Books From The Pantry: Marples Must Go! by Greg Freeman reviewed by Neil Leadbeater

Greg Freeman is a former newspaper sub-editor, and now, news and reviews editor for the poetry website Write Out Loud. He co-comperes a monthly poetry open-mic night in Woking with Rodney Wood, and his debut poetry pamphlet Trainspotters was published by Indigo Dreams Press in 2015. Marples Must Go! is his first full-length collection.

The writing is on the wall. MARPLES MUST GO! So who was Marples before he was consigned to history? Being of the same era as Freeman, I remember the name well but, for the sake of the younger generation, I will add that Ernest Marples was a British Conservative politician who served as Postmaster General and then Minister of Transport in the late 50s and early 60s. Nothing unusual about that, you might think, but he was responsible for many things that we now take for granted such as the introduction of Premium Bonds, postcodes, the opening of the M1 motorway and the appointment of Richard Beeching whose drastic cuts abandoned more than 4,000 miles of railway track. Details of his later life were colourful resulting in him fleeing to Monaco at very short notice to avoid prosecution for tax fraud. Freeman delivers Marples’ life story in five stanzas touching upon every detail. Apart from anything else, it is a model of precision, honed no doubt after years spent in a career in journalism.

In this generous collection of 60 poems, Freeman draws inspiration from politics, popular culture, football and family. The earlier part of his collection is primarily about growing up in the post-war era and the swinging sixties. There are poems about iconic TV programmes such as Space Patrol and Juke Box Jury; popstars such as Dusty Springfield, Cilla Black, Chuck Berry and the Dave Clark Five and one about an influential, if somewhat unconventional, teacher whose readings from the Penguin Book of Contemporary Verse gave Freeman his first introduction to the world of poetry.

Freeman has a journalist’s eye for detail. He knows instinctively what makes for a good story. Out of all the stories recast as poems, the title poem must be at the top of the list. Other ‘scoops’ include an account of Margaret Thatcher’s visit to a girl’s school in Leamington Spa which sparked a large student demonstration (Dust-Up in Leamington) and the discovery of a huge cannabis farm on disused private land near Berrylands station (Berrylands). Freeman’s description of the station which I used to pass through on my daily commute into and out of London is spot on:

An apology for a station
on the way to Hampton Court,
the place where the fast
slowed down for Surbiton.
It overlooked a sewage farm
we’d cycle past, a short cut.
Lower Marsh Lane
more or less summed it up.

This extract is a good example of how Freeman condenses his words to their essence, omitting anything that is unnecessary while getting to the heart of the subject.

His years spent in newspaper journalism are celebrated in poems such as ‘The Overmatter’, ‘Classifieds’ and ‘The Local Rag’ where the ageing aroma of old newspapers brings to mind:

Crashing typewriters bashing
out wedding details, film previews,
match reports. Telephones
shrill with complaints, demands,
rare tip-offs.

In ‘Goodbye Farringdon Road’ Freeman records the historic moment when the Guardian newspaper relocated its London offices from Clerkenwell to King’s Cross and refocused its priorities from print to the internet. There is a telling line in the final stanza:

Print’s long goodbye, but at what cost?

A series of poems on the subject of football betray more than a passing interest in the sport. In one of them, (The Battle of Hastings as Summarised by Roy Keane), Freeman deftly combines his love of football with history. This is something he is particularly good at. Other poems that simultaneously work on more than one level include ‘Fine and Dandy’ which is an interesting cocktail of comic characters, politicians and history, ‘Clacton’, a clever fusion of pop song titles, film titles, place-names, politicians and Brexit, and ‘Return of the Daleks’ which uses a TV series as a hook on which to hang a poem about Brexit. In a further poem on the theme of Brexit, Freeman reminds us how times have changed with these telling lines:

Back then you couldn’t speak your mind;
now you can shout it out loud.

Freeman admits that he is very much a poet of place and this is reflected in his poetry, whether he is writing about places in his native Surrey or places further afield such as Marbella, Barcelona, the Stockholm Archipelago, the Loire Valley or Bruges. These references help to ground the poems, establishing a backdrop to the stories that he unfolds.

