Eternal Father Bless our Land, This Land of Hope and Glory, guts and gut-wrenching stories May we be free not cheapened or weakened as we seek a life of seeds and flowers Keep us free from evil powers Be our light through countless hours Surround us like oceans do ships Give stability to all who make and made the trip From island to island Guard us with thy mighty hand Clasp hearts like the hands of our Grandparents and parents aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings We know your smile is more than stars winking, sunny days, and undisturbed rest On choppy seas we did and will not fret Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set; God, who made us mighty, make us mightier yet, Out of many one people, all are blessed to bless Out of many one people, all are blessed to bless God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet. Vision set like moulds and starting blocks as your will renders To our leaders, great defender Grant true wisdom from above May Justice, truth be ours forever, Jamaica, land we love, Jamaica and the land called home
Adrian McKenzie is a poet from Stoke-on-Trent, UK.
‘Rivers connect people and places. They carry water and nutrients to areas all over the globe…to travel down rivers of this length is to travel through different languages, societies and cultures’.
(Neil Leadbeater & Monica Manolachi)
Here’s an interesting and original idea. Take two prolific writers and poets, both of whom have a passion for the natural beauty of rivers. Let them create evocative literary pieces concerning two of their favourite European rivers, thus engaging a global audience into their emotional ties to aforementioned rivers; also allowing readers to feel as if they are with the authors on their personal journey. Thus, Edinburgh-based writer Neil Leadbeater and Romanian lecturer, Monica Manolachi set out to achieve this ambitious goal and completely triumphed within their creative endeavours.
Let’s begin with Neil; an author, essayist, poet and critic, based in Edinburgh, Scotland. Neil’s emotional connection to the Rhine began over sixty years ago, as he accompanied his parents down the river. According to Neil, ‘it was an idyllic time and one never to be forgotten’. The 765 miles of the Rhine flow through five countries: Switzerland, the Netherlands, Germany, France and Austria. Neil begins his poetic journey in the Dutch city of Delft.
‘Let’s go to Delft: Home of Spierinex tapestries, Italian-glazed earthenware And Delft Blue China’.
Cool, I’m only four lines in and I’ve learned two things already. The Rhine flows through Delft and I now know more about the Spierinex tapestries than I did before. I also realise that I’ve seen some of these at Warwick Castle. What else about Delft, Neil?
‘Looking at Egbert van der Poel’s paintings, Hands over ears, We can almost hear that thunderclap When tons of gunpowder Stored in barrels Exploded into fire’.
Okay, I’m now au fait with the paintings of Egbert van der Poel, especially those that depict the ‘Great Thunderclap’ of 1654, when barrels of gunpowder exploded and destroyed half the city. My ever-curious mind is loving this intake of knowledge.
‘Crossing canals, in your blue dress and matching heels, your mind is full of fragile things authentic and collectable’. (‘Delft’ by Neil Leadbeater)
My mind is now peaked by who this woman may be. I definitely want to know more. But then, I’m nosey. Neil continues his journey through The Netherlands and beyond. Perhaps we might like to explore the Rhine online to learn more about it? Neil’s poem, ‘The River on-line’ suggests otherwise.
It’s not the same river. It can’t escape from your smartphone. It’s out of its element with nowhere to run.
You can’t shake hands with it, let it in. You can’t dive into it or go for a swim.
Let’s move on to Germany and see Neil’s feelings on the city of Bonn, with a poem of the same name.
‘A seat of government and a seat of learning’ please be seated. Zuccalli’s baroque Elector’s palace housing the university. My father and I, standing in front of the yellow façade. Thirty-five windows on the middle floor. The symmetry beautiful, the measurement exact. When I grow up, I decide that I want to be an architect.
An informative opening, followed by some lines of personal remembrance – a key point captured in the mind of a young boy, relayed now for us to appreciate and ponder. This style of poetry continues for the whole journey; namely some information to tickle the mind, intertwined with personal memories of key locations along the flow of the Rhine – memories that clearly mean a lot for the poet and allow the reader into the river’s importance for him.
