Poetry Drawer: Dogs Don’t Need Aniseed Like I Didn’t Need Poems by Jenny Middleton

The night our dog gorged herself
      on boiled sweets and lost
all interest in the scent of meat —
      chewing and chewing the aniseed
flavoured candy papers into a ball
      and eying me with the glazed resoluteness
of an addict

I saw myself
   when I didn’t write —
too full and crushing the poems
    that found me into the street’s shadows
even as their journeys were rising
    beneath my feet —

or else I stuffed them inside letting
     their verses sing in and out
of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing —
     licking the space between
meaning and feeling
    to thinner and thinner slivers

until I finally let them tumble away
     from me like beetles flicking
through wet grass and into the throats
     of magnolias, useless and rolling
in the stickiness of scent.

The night our dog gorged herself
      on boiled sweets and lost
all interest in the scent of meat —
      chewing and chewing the aniseed
flavoured candy papers into a ball
      and eying me with the glazed resoluteness
of an addict

I saw myself
   when I didn’t write —
too full and crushing the poems
    that found me into the street’s shadows
even as their journeys were rising
    beneath my feet —

or else I stuffed them inside letting
     their verses sing in and out
of my other thoughts — their sounds glowing —
     licking the space between
meaning and feeling
    to thinner and thinner slivers

until I finally let them tumble away
     from me like beetles flicking
through wet grass and into the throats
     of magnolias, useless and rolling
in the stickiness of scent.

Jenny is a working mum and writes whenever she can amid the fun and chaos of family life. Her poetry is published in several printed anthologies, magazines and online poetry sites. Jenny lives in London with her husband, two children and two very lovely, crazy cats. You can read more of her poems at her website

You can find more of Jenny’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Feeding the Meter by Jerome Berglund 

She posts notices around town, throughout local papers, appeals for help in the investigation, promises a reward for any information leading to recovery, or apprehension of the party responsible for disappearance. Language civil, urgent, pleading. All couched in iambic pentameter. From the milling crowds, through blinds, across different sundry streets the whole of Olympus stares back at her pitifully, eyes grim with knowledge, mute to a person.

see something
say nothing
unwaxed floss
lips’ crude
stitching

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika.

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You can find more of Jerome’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: Unfamiliar things: A pedestrian animal: The courtyard: London, Toronto: Time before motion by DS Maolalai

Unfamiliar things

it’s tough – walking dublin
with my wife now.
every turn a memory;
some other woman’s place.
like the breaking of eggs
open badly at breakfast
and watching the yellow
as it fries into white.

we get coffee one morning –
I’ve had coffee before. I drink
a lot of coffee – often on dates.
or movies. ones I’ve seen
and other ones
which someone didn’t feel
like watching.
or parks. jesus, or parks.

her hands get cold –
she doesn’t wear gloves
and likes to put her hands
in my pocket. I don’t think
anyone’s done that. or wait –
no; someone did.
does it with someone else now.
or not. doesn’t matter. we all move

and this is what comes
out of traveling, seeing
such unfamiliar things. everything
becomes familiar. going to spain
and getting a different mcdonalds.
this burger a little like that one.

A pedestrian animal

sitting out Wednesday
on a North Dublin balcony.
watching pedestrians
as they walk early quarantine.

it’s remarkable sitting; no-one ever
looks up – not in the whole time
that I’m watching. invisible,
being here, sitting so
high. you could be walking
beneath falling pianos
or under the most marvellous
architecture. mankind, I’m afraid,

is a pedestrian animal. very ground level
like dogs around
corners. I watch all the movement,
the steadiness
of legs. the natural gait
of the very best rowers. all minds
on ahead, not around.

The courtyard

life given colour
like blood in spat toothpaste.
the windows around me
all shining white squares
as a lantern string hung
through a garden for chinese
new year. flitting thin skins
across bonnets
of cars, all gauze
and hung willow-
branch curtains;
the occasional silhouette
standing behind them.
moving about,
struggling with a blindcord.