Towards the end of the book, there is a sequence of poems about four bronze statues in Woking town centre by Woking-born sculptor Sean Henry. These poems represent a series of back-stories for the figures, as Freeman saw them. These four statues are ‘Woman (Being Looked At)’ at the entrance to the Peacocks shopping centre, ‘Standing Man’ in Jubilee Square, ‘The Wanderer’ outside Woking railway station and ‘Seated Man’ inside the station on a seat on platform one. Freeman’s tribute to these works has received a nod of approval from the sculptor who told him he had accurately captured some of the thoughts that went into the works as well as bringing in ideas of his own which he felt were somehow right. These verbal descriptions of a visual work of art represent a new exciting departure for Freeman.

Poems closer to the present moment bear references to the pandemic (there is one about clapping for the NHS), Nigel Farage scanning the channel for migrants, the anniversary of V.E. Day and a retrospective on the singer-songwriter Amy Winehouse.

These engaging poems are more than one man’s memory of significant moments in his life. They are my memories too and they will resonate with many other readers. They are the kind of poems that work well in performance as well as on the printed page. The collection captures with wit and compassion ‘our time’. Fully recommended.

Marples Must Go! by Greg Freeman is published by Dempsey & Windle (2021).

Neil Leadbeater is an author, essayist, poet and critic living in Edinburgh, Scotland. His short stories, articles and poems have been published widely in anthologies and journals both at home and abroad. His publications include Librettos for the Black Madonna (White Adder Press, Scotland, 2011); The Worcester Fragments (Original Plus Press, England, 2013); The Loveliest Vein of Our Lives (Poetry Space, England, 2014), Sleeve Notes (Editura Pim, Iaşi, Romania, 2016) Finding the River Horse (Littoral Press, 2017) and Penn Fields (Littoral Press, 2019). His work has been translated into several languages including Dutch, French, Romanian, Spanish and Swedish.

Poetry Drawer: st elena: golgotha postcard: muted splendour: modigliani’s gun: first attempt at escape: westward by John Sweet

st elena speaks with the voice of a carrion bird

the almost and the
always and the never and then
everything in between

close yr eyes

do you see now?

let the map take you
from here to there

let the desert be your
starting point
and your destination

no walls and no water

no true purpose

you’ll live and you’ll die
just like the rest of us

you’ll be forgotten

maybe you
already are

golgotha postcard

pilate shot through the throat and
then the crows at his heart

the dogs drinking his tears

grow up fast or
not at all,
right?

a lifetime of dying played out in
the space of an hour and i
forget if i ever told you i loved you that summer

i forget if you were the one who
taught me how to bleed

was too busy making promises that
turned without effort into
such heartfelt lies

muted splendour

and then dali grows old
and then dali dies and
i am left in this room
with your sister

says she’s cold, but
she won’t get dressed

won’t get up off the floor

just tells me she hates
me while i kneel down
to kiss her feet

modigliani’s gun

barefoot on broken glass at the
end of november and maybe it feels as
good as a bullet through god’s filthy heart

maybe only children
will be killed in the war

each tiny death made into a movie and
all of them playing in another room while
we’re trying to sleep, and so how can you
claim to be famous if no one wants
to see you naked?

why would you keep on bleeding
all over the carpet when it’s
all you’ve been doing for the past 30 years?

there’s a got to be a better way
for you to waste the rest of your life

first attempt at escape

late winter snow from dull pewter skies,
driving west but never fast enough,
laughs & tells me he’s the one who took the
pennies from christ’s blind eyes

says he’s looking for a
girl named jennifer to fall in love with then
says the heater’s broke

tells me i look like shit

asks how long I’ve been
bleeding to death

turns the radio up way too loud while
i’m trying to think of an answer

westward

and then you and i and the
sleeping face of christ, all of us
radiant and each of us alone here in
the sudden warmth of november,
in the flickering shadows of falling leaves,
beneath the ominous web of powerlines,
blue sky reduced to meaningless
geometry, startled birds, endlessly
crashing planes and the children laughing,
screaming, running home across barren
fields or down haphazard sidewalks,
the memory of their motion, the way i
tell myself over and over again not to
forget this moment and then the
ease with which i forget it

the reasons i write these
meaningless poems

the idea that maybe even one
of them might find you

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.

