Echoes in the rain
of a long lost prayer
resonate around a silent room.
Iced feathers, as from Angels’s drift
Engulf my soul, my heart, my world
With blessings of love renewed.
Poetry Drawer: Renewed by Elaine Snelson
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Poetry Drawer: Macabre by A. K. Hepburn
Death’s true calling
was music: he built
a piano, with keys
of blanched bones;
strung it with sinews
and tuned it with
secrets, from the grave,
exhumed and stolen.
From it, he wrung
symphonies of emotion,
the elusive spectrum,
and let the searing melody
surround him –
empty spectator,
dancing on the
other side of the veil.
Inky News: Warrior’s Bible by Bones
Bones is a performance poet. His new book Warrior’s Bible is now available. Keep your eyes peeled for his Inky Interview. For now, here is the introduction to his book:
Now I don’t know if you’ll agree but I KNOW it to be true! These lyrics this book ‘we’ wrote for you. Who’s we?
Me and d Higher Power, who’d be sendin me d lyrics hour after hour. Lyin in mah bed conversin wid HP in mah head, then 1 day they started sendin me lyrics instead.
It’s due seh I’m spiritual the Most High helped me become lyrical as well as inspirational, instructin and inspirin me to write this warriors bible for d people, for d likes of you aidin you to rise up and come through, cause believe me it’s way past due!!!!
You may think there’s spellin mistakes but it’s my kinda piss take pon d English language, sandwich that and street wid mah own lil beat, hope ya’ll find it sweet enuff to eat.
Digest it cause I’m no conformist had to express my individuality through non conformity cause I CAN’T abide what you perceive as normality!! Am I revolutionary? Absolutely!! And through dat I do tings differently!!!
I hope you enjoy readin as much as I liked creatin/writin. For me it was exhileratin, enlightenin and excitin. We’re badly in need of savin, let’s hope this is d salvation. Let’s unify, be of ONE mind, we ALL humankind, you best get ready cause your minds about to be fried.
Why you waitin? Stop deliberatin bout time d pages started turnin so you can start your TRUE learnin!!!!!
Get your own copy of Warrior’s Bible:
Email: warriors_bible@hush.com
Phone: 07852 321149
Inkspeak: Trying To Capture The Sun by Mark Sheeky
The quest, the ever quest.
The run.
Trying to capture the sun.
The race, and the chase,
and the aim of the day begun.
The jewel in the sky.
Trying to capture the sun.
The reach, the hope of something,
meaningful,
that moves,
is true,
important.
Something you can feel in you.
This is the world,
in gold and diamond blue,
laid bare;
the end, yet just begun.
The best I have done,
so far,
as I reach for the sun.
Poetry Drawer: Butter Cream Stride by Faye Joy
Snatches of different languages. I look up
the steps of the Sydney Opera House.
Scattered pockets of tourists climb and run up.
There’s a universal bravado about it all.
Birds of paradise bordering a concrete vaulting,
blown trash whipping at the chain-link fence.
The flora is lush, random and leggy,
limbs smooth as butter-cream stride on by.
Flip-flops slop maintaining a momentum
which travels up the body. Slight girls
in tight skirts drag wedge heels behind
their rucksacks hobbling the posture.
A scene of transience, paradise bordering.
Blown trash whipping at the chain-link fence.
Pantry Prose: In America by Connor Owen
A spatter of salt is a chess board, and the players sit concentrating on the nothing between them, their elbows on the table and their hands clasped tight beneath their chins. Glum and bored. Clamour from the street sneaks into the restaurant whenever the door opens, on and off like the staccato tuning of a radio.
The nephew’s nothings of thought are sweet, whilst the aunt’s are bitter and sarcastic.
“Go on then, give me an idea,” says the nephew, “something to write this about.”
Rolling her shoulders into a pedantically smug, straight back, the aunt mocks, “Tell a story about two people sat in a café, waiting for an expensive, full breakfast.”
The nephew raises one eyebrow.
“All right.” She pauses. “Tell a story about a boy who meets a rabbit in the park.”
He throws a half-grin aside. “It has to have interesting characters, something sinister too.”
“Gosh, isn’t a rabbit interesting enough for you? All right. A boy meets a girl in the park. And he shoots her.”
“Ha!”
“Or a boy and girl both shoot a rabbit together… in the park.”
“That’s just silly.”
“Well, sorry.”
He sips his coke. “It has to have meaning. S’gotta be deep. Throw in a couple of political undertones and an existential commentary.”
“In America.”
“What?”
“He shoots her in America.”
“Ha ha, right, sure.”
“Well, I’m sorry, just because I don’t have as good an imagination as you young lot do.” She’s still grinning. A waitress summons a clatter as she knocks over a wet floor sign; they turn to observe her throw despair at the ceiling fan. “By heck lad, look at her, afraid God’s unhappy that she’s clumsy and that she’s gonna get smitten.”
“Smote.”
“Smote?”
“Yes.”
“Well, include her, getting smote.” She fails to stifle a laugh. “In America!”
Inkspeak: Quick! Get Your Lows, While Stocks Last! by Deborah Edgeley
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Inkspeak: Managed by Mark Sheeky
I wonder if I’ll have some money soon,
to calm my nerves,
as I walk up and down, and up and down my dead cube room.
The wide window looks out,
upon a city of grey filaments.
Tiny people and their machines, moving in ant-like industry.
Are these people rich, or struggling too?
All of these people, trapped,
in invisible hamster-wheels to live in concrete boxes, like this.
Putting products in boxes,
trees in boxes.
Animals in tins.
Where is the land?
In a box, with a plough, in a museum.
It’s all managed now.
Inkspeak: If Bach Had Been a Beekeeper by Charles Tomlinson, guitar by Dave Hulatt
If Bach had been a beekeeper
he would have heard
all those notes
suspended above one another
in the air of his ear
as the differentiated swarm returning
to the exact hive,
and place in the hive
topping up the cells
with the honey of C major,
food for the listening generations,
key to their comfort
and solace of their distress
as they return and return
to those counterpointed levels
of hovering wings where
movement is dance and the air itself
a scented garden
Poetry Drawer: Afternoon Tea with Grandfather Crampton by Faye Joy
Plaited Patricia sits gawky and awkward:
long legs, short dress, tight bodice, puffed sleeves.
She clasps shiny knees with rough red hands,
swollen fingers catching in fancy laced linen.
Pin-striped legs tucked under his chair,
with bony knees so carefully aligned,
grandfather Crampton’s copper plate fingers
clasp a bone china handle. He lowers his lips
to a porcelain rim. Such Edwardian restraint.
An elegant gesture accomplished with ease.
She cannot do likewise, plaited Patricia,
her fingers scramble to find any purchase
on willow pattern handles. Her efforts slip slop
spooling hot tea over misaligned knees,
down purple calves to her leather tongued shoes.
Fumbling and scrabbling in her dress pocket
miscellaneous crumbs join tea trails and
fine crocheted doilies are caught in the snag.
A tumble down teatime descends to the lawn.
Those pin-striped knees engineer a small turn
and a genteel white head with a weak wan smile
responds to this mishap, with scarcely a nod.