London, Toronto

I do wonder sometimes
what old loves
are doing. it’s weakness –
please pardon
a taste for nostalgia.

sometimes worry
I’ll see them
in the street
or in coffee shops,
though of course
most are elsewhere,
and are beautiful
as elsewhere always
is. that is to say

not very beautiful.
London, Toronto –
warts on the lip
of a landscape. I finish this poem,
check errors and alter
some language. go into
the sitting room
to talk to you.
you are in there,
beautiful as here.

Time before motion

time before motion
and time after
motion. this –
each moment
a wonderful
moment. a car parked
in neutral – the clutch
like small rocks
under pressures,
waiting for ice
to grow hot. a cat
crouched at the edge
of a countertop –
coil spring and ball-
legged intention.
the language you find
at beginnings
of novels – the stretching
of arms into poetry,
before obligations and plot.
like dreams. the leg,
clicking down
like machinery brought
to motion. the bird
on a fencepost
and startled – the instant it falls
on its wings.

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022).

You can find more of DS’ work here on Ink Pantry.

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Poetry Drawer: Spring Storm by LaVern Spencer McCarthy


           A paragraph of birds before the storm
           foretells its fury to a startled world.
           Above the mountains, cloud novellas form
           with thunder syllables and lightning hurled
           as markers, that explorers later on
           might read the pages cinders left behind.
           Then falls the rain. With all pretensions gone,
            the wind inscribes its will on humankind.

               At last, the tempest closes with a sigh.
               A final chapter lingers in the dale,
               caresses drooping flowers. From on high
               an epic rainbow signifies farewell.

                The tale is told. The book has blown away.
                Thus, ends the story of a summer day.

LaVern Spencer McCarthy loves to write short stories and submit them to magazines and other publications. She has written and published twelve books of poetry and fiction.

Her work has appeared in Writers and Readers Magazine; Meadowlark Reader; Agape Review; Bards Against Hunger; Down in The Dirt; The Evening Universe; Fresh Words Magazine; Wicked Shadows Press; Midnight Magazine; Pulp Cult Press, Metasteller and others. She is a life member of Poetry Society of Texas. A poem she wrote was nominated for the 2023 Push Cart Prize.



Poetry Drawer: In the Kitchen: Glut: Soir De Paris: The Rejects Club: The Changeover by Lauren Foster

In the Kitchen

All morning
Nanna’s kneads
pummels and bangs
make the cutlery
rattle and jump
in the drawer below.

She places a yellow
gingham tea towel
over the basin, leaves
the mixture to rise
like a mushroom
in the dark,
beats it
back down,
shapes it into balls,
waits once more.

Oven hot,
a yeasty aroma wafts
throughout the house.
I drool at the thought
of slabs of butter
on freshly baked crust.

Nanna won’t even
let me try one.
These baps
are as round
as Aunty Cynthia
and just as heavy.

These baps
are harder
than Nanna’s
Be-ro book
rock buns.

Nanna won’t even
put them
on the roof
of the outside loo.

She says
they will make
the birds
fall from the sky.

Glut

First week back, final year
at Bradwell C of E Infant’s,
the sort of day
when there’s been a
slight chill to the morning air.

Nanna waits at the gates.
Instead of the ice-cream shop
or the Post Office
we head to The Hills,

up worn limestone steps
by Rachel’s house,
past kind Mrs Law’s
who left to have a baby,
past the bit
where the brook
emerges from Hades,
past the beech trees
that will produce
a bumper mast
later in the Autumn,

up, up, up
to the top of the world
where gorse, rabbits
heather and sheep cohabit,

along to the ridge
where the Gliding Club
hangs out, turn left
towards Rebellion Knoll,
and onto Brough Lane.

Nanna pulls out
two carrier bags
from her pockets.

We pluck the plumpest,
sweetest, sun smooched
berries, cram them
into our mouths,
deep purple gorgeousness
bursts onto our tongues,
smears our faces
and stains our lips
so they look like
punk rockers’ makeup.

Two bags full later
we continue towards Brough,
then up Stretfield
and back to Bradda
before the sun sets,

get washing the dark treasure for
jam, jelly, crumbles, vinegar.

That I will later that night
have bad guts
does not diminish
the joy of the glut.