Poetry Drawer: Improvisations: Unbearable Lightness: Somerset: False Advertising by Jenny Middleton

Improvisations

We have taken to living life
as if it were jazz
rouging wan days
with bright notes
born from barren weeks

hollow as the tin-can lanterns
recycled and strung up
in the spindly birch trees
by kids, next door.
Each cylinder’s dark interior
is pierced with geometric patterns
so they gleam with empty space
marking out the night
with absence, as death is cut
into our lives.

We philander from the garden
and let it straggle, feeding
on its own leaves, drunk
with fermenting sugars
set to sweeten autumn
without us.

Grief’s time-signature surges
days in eight bar riffs
dubbing evenings
to waves of past voices –
ghosts we drink to extinction –
and stand at last
in the darkness of a new street
awake and broken with dawn.

Unbearable Lightness

I lent Kundera’s novel,
and then separately,
a pair of daisy spotted culottes
(smart enough for an interview)
to friends
light enough not to return,
their words, ceiling trodden
and walked to air.

I find I still wonder where
the pages spore their print
in absence
from my shelf
as if they were
chilli pepper seeds –
papery and disk like
skimming ideas to flame
even after they are eaten
and gone.

And whether clothes
absorb memories
with their wear
to larger shapes,
stained and stretched
to age.

The rails of thrift shops
hung, heavy and spooling
sky, touched, scraped
with the beyond
of these days.

Somerset

The plough’s metal ribs are turned to the sky. Rust flakes in fingernails from the iron core of abandoned machinery amongst the unmown grass sprung with daisies and summery warmth. Flattened clouds rule the sky, pulled taut as clavichord strings that hum with a storm’s jigger at the afternoon and its wobble of espaliered peaches.
We run barefoot with the children, laughing, circuiting the field, drunk with exertion, feeling the rub of damp roots fleck with the music of first rain.

weather charts
blue sky to numbers
rain blurs us

False Advertising

Billboards feather boa the street
taxiing minds and high balling eyes
to palm tree spas kissed
with sangria and sunshine’s
strut in snakeskin thigh highs.

The adverts promise
the everything of lies
to anoraked pavements
apace with slow stepped lives
loitered with the fur
of Friday night zooms
and the lurch between
stops to and from home in buses
pelted in more soft sell.

the earth a dream mumbled in pentameter
curved, foetal and asleep
beneath a tarred city’s rumble

Jenny Middleton is a working mum and writes whenever she can  amid the fun and chaos of family life. She lives in London with her husband, two children, and two very lovely, crazy cats. 

Poetry Drawer: Definitions (On Naming Things) by Richard Helmling

That line, that grey smudge, in the sky—like a shadow of something moving out beyond the world
Was it a passing ship? A sail wide as limbo
The mind reels at the distances, knowing they can only be fiction, that only the self is real

Lost now (because a petrified forest is really just a field of rocks)
I sit down in the shadows of the palm fronds reaching over me with dagger fingers
What am I—but a sinking wetlands, methane-rich refuse rotting into usefulness?
Or really
I think I am the output of some formula—a reductive algorithm
Definitions slip through the cracks between their own words, eel-slick and mucosal
It’s June now, and this too must pass, this uncertainty
Things do, pass, always

 Richard Helmling is a teacher and writer living and working in El Paso, Texas.

Books From The Pantry: We Could Not See The Stars by Elizabeth Wong: Reviewed by Yang Ming

The tracing of one’s ancestry has gained some form of public interest in recent times. People go to great lengths to find out their ancestry by doing DNA tests such as 23nme or trawling through history records. The quest to seek out our ancestry, and even all the way back, clearly shows us our innate desire to discover our sense of belonging in human civilisation. So reading We Could Not See The Stars, (published by John Murray Press/Hachette UK), a debut novel by London based author, Elizabeth Wong, feels timely.

