Month: September 2016

Bastard by Robert Nisbet


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Interviews at Oxford, December 1959

The guide book phrase is dreaming spires, the facts
are pleasing too, the staircases and quads.
Train-loads of schoolboys shuffle in, disperse.
I’m bound for Jesus, for an interview.
Sounds pleasingly irreverent, that phrase:
“I’m bound for Jesus”. Then alas, ill-met,
here’s John the Baptist getting on the bus.

Who is this man, smile spread, grin grown so great?
He has the Bard’s Collected Works, and totes
this ammo to his holster arm, before
he fires in his first offence. Your school?

My glum, gruff Welsh response is slow:
It’s Milford Haven (‘Grammar School’ left out).
I do not ask his school. He tells me though.

His school spreads wide on England’s Southern coast.
‘Tis Beadles, Boodles? Rather good, he says.
Good little school. But so of course (he grins)
is Milford Haven. What a sizzling pratt.

And on we go. Next question. Do you ect?
Ecting? In sooth. My mind describes new views
of some foul practice known to him alone,
of buggery in Boodles, beastly boys.
And then he clarifies: In our place
we did King Lear. The monstrous grin now spreads
so far it seems to hinge half-off his head
(a large one) and he booms that he of course
was Edmund. Now, self-deprecating wit:
The Bastard Son of Gloucester. And I think,
Well yes. We read in Milford Haven too.

The bus conductor’s shout hails my release.
To Jesus. Ed’s for Queen’s. I leave him thus,
the Bastard Son of Boodles on the bus.

(Previously published in Prole Magazine)

Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet with over 200 publications in Britain, as well as a number of appearances in the USA, in magazines like San Pedro River Review, Constellations, Illya’s Honey and Clementine Unbound.

 

The Roman No(s) by Paul Vaughan


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How may I decline this latin clown?
Judgement is subjective,
my love unconjugated;
amo, amas, amat….

Puella fugit, fuck it,
sine amore nihil sum.

Paul Vaughan lives in Yorkshire with his cat Rosie, and refuses to eat custard unless it is in a vanilla slice. He has poems forthcoming in Sarasvati, Seventh Quarry and online atThe Curly Mind. When not writing, he moonlights as the editor of https://algebraofowls.com

 

My new profile picture by Marie-Therese Taylor


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My new profile picture

is just an X-Ray
of my hip
but boy do I look good like that
everything in
its proper place and not
a gram of body fat

with cartilage missing from the right
the fit into that socket tight
you know it’s from my skeleton
not just that of anyone

Marie-Therese Taylor draws on everyone and everything… no one is safe. Her short stories and poems have appeared in The Glasgow Review of Books, Soundwaves, Mixing the Colours, Nutshells and Nuggets, and The Stare’s Nest. She lives in Glasgow where she has also been known to perform.

 

The Parting of Ed the Sot by Ron Runeborg


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There he lay, the gnarly rascal, on his darlin’s kitchen table
Himself had not looked better since the dawning of his years
But we owed him one more gadabout, to liven up his fable
so we begged his little missus, and she smiled behind her tears

It was off to Hooley’s pub we drove, for more’n a pint of Guinness
Himself was just a wee bit meek as toasts were gaily sung
we coaxed a round of fiddle from the local violinists
and we danced with Ed until old Harris nearly lost a lung.

He wasn’t hard to load again, we seemed a nod more sprightly
as we toddled off to Finnigan’s, three drunks, one surely not
‘twas another cheer and three pence for the man who shown so brightly
O’er the Kelly green of county Down, our brother, Ed the Sot

Well we partied through the evenin’ with our Eddie boy beside us
tellin’ tales of Eddie’s prowess, of his loin’s vitality
Yes we found our way to seven pubs, ‘for coppers would deride us
and remind our little party to respect mortality.

After dawn on that drab Thursday, Ed had heard enough of laughter
it was time he and his widow would be sayin’ their goodbyes
We had said as much ourselves the night before the morning after
so we spent that hour gently, while our Eddie closed his eyes.

Ron Runeborg lives with his wife Linda and Montague Pierre the dog in Lakeville Minnesota. He writes poetry and short stories and currently has two books available.

 

Not the Glory in My Garden by Maggie Storer


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My garden is a garden that has no stately view.
There’s a railing at the bottom with some privet poking through.
Our terrace is some decking and peacocks, they can’t fly,
So the magpies and the pigeons would attack them from the sky.

For where the straggly weeds grow along the rotting fence,
You’ll find a broken shed among the nettles there so dense.
No potting shed or cold frame will you find within the grounds,
Just plastic toys and bicycles lying all around.

And there you’ll see the children, toddlers, girls and boys
Told to go and play outside, to go and make some noise.
A place where they can let off steam and shout and say rude words,
For the glory in my garden is the freedom it deserves.

