Poetry ID - Recently Updated Pages

Poems by John Gartland

johngartland — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 11:36:05 CST

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PID Events

Dickpoet — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 11:44:15 CST

Report on The Derwent Poetry Festival
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If you’d like to brighten up dull November why not try the Derwent Poetry Festival at beautiful Matlock Bath in the Peak District? Set in the stunning scenery of the Derwent valley, not only is it slap bang in the middle of the country and therefore easy to reach wherever you start from, but entrance and all events are free (with free wine on top as an added bonus).

The festival takes place in the historic Masson Mills, built on the banks of the Derwent in 1783 by Richard Arkwright of spinning frame renown. Beneath the festival are a museum and a mill shop full of real woollen bargains and, as if that wasn’t enough, a modern shopping centre in the other half of the building – four large floors of quality goods at reasonable prices. I did half my Christmas shopping in an hour. Oh and did I mention that there was some poetry? Some skilful and original poetry from lots of new and interesting faces? Most of the readers had been placed in Templar’s own annual pamphlet competition. They included Angela Cleland whose ‘Preparation’ was Highly Commended in this year’s Forward Prize, the much published Paul Maddern; David Morley, Professor of Writing at Warwick University; Nigel McLoughlin, Editor of Iota; Katrina Naomi, winner of the 2008 Ledbury Festival Text Poem Contest; Nuala Ni Chonchuir, winner of the Strong Award for the Best First Poetry Collection 2008, Maggie O’Dwyer, shortlisted in the satirical category of the Strokestown Poetry Competition among others; Jane Weir whose poetical biography ‘Walking the Block’ was Highly Commended in the British Book Design Awards, the widely published Pat Winslow who has three collections out and Dawn Wood whose work was shortlisted in the Aldeburgh First Collection Prize. And of course our own Yuko who received prolonged applause at the end of her reading and made us very proud.

Altogether a galaxy of emerging talents, the festival was organised by Templar Press who were shortlisted in the publisher category of the Michael Marks Awards and have recently relaunched Iota Magazine. Altogether the Derwent Festival provided a weekend packed with as much variety and beauty as it is possible to find in Britain in November and I highly recommend anyone to give it a try.

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Poetry ID presents an evening of poetry and music to celebrate National Poetry Day at David's Bookshop, Eastcheap, Letchworth on Thursday the 8th October 2009 at 7.30

Featuring leading local poets

Those attending may reserve a slot to read their own poetry

Admission free
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Letchworth Festival

Poetry ID will be presenting en evening of poetry and music at the Letchworth Arts Centre in Leys Avenue (above the Three Magnets pub), featuring the talents of the poets featured on this website.

The event will take place on

Thursday 30th July 2009 from 7.30 - 10.00 pm

Admission £3.00

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Poetry ID at Hitchin Festival

As part of the Hitchin festival, Poetry ID will be presenting an evening of poetry and music at The Sun Hotel in Hitchin, Hertfordshire on

Tuesday 30th June 2009 at 7.30 for 8.00 pm.

Readings will feature the talents of Dennis Tomlinson, Phil Ilsley, Cliff Ashcroft, Nanne Sinclair, Richard Copeland, Ann Copeland, Kim Simmonds-Hurn, Martin Cook, David Van-Cauter & Yuko Minamikawa Adams.

There will be two musical interludes.

Admission is free and CDs of the group reading their own work will be on sale, the entire proceeds going to Multiple Sclerosis. Entitled Renshi and selling for just £5.00, it shouldn't break the bank.

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Poetry ID at Shaw's Corner

As part of the Poetry Society's Centenary celebrations, and working in conjunction with the National Trust, Poetry ID will be holding a day-long event at Shaw's Corner in the pretty Hertfordshire village of Ayot St Lawrence on Friday the 29th May 2009, between 10 am and 4.00 pm.

The event will consist of writing workshops in the morning for children and adults respectively. The afternoon will be given over to a continuous performance by members of the group, including musical interludes.

Stop Press

Our guest writer and entertainer will be Mike Barfield: comedy writer, humorist, cartoonist and creator of the Apparently... cartoon series in Private Eye magazine. He is also the author of the highly amusing book: 'This Septic Isle'.

The morning workshops will cost £3.00 and this will allow early visitors to tour the house and grounds. Those who arrive after 12.00 noon will pay the normal entry fee of £5.20 (£2.60 for children) and the poetry activities will be included in that price.

The event has now passed and it was a success. I would like to use this space to congratulate all those who took part in it and who worked so hard to make it a success, including Shaw's Corner's staff and management. Thanks to Mike Barfield who entertained the children so well and thanks to the members of Ver Poets for taking part. A good day was made even better. The weather was brilliant too.

Richard J. N. Copeland.

Home

Dickpoet — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 11:16:44 CST

Welcome to the Poetry ID Wiki, brought to you by the good folks at Wetpaint

Poetry ID is the Letchworth Garden City stanza of The Poetry Society (UK). We meet every Thursday at The Settlement in Nevells Road, Letchworth. Each week we usually run a writing workshop followed by a readaround. We also organise readings and have several publications under our own imprint. Most of our members have been published, to a lesser or greater degree, but we are a very welcoming group and we are always looking to attract new members who feel they might benefit from our workshops and constructive criticism.

We have our own website at www.poetry-id.co.uk, which has been established for several years, and you can see more details about the group there.

The idea of this wiki is to allow members to create and edit their own pages, allowing the poems to remain as up-to-date as possible, and also to allow others the chance to read and comment on our work.

Stop Press. 'Renshi', a CD of members of Poetry ID reading their own work is now available for the princely sum of £5 (not a lot). The proceeds of sales will be donated to the Multiple Sclerosis Society. Email Phil Ilsley on
p_ils AT yahoo.co.uk for more details. (Note: the @ symbol has been substituted by AT to prevent unauthorised people scanning the web for email addresses).

For up-to-date information of forthcoming events, go to our PID Events page.