Set in fictitious Malaysia, the story opens with Han, a young man who goes on a fishing expedition with his supercilious and arrogant cousin, Chong Meng, in their sleepy fishing village, Kampung Seng. They seem to run out of luck under the sweltering heat as ‘the salty sea heat stuck to the pores of their skin.’ One day, Han encounters a mysterious man by the name of Mr Ng who arrives at the village, asking about his deceased mother, Swee. Why is he looking for his mother all of a sudden? The thing is, Han barely knows his mother since she died when he was five years old. Han’s grandmother describes her as one who doesn’t speak of her past, ‘as if she was not fully present in the net. As if her thread was a stray one, woven loosely with the other lines, threatening to unravel as life tugged on it.’ Mr Ng’s appearance unsettles Han. But Chong Meng is impressed by this man’s stories of his travels and the tales of his golden tower. Han’s life changes when his mother’s spade – the only thing that is left of her – goes missing. Han thinks Mr Ng has something to do with the disappearance, and sets out on a quest to retrieve his most precious possession. It is later at the Capital that Han finds out, on a faraway island, across the Peninsula, and across the sea, the forest of Suriyang is cursed.

Those who wander in and return will lose their memories. An expert in Naga Tua island, Professor Toh believes the forest is hiding something that does not wish to be discovered. Is there something sinister lurking in the forest that is causing people to lose their memories? Will Han ever find out who his mother is?

The novel is a blend of speculative fiction and human drama. It is split into 8 parts with each detailing the characters’ perspectives and their connection with the enigmatic forest of Suriyang. Wong skilfully crafts her narrative by setting up pivotal plot points in each chapter, and it grips you as the story unfolds. Right from the start, we are introduced to a host of characters – each with various motivations. The problem with writing this sort of ensemble is that writers often fail to accomplish what the characters set out to do. But in this case, Wong manages to pull all the threads together towards the end of the story as the characters’ lives collide with each other.

Wong is also a keen observer. Her on-the-ground research at a fishing village in Malaysia certainly pays off. Her lucid prose exudes authenticity and playfulness. It’s also filled with intricate details about the Hei-Sans archipelago of nine hundred islands, and the people who inhabit these islands. When Han travels on a train to Hei-Sans archipelago, she whisks us away to Western Range, a new mountain that is ‘hardened to become the spine of the Peninsula’. She further describes the structure of the mountain, ‘as the spine was being pulled apart by tectonic forces, some cracks, like the Spirited Pass, had grown until there was more crack than rock, and together they had formed a continuous, thin crack splitting the Western Range along its entire width.’ Her attention to such details stems from her training as a geologist.

Ultimately, We Could Not See The Stars is a profound meditation on continuity, identity and belonging. What happens when we do not know the people who have gone before us? What does that make us? Swee poignantly finds out:

Their full names were inscribed on the walls of the docks, a reminder of the people who had passed through the place. These were home-world names – names that existed only in song, and sung the history of their families and clans. How else would a person know their place in the broad sweep of time? If one did not have a home-world name, no one would know who they were, nor their forefathers, nor ancestral homes. A person was nothing without their home-world name, a speck written out of history.’

Despite the multiple storylines, the novel celebrates a mother’s sacrificial love and the longing to leave behind what’s important for the next generation. That’s powerful, yet at the same time, makes us question our existence in human civilisation.

We Could Not See The Stars is published by John Murray (Hachette UK). The novel is now available in major bookstores, including Waterstones, Amazon UK, Booktopia Australia and Book Depository.