Soir De Paris

This miniature bottle,
with its Art Deco design,
is more precious to me
than the sapphires
which share its colour.

Empty now,
I used it up
before I was old enough
to even go courting.

Grandad bought it for you
before a show in Sheffield,
a little luxury
on a manual worker’s wage.

Did you ever use it?
Or did you save it for best
like the unworn dresses
which hung in your wardrobe?

The warm amber
and bergamot scent lingers
though, and every now
and then I unscrew the lid,
take a hit.

The Rejects Club

Baked beans and a
cheese and onion roll
every weekday dinner,
bar Monday’s Sunday
leftovers.

I walk home to eat.
It’s only five minutes.
Bradwell Junior School
canteen does not cater
for vegetarians.

Besides, all I ever did
was sit in the Young
Ornithologists Club
drawing owls and kingfishers
with the other rejects.
Nanna doesn’t know

what else to feed me,
so every weekday dinner,
bar Monday’s Sunday
leftovers, it’s
baked beans and a
cheese and onion roll.

Pastry crisp and golden,
the mouthwatering
anticipation of a melted
cheesy middle,
beans slowly heated up
on the gas hob
just as I like them, served
in a green and white
vaguely hexagonal dish.

I love it,
it’s my favourite, but
every weekday dinner,
bar Monday’s Sunday
leftovers, eventually
I have to say

NO MORE!

The Changeover

‘It changes you forever, but you are changing forever anyway’ – Margaret Mahy

I am sat by the window
with the view of Rebellion Knoll.

Grandad knows
he may as well talk to a phantom.

Nanna’s in the kitchen cooking tea.
Oven chips, processed peas.
Fish fingers for me,
Finny haddock for them.
She shoos the cats off the worktop,
warbles along with Radio 2.

Regular as the fish van,
once a week
after I’ve got off the bus
I go up Town Lane
to the library
in the old Methodist schoolroom,
check out the fold-out shelves
for new titles. Sometimes
I am the only browser.

The squeak of sensible shoes
on Parquet flooring,
a faint trace of coffee
mornings, Christmas Fairs,
Girl’s Brigade, end-of-term plays
and kid’s birthday parties I got invited to
only from their parents’ sense of duty.

I take my stash to the desk
to be stamped without
making eye contact, renew
one book over and over again.

Lauren Foster is a writer, musician and artist based in Charnwood in the UK Midlands. Published in The Journal, Leicester Literary Review, DIY Poets and more. Graduate of the MA Creative Writing at University of Leicester. Poet in residence on The Kindness Project in autumn 2023. Drummer and vocalist with The Cars that Ate Paris, a garage-punk band. 

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You can find more of Lauren’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: twelve-hour daze: Driveway: A Heron Jesus: The Not-Quite Blankness: Jesse and Andrew by James Croal Jackson

twelve-hour daze

you work like you owe
something to the clock
the boss the bills

you sleep through alarm
and leave a kiss on her cheek
a post-it note

you drive home in the dark
the sun already gone like a lover
who left you for someone else

houses on the side
of the road cardboard cutouts
of a life you don’t have

you park behind her car
she sleeps in a bed
too big too cold too late

Driveway

You say depression
revs its engine when

leaves change. It’s easy
to hear outside your door.

Mine means walking
the same driveway every

day until colours fade,
then looking down

to find them
in a hole.

A Heron Jesus

I could be walking
on water down

the beach minding
my own business

a heron Jesus
and still at the splash

of your all
encompassing wingspan

I would not know
the difference

between a wave
and awash

The Not-Quite Blankness

I’m desperate to feel something
even as I see nothing in this moment but
the buzz & chatter of the city & the wind
as it crawls up my spine like a coyote
nosing into a garbage can. The poem
does not read like memory.

Jesse and Andrew

were two good friends in Los Angeles,
and in last night’s dream, Andrew announces
he quit acting, though we knew him as a screenwriter,
because he found success in Ohio, and thinking back,
in reality, we were journeying toward the same adolescent
dream, green stars, and we pursued when we were heartbroken,
worn-out, reckless, and last I saw Andrew he stuffed quarters
into the jukebox at gold-lit Birds, repeating Sussudio, commenting
on every woman at the bar, and I didn’t speak up. And Jesse had
returned that day from Thailand. He was sad and I was in love.
I had a chance to see him again– last fall, New York– but he has
a kid now and I could not muster a bus, or to revisit reminiscing
the dreams we shared, what we had to wake up from
during our long, separate searches for meaning.