Moving our attention across toward Monica, we learn that she is a lecturer in English and Spanish at the University of Bucharest in Romania. As with Neil, Monica’s attraction to the chosen river stems from childhood, when her parents would take her to Sulina, a location at the mouth of the river Danube. We learn that the Danube is the second longest river in Europe, covering 1,770 miles from Germany to the Black Sea and a total of ten countries. Monica’s poetic approach sometimes mirrors Neil’s, yet hers often flows freely into a heavily visual, creative poetic form. If I had to compare, I would say that Neil’s reminds me of beautiful, detailed oil paintings, while Monica’s sometimes flow effortlessly into impressionism, offering a deep visionary, imaginative feel to them. Sometimes, the words of the two poets merge together as one, like…well, like two rivers. Anyway, more of that later, let’s sample Monica’s literary expressions within the poem, ‘Kepler’s Ghost on the Stone Bridge’.
‘A crater on Mars, another on the Moon, a street in Regensburg and more in many other cities, a metro station on U1 of the Vienna U-Bahn, a university in Linz, where I wrote ‘harmonices mundi’, a space telescope and thousands of habitable zone planets – Guys, thanks for this growing recognition’.
Okay, astronomy…cool! I’m already fascinated, as Kepler and his laws of planetary motion have been known to me since I was a young boy learning the layout of the heavens above. This poem takes me back to my youth (akin to a young Neil Leadbeater in Bonn, staring up in fascination at the baroque palace). Reading into the rest of the poem, I wasn’t aware of the specific religious persecution that Kepler was always in fear of, as he lived a bit beyond the main years of religious turmoil between Protestant & Catholic Europe, so my brain nods as another piece of information creeps in. Meanwhile, in Hungary, Monica offers a beautiful poetic moment in time.
‘We advance on the water as the planet rows through the universe. The river is so dark and you like a beacon, among the tiny stars, cannot stop laughing. (‘One Night in Gyor’ by Monica Manolachi)
The short poem paints an iconic moment in time, leaving the reader/viewer both intrigued and fascinated to know more. That’s me being nosey again, but you must admit that these poets are creating some intriguing visuals with their words. In Budapest, Monica offers another imaginative piece to savour with her poem, ‘Kertmozi’, again to leave the reader delightfully intrigued.
‘Like an open codex In the middle of a cloister room, You float on the river of time Throwing the crowns you receive To the souls beneath the water’.
Each poem is written in English and then translated into Romanian by Monica. It’s clear that both poets have a way of expressing wide-ranging thoughts onto the page – some informative and clearly etched out skilfully in ‘literary marble’, while other pieces flow with imagination and visual dexterity across the pages of this book. For me, a strong aspect of poetry is for the creator(s) to supply my mind with any excuse to close my eyes and simply be there…on the page with the author(s) as they open up their minds, hearts and souls. This fabulous book achieves precisely this.
You can purchase a copy of Journeys in Europehere or email Neil direct: neil.leadbeater1@virginmedia.com
You can be the best: You can get the girl, You can make millions. Learn like lovers learn: Memorise this list then Memorise that list then Memorise the Stars in the sky. I will show you how to grow. These are the exact seeds you need to sow.
Cling to the Chaos
Water makes mortar. Mortar makes walls. Walls make houses. Houses make water. Water makes mortar.
Tough Men
Sometimes people die and Sometimes they do not. Life is the strangest game I Have ever played: You get wet then You dry yourself then You get wet again but Now the towel is wet so You just stand there dripping on the floor.
Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. He lives in Bristol, England. His poetry has been published in ‘Dream Noir’, ‘Home Planet News’, and ‘Scars Publications’. Twitter/Instagram
I’d always loved flowers and you surrounded me with them. Those numerous bouquets would bring me joy, you said.
And now the heart of me is filled with your flowers, so many flowers scenting my face, engulfing me in a multi coloured glory of fragile petals.
And now
that you’ve left me for the last time I have flowers to spare and I think of you leaving me flowers
and now
I shall take them outside, let them follow you out and wait for the butterflies to visit my last dying bouquet.