Some late News. Poetry ID Member Yuko Minamikawa Adams will be performing at the Derwent Poetry Festival during the weekend of the 20th - 22nd November.

Yuko has been shortlisted in the Templar Poetry Collection Competition and has been asked to read at the event which will take place in the Arkwright Suite at Masson Mills, Matlock Bath, Derbyshire.

Congratulations to Yuko on her achievement.

Dennis Tomlinson Poems

DCTacitus — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 12:22:06 CDT

I started to write the Apple Orchard poem sequence in 2007 after re-reading The Waste Land by TS Eliot (about whom I have ambivalent feelings). Over the course of 2007-2008 the original poem, 'The Garden City', expanded into a longer, basically autobiographical but wide-ranging sequence. I would say the general theme is the doubtfulness of hope.

The Apple Orchard

Prologue

Piece of a dark rock
where the elves dwelled
the old elves.
When they broke the rock,
did the elves die,
did the elves flee?
When will the elves return?

I – The Garden City

They planted a school in an apple orchard
in Ebenezer’s first city,
and there we played ‘it’ among the trees,
and there I walked by the muddy car park,
and there I came across
a clear puddle:
put your foot in,
stir it up
and drink the coffee.

But at home they had told me in their wisdom,
‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!’

Here is a broken wall, a Roman wall
where nettles grow. What tales can nettles tell?

Dennis, you do not know, you cannot know:
though you gazed on overgrown
and blackened stones
in Florence on the Elbe
and talked to one who did survive,
you were born twenty years after
in Ebenezer’s second city.

One day
in the old black ruins
I might see goose-grass growing like a tree
and onion flowers like red flames above me,
a jungle fit for the Jubjub bird
and the frumious Bandersnatch.

But I met another, like a man of business,
who showed me a different prospect:
the grey lunar landscape east of Cottbus -
where once his pretty villages had lain -
dug out for the sake of brown
s*** as far as the horizon.
Da sah ich sie liegen: schön unsere Dörfer.

Today
in the provisional present
I live in my great-grandfather’s house
and still walk in the mud.

One day
after the apple orchard is gone,
after the borogoves are gone,
after the garden city is gone,
we can hope for no more than
reconstruction,
recultivation,
a new earth.

II - Nana is Buried

Come into my pupils and you will see
a funeral party on a hillside,
clouds racing in Odin’s wind.
Though the god rides on the swiftest of steeds,
a still greater power impels him,
the gale roaring from riffling pages
of a red book behind the hill,
world-embracing work of the learned
who lectured once by London Wall.
Now, as we fly to friends abroad
you see the city lighting up,
cut by the plane’s dark wing.

III - Bergkamen Power Station

A band of ten in white hard hats
are walking over metal grids,
are marvelling at great steel pipes,
are gazing into hellish depths
beneath their feet. Resounding noise
drowns out all talk. The warmth is strong
and close.

Our friendly, bearded guide
has shown us on his diagrams
the furnace and the turbine room,
explained how crates and furniture
get cleaned and shredded for the plant.

Through a round glass I peer and see
an orange whirl of flames and sparks:
beneath the skin of the machine
the fiery present builds itself
and through the steel I feel it come,
destructive and creative power.

IV – Carthago

The date-palms spread their generous leaves;
the pomegranates glow against
dark foliage; and in their shade
a gathering of battered stones
like broken teeth. Each stele marks,
maybe, the ashes of a child,
a sacrifice to Punic gods
in pagan times.

We lounge in sensuality
in Moorish style in our hotel.
But while we taste the sultan’s life,
the ever-rolling stream of Time
eddies around our bed.

Strings of tourists saunter
through the lazy park but behind the Baths of Antoninus,
broken carcasses of stone,
a turquoise sea is waiting.

Stevenage-Edinburgh

City of brick and glass -
my concrete Silkingrad has changed.
Goodbye to my parents,
and the Borough of Stevenage carries me
left into the long flat lands.
The Scots are here already.

Smoke and steam rise
behind heaps of trees.
Between the famous cities
the power station towers
stand on the flat green country.
Buzzing ticket inspectors
land on my skin.

Gentle mountains and ragged clouds
mark the beginning of wildness.
The trees are rougher too,
and the earth is still on fire.
'Have faith in God' says busy Newcastle -
but what's that cloudy brain above us
thinking?

Red fire over Morpeth
where smoke stains the pale clouds;
they die out where the sea begins.
Over sunny fields of sheep and straw-rolls
you can make out Norway's grey mountains -
a picturesque scene.

The Scottish sea is deep blue,
held between dusty land and sky.
They bring forgetfulness
until the sharp-edged town
presses into my consciousness.

Into the chaos, march across the sand,
bodies of bone and metal.
The city repeats itself
for the thousandth time.

What is my goal?
A room of people, some known, some unknown,
literary vampires, cultural ghouls,
forming and re-forming like clouds.
Flee and prepare yourself
for the great jaw.

1989

Beacon Hill

One evening, as the sun was declining,
I set up my chair on Beacon Hill
And let go.
A man in a broad-brimmed hat
Was flying his kite, bucking and turning
And I flew with it.
A lark came up, warbling beyond reason,
Then another,
And I soared between them.
Waves of cloud were washing above me,
The current taking my craft aloft
And out of the hazy world.

first pub. in poetrymonthly.com 128, Nov. 2006

Knebworth-Wimbledon

'I am a barrister
and I sit half the time as a judge,'
says the square-shouldered lady,
whereas I sit on the train,
stealing away from the workplace
and back to my woman in London.

Violet sleep pales into azure sky
over Portakabin city
and then the magnificent arches
of King's Cross.

Returned to the light at Vauxhall,
I gaze at the glass palace,
the emerald palace
of a mysterious prince.
We do not have such sights at home!

Even Stevenage lacks
so many sunlit blocks of flats,
such golden arches,
so much art upon the walls.

The Knebworth ladies might be cold,
but the love bus welcomes everybody,
Chinese and curly Africans,
pale schoolboys with protruding ears
and those from out of town.

