Month: February 2022

Circular, by Sharon Phillips


By Robert Garnham 
Circular

when the exit road was blocked
and a sign said men at work
although no men were working
and I couldn’t find the diversion
and the ring road kept on turning

when my satnav turned itself off
and the map from the passenger seat
was flapping in the footwell
and my armpits pricked with sweat
and the ring road kept on turning

when I’d forgotten the address
and I couldn’t find my phone
which had vanished from my bag
and I wanted to go home
but the ring road still kept turning

Sharon stopped writing poetry in 1976 and started again forty years later, after retiring from her career in education. Her poems have been published online and in print. Originally from Bristol, Sharon now lives in Otley, West Yorkshire.

 

Yes, the post-op went swimmingly, by Beth McDonough


By Robert Garnham 
Yes, the post-op went swimmingly

May I say... an excellent job! 
Elegant at the bedside, she re-examined,
re-admired her neatly-stapled line,
on yet to purple flesh. 
Damned good work!
You'll be in a bikini soon!

Residual anaesthesia and brocht-upness
kept back my awful truth. I'm more
a regulation one-piece sort of gal.
I gagged my thought-reply.
Doctor, had you carved some Celtic knot
across my abdomen, I'd be chuffed.
At last the fucking cyst is gone.

Beth McDonough’s poetry appears in Magma, Causeway, Gutter and elsewhere; she reviews in DURA.Her pamphlet Lamping for pickled fish is published by 4Word.

 

The Naked Lecturer of Chorlton Cum Hardy, by Michelle Diaz


By Robert Garnham 
He targeted Catholics, female and busty,
he donned floral shirts, his hairline was dusty.

He invited me back for an innocent drink,
when my coffee arrived I was ever so pink.

For I came eye to eye with what looked like a nose,
but noses don't dangle. It hit me. I froze.

I tried to ignore his distinct lack of cloth,
when he asked me, quite brazenly,
Do you fancy a bath?

My coffee cup fell, up jumped a splinter.
The silence that followed was worthy of Pinter.

Then he wiggled and jiggled and willied about,
turned red in the face, then let out a shout;

I'd have thought there was more chance of winning the lottery
than slicing my love sack on Portmeirion pottery.
This damn piece of crockery's stuck in my scrotum!
His penis resembled a freshly felled totem.

I wanted to help, so I looked for a bandage
to dress his split bits and damaged appendage.
But my searching was fruitless, all I found was a sock.
And what use is that to a honeycombed cock?

Defeated, I left. I suppose it was rude,
but I'd started to tire of this fool in the nude.

So beware all young things of lecturer guile.
If he asks you to dinner, just say with a smile;

No thank you professor, I'd rather be dead.
If you value your testicles, quit, while you're ahead...

Michelle Diaz has been published in numerous poetry publications both online and in print. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dancing Boy’ was published by Against the Grain Poetry Press in 2019.

She is currently working on her first collection.

 

My Son Teaches me How to Dress, by Jinny Fisher


By Robert Garnham 
My Son Teaches Me How to Dress

Last week, I staged a major wardrobe de-clutter, 
expelling my dated clothes: velvet Biba frocks 
flopped, sulking, in a heap; a purple boa
shed a turkeyful of feathers on the stairs. 
Platform over-thighs, Mary Janes, and Uggs 
trotted off to The Very Vintage Shop.

Last year, you bought sixty T-shirts at one go
from spreadshirt.com— all with geeky formulae 
and puns. In astro-language I can’t speak
or type, they jokify your starry mind
and meme the passion of your working life:
a massive telescope, its sweeping audit of the skies.

I can play that game: an online jaunt to Zazzle 
yields rainbow fabrics, wordy slogans in fancy fonts. 
I stuff my basket—fifteen hoodies and twenty tees 
should be enough to see me out: Grammar Ninja, 
The Oxford Comma, and Let’s Eat, Grandma.

Jinny Fisher lives in Glastonbury. She is published in numerous print and online magazines and has been successful in national and international competitions — including first runner-up in Prole Laureate 2020. In 2019, V. Press published her pamphlet The Escapologist. She is Principal Pusher of The Poetry Pramhttps://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=The%20Poetry%20Pram

Twitter: @MsJinnifer

 

Appearances of the Loch Ness Monster, by Neil Fulwood


By Robert Garnham 
APPEARANCES OF THE LOCH NESS MONSTER

“They spoke ... in a desultory fashion of current events. The news from abroad, events in the world of sports, the latest reappearance of the Loch Ness monster.”
- Agatha Christie: ‘And Then There Were None’


The latest reappearance of the Loch Ness monster
was at a book launch by a sceptic
who had scientifically proven its non-existence.
The old saw about no such thing 
as bad publicity was applicable here: the book
sold more than it might have
without the headlines and hasty, half-blurred photos
but the author wasn’t best pleased.

