

12 October 2011


Silent stillness a heartbeat in the air your only
Pulse in the world at this moment in time mesmerised
By the tiny mechanical Clack clack of clockwork days
Recent surf going out and in a delicate Shh
Over thick heavy empty sand Starry
Slush in its eyes like the skies it stares at all night –
We remember driving like lunatics
Half-drunk freedom soldiers out to seduce the world
With our radioactive blood – A distant orange summer
Slick hot and golden and full of eerie practise
Of life and practising death by bottle screaming and screaming
Butterflies every now and then in some bold wonderland
With sharp enemy fronts held by our explosive eyesight
That never stopped seeing
Everything wide-eyed and in a daze no doubt
Some unwelcome Vega to come and ruin it
And you said something along the lines of:
“What’s the point?” I don’t know.
Why don’t you know? But you calmed down
We took turns going crazy sometimes
I climbed a fence and fell off, then a tree
At 2 am in the South of England: I grew up you grew up
We all grew up
Eyebrows raised and set forward
On the horizon where “stuff” was happening –
Separate ways – there and then meeting again –
If only we took serious new times: happening now.
We pass the time around like a bottle of mixed cocktails
And where are you going with that
Gun in your hand, born victims with robotic eyes:
Purple skies of vitamin appear in morning
Before work at 6:15 am, it’s a slow change you got there
Transition onto next raining slowly grinning.

michael holloway (Liverpool, 1985)