In a funny corner of Wimbledon
Maria opens her door to me,
waving and smiling like a Chinese.

Poetry Clinic

DCTacitus — Tue, 01 Sep 2009 10:43:33 CDT

This page is for your problem poems; those with which you are having a struggle to get right. Comments here are welcome, as long as they are constructive. Destructive or disparaging comments will be deleted.

If you have a poem that you feel needs some surgery, post it here and wait for criticism.

In the interests of housekeeping, this page will be cleared at the end of the month, or thereabouts.

Sophia Brookes Poems

niceirma — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:15:55 CDT

Poet’s recipe

Don’t beat love’s language to a pulp:
gently fold in words
keep the precious air.
Add self-raising dreams,
and life’s zest.
Sprinkle with experience.

Hush with honey, shock with salt.
Crystallise desire,
make Julienne strip.
Let freshly grated commas fall
into the mix.
Heat in the centre of your heart.

Pour a drink, let the draft chill.
Store in a drawer
one month before editing.
Slice into stanzas.
Serve in private
on a thick and creamy page.

My father drank Pernod

Whenever you got the chance
and it wasn’t often;
you’d reminisce about France:
where your story began.

The cloudy drink at your side
rekindled Old Versailles;
a potent Baedeker guide
I was greedy to try.

I thought you’d overstated
the glamour of those days
when I in turn was fated
one half-term to retrace

your steps, in a coach party.
Déjà vu: already seen.
Every grotto, lake and tree
was snapshot in my genes.

Your ghost accompanied me
that day at the Chateau.
In mirrors you seemed happy
reflecting long ago.

New girl

Whatever happened to the new girl?
Sloe-eyed, in the dorm, reading
Farsi, buttoned up to her chin
in rose-sprigged winceyette.

We called her Susan -
easier to pronounce.
Father was an engineer.
Mother lived in a gilt frame.

Passport, Heathrow,
I have one brother.
No, she didn’t say much.

But she cried most nights.
As you do aged eleven
touching your bracelet
so far from Teheran.

Whatever happened to the new girl?

John Gohorry

JohnGohorry — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 03:51:39 CST

Chased by a bulldog

Chased by a bulldog
I say to myself Why me?
What have I done, I wonder,
to get bulldog’s attention?

The fellow next door,
the family opposite,
the derelict on the street,
why doesn’t he harass them?

He’s getting closer.
Should I try to evade him
or turn and confront my fear
which I think is well-founded?

I’ll climb a lamp-post;
he can’t get to me up there;
find a stable or barn door,
shut it firmly behind me.

Still he keeps coming.
No-one comes to my rescue.
It’s normal, I tell myself;
everyone’s chased by bulldogs.

I say to myself
It’s all about stamina.
It’s all about speed of strike
by the legs on the pavement.

I’ll turn and argue,
send him back to his owner
with a goodwill message slipped
round his neck in a dog-tag.

He’s at my shoulder;
his breath comes in great gasps,
his mouth runs with saliva.
In his eyes I see my own.

9 December 2008

More Poems

Dickpoet — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 08:21:36 CST

Debussy and the Maple Tree

a ghazal

Your dark eyes and bright soul hold tender resolution.

The trees outside my window, powerful and delicate.

Notes trip and tumble a sweet green dance,

Intricate, insistent stamp - gold shimmers sensuous leaves.

Soon this tree will flame with your passion

But today it reflects a greyer sky.

From depths a magpie bursts. A pigeon swoops.

They pass like cars at a junction - indifferent.

Should life narrow to the maple tree and Claude,

I still will have it all.

BIG ROUND EYE

EXAMINING

ENLARGING

FOCUSING ON DETAIL

SEEKING THE TRUTH

EXPOSING THE TRUTH

FOCUSING ON DETAIL

DISTORTING

DEMONISING

SEEING THE TRUTH

MISSING THE TRUTH

A MAGNIFYING GLASS

A CHILD

A Disappointed Man

Dusty words

Hum the air,

A hive disturbed.

In the manner of the grave

He is far away from me

In the dark reaches of the sea

They are all awake

Vibrating water,

The last efforts of a spent storm.

Shrivelled to blood red pea,

The moon floats away without a flicker,

An aberrant light,

A lustrous vault over

A still and silent sea.

Words

Hum the air,

A hive disturbed.

While he,

More than a little dead,

Spits in the face of God,

Then makes a race of it.

Some more recent work

Dickpoet — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 07:58:55 CST

Night Trip

We are between here and there.
The windows betray no sign;
it might be anywhere for all I know.
At night all places look the same,

just lights, streets of houses,
a few shops and stuff
too indistinct to call or name.

The mush of tyre, a glint of rail
and the moon's pale light
ghosts hedgerows, outlines trees
in white on black.

What time is it? It doesn't matter.
It could be any time or none at all;
a clutter of events,

a stream of headlights destined
for some other place. Heads droop,
ears numbed to recorded tunes
as the road rolls

and sleep will not come, just
lights lights lights,
the night passing without time,

destination's blank canvas
captured by a half dream,
imagined places
never seen.

Long Nights Return

They're back again,
those winter constellations.
Orion and the dog loom,
piercing the dark
as nights lengthen,
returning from the north
with icy breath.

The Leonids fly silent,
sky-streaking pencil points
tracing dying moments,
stars as dust
squandered in an instant.
The plough is gone,
laid up for winter

and deep in darkness
the eternal night of space
stares down:
a million million pinpoints
of unknown for us to wonder
to see such silent
mysteries of light.

The Genesis of Language

Where words once flew wild
language was born.
It missed its target,
a phrase spun or tumbled,
a misshapen bullet of verb
flew wild and failed,
ricocheted to nothing
and the world began.

Fear Death by Water

I know it will take me one day
with its heaving furrowed scowl
the wind-shriek that threatens to rend
sails to rags to blow away existence

and I know that at that time
as the water closes
the last line shall be written
and the face blurred forever
before everlasting night descends
in a hiss of silence
bowled to oblivion
beneath the storm

in that moment of forever now
the circle will close
and the sea will call back
what it was owed.