Prior to that, it had been spotted in a phone booth,
a call to a bookie to place a bet
on its own newsworthiness. Whether the bookie
paid out has gone unrecorded
and sightings of it dropping in at the Dog & Duck
on the way back for a swift half
and a whisky chaser made a minor buzz on Twitter
but remain unsubstantiated. And prior

to that, well it had pulled one of its remain-hidden-
from-the-eyes-of-the-world stunts,
decades having past since it was noticed
at a White City dog race, wearing
a trilby and a trench coat, a rolled up copy
of the local sporting fixtures paper
tucked under one fin. Some say it had a fag on,
others that it was a pipe smoker.

All so long ago it might have been in black and white.
Those were the days it preferred, anyway:
stentorian Movietone voiceovers, fleapits fogged 
with cigarette smoke, bored usherettes
doing the intermission rounds. Walking back
through misty streets, the last bus
swallowed by distance. Night falling as the monster 
disappears into familiar waters.

Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham where he still lives and works. He has published three collections with Shoestring Press. His latest collection, Mad Parade, is due out with Smokestack Books in July.

 

Superwoman and the mote, by Rose Lennard


By Robert Garnham 
Superwoman and the mote
 
My special power
is removing tiny things
from the eyes of the one I love.
I say, special power, but
if I’m honest it’s just myopia
that lets me peer in close up
under my thick lenses
to examine the naked orb
exposed and vulnerable in bright light.
Sometimes there’s an obvious culprit,
a wayward lash, nestled, easily fished out
with a twist of moistened tissue.
Other times, I have to peel back lids
taking liberties with my love’s lashes
to scrutinise the angry white.
Eyeballing my beloved’s rolled back eye,
despite my tenderness this looks like terror
as he submits to my inspection.
 
Once I lifted the finest hair –
it just kept coming, nearly two inches
and almost invisible. That
was a job well done.
I gave my cape
a little twirl of satisfaction.

Early photos of Rose show her up to her chin in daisies, and five decades later, not much has changed. She loves arranging leaves, sticks and stones in ephemeral artworks, or arranging words, often on long walks or in the small hours. 

 

Gowildwithrose (Instagram – ephemeral art, not poems)

 

Winter Wasp, by Nikki Robson


By Robert Garnham 
Winter Wasp
At first I thought it next door’s saw 
starting on their stack of tree trunks. 
But it was a queen

buzzing over open books
as if searching for an exact word 
on which to light

– somnolent sluggish drowsy –

anchor her middle legs over her wings 
and not turn a page until spring.
She would pare the words

and shred their letters, roll around
her regal mouth re-write them as a nest. 
Her temporary rest on Margaret Atwood

stung me to respond. Clive James, I thought, 
is not long gone and Seamus would not 
conscience such a deed,

so in the end the Oxford’s weight of words 
in common usage circa 1983
was brought to bear, pupating her into a

yellow (colour between green and orange in the spectrum) sticky (tending or intended to stick to what is touched)
splat (crush or squash).

Nikki is originally from Northern Ireland and currently lives in Scotland. She holds an MLitt in Writing Practice and Study from Dundee University and has had poems in journals and anthologies in print and online including Poetry Scotland, Acumen, Northwords Now, Under the Radar, the Lake and Scotia Extremis.

 

I Wish I Lived in a Bungalow, by Robert Garnham


By Robert Garnham 
I wish I lived in a bungalow

I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.
Mooching round in my bungalow,
Now what shall I have for my tea?
People would call
They’d stand in the hall
They’d look around
And say, ‘Is that all?’
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
I’d go from room to room.
I’d only need one plug you see
When I use the vacuum.
It’s ever so static
I’d feel so ecstatic
And going upstairs
Only leads to the attic
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or possibly a chalet.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My god it would be such a laugh.
People would visit my bungalow
And ask, ‘Where’s the other half?’
I’d have no cares
I’d ignore their stares
There is no cupboard
Under the stairs
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Or perhaps a ground floor flat.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
My bedroom down the hall.
Would I get bored of my bungalow?
No, not a chance, not at all.
It’s what I adore
I’d be thrilled to the core
My plan only has
One major floor
I wish I lived in a bungalow
And be closer to planet earth.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
Imagine the plaudits and glory
Like the Star Wars franchise the place
Only has the one storey.
It’s what I’d do
Without much ado
The downstairs loo
Is just called the loo
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Also, I’m ever so lonely.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
You try it, you can’t go back.
I wish I lived in a bungalow
Perhaps in a cul-de-sac.
It’s made out of brick
I get such a kick
You can keep your stairs
They’re making me sick
I wish I lived in a bungalow
With Darren from the coffee shop.