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Ghost City Review, Little Patuxent Review, and Lamplit Underground. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

You can find more of James’ work here on Ink Pantry.

Poetry Drawer: After a Sleep by Johny Takkedasila

After a sleep
Along with tangled hair
To unravel yesterday’s pain
It takes time.

Open eyelids slowly
Remember
Broken dreams bit by bit
And stitch them up.

Fix the body,
Lift earth with your feet,
Words of glass wings
That hurt heart
Must be separated from body.

For survival,
For living
A sad string wrapped around body
Let go like snake
Shedding its skin.

After sleep,
Find yourself,
Know your path, destination and walk.

Johny Takkedasila is an Indian Telugu Poet, Writer, Novelist, Critic, Translator and Editor born on 08.06.1991 in Pulivendula, Andhra Pradesh, India. His literary journey, which began as a Telugu poet, has seen the publication of 26 books.

He has received numerous awards for his contributions. The Central Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar for 2023 (National Award) was awarded to Vivechani, a criticism book in the Telugu language.

His poetry has been featured in many international anthologies, and his stories and poetry have found a place in international magazines. In addition to writing in Telugu, Hindi, and English, he is also involved in translation.

His literary style appears to aim at making readers contemplate and sensitize society through a compelling narrative. His other works Tiny Treasures, Puberty, Kattela Poyyi, Siva Reddy Kavitvam Oka Parisheelana, Akademi Aanimutyalu, Tella Rommu Nalla Rommu, Nadaka and Soochna were published by Ukiyoto Publishing House.

Poetry Drawer: I have met a man who used to smile only: You will change by Nikollë Loka


I have met a man who used to smile only

I have met a man who used to smile only,
before he repented caught in guilt.
I have met a man who used to be happy simply in vain,
without ever explaining himself
why the world bursts out in tears.

I have asked him how does he know the world,
which seems upside down!
And after every question I have received tens of answers
that convinced me not!

So I have waited that one day he would ask himself,
simply in vain a question made public!
But I was afraid he would not reply,
so I have run and in the silence,
I have seen the world undressed, naked!


You will change

You will change
what is the point of an evening that comes,
and your shadow and the end of a day that leaves,
when the sun stays distant and the moon does not draw near.
The dusk stops for a while waiting to decay,
the dusk falls in the darkness the horizons close in the meantime,
the absences collapse in nothingness.
Slowly even your shadow abandons you,
and here comes the hour when there is no evening left!
What the dusk is speaking today,
everyone thinks is meant for tomorrow,
a new dawn where you have to change
and you will change no matter what!


Nikollë Loka was born in Sang of Mirdita on March 25th, 1960; graduated as a teacher at Luigj Gurakuqi University of Shkodra; Master’s degree in Pedagogy at the University of Tirana, Doctorate in History of Education at the University of Tirana. He worked as a teacher, principal in a high school and education inspector in the district of Mirdita, then a teacher in a high school in Tirana and a lecturer at Aleksandër Xhuvani University in Elbasan. Lives in Tirana. Author of nine poetic volumes in Albanian and three poetic volumes in Italian (two of which with co-authors); included in the anthology La Poesie contemporaine albanaise, L’Hartmattan publications, Paris 2024. In addition to Albanian, his poems have been published in Italian, English, French, German, Arabic, Romanian, Swedish and Mecedonian. Invited to television and radio shows dedicated to literature. Editor and reviewer of several literary works, mainly in poetry. Winner of several literary awards in the country and abroad. Member of several national and international literary associations. Ambassador of culture in the organization International Foundation Creativity Humanity (IFCH)-Morocco. Included in the Lexicon of Albanian writers 1501-2001, editions Faik Konica, Pristina 2003 and in the Encyclopedia of Italian language poets, Aletti Editore, Rome 2021, then in the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Mirdita, editions Emal, Tirana 2021.