Yuko Adams Poems

yukoconut — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 05:45:27 CST

Bosons

In this gallery
the artist shows a short film.
The film isn’t ready until a visitor comes in.
The artist drags him to a room,
makes him stare at his camcorder
and asks him not to blink.

Standing in front of the gallery,
I dream of being wrapped up by colours
like sweets in cellophane.
But once stepping in,
I am taken into the room, too.
He looks at me though the lens.
I don’t want to be seen
but he wants me to be examined.

After filming, he watches me
in the computer screen.
He has a gun-shaped device in his hands.
He connects it to the PC through a cable
and starts shooting.
I ask him what he is doing.
He answers he is splashing bosons.
My face doesn’t change in the surface but
my feelings are drenched in unknown particles.
He clicks his tongue, saying I wasn’t edited.
He touches the keyboard and
types in numerical formulae.
His eyes glow.
He now realizes changes in me.
He says he cannot see any difference
but he understands it by a mathematical answer.

Abduction

I was heading homeward by bus,
checking a shopping list.
When I saw Sainsbury’s on the corner,
I raised my hand to press the bell.
Just before I touched it,
a white hand came over my shoulder
and the bell rung.
A bright orange sign flashed saying
Bus stopping.
My eyes were dazzled
and I found myself suddenly disappeared.
The owner of the hand had me;
he pushed me inside his mind perfectly.
He even tucked my clothes into his thought,
except my green woolly hat.
He left it on the seat.
He got off the bus and read my shopping list -
chicken breast, onions, tomatoes.
He giggled.
He would go to the supermarket,
get all that stuff and
start cooking with a sharp knife.
I still sat on the seat as a hat.
The pompon on the top blossomed
like an anemone.
A girl approached me and
plucked one of the petals.

Key

Whenever I make a friend,
I create a key.
I write their names in my address book
and set out to mould brass.

I met a new secretary at work.
I stole a glance at her and
watched how she typed a letter.
It stuck on my memory.

I went home and incubated her image.
I made a thin key, mimicking her fingers.
I also made it jagged
to reproduce clutter of her typing.
I put a ring on the key and
hung on a hook
like hanging fish in a cellar.
I ticked her name in the address book.

At night
I stepped toward her house.
I inserted the key into the hole and turned it.

Lines

I live inside lines.
They are black and white
and crawl and lick my outline
like a snake.
My body wants to burst sometimes
but the lines keep me inside myself.
As I cannot escape from me,
my sad memory will not go away.

I have a mobile under my bra.
When I am overpowered by my past,
it vibrates.
I take it out from my breast
and press it to my ear.
I listen to the voice.
It doesn’t sound like mine.
It’s a mixture of young and old,
sometimes words of a child.
It keeps talking,
as if there was no receiving end.
I do not speak.
My lips become white.

Spit
“Whoever puts his hand on me to govern me is an usurper and a tyrant.” by Pierre-Joseph Proudhon

When he came back,
he was drenched to the skin.
On his way home,
everyone shouted at him
and dogs barked at him.
He was wet with spit of contempt.
His hair and moustache are sodden and miserable.
So I took off his head,
throwing it in to a washing machine.
The spin started.
His face, looking at me through the round window,
was rotating.
That speeded up.
From his hair and moustache,
water splashed away.
The more he dried, the more he regained confidence.
His smile is back.
When the machine stopped,
I took his head out
and put it back to his neck.
He laughed under his own power.

Poetry ID Photos

yukoconut — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 05:12:27 CDT

Poetry ID CD - Renshi	David	Martin
Phil & Charlotte	Dick	Kim
Audience	Renshi at a close look	Nanne
Dennis	Phil	Ann
Charlotte

L-R Dick Kim DVC Yuko Phil	Bonfire on 26 Jul 2007 @ Nanne's garden	Fueling Phil
Sausages at the stake	Orange poets	Fire
Fire

Links for Inspiration

Dickpoet — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 12:20:40 CDT

Jizo photos. Jack did a workshop last week about Jizo and his Japanese vase. I found I had an very different impression than others' because I knew Jizo as a statue rather than a spiritual existence. Yuko
http://books.guardian.co.uk/poetryworkshop/story/0,,2116723,00.html
For all you gluttons for workshop ideas, Fiona Sampson has a great workshop on Listening this month, and when you have done the workshop you can submit your finished poem for possible publication on the website. Sue
Renku At some point I want to try Renku, a linked poem in Poetry ID. This website gives good overview about Renku and its history.
Members of Poetry ID can now be seen reading on YouTube. The video was shot immediately after the poems had been written in the workshop and are in a raw state, i.e. as written on the night. These can now be viewed on http:/www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUMzfd59BGM.

Natural Wonders

Dickpoet — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 10:03:23 CDT

Natural Wonders Workshop

by Sue Aldred

Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: ding dong,
Hark! Now I hear them, - ding-dong, bell.

(Ariel’s song, the Tempest, by William Shakespeare)

The workshop consists of reading the above lines from the Tempest, and looking atsome of the paintings of Arcimboldo. You can see some online at

http://www.abcgallery.com/A/arcimboldo/arcimboldo.html

The theme of the workshop is transformation. In the Middle Ages and into the modern era in Europe, things in nature were thought to have special individual properties, potentially magical, sometimes healing, sometimes destructive. For example coral was believed to have protective powers, and pearl was associated with perfection and feminine sexual power. Arcimboldo painted towards the end of the period when these beliefs were still current. He also included a vast number of realistic depictions of natural objects in his pictures, accurately observed, but not assembled with regard to scale or physical relationship. He was considered by the Surrealists in the 20th century to have been an exponent before there was a name for the genre.

Shakespeare's play the Tempest has as themes the potential and limits of human power, the use and abuse of magic, and the emotions evoked by all these.

For more (very interesting but not necessary) information on Arcimboldo, there is an article discussing his work and its background at

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/print/0,,333744177-123424,00.html

Having seen reproductions of the paintings, and read or heard the lines from Shakespeare’s Tempest, the exercise is to create a poem inspired by what you have seen.