Poetry Drawer: Dancing a Whirlwind: Golfo de Morrosquillo: Magdalena Sunset: Enter Iris and Luna, Stage Front: La Boca Summer Day by Lorraine Caputo

Dancing a Whirlwind

A morning shower
            barely has left a
                        print on dry earth

& now a bright breeze
            dances joropo
                        around us, around

Mónico playing mandolin
            his aged-mahogany face
                        wrinkled in a tranquil smile
Around cuatro & guitar
            caja drum & maracas

A bottle of cocuy passes ’round
            an anciana sings, her
                        cinnamon hands clapping
Women chat, adjusting costumes
            a child cries
                        & is comforted

Rosa the singer & Luis
            the spoon-player
                        begin to dance amidst us
Fine soil billows ’round
            their steps & twirls

joropo – traditional music & dance of Venezuela, originating in the llanos region
cuatro – a four-string instrument like a small guitar
caja – box
cocuy – an alcoholic brew of a cactus plant
anciana – old woman

Golfo de Morrosquillo
            (Tolú)

Full moon rises above
            tejas & thatch roofs
The gulf rolls evenly
            around the breakwaters
                        onto the grey sand
A crab flees from
            the rising tide

Families take a dip
            in the night-darkened waters
                        stroll on the seawall, the beach
Three boys play kickball
            with a plastic bottle

Along the malecón
            scented by grilled foods
                        people eat & drink
Bicycle taxis pass &
            horse-drawn carriages, the
                        clop of hooves lost to
Music blaring from
            restaurants & discos
Vendors spread their cloths
            with jewellery, incense
                        under streetlamps
Women yet corn-row
            hair with quick molasses-
                        coloured fingers
Sunglass salesmen walk
            café to bar

& the musicians still wander
            accordion ’round neck, caja
                        drum, guarachaca stick in hand

Magdalena Sunset

(Mompox, Colombia)

Waterlilies float swiftly by on the river’s current.
Bells clang for mass at Santa Bárbara church.

In front of a colonial house on the river walk
speakers blare music, Inside, amidst balloons
& streamers children sing a birthday.

Dressed in vivid paisley, shoulders stooped with
passed generations, doña Julia sits on the steps
to the río, talking to herself.

Two Scottie dogs laze in a window niche of their
ochre home trimmed melon & jade. One rests
his muzzle on the wrought-iron grill.

With a splash of water, a man jumps from the jetty.
Dulled light of almost-evening sheens on his tanned skin.

The boats have abandoned this narrow channel
of the Magdalena & this terminal stained white
concrete & brick flaking, vacant windows staring.

In the cool evening sung by gecko, toad & cricket, a boy
sends his kite aloft. Families chat outside in caned chairs,
a foursome plays Parcheesi on an iglesia patio.

The disappeared sun paints loud indigo & purple
reflecting in the swift water. Shadow-treed banks
reflecting waterlilies still floating by.

& some other church clangs its bells for mass.

Enter Iris and Luna, Stage Front

In a momento
       the town is plunged
              in inky darkness.

Scattered whistles & cheers
       echo down the streets,
              echo the groans
       of men, their TV soccer
              game disappeared
       before their eyes.

These lanes fill with
       families & couples
              who watch the

Stars emerge, now freed
       from the glare
              of streetlamps,
       sparse clouds
              brightened by the
       full moon.

A chubby-cheeked boy
       points at her,
              Look, la Luna has an Arco Iris!

Surrounding her,
       a moonbow paints
              this chill night,
       auguring rains
              to come
       before the dawn.

La Boca Summer Day

I. On the Caminito

Corrugated tin of ex-convetillos
is painted in a circus of colors.

Artisan stalls umbrellaed beneath
the clouded sun.

Tourists sip wine at café tables.

A couple is packing their jambox & CDs.
Slight wind flutters high split skirt, caresses
her legs, fishnet stockings.

II. Behind the Façade

Along the cobbled streets the tin of shacks is anemic.
Crumbled balconies, rickety steps, eaten bannisters.
Doors with missing slats open to the breeze off the
rotted Riachuelo. Glimpses of cramped rooms
beyond curtains.

Upon littered walks sit families at card tables,
bottles of beer & mates at hand.

In an empty niche of the Bombonera, a man
sleeps on a broken vinyl couch, zipper open
below his bloated paunch.
A caked glass set on a crooked table.

Across a high-weed lot, boys kick a soccer ball
& there yonder a group plays volleyball
over a frayed net.