Pantry Prose: Landlord Attack by Gary Beck

Jaime Perez crept up the fire escape as quietly as he could and stopped at the third floor. He leaned over the guard rail to the kitchen window that he had been told didn’t have a gate. He waited patiently to be sure that no one on the street had noticed him, while vapor from the cold steamed out of his mouth. He pressed his short, skinny, drug ravaged body against the wall until he felt ready, then he took a metal tool from his pocket and stealthily pried the window open. He couldn’t hear any sounds from the dark apartment, so he carefully slipped over the rail and climbed inside. The landlord had assured him that they didn’t own a dog, so although still alert, he began to relax. The landlord had also carefully instructed him how to place paper next to the pilot light of the stove, run a paper strip to the nearest inflammable material and ignite it so it would appear to be an accident. There was a cardboard cake box on a table next to the stove and he ran the strip of paper to the box. He paused and listened intently, his body a menacing hulk in the darkness, then greedily opened the box. It was some kind of pound cake, not his favorite, like chocolate or pineapple, but better than nothing. He broke off a chunk with a gloved hand and stuffed it in his mouth, crumbs dribbling on the floor.

The landlord had insisted that he not take anything, but a piece of cake didn’t count. Besides, the greedy pig would never know. Jaime needed a hit on the crack pipe and the sugar from the cake would settle his jangling nerves. He silently cursed the landlord for a moment. He knew why the landlord wanted this family out. Then he could renovate the apartment cheaply and triple the rent. When the tenants rejected what must have been a low offer and other pressures failed, the landlord sent for him. Jaime was known as ‘the torch’ to a few pitiless landlords on the lower east side, whose lust for profit at the expense of decency was aroused by gentrification. He could smell the paper by the pilot light smouldering, so he lit a match, put it to the middle of the paper strip and made sure it was burning both ways. Then he slid out the window to the fire escape and closed it behind him. As he hastily went down the metal steps, he thought: ‘To hell with those gringos. Let them burn. They forced my people out of the neighbourhood. Now they’ll get theirs.’

Some kind of noise brought Peter to the surface from a deep sleep. He groggily stretched, not sure what happened, then suddenly smelled smoke. He leaped up and dashed to the kitchen and saw the fire. The flames were high enough to keep him from reaching the sink with its flexible water hose, so he tore off his T-shirt and tried to smother the flames, but this only fanned them higher. He rushed back to the bedroom, pulled the covers off his wife and shook her arm. “What’s wrong?” Beth sleepily asked. “It’s a fire,” he yelled. “We’ve got to get the kids out.” She instantly snapped awake and took charge: “I’ll take Jen and you take Andy.” They hurried to the children’s bedroom, where Jennifer and Andrew were sound asleep. As the children gradually awakened, they wrapped them in their blankets and carried them out of the bedroom.

The smoke was rapidly spreading through the apartment. “Should I try to grab my wallet?” Peter asked. Beth looked around and quickly decided: “Let’s get the kids into the hall, then you can see if it’s safe to go back inside.” Flames were pouring out of the kitchen and the acrid smoke was blurring their vision. The children were wide awake now, frightened and crying. They made their way through the living room into the hallway that led to the front door. The room was rapidly filling with smoke and when Peter opened the door, smoke billowed into the hall. They paused at the head of the stairs and Peter looked back, considering if he should risk returning for his wallet and other valuables. Beth realized what he was thinking and said firmly: “No way you’re going in there.” He protested: “All our money and credit cards are in there, and our coats. It’s freezing outside.” She shook her head. “At least we’re not hurt. We’ll manage the rest.”

Officer Herminio Corrado was just carrying a container of coffee to his partner in the patrol car, when he saw the flames burst out of the window from a house down the block. He knocked on the hood to get his partner’s attention, pointed, then set off at a run. He moved faster than the usual officer’s cautious approach to danger, since fire couldn’t attack him from a distance and rapid response was essential. But he was already trembling and his insides were churning, because he was terrified of fire. He leaped up the steps of the building and knocked loudly on each door as he passed, shouting: “Police. Fire.” When he got to the third floor, he found a family of four at the landing and yelled: “Get those kids out now.” The man started mumbling something about losing all their possessions, but there was no time for that nonsense. “Get going. You can worry about your things later.” He gave the man a shove and watched him start downstairs, as the woman tugged him along.

