The I.T. Guy, by Sarah James

The I.T. Guy

Wired, he talks high speed
in a language beyond us,
our faces blank screens.

He e-valuates our systems
with zip and drive,
recommends new leads.

He keeps our firm’s site
secure; but can’t help close
frozen windows.

His fast processing
mega memory leaves us lost
for Word’s.

His virus checks clear,
we return to work
with our hacking coughs.

And yes, when we call
to request more back-up,
sometimes he bytes.

Sarah James is a poet, fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Her latest collection, Blood Sugar, Sex, Magic (Verve Poetry Press), is partially inspired by having type one diabetes since she was six. Good laughter is a medicine she’s not always found easy to come by. Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk.

 

Inside my Head, by Susan Lindsay

Inside My Head                                                                           

After Grayson Perry, Channel 4 

 

Under the skull

shaped to be my own,

smooth curves I’d love

to run my hands along

when gone –

I do love bone –

 

wild circuitry.

All my fingers tip

flashing right in;

impulses deployed 

for digital dance

 

the beat of my feet,

heat and my heart’s 

thump, thump

never missing a beat

flowing red, taking

oxygen from the rise

and fall of my chest

cleared blood, 

                           dear kidneys

thank-you, back for more

once it’s done servicing

the sorting house, my brain

 

and, still not mentioned –

fuel, taste, the process of waste.

 

I can see

not only through skin

that tree –

100 billion neurons

dendritic spines, soma –

deluged with light

ALL around perceived

to sort, prioritise

register, file

for recall 

reaction

through changing

expressions, 

                       voice,

speech central 

sound: sound-box – check Ö

language, words – check Ö

tone- check Ö

mouth shape – check Ö

sufficient breath – check Ö

speak….  AND listen,

more again,

simultaneous

      transmission

in system central

 

who knows who,

what, is behind it

maybe the great

sky mother –

 

and monsters

God and the gods,

utopias, dystopias

vibrating paint box

clay, the earth

the moon and, yes,

the stars

 

my own rocket

control centre

blasts off 

in less than nanoseconds

24/7

 

grey matter matters

the gut’s great

processor                              

under the skin,

who needs cylinders

I’ve got brain

the world

 

inside my head.

 

 

Biography. 

Susan Lindsay … a most compelling and unique voice in Irish poetry, Eamonn Wall, at her February 2022 Reading, University Missouri-St. Louis. Milling the Air (2018) is Susan’s third collection from Doire Press. Her work is published in journals, she has read at festivals and facilitates Conversations mediated by poetry. Blog: http://susanlindsayauthor.blogspot.com

 

So Surrey, by Trisha Broomfield

So Surrey

I’m tired of being Surrey
with vowels of pure cut glass
surface good intentions
and Pilates perfect arse

I’m tired of being Surrey
with legs like licorice sticks
tipped into boots, DuBarry
where obese is still size six

I’m tired of being Surrey
with hair five shades of fair
driving blind to others
volunteering just to care

I’m tired of being Surrey
sunglasses half my face
Botox, fillers, collagen
and running out of space

but being here in Surrey
it’s full of all things green
Pesto sauce and olives
and kale to keep me lean

I think I’ll stay in Surrey
though not so near a beach
I’ll take up Bikram yoga
and do my roots, so pass the bleach.

 

They hire a Badminton Champ to Comment on Wimbledon, by Sarah Lawson

THEY HIRE A BADMINTON CHAMP TO COMMENT ON WIMBLEDON

First I must explain some crucial things:
Yes, there are racquets strung with strings,
But what you are about to see
Would shock you without some notes from me.
The racquets are clunky in the extreme—
They must handle like a wooden beam.
The shuttlecock becomes a ball, completely round,
And the heavy nets reach to the ground!
This ball can bounce before you hit it
Or not, if you’re fast enough to get it.
The game goes on for hours outside in the sun
And you will probably fall asleep before it’s done.
If you think the game sounds arcane and boring,
Just wait until you hear about the scoring!

Sarah Lawson, Anglo-American, lives in London and has always delighted in stringing words together. Educated at Indiana University and the University of Glasgow, among a few other places. Besides poetry, she has written a play, a novel, and two memoirs plus some translations, mostly from French.

 

Ballet Dancer, by Lesley Quayle

Ballet Dancer

More like a farmer’s wife
than a ballet dancer.

I know a farmer’s wife,
delicate as a fawn,
voice soft as moss,
face a sun-tipped flower.

I know a ballet dancer
who could squeeze the life
from the strongest man
using only her thighs.

Lesley Quayle is a prize-winning poet, an editor, folk/blues singer and co-founder of 4Word Poetry Press. (https://www.4word.org/about/) Her next collection, Invisible Woman, is due out later this year from Yaffle. She is also a retired sheep farmer.
 