Kitasono Workshop

DCTacitus — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 10:54:50 CDT

Kitasono Katsue 北園克衛 (1902-1978) is a Japanese avant-garde poet. I have put his twelve short poems on the table. Please select one or more poems and write a poem by the inspiration you have received from these poems.
on 10th January 2008 by Yuko
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Untitled
by Ann Copeland

The street gathers itself to a cone

where cats congregate.

Their white eyes elongate

into question marks.

And from the yellow sky

black infantry marches down.

Through the Brain

Come into my pupils and you will see
a funeral party on a hillside,
clouds racing in Odin's wind.
Though he rides on the swiftest of horses,
a still greater power impels him,
the gale roaring from riffling pages
of a red book behind the hill,
world-embracing work of the learned
who lectured once by London Wall.
Now, as we fly to friends abroad
you see the city lighting up,
cut by the plane's dark wing.

Dennis Tomlinson
I took my starting point from Kitasono's 'Forehead' but this poem is also a continuation of an earlier work of mine, 'The Apple Orchard'.

Breaktime

Lemon tart flips the coin.
The naked game reverses into next week.

Pit Viper
Her ear stares at heat,
as the tongue whips flesh mousse.

Nanne Sinclair

City
based on City 「街」

Cars shine like apples
and the reflections get in our eyes.
We have to wear sunglasses.
We hate the wax on bodywork.
On a Sunday morning
we grasp sponges in our hands
and rub bonnets, doors and roofs.
The cars have lost their sheen
and our eyes aren’t blinded any longer.

Next morning, towards the city centre,
Cars drive in from outside.
We hold sponges again
and decide to peel off their wax.
When they stop at a traffic light,
we start scrubbing the cars.
Our fear for shine is too strong,
and the bonnets, doors and roofs come off.
The drivers are stunned
like their coats being taken off.
Some sit still on the seat,
others start running on their own.
We scrabble the bodies of the cars
and throw them in the wind.

Yuko Minamikawa Adams

One Day it did not Come

The sun spins arterial blood.
Wave-clouds of light boom
the senses like guitars
while below, iguanas doze
dreaming overripe fruit
and beetles.

The pendulum hangs straight for time
that may not be measured -
years as grains of sand,
minutes as dust webbing
thread-seams of rock.

It is the season, they said.

Shadows move in the mind's eye.
A word rebounds like a whipcord
echoes its reverberation
to the stone's blindness -
a shrieking shell that explodes,
bursting the smirk of torpor.

The sun spins arterial blood and beetles.
The pendulum hangs straight;
it is the season, they said.
Shadows move in the mind's eye
bursting the smirk of torpor

and where did the river go?

Richard J. N. Copeland.

Work in Progress

Dickpoet — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 08:53:50 CDT

This is a special page to illustrate the process of creating a poem. We shall begin with one that had its genesis on the 17th February 2008.

Why did we Come?
Second draft

Why did we come?
We came as visitors, the curious ones who stopped
and walked the island's length
along its viridian lanes,
struck by the silence of green,
conversation scarce where words were surplus.

Why did we come?
We came curious, not knowing if we knew
or could ever know the power
of sky on green, the sea beyond
like something dreamed,
each to our own thoughts.

Why did we come?
We came to move on, to share the sight and sound
of one time only.
That time has gone, its moment
fleeting as a half remembered dream
and where did that go?

This is the second draft. In the original, the last line read ...and where did we go? I felt that where did that go? worked better. In the poem reproduced balow, other modifications have been made, with deletions and additions. For instance, in line 4 of the first stanza, the word 'its' has been deleted. In line 3 of the second stanza, the word 'could' has been replaced with 'might'. The full stop after 'each to our own thoughts' has been deleted and the second stanza now runs into the third without a break with the addition of the word 'so' in the first line of stanza 3. The final modification in this version is the addition of a semicolon at the end of line 5. I felt this was necessary to provide a small pause before the final line.

Why did we come?
Third draft

Why did we come?
We came as visitors, the curious ones who stopped
and walked the island's length
along viridian lanes,
struck by the silence of green,
conversation scarce where words were surplus.

Why did we come?
We came curious, not knowing if we knew
or might ever know the power
of sky on green, the sea beyond
like something dreamed,
each to our own thoughts

so why did we come?
We came to move on, to share the sight and sound
of one time only.
That time has gone, its moment
fleeting as a half remembered dream;
and where did that go?

Without a doubt, more alterations will be made before I am anywhere near satisfied with the result. Keep watching this space to see how a poem develops.

____________

Sure enough, further inspection showed a number of problems that were not obvious at first. First, there was the repetition of the word 'green' in line 5 of the first stanza and line 4 of the second. This looked clumsy. Repetition is fine where it is intentional; for instance, the constantly repeated question: 'Why did we come?' occurs at the beginning of each stanza, with minor variations; i. e., the addition of 'so' and 'after all that'. This repetition forms the essence of the poem, but the repetition of 'green' simply looked careless. As a result of this, line 4 of the second stanza has largely been rewritten.

Another repetition occurred with the word 'dreamed' in line 5 of the second stanza and 'dream' in line 5 of the third. This too has now changed.

'Along viridian lanes', Line 4 of the first stanza has changed to 'to stray viridian lanes'. This, I think, is stronger.

Why did we come?
Fourth draft

Why did we come?
We came as visitors, the curious ones who stopped
and walked the island's length,
to stray viridian lanes,
struck by the silence of green,
conversation scarce where words were surplus.

So why did we come?
We came curious, not knowing if we knew
or might ever know the power
of sky on sky reflected in the sea beyond
like something imagined,
each to our own thoughts.

So why after all that did we come?
We came to move on, to share the sight and sound
of one time only.
That time has gone, its moment
fleeting as a half remembered dream;
and where did that go?

These alterations have also tightened up the rhythm of the piece. Although the line lengths are irregular, there is still a rhythm in the words. Remember, rhythm and metre are two different things. Try reading the poem aloud and you will perhaps see what I mean.