Endless
Endless that’s how it seemed a childhood lasting forever, shining teenage years never to turn into grey adulthood surely and then middle age speeding up now and by then we knew. We knew not everyone made it, that life goes on but not for everyone. We knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing lasts forever.
Toby
Toby was a jug back in the day. He was of his time an old man then fashionably dressed. Now he’s ageless and more difficult to characterise. Animal, vegetable, mineral, alien, any or all of them however re-shaped however mishandled he still feels like Toby and still he’s of his time.
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud ‘War Poetry for Today’ competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review and So It Goes. Find Lynn on her website and Facebook
You can find more of Lynn’s work here on Ink Pantry.
While leaving a party this person put on their houndstooth coat and looked down at their shoes (paused), but the metronome of partygoers kept time a couple scooted past but even bumping the shoegaze personified did not interrupt their ESP conversation with the houndstooth doormat but to be honest that blankness was probably the pattern on the doormat cancelled the coat and, space case, suddenly stuck in the magnetic repulsion, their mind was erased and the silence was more of a bubble where ESP is impossible and psychology itself is meaningless the cosmological equivalent of a mental singularity forming at the Lagrange Point inside a quasar and the wormhole that expelled them was either a laugh in the kitchen or the slush stain on the doormat’s houndstooth offering a sliver of detail to the un-narrativity and imagine if they had not come back then the party-thrower would have had to put a guitar pedal under the person’s toes and run patch cables to the bedrooms and turned up the amp, turned down the stereo, called clear
Always something that needs to be kept from someone, and so I stay quiet
Always a truth I would tell you that might feel like a lie
A room filled with enemies or ex-lovers, a boat on fire in the middle of the ocean, my house at the edge of the flood
Find the room where I kissed you for the first time
Find the stretch of highway where the children were murdered, were buried by their father
Look in all directions and call whatever you see America
I am just beyond the edge of it, waiting
vines, tangled with frost
no fear because you’re pretty sure it’s a dream, this silence, this late afternoon room with the shadows of trees climbing the walls, dust caught in sunlight, child facedown on the bed you sit at the foot of, your oldest son, crying softly, dying, which is a weight left unspoken, air thick with the taste of metal, of sweat, of the fear you thought was missing, and you can’t get warm enough and you have no words
you wake up lost in an empty house
sound of ragged breathing
beneath the slow drift of sunlit clouds
and the heavy buzz of bees and the slamming of doors
wait until the rain has passed
until the smothering heat has returned
and why would you spend every second of every day being christ and what will you prove by ridding your lawn of all weeds?
sit in the car on a wednesday afternoon, ask your wife if there’s anything she wants to tell you and then pretend to believe her answer
remind yourself that poems are only clues
vallejo is dead and the world still continues
pollock’s bones cannot be broken any more
it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep trying
(the tools of the trade are the head and the heart)
the plague years, but not without warning
the false king, who lies about everything while the assassin waits patiently, because history takes time
these shallow graves are endings, yes, but only of their own stories
you grow up in a dying town in a bankrupt state
you understand empty fields and the claustrophobia of hills pushing in from all directions
you understand the suicides who leave no notes, because words are their own form of failure
because actions mean nothing without resolution
if all that’s left at the end of each day is silence, then let us laugh to pass the time
if time is all we have to truly call our own, then let us gather as much as we can
let us forever burn down the palaces of fools
the other prayer
or darker rooms or distant laughter or maybe just the bitter hum that trails behind the neverending stream of desperate days
rainsoaked flag at half-mast in the courtyard on some grey monday afternoon
man says it needs to burn
says he wants to cast a shadow, maybe just make a fist or pull a trigger
ends up in a field of ghosts
believes in the lesser mercies
bare trees and empty wires against a dead twilight sky
says he’s sick of this town says he’s sick of this state but his hands are nailed to the life he’s made
holds his children hostage
paints white circles on a white canvas and calls it art
says it’s a portrait of christ or an effigy of his father and he says there’s never anything out here but time to waste
says let’s just pull the goddamn house apart board by board and call it good
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications) and A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (2020 Kung Fu Treachery Press).
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.