Poetry Drawer: A Windrush Prayer by Adrian Mckenzie

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.

Facebook
Instagram
Bless Yuh Art
7 On The Back
Soundcloud
YouTube

Books From The Pantry: Journeys in Europe by Neil Leadbeater & Monica Manolachi reviewed by Kev Milsom

‘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 Europe here or email Neil direct: neil.leadbeater1@virginmedia.com

Poetry Drawer: A Tear On A Hamster’s Cheek: Cling To The Chaos: Tough Men by Dominik Slusarczyk

A Tear on a Hamster’s Cheek

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

Poetry Drawer: The Last Bouquet: Endless: Toby by Lynn White

The Last Bouquet

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.

Poetry Drawer: Houndstooth Gamma Burst Maybe by Terry Trowbridge

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

Terry Trowbridge’s poems have appeared in:
The New QuarterlyCarouselsubTerrainpaperplatesThe Dalhousie ReviewuntetheredQuail BellThe Nashwaak ReviewOrbisSnakeskin PoetryLiterary Yard, Gray Sparrow, CV2Brittle StarBombfireAmerican Mathematical MonthlyAoHaMCanadian Woman Studies, The MathematicalIntelligencer, The Canadian Journal of Family and Youth, The Journal of HumanisticMathematicsThe Beatnik CowboyBorderlessLiterary Veganism, and more. His lit crit has appeared in ArielBritish Columbia ReviewHamilton Arts & LettersEpistemeStudiesinSocialJusticeRampike, and The/t3mz/Review. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first writing grant, and their support of so many other writers during the polycrisis.

Poetry Drawer: If Everything Is Maria: vines, tangled with frost: beneath the slow drift of sunlit clouds: (the tools of the trade are the head and the heart): the other prayer by John Sweet

If Everything Is Maria

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.