Parts of the morning collide with the eventual winner
of the home & away series. Not much is left. A few shards
cause craters in the eyes, a part- pennant does pennance as it
wraps around the nearest set of ankles. Then a dog sled ar-
rives, still moist with snow. We welcome it with closed arms.
elephant cup cakes
‘ Pachyderms and pastry! I love it.’ Tom Beckett
That a pachyderm is highly comp- etitive in the global pastry market does not adequately capture the true sense of how unlikely scenarios such as this are. Those Instagram influencers who talked this up were all probably tickled by the ivory. Money may have changed hands. But the natural attri- butes of the animal are ideal for the task — tusks, tail, trunk; all master mixers — why be surprised? & those feet! Pancakes galore. The perfect size for carving out cheesecake casings.
A line from Billie Jean King
An exciting update is coming. A chart’s been prepared to illustrate the main points. Small popups will appear that use
colour & typography to provoke a psychological reaction. There’s certainly a place for that, simple or complex, since we are both
made up of energy & used to the use of icons to represent emotions. It won’t be that long before you have command of
the update, can use all parts of it intuitively. Savour the small win — this victory is fleeting. Another update is now only days away.
Hosomaki
The queue outside the sushi bar melts into one another as the bagpipes suddenly arrive. Raw fish & rice is no match for tartan, even one only rarely worn. That’s the
problem with living in a garrison city — too many con- tradictions, too much bias. Too few true conflicts. Which is why the military make what they can out of what’s available.
A Paumanok Picture
Later, when the road had opened,
Walt Whitman was allowed to pass.
Mark Young was born in New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for over sixty years, & is the author of around sixty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, creative non-fiction, & art history. His most recent book is The Sasquatch Walks Among Us, from sandy press, available through Amazon.
You can find more of Marks’ work here on Ink Pantry.
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 Leadbeateris 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