Free verse, although it has no regular metre, should still have rhythm - the natural rhythms of speech. Without that rhythm, it is prose.

____________

Isn't it amazing what slips through the net? I failed to spot the accidental repetition of 'curious' in the 2nd line of both the first and second stanzas. This often happens and only becomes obvious after a rest and return to the work. This will now mean another rewrite to cure that particular problem.

This is a natural part of the process of writing a poem. Learn to look for these things. They are surprisingly easy to miss, as I have just demonstrated here to perfection, albeit accidentally.

____________

In this next version, the repetition has been cured by deleting the word 'curious' from line 2 in the second stanza and replacing it with 'to stare'. I think this may have improved the flow as well. The phrase 'as visitors' in line 2 of the first stanza has been replaced with 'to look'. This too, I think. improves the flow. I have also removed a comma from the end of line 3 in the first stanza, feeling it to be unnecessary in that position.

The final adjustment was to replace the semicolon at the end of line 5 in the third stanza with a comma. A pause is required here, but a semicolon I felt was a bit excessive. Here, then, is the latest version.

Why did we Come?
Fifth draft

Why did we come?
We came to look, the curious ones who stopped
and walked the island's length
to stray viridian lanes,
struck by the silence of green,
conversation scarce where words were surplus.

So why did we come?
We came to stare, not knowing if we knew
or might ever know the power
of sky on sky reflected in the sea beyond
like something imagined,
each to our own thoughts,

so why after all that did we come?
We came to move on, to share the sight and sound
of one time only.
That time has gone, its moment
fleeting as a half remembered dream,
and where did that go?

____________

I think now that the poem is more or less complete. It has been rewritten five times, but that is not unusual. Jazz Riff 2 (which see) was rewritten no less than ten times before I was satisfied with it. Although it reads like a free improvisation, it is far from being so.

For comparison, I now reproduce the first draft exactly as it was written.

Why did we come?
First draft

Why did we come? We came
as visitors, the curious ones who stopped
and walked the island's length
along its viridian lanes,
struck by the silence of green,
conversation scarce where words
were surplus.

Why did we come? We came
curious, not knowing if we knew
or could ever know the power
of sky on green, the sea beyond
like something dreamed,
each to our own thoughts.

Why did we come? We came
to move on, to share the sight and sound
of one time only.
That time has gone, its moment
fleeting as a half remembered dream
and where did we go?

Richard J. N. Copeland

Dickpoet — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 10:56:15 CST

Botticelli's Dream
For Krysia

Your sidelong glance stares
as though caught in some act
unfreezing flowers from stone
where hairstreaks tumble waves
delineating light from dark,
gold from shade.

The poppies of remembrance forget.
Full in their scarlet they cry bold,
petal-cupped around a dark core
the bittersweet of opium
dreaming the linearity
of repose induced - given.

And through this glancing moment
along the line of shoulder - over mine -
missing or failing to catch my eye
your poppy-patterned azure turns
to the scent of spring
sharp in its instant

in your eyes the blue of silk,
the tenderness of mouth,
your glance its mirror
beyond the dazzling
seal of resemblance
smiling, you come.

These Words
This poem won the David's Bookshop annual Poetry Competition on the 4th October 2007

These words are fighting for their chance to fall
on paper where they tangle, twist and melt
upon the tongue. Too soon they start to pall
and lose their power, only to be felt
by those keen ears that follow line by line
the scansion of the iamb and the beat -
that finger-tapping way of marking time,
policing rhythms, counting metric feet
while watching for the makeweight of the drop;
that fatal bump that breaks the fluid flow
of ordered lines, reducing them to slop.
Should these assembled words stand up or blow
to dust on mental winds, or coalesce
into a poem, only you may guess.

The Boilermakers
This poem came third in the David's Bookshop annual Poetry Competition on the 4th October 2007

Framed in the cylinder, the camera's instant
holds them sharp in their moment, proud
in caps and moleskins; men of hot iron
and firebrick, positioned according to rank.

The bosses in suits stand firmly on top,
swaggering supremacy stating its claim
to say: this is our creation,
yet no more proud than those below
whose hands shaped steel and drove red hot
rivets into place, each one
a weight of conscience and care for if
one should blow, men would die.

Their presence is a statement of being
placed in a circle of forged steel,
surrounded by their own work
and positioned in order in the ring
that circles its disinterested orbit
surrounding the spirits of those that lived
to the hammer's ding, dying in silence.

Now not even the steel remembers.

The Forgotten Village

Time wears each building like a shell
where bucolic darkness descends
in a shroud of autumn leaves
and houses crouch against the chill
of sinking air.

Pass by, it is easy.
The one road in has nowhere else to go
as if this is where it gave up trying
and surrendered to the finality of hills
that would have their way -
would brook no further probe
beyond the wanderings of sheep
clustered amid dreams of grass,
tumbled rocks and the derelict mill
bridling the stream that once turned
its broken wheel.

Pass on by. It's nothing
but a place that fell off time's ladder,
a new home for the city dealer
and the freelance networker.

Soon the artists and the country crafts
will move in,
giving fortune's wheel another spin.

Sanguine

So the third little piggy
built his house of bricks, rejoicing
that the wolf could not blow it down.
A happy colour then, secure if dragged
from damp-cold earth, its tint
not seen till freed and fired
to dried blood - an iron stain
of Conte crayon terracotta,
echoing the rusty nail
spears of flowering docks,
red-brown wind-swayed defiance.
Such florid insistence stands bold
to understate
a kind of permanence
promoted to a shout
of I am the colour
of your beginning
and your end, leased only
to the blood-clay
that subsumes all.
Perhaps that is its way.