’Cos I can’t pot begonias and I hate the prickly rose.
I’m the one who always kills off everything that grows.
I’m not concerned about the lawn where weeds and moss abide,
For it’s there to be a playground for my kids who play outside.

Adam was not a gardener and God who made him sees
That he gave him Eve to cherish in the garden on his knees.
So when the day is over you can clap your hands and say
Let’s astro-turf the garden and get out there and play.

Maggie Storer has gathered quite a collection of poems and is tentatively sending them out for approval.  She helps to run a local creative writing group in South Staffordshire. Her short stories have appeared in her local newspaper, but she now wants to concentrate on her poetry.

 

Fruit Fool by Jonathan Humble


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The kumquat sobbed upon the shelf,
A fruit somewhat benighted,
Despite the verse he sent his love,
His love was unrequited.
You see the fool was unaware
He’d got much too excited;
His muse turned out to be a plum …
This kumquat was short sighted.

Jonathan Humble is a deputy head teacher. He’s worked as a painter, lettuce picker and engineer in the power industry. Other than writing poetry and short stories, his hobbies include beard growing, pointing at poppies and keeping the international coffee industry afloat with his patronage.

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Competition by Meg Barton


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OK, that’s it.
Sent it in.
Hope he doesn’t jeer at it.
Chuck it in the bin.
I followed all the guidelines to a T.
No staples, single spacing, name on separate page.
Expect he likes professionals like me.
Although I’m a beginner, obviously.
‘Emerging’ they call it when you’ve had just one
Published in a local magazine.
What if he really likes it?
Have to go to Inverness.
How do I get there?
Prize money so much less,
Than what it costs you for the fare.
And what if at the reading he takes my hand
And says “We meet at last, the only other poet I have met
Who truly, deeply, understands”?
What would I wear?
And maybe he would ask me for a drink,
Say “Tell me what you think –
Of poetry”. Maybe we’d fall in love.
Live together somewhere by the sea –
All open fires, long walks and talks on literature.
Better start on Milton. Ezra Pound.
And Blake.
And maybe tackle Ulysses in case.
And how do I know we’d actually get on?
Although I love his poems. Bit intense?
That eagle face, the cheekbones.
Every day?
I don’t suppose he watches Masterchef.
Or Gogglebox. And I’d miss both of those.
Just walks and watching seagulls I suppose.
And I would miss my boyfriend, and my house.
My colleagues even. Wouldn’t have a job.
Although I could hobnob with poets.
And of course I’d be one.
Better lose some weight and get the reading done.
See how he fixes me with piercing eyes
Like some fantastic griffin in his lair.
Not sure I really want to join him there.
In fact I wish I’d never sent it in.
Oh god.
Please god.
Don’t let me win.

Meg Barton lives in Oxford, and has been published in a few magazines including The Interpreter’s House and Lighten Up Online.

 

What the Hell is a Peke? by Josa Young


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Pekes are pugs
In wigs
But not pigs
A pig in a wig
Is Miss Piggy

Josa Young is a novelist and copywriter. Her two novels One Apple Tasted and Sail Upon the Land are out there somewhere being read. She was a decent poet up until puberty, and has taken to verse again as all the creative frenzy of childbearing has faded.

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Edinburgh Epithalamion or Saturday Night In The High Street by Olga Wojtas


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Six mirthful maidens, making merry,
Adorned in outré millinery,
One wearing L-plates (temporary,
It must be said),
They’ve necked three litres of sweet sherry:
Chantelle’s to wed.

Chantelle, completely off her face,
Is weeping in her friends’ embrace,
Her swain’s a total waste of space
(she sobs), a ned.
He sees a skirt, he’s off in chase –
Would she were dead!

Her friends protest: the youth’s a prince,
No love more true, before or since.
Chantelle wails that they’re talking mince
Which hurts her head.
She then throws up, thus to evince
Her nuptial dread.

Her sisters do not hesitate:
They place her in a cab: “Cheers, mate.
Us too? As if? Buff blokes don’t wait!”
With that, they’ve fled.
For maids must always celebrate
When one’s to wed.

Olga Wojtas is a journalist by day and creative writer by night. Her work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including New Writing Scotland, Gutter, and The Mayo Review.

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Drudgery by Gillian Mellor


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He insists on coming in the utility room,
says he doesn’t feel dirty in there.
She had a breather until he found those tablets.
Now he comes in twice a day, every day,
opens her up, empties his load.

She feels like she can’t say no, wants to apologise
when fabric softener spills in the sink.
He says she’s electric. She dreams
of making him do it by hand,
putting him in a spin, buying a mangle.

Gillian Mellor lives near Moffat in Scotland. She has had poems published on and offline and can be traced to The Moffat Bookshop on the days they let her out.