I wish I lived in a bungalow
It’s something I’ll always regret.
Nothing better than a bungalow,
You can keep your maisonette.
That’s my intent
The hours I’ve spent
It’s one step away
From being a tent.
It wouldn’t be far
You can visit by car
You can come right in
The door is ajar.
I’d make my stamp
Buy a standard lamp
You’ll have to admit
It’s kind of camp
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
I wish I lived in a bungalow
One floor is enough for me.

Robert Garnham has been performing LGBT comedy poetry around the UK for ten years at various fringes and festivals, and has had three collections published by Burning Eye. He has won slams in places such as London, Edinburgh and Swindon and headlined or featured at events such as Bang Said the Gun, Raise the Bar, and Milk and in 2019 was the Hammer and Tongue featured artist for a tour of the UK. He has supported artists such as John Hegley, Arthur Smith and Paul Sinha. He is the editor of Spilling Cocoa magazine and his website is https://professorofwhimsy.com

 

Facebook Update, by Kevin Higgins


By Robert Garnham

Facebook Update
after Zbigniew Herbert


I am humbled (and heartfelt) to announce that, in perhaps the greatest honour ever given a poet of my little variety, I’ve been invited to read my poem ‘What Caligula Did Next’ at the Emperor’s leaving do in the Horti Lamiani Imperial Gardens, Rome next Wednesday. If only my late Mother wasn’t ten years incinerated, she’d be so proud. Surely now, National Academy of Burnished Versemakers, here I come! It’d be a red embarrassment for them if I died still outside their walls, yowling like a stray tabby with a toothache, without the official people claiming ownership of me. I can see the scene: insignificant old me being borne through those state-moneyed gold-plated gates on a small throne by six naked minor male poets of advanced years. No one anyone’s heard of. Though they’ve all heard of each other.

KEVIN HIGGINS is co-organiser of Over The Edge literary events in Galway. He has published five previous full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). His poems also feature in Identity Parade – New Britishand Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010) and in The Hundred Years’ War: modern war poems (Ed Neil Astley, Bloodaxe May 2014). Kevin was satirist-in-residence with the alternative literature website The Bogman’s Cannon 2015-16. 2016 – The Selected Satires of Kevin Higgins was published by NuaScéalta in 2016. The Minister For Poetry Has Decreed was published by Culture Matters (UK) also in 2016. Song of Songs 2:0 – New & Selected Poems was published by Salmon in Spring 2017. Kevin is a highly experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. He has facilitated poetry workshops at Galway Arts Centre and taught Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute for the past fifteen years. Kevin is the Creative Writing Director for the NUI Galway International Summer School and also teaches on the NUIG BA Creative Writing Connect programme. His poems have been praised by, among others, Tony Blair’s biographer John Rentoul, Observer columnist Nick Cohen, writer and activist Eamonn McCann, historian Ruth Dudley Edwards, and Sunday Independent columnist Gene Kerrigan; and have been quoted in The Daily Telegraph, The Independent, The Times (London), Hot Press magazine, Phoenix magazine, The Daily Mirror and on The Vincent Browne Show, and read aloud by Ken Loach at a political meeting in London. He has published topical political poems in publications as various as The New European, The Morning Star, Dissent Magazine (USA), Village Magazine (Ireland), & Harry’s Place. The Stinging Fly magazine has described Kevin as “likely the most widely read living poet in Ireland”. One of Kevin’s poems features in A Galway Epiphany, the final instalment of Ken Bruen’s Jack Taylor series of novels which is just published. His work has been broadcast on RTE Radio, Lyric FM, and BBC Radio 4. His book The Colour Yellow & The Number 19: Negative Thoughts That Helped One Man Mostly Retain His Sanity During 2020 was published in late by Nuascealta. His extended essay Thrills & Difficulties: Being A Marxist Poet In 21st Century Ireland was published in pamphlet form by Beir Bua Press this year. In December 2021 Kevin was both expelled from the British Labour Party, of which he was an overseas member, for publishing his poem ‘Tribute Acts’ in Socialist Appeal magazine and, on the very same day, awarded ‘Poet of The Year’ at the Labour Heroes Awards event at Conway Hall.  Ecstatic, Kevin’s sixth full poetry collection, will be published by Salmon in March.  

 

Prayer Before Sleep, by Nikki Fine


By Robert Garnham 
Prayer Before Sleep


I’d like an upgrade, please, 
one with an installation wizard, 
so I don’t need to go through
the pain of strict dieting, 
an exercise regime, 
self-improvement classes (plus homework),
or hours and hours of therapy
to convince me I’m good enough already
with no need of an upgrade, 
or a wizard.



Nikki Fine used to be an English teacher but has now found better things to do with her time. She also writes, sings and runs. Mad fool.