The flames were shooting out of the apartment door and smoke was filling the hallway. He hesitated, afraid of being trapped by the fire, then started upstairs to warn the other tenants. He was halfway up the flight of stairs, when someone grabbed him from behind and he almost jumped out of his skin. He turned around and saw that it was a fireman in full protective gear, looking like a giant insect, ready to dip its proboscis. The fireman pulled up his mask and said: “I’ll take it from here.” Relief zoomed through his body. “Thanks, buddy.” He watched the alien figure hurry upstairs and thought: ‘Thank you, thank you. I don’t know how you do it, but better you than me.’ He quickly went downstairs and out of the building. His partner was waiting and congratulated him for his fast reaction. “You did good, Coro.” He nodded thanks, then confided; “I could never be a fireman. It scares the shit out of me. I’d rather face a gunman any day.” His partner grunted agreement. “Me too.”

Firefighter Eugene Jones was dozing in his seat, heading back to the firehouse after shopping for dinner at an expensive grocery. When the call came in they were only a few blocks from the scene, so it only took a minute or two to get there. He put on his gear as they went, holding on to the safety bar with one hand as they tore around the corner. They were the first truck on the scene and he adjusted his mask and rushed into the building, followed by the rest of the crew. Tenants were streaming out and he carefully forced his way upstairs through the panicky flow. He saw the cop ordering some tenants out, caught up to him on the stairs and told him that he’d take over. As the cop started downstairs, he thought: ‘I could never be a cop. I’d be terrified if someone was shooting at me.’ He shook his head at the distraction, then went and knocked on each door on the fourth floor. By this time, the commotion, sirens and smoke had awakened everybody and he calmly urged them to leave the building.

One of his partners had evacuated the fifth floor and came down and beckoned him to help check the apartment directly over the fire. The door was ajar and they entered warily, concerned with a sudden blaze through the floor. They knelt and felt the kitchen floor which was hot, but not incendiary. They carefully checked the walls, then the rest of the apartment and followed the same procedure in the hall. They didn’t find any indicators that the fire had spread upstairs. The smoke was already dissipating, so they went downstairs to the apartment where the fire started to help the rest of the crew. By the time they got there, the fire had been extinguished and they joined the search for any further hot spots. The kitchen and part of the main bedroom were thoroughly burned, but the destruction to the rest of the apartment was moderate. Gene studied the scene and thought the damage looked peculiar, but left it for the fire marshal to examine. He saw that he wasn’t needed, so he began to lug fire hose downstairs.

Peter was freezing in his pajamas and Beth wasn’t much warmer in the bathrobe she had managed to put on before their rapid escape. They had been able to snatch down coats for the children, so at least they were warm, but they were still traumatized by the sudden evacuation. The organized chaos that had followed the fire had shattered the once calm night for them. Neighbours had poured out of their houses, eager for the spectacle of disaster. Although disappointed that no one had jumped, a fiery meteor plunging to earth, or had been carried out blackened and smouldering, the crowd avidly gaped at the building, faces tense with expectation, still hoping for something titillating. The flashing red lights on the fire trucks and police cars cast incandescent glows on the savage spectators, who didn’t seem overly evolved from their ancient ancestors. Peter watched in utter bewilderment, unsure of what to do next. Beth sensed his confusion: “Ask someone if we can go back to our apartment, now that the fire is out.”

Peter looked around and saw a fireman coiling hose nearby and called to him: “Excuse me. Can we go back to our apartment now?” The fireman turned his head and looked at him tiredly. “Sorry, sir. The fire marshal has to inspect the premises to determine the cause of the fire. Then they have to check the building for safety and stability.” Peter’s voice was getting shrill. “When do you think we can get in there?” “Maybe tomorrow afternoon, depending on the damage.” “Can’t we just get some clothes? We’re freezing our butts off.” “That’s just not possible,” the fireman said. “But I can give you some blankets that’ll at least keep you warm.” The fireman walked to the truck and pulled out some gray, heavy wool blankets and handed them to Peter, who just stood there and asked dumbly: “What do we do now?” “Do you have somewhere to go for the rest of the night?” “No.” “Friends? Family?” “No.” “Why don’t you bring these blankets to your family,” the fireman said. “I’ll see if I can get someone to help you.” Peter shuffled back to Beth, lugging the blankets, dazed by the distressing events.