On this humid summer day in La Boca … 

La  Boca – a working-class neighborhood of Buenos Aires; birthplace of the tango 

Caminito – “the little street,” name bestowed by a tango song; now a tourist hub, frequently portrayed in photos of Buenos Aires 

conventillos –  tenements with small, cell-like rooms in which late-19th / early-20th century immigrants lived 

mates – a mate is the container (often made from a gourd) from which yerba mate (Paraguayan tea) is sipped through a bombilla (a metal straw with a strainer) 

Bombonera – “the candy box,” the nickname of the home stadium of Bocas Juniors, the world-renowned soccer team of LaBoca 

Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 250 journals on six continents; and 18 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. In March 2011, the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honored her verse. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful travel companion, Rocinante (that is, her knapsack), listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.  

Poetry Drawer: baksheesh: magic by Stephen House

baksheesh

i wait on the stairs for the police to come
they arrive and take a statement from me

they don’t seem concerned or shocked
and say there is nothing suspicious about it

it happens daily with foreigners and locals
and at this guest house all the time

and that there is a batch of gear in Delhi
from Pakistan that is extra strong and cheap

two young guys died in the tunnel before
and last night a tourist in a five star hotel

i ask them if i can leave the city now
that i was heading off when i found him

the two cops look at each other and one says
it will be easier for me if i help them out a bit

he puts out his hand and i know what for
i pay the baksheesh with a fifty dollar note

they thank me genuinely and wish me luck
i pick up my bag and walk down the hall

the guy’s body is being taken out on a stretcher
Om Namah Shivaya i say and walk away

at the train station i wonder about the guy’s life
and if anyone will tell his family he’s dead

i reflect on the two times i smoked heroin
decades ago at the same Delhi guest house

i never touched it again as its power grabbed me
and i knew continuing it was wrought with risk

magic

he smiles

i smile
float my eyes into his

he walks to my table
amongst the people and booze clutter
doesn’t say anything when he gets to me
taps my shoulder
gestures me to stand
i do

and heart banging follow him
mesmerised
into a small room off the back of the bar
where an overhead fan clicks

we don’t speak
a magic sits in the silence between us
a mouse scampers behind the sideboard
he ignores it and turns the key
locks the door
stands still looking at me
steps into me
stares into my eyes

we are joined by an unseen force

his phone gives a church bell chime
he says a few words into it
in his language
clicks it off

touches me lightly on the shoulder
unlocks the door

we go back out to the bar

crowds separate us
in a flood of bodies and voices.

Stephen House is an award winning Australian playwright, poet and actor. He’s won two Awgie Awards (Australian Writer’s Guild) , Adelaide Fringe Award, Rhonda Jancovich Poetry Award for Social Justice, Goolwa Poetry Cup, Feast Short Story Prize and more. He’s been shortlisted for Lane Cove Literary Award, Overland’s Fair Australia Fiction Prize, Patrick White Playwright and Queensland Premier Drama Awards, Greenroom best actor Award and more. He’s received Australia Council literature residencies to Ireland and Canada, and an India Asialink. His chapbook real and unreal was published by ICOE Press Australia. He is published often and performs his work widely.

Poetry Drawer: Tyre Swing Hung from Tree: Steps: What I Need: Acetylene Torch: Missive by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Tyre Swing Hung from Tree

Not a single child about,
just this single tyre swing hung from tree,
one of those thick ropes that you only see
in school gymnasiums that burn the palms
of those forced to climb them,
and the base of the tyre overflowing
with two days of fresh rain,
a couple old gutter leaves
and the word “Bridgestone” still legible
in smudged off white lettering,
the tread worn down,
but not as much as you would think,
a littering of fresh acorns and pine needles
I smell before I ever see.

Steps

One way up and one way down,
ants in the cracks like a brazen tactile army
forever on manoeuvres, a long railing in the middle
of the steps for faltering balance, fashion before walking shoes,
and at the top some say the best views
and at the bottom no one says anything,
elbowing past one another on the way to melting
ice creams and dirty fryer grease;
more steps, but not the ones everyone came
so far to climb this time.