This message flies

a paper plane
& as it glides so do
my thoughts as I
wonder how it will be read
or if the words cohere
to stay or lose
themselves in the morass
that is the mind's jumble -
robbed of meaning and power
to sink unheard
in an uncharted
sea

were they to rise
they might soar
& sparkle
across a lucid ocean
to shine their merit
alone
to the world
but then

perhaps not

The Fish Dock
For Tamar Yoseloff

It looked like Cannery Row as seen
by Canaletto. A hard past warmed
to romantic hues, tinting a time
that might have been in the boat-bobbing
reeking dead water dock
where fish traps waited, baited
and ready, their necks and shoulders
nodding like tethered bathers,
all lifelines taut
against the drift.

Today it is gone.
The harbour is now a marina,
the market a wine bar
and the steam plant
a high price chandlery.
The boatmen have departed,
displaced by the fortunes of a world
that pressed too close,
muscled from their moorings
by time's steady crawl,
the call that one day came.

Jazz Riff 2

Cool blown flies out

ready as 1 - 2 - 3 - send

to press that key-surge from within

easy slow to speed again

sounding that rap-rapid finger flip

tumble sequence words as music

like new coin's fresh glitter

pocket jingles in time

of tink-tap notes produced

to fly and die

in the space of one breath

and intake draws the line between

here and a heartbeat's dub that holds

all before to that to come

as sky-swoop swings up

soaring to plucked bass

reed vibrating metal tube

hints promises of sex

seduction power of music comes

over sense and yes

it feels good as it feels for now

and now is all there is

before wind-down descends

to pedal
and coda

David Van-Cauter Poems

yukoconut — Sat, 12 Jan 2008 08:11:50 CST

Ballad of Las Vegas

By night, Jack walked the Vegas Strip,
avoiding lights and brash hotels
and people pushing in the dark
with hands of silver, dreams to sell.

His pockets bare, except for three
scuffed marbles he had found somewhere
and brought to peddle on the street
to random souls who wandered there.

He caught a woman’s eye and said,
“These marbles, ma’am, you need to own.
Just plant them by your hotel bed
and in the morning they’ll have grown.

Behold this marble: see its bubbles
float, entranced, like tiny pearls.
If they’re released, they’ll multiply
to bring you limitless returns

exploding through the hotel roof,
to make a fortune in the sky,
mapped out with marbles, tumbling
like slot machines before your eyes.”

He sold them for a modest sum –
enough to buy himself a meal –
and as he ate, he thought of all
the dreams that he could beg or steal,

compact them into glass and roll
them nonchalantly down the street.
Next time you’re on the Vegas Strip,
look out for marbles at your feet.

Chasing Sunsets

Long days, long journeys
to new destinations,
hours of desert roads.

Heat rising on the road ahead
looks like puddles,
till you see it close, and it goes.

The air outside is alien –
we breathe familiar songs,
the dust of home,

as we chase sunsets,
trying to catch the final rays
in a tiny metal box,

reaching out for the reddening.
So pretty, you say,
these endings.

The night expels us
like uninvited guests
who have stayed too long.

Tomorrow we travel a new road
towards a new death,
only so we can say

we were there
and we saw
how it ended.

Edinburgh Festival Workshop

Dickpoet — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 07:58:58 CDT

Set by the ever original Phil, this is a topical workshop for you all to try...

"You have been asked to read in the middle of a performance of an act at the Edinburgh Festival. You can choose the genre of show you feature in, such as Comedy, Contemporary Music, Theatre, Visual Art, Dance, Opera, Monologue. Try to grab the attention of the audience and keep them from getting the
ice-cream they are thinking about getting." 16th August 2007

Rothko
Fudgy mud frames
a blood rectangle.

Orange lies wanton
and needy across the red.

This landscape of dreams
headaches, screams and desires
fills my lungs like muscus.

I cough so hard my feet hurt.

When I close my eyes
Purple comes down over me
like a death.

There is little space for fear,
and only the hollow sound
of my past leaving me.

When I die I will become a circle,
bland, and free from the colours of pain.

Charlotte Harrison

Stage

In the middle of a stage,
Two trees stand.
I put a laundry line between them.
When night comes,
I rip the sky with a knife.
The planets around the sun
drop onto the stage.
I pick them up and put them
on the line with plastic pegs.
I give stones to children, asking them
to break the planet.
If anybody is successful,
I can give them a present.
They start throwing stones to
the moon, Neptune, Mars,
but nothing will crack.

Yuko Adams
(Sorry, Phil. I wrote as a visual artist rather than a poet.)

Words at the Mayfest

The band ends its strum & strut
and the poets come on

(or at least one of them)

and the men look
to their empty glasses

the women to their mobiles

and they all get up and walk

to the bar

and the process is repeated
- a band comes on - goes off

and the poet is left

to gibber unheard
words spacing an interval

between acts

unaccompanied -

a sideshow.

They came to hear the longhaired boys,
guitars and amps. When the words came on

they only wanted beer & chat

not the poets
with their verbiage

not until the drugs kicked in

together with the alcohol

...then they listened

Richard J. N. Copeland.

Book Workshop

Dickpoet — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 12:48:17 CDT

First poem in a book
You are commissioned by a publisher to write a first poem in a book. The publisher has already decided the reader and/or the design of the book and you have to write a poem that is suitable for their idea. Pick one of the paintings and look at the book and/or the reader there. Write a poem which you think will convey the concept the publisher has in mind. Remember if the publisher is impressed by your work, they are more likely to commission you to write more poems in the book. Yuko Adams on 31 May 2007

T.C’s Office
by Kim Simmons-Hurn
based on Reading with Globe by Michael Craig-Martin

It wasn’t the tax pages torn from loose-leaf files
that got to me…
the business books, fading letterheads,
your stationary–
nor the black brief cases
I’d emptied a year before,
or your bobbled fleece and raincoat
hanging by the storeroom door.

It wasn’t the certificates still on the wall,
the desk drawer that never would close,
or the photo frames you chose
for pictures of the kids…
but the notelet that unexpected fell–
a hurried memo to yourself
dated May 2000… when you were well.

THE PIERROT’S PROLOGUE
by Ann Copeland
based on Pierrot with Book by Juan Gris

Welcome reader to our medley of delight,
We have pages for both old and young.
Sip at our words whether rude or polite,
Let them dance in your throat and cartwheel on your tongue.