An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb, by Tonnie Richmond

An Archaeology Student Thinks about Sex in Maes Howe Chambered Tomb

She’s aware that Gavin’s staring at her bum
as she bends double, clambers along
the long dark passageway into the tomb.
The others follow, cluster round, eager to learn.

Her lecturer begins his talk; all about midwinter
when this tomb aligns with the setting sun.
He offers theories -
about it being a humongous womb,
the sun-god penetrating the long stone vagina,
rays striking the back wall, impregnating Mother Earth,
ensuring fertility and good harvests in the year to come.

As theories go, it’s pretty good.
Gavin’s standing close, she feels his body heat
in this claustrophobic chamber.
All this talk of penetration, sexual congress overwhelms;
her nipples tingle. She moves, imperceptibly,
leans in towards him. Feels his breath upon her neck.

————————-

Tonnie Richmond has, since she retired from working in Local Government, spent her time either doing archeology in Orkney or writing poems. As the digging gets harder, she finds writing a slightly easier choice. She has had several poems published and is currently working on a collection of poems about Orkney.
 

The Queen’s Secret Siberian Sisters, by Bryan Franco

Bryan Franco is from Brunswick, Maine, USA. He is published in the US, Australia, England, Ireland, and Scotland, has featured for poetry events in the US, Canada, England, Ireland, and Scotland; hosts Café Generalissimo Open Mic; his book Everything I Think Is All In My Mindwas published in 2021.

 

Alternative Weather Fronts, by Sarah Dale

Alternative Weather Fronts
(most not mentioned in the shipping forecast)

Erotic fronts are twerking
round both poles
whipping their hailstoned g-strings
into every nook and cranny
of the coast.

Erratic fronts have forgotten
to take their medication,
consequently it’s raining gin
and the snow is lemon sorbet
with water biscuits.

Exotic fronts are offering
a massage service
to ship wrecked mariners
who it’s likely will decide to stay
at sea.

Esoteric fronts have discovered
surprising facts that are now written
for everyone to read
in towering cumuli
of clouds.

Ecstatic fronts are dizzy
with delight, causing spontaneous
dancing in the streets
spreading blissful havoc
world wide.

Emetic fronts vomit –
they’re best avoided
by staying indoors.
 

Blob-Fish, by Ben Macnair

Blob-Fish 

Some people claim the Lion as their Spirit animal,
because of its bravery.
Some people choose a cheetah,
for its speed.
Others choose a Llama,
because of its habit of spitting.
Politicians choose Ostriches
because they bury their heads in the sand.
I would choose the Blob-Fish.
Patron saint of grumbling.
The living embodiment of the phrase,
‘Cheer up, it may never happen’
because people assume that IT is always a bad thing.
Supposing though, just for a moment, that IT
is a good thing, and being told it may never happen
only re-enforces the negativity.

The Blob-Fish was never once imbued with looks or charisma,
designer fashions, or even a useful role to play in the ocean,
knowing that it will be the punch line of a joke,
happier fish will tell him to cheer up,
when it is just his resting face,
and maybe if it had a better name,
it would feel better about itself.
 

Virtual Afterlife, by Alan Garrigan

Virtual Afterlife

By 2122, Facebook VR had, grown to involve—
500 million, accounts. Of dead people—
Meta, exclusively levelled,
On figural profits. zero-sum outcomes,
Heaping currency on your posthumous avatar.

By 2122, immersive dynamics, Rylan robotics and Kuramoto model,
Brought eternal equipoise of the cell—
Digital reanimation, made possible, through VR multi-verse —
Technological singularity, deterministic ontology—
Wonderous miracle of virtual afterlife.

By 2122, Moore’s law and Deus ex Machina,
Proven right—should have heeded Engels and Marx,
Even Televangelists were correct,
Money can buy a ticket to heaven.
Logical binary control structure: defunded species designed for hell.

By 2122, loop algorithms, going berserk —
Hobbesian leviathan, Homo Futuris—death destroyer of worlds—
the novel ape’s, dystopian trick, brassbound mastery—
Mystical Markov chain, myopic, ceteris paribus, homogeneity.

By 2122, sociobiological evolution—Darwin’s curse,
Unfashions the homo sapient.
Today —commercialisation, utilitarianism, gentrification—
Tomorrow—outmoded human chondriosomes.

Money buys both respect and right—
But money means a losing side, which side are you on?
Is there a choice? —start piling cash— monetary conduit—become Homo Futuris.

Alan is a Master of Arts graduate (set to feature in the upcoming LGBTQIA+ Anthology Peace in the Valley, 2022. He has also had poems featured in Hullwrites magazine (University of Hull), Poetry during lockdown (UCD) and Washington Square Review (upcoming). He has also featured poems in Consilience and BASCE journals. Alan is also a dog person.