What I Need

What I need is nothing from you,
what I want, more of the same,
to flounce the wooden hall out of its spine-creaked incipience
would be a non-starter, the way the man with the pistol
calls all the runners back to their blocks,
numbers pasted across sinewy thighs, a crowd for cheering’s sake;
you can always tell the pleasers, the panderers,
the one-night standers –
I enjoy the quiet and for that no one is required,
only their absence and maybe mine for short stretches,
one quite noticeable, the other a stalking jaguar
through meaty rubricate mangroves.

Acetylene Torch

The oxygen is important,
your tired lungs could have told you that,
but sometimes it takes an acetylene torch behind
heavy boxcar welder face to cut through the metal-precious
way a man can climb on a city bus and think himself
Tarzan of the Apes or your never best lover;
all those sparks that burn right through the pant leg
and cause journeymen Jim to jump right out of his grunts:
runaway unibrow, steel-toed clunkers,
a few pints on the weekend…
that numb is important,
the way we chase it like a man-eating tiger
just out of stripes –
fall into beds imagining jungle-thick waterfalls
that swallow down all the screams
you never once offered.

Missive

I did not write because I felt no importance in such grand gestures
that link a chain with lengthy missive, the ink still wet and already a reply,
harebrained in both posture and sentiment;
I wished upon silent anomalies, constructed a wall of figs for seed dispersal
although I failed to ever entertain such fruitful bounties
as my sense would not allow for such churlish diversions –
have you seen the way the elderly grow crippled well before their time,
housed and snowed and pampered into the afterlife?
I am alive as this gangly spider of a soup here
brought to mild simmer,
a dash of pepper to pry the door,
balls of tissue lying around like snotty little opium
addicts weaning off the big sleep,
at least that is what the scoop of scoops is told;
that thick oily newsprint man trying to keep up with the times
which I would hardly recommend, to you or anyone else.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Setu, Impspired Magazine, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. 

Poetry Drawer: After the mistake: The carpenter and friend: A Bricklayer Retires by Phil Wood

After the mistake

Lying under the duvet
as cosy as a dormouse,
toes snug within
the solitude house.

Silence settles slowly
along the wishing line:
forgiveness needs to be
kind, is nestled blind.

The carpenter and friend

The oldish chap naps,
a gentle snore, no more
than that; his rocking chair
the other chap made.

When the oldish chap wakes,
they play a game of chess;
idle some chat, agree
a draw. The other chap naps.

A Bricklayer Retires

This wall has legs. The coffin tread
of bricks on grass is a stubborn stain.
But walls do stumble, grass does grow.
Your smile will trouble any wall.

I hear your dancing steps across
the landing floor. I grip my wall.
The humble grass is greening doors.
Your smile will crumble any wall.

Phil Wood was born in Wales. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. His writing can be found in various publications, including: Fevers of the Mind, London Grip, Snakeskin Poetry, Clementine Unbound, Miller’s Pond, Allegro.

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

Poetry Drawer: Summer Cottage 2020 by Robert Demaree

Summer Cottage 2020

  1. June

Our daughter and her husband
Came up this year
To help open the cottage
And by the time we arrived
Had done things we used to do:
Got the kayaks from the guest room
Down to the dock,
Swept up the thick yellow pollen
Left on the porch
By a New Hampshire spring,
Discarded the paper and mothballs
In which the furniture had slept.

We are older than my parents were
The last time they drove north.

We will pay to get some things done—
Pine straw off the roof;
Other things—the high windows
That face the water—may not get done.
I save for myself one task—I must:
Putting up our sign
At the head of the lane, our name,
The metal loon looking down
Toward the pond.

  1. September

Our daughter came back up
To help close the cottage.
We sat down and watched her
Wash the refrigerator.

82-year-old bones ache
From cleaning, packing, lifting,
From the subtle vibrations
Of two days on the road.

We stood one cold morning
By the side of
The Third Connecticut Lake
Wondering which would be
The penultimate trip north.

Back at Golden Pines
We are trying this morning
To remember how things work,
The TV, the toaster,
Computer, coffee maker.

Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.

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