Sample our fancies whether solemn or light,
Let them nestle in your head till they’re grown.
Suffer our passions born in love or in spite,
Let them sweep through your body, take root in your bone,

So that when you close this book, each song it sung
Stays with you on the journey of your life.
With our poems for friends you need never feel alone
But have joy in the day and comfort through the night.

Dennis Tomlinson
based on Cecil Court, London W.C.2. (The Refugees) by R.B. Kitaj

Cloud like a grey house:
red roof and white walls exhale
their evening spirit.

Ceiling
by Yuko Adams
based on The Basket of Fruit by Mark Gertler

The ceiling in my bedroom can easily be opened
as long as nothing is left on top.
People are careless.
They don't mind about putting things over my head.
They sometimes leave bananas, apples
and a tea cup.
I'm not strong enough to push them up.
I cannot get out.
Scent of an apple comes through the gap.
I breathe it in.
I want to breathe it out to the open air.
But the apple rigidly sits on the ceiling.

The Female Reader
by Sue Aldred
based on The Lovers Surprised by John Flaxman

The female reader turns away
from the young man's ardour;
leans like a crocus to the light
of the book. For she was reading
of Eloise and Abelard: their bodies joined,
and both were shamed.

The female reader feels desire
like Eloise; desire only in words.
Her lover's breath, his searching gaze, his voice
makes discord out of music.
His sighs, "my own, my own,"
speak of the bargain. "Just be mine.
What need then of the book?"

The female reader knows that if
he wins her, even before her eyelids close
his dream will wilt her.

A Portrait of Philip Larkin
by Richard J. N. Copeland
based on The Ring: Tim Thomas 2000 by Thomas Kilpper

A hard one to please in a bookish world
with authors stacked from Mao to Marx
(stuff that he would not have read)
like that Bible with its fustian words
of thou shalt do and thou shalt not;
a mumbo-jumbo paradox
of contradictions, meaningless
to one with no religion.

Books are a load of crap, he wrote
while living with them, stacked above
his balding head and impish grin;
the stuff of life in his closed world
of printed words - the London train
that took him South, some scribbled lines,
a poem born on wheels of steel
past grimy bricks and cooling towers.

His inspiration dwelt within
the commonplace, the corner pub
with pints and chat and overheard
mosaics of the mundane lives
that he would elvevate to art
upon those pages, drawn in verse,
life portraits of the ones he met
that never could have known him.

Writer's block workshop

lubetkinsue — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 09:04:20 CDT

Your juices won't flow. It feels as though you will never write again. Or the things that used to get your writing going, just won't do it any more. You've got writer's block.
If you're not suffering from it at this moment, cast your mind back to the last time you were blocked. Imagine the block as a figure, a person, a voice, or an image...it might be anything. Write something from the point of view of what's blocking you. Jot down a few things it might say to you.
Or....put down what freaks you out about not writing. And carry on from there.
Or....is there a physical sensation when you think of being blocked? Let that be your starting point.
(Don't forget if you start getting too uncomfortable, get up, take a walk around, drink some water, talk to a friend)

Sue Aldred, 20th June

Old Knebworth Lane

In Old Knebworth Lane
I walked alone
under the black
sky with its stars
in a wonderful order.
And as I looked up,
deep under the stars
was
God.

Dennis Tomlinson

Narcissa

At the stream’s edge she is lying on oak-tree roots,
her arms in the icy current,
trying to cool the fever of her wishes.

She is a tyrant to her boyfriends.
The marks on her wrists state her displeasure.
She is a princess, queen in the making,
and doesn’t yet know the meaning of second-best.

It is a fast stream, that comes from the heights
of Dinas Bran. She can see through it
the shapes of the boulders and fishes.
Her scars are soothed in the flood she can’t measure.
How can she be anything but beautiful?

She says it is the expectation of others
that makes her scream, no, I am not that.
Those lovers, those enemies, wanting her to be
something before she can tell her own mind.
Searching her reflection she finds a worse fate:
no-one is there.

Sue Aldred

Poem To Go Here

An opening that’s
sharp and pointed,
without stabbing you repeatedly in the eye, saying
look at me… and stop screaming.

No, it must have subtle touches
that stroke you like a curious gorilla,
a simile or two,
that memory of the rain.

Nothing stolen from that book you’re reading:
your own voice, with the dull parts
carefully omitted.

It has to get from A to B
without repeating A or B
and going via C.

It must not have long, overcomplicated, prosaic lines with too many syllables.

To be good enough for competition,
no rhyming or repetition –
definitely no repetition –
with words that skim from line
to line with effortless abandon
after the fourth draft.

Nothing too heavy, nor pleased with itself,
not too many unwieldy,
expressive, over-emphatic
adjectives,
a fixed focus,
a sense of purpose,
a sense of form,
a sense of fun,
a sense of truth,
a sense of rhythm –
use all five senses,

words that bite (for the love of God, no clichés),
real emotions,
sensitive thought,
avoiding lists…
and end with a twist.

Don’t swear, and avoid all that
postmodern shit.

...

No more than one side of A4.

David Van-Cauter

Swallowed

With a notebook under my eyes
I am talking to myself.
My words drip from my lips onto the paper,
making rigid stains.
I switch on my computer.
The white screen gleams.
It feels I’m in a waiting room
in a train station.
I type my words and the letters follow
like ants.
But when I close the file
they are swallowed into a tiny byte
and become invisible.

Outside girls are laughing.
Their voices are bouncy.

Yuko Adams

Not Touching

It comes over me
like the flatterned muffling
squark of Blackbird flight
left to right across my cheek.

My elbow will not bend
to touch; thumb too numb to feel
the not touching touching
you left all over me.

I've carried the scar struck
silver on my skin
it's dry weight
flaking falling and reforming
time and time again.

Water peels me
holds me close
turns me blue to red
my tingling palms
retrace the mark
where I wish you were not
not touching.

Charlotte Harrison