Gene saw the cop from the stairs leaning on his patrol car and walked over to him. “Hey, pal, how’re ya doin?” The cop’s face was streaked with soot, but he looked cheerful. “O.K. What about you?” “Good. We didn’t lose anybody.” They grinned at each other in the instant camaraderie that shared danger brings, especially to the uniformed services. The cop extended his hand. “I’m Coro.” Gene took his hand. “I’m Gene.” They stood there for a moment, reassured by the bond that helped them protect civilians. Coro said confidingly: “I almost pissed my pants.” Gene whispered: “When you’re a firefighter, they spray so much water on you that no one notices.” They laughed comfortably together. “Thanks, buddy,” Coro said. Gene smiled. “That’s O.K. Listen, there’s a family that doesn’t have anyplace to go.” “Where?” Gene pointed. “There.” Coro recognized them from the stairs. “I’ll see what I can do. Take care, buddy.” “You, too.” Gene waved cheerfully, then went back to coiling hose.

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theatre director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theatre. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and his published books include 40 poetry collections, 16 novels, 4 short story collections, 2 collection of essays and 8 books of plays. Gary lives in New York City.

You can find more of Gary’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Virtual Living poetry by Gary Beck

Poetry Drawer: A Dead Nativity (influenced by Dylan Thomas’ A Winter’s Tale) by Jim Bellamy

it is a dead nativity
that the burned, blind berries stand serried on the trees,
and the scuttered, flittering fields in the rafters of the grail,
and the angelus that floats in a spineless, furling sea,
with the nailed crests of children raining on the dales,
and the priesthoods raving madly,
and the swell smell of snow within a wood, and the taraway stars
warming down upon a wombless world, and the booming babies
harpstung with the maidens whose wildness floams and scars
in the bullring laid bereft by the oxened lady.

once, when the lord rode lowly
on a cloud of bitter butter pure as molten lead,
as the food of god was lovely, a flare from herald angels fell,
where, roving gaily, the scrolls of fire burned up their beds
and tore across the crucifixion’s cells;
and there, in the sun-slicked fields,
burning then as now, the tyrelit, crazy isles
of jacob and his sandalled ladder roared and rose and fell
from east to west, across a fairied, occidental smile
that combed the crypted yards for angelled drums
and banged back dearly,
with the cattle purring and the rousering cats alight
and the scuffled birds and the spheres of music clearly
varnishing into the beards of night. Oh,
the maids of molten minions lunged in red delight!

and the lord set forth and strayed
in his mused career: in the city marshes, levees, and
the banging nights on the hill, he strayed
and shaped a roman rhythm from his ovum-pealing hands
as time, ignobling, bouldered up the graves.
but only the wind sang.

the hunger of the birds was thrilled into the swording spine,
and the waters, crossing, crushed upon the holy lungs
and brought the curs of eden into nether, knocking crimes
that none could spring. No,
to deliver, to be slaved,
in losing life, the lord above must always seem
as careless as a warbler! how the mazy, granite grave
crashes round the mind and breaks its native scheme
blows maniacally back against the world in nave
and yields no prayer

and the minstrels, who, once flowing in their regalled song,
pared the ravens down with the runes of open love,
and the weals on the winds of the glowering and strong
who, once certain, aspired to hand in glove,
and the passion of the floaming
ecstatic scream that hires the word above;
none, nobody here nor elseways, could save nor shore nor
restore the love of jesus to the buds,
nor the war of loving to the grievance of the good.
but the red wings are raised
and the carved limbs of spiders throe and flock –
webs of age on moving stones are spun and always spurned
and the cancer in the oat of sin is defrocked;
and the heavens, burning, furnish into fens
the simple words of immortal stains –

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.

You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.