Category: Prose poem

A Feeling of Light-Headedness, by Simon Williams


By Robert Garnham 
A Feeling of Light-Headedness
 
It started as one of those party games; all take a gulp of helium and talk like Mickey till your lungs deflate. Only, the effect didn’t stop; our voices never dropped to their normal timbres, our heads swelled and began to swing in the breeze. This was a little disconcerting; I think it was Angela stepped up first. When her feet reached the top of the sofa, Jim had lifted off, too, then Clare and Stephen, until all eight of us were butting the ceiling. Without the Prosecco, we could have been scared. Lucy, down a bottle and a half, managed to bounce to the hall, float up to the landing and steer into the bathroom. She came to realise how difficult it is to aim from high above the bowl. The lightheadedness wore off eventually; we floated down as gently as we’d risen. Lucky, really, it wasn't a garden party. With the prevailing wind, we could have reached Norwich, at 30,000 feet.

 

Hoodie / English Major / Word Games, by Karol Nielsen


By Robert Garnham

Hoodie

I dressed up for work because I was going to a play that evening. My office mate who always looks professional noticed. “That blue compliments your eyes,” she said of my navy blue pants. Usually I wear leggings and sweatshirts to work. My pink hoodie is my favorite. I was devastated when I noticed black bird poop on the sleeve and back and hood. When I tried to wash it out with soap the spots turned purple. I thought it was a goner. But I tried my father’s trick. I poured detergent on the spots and let the hoodie soak overnight. Unbelievably the hoodie washed clean in the morning. My other office mate who is a poet like me often tells me she dreads ever looking for another job. She doesn’t want to dress up. I chuckle in my pink hoodie, still intact.

English Major

I used to work until the middle of the night plugging data into a spreadsheet, analyzing the data, and writing articles based on the results. My journalism colleague always left at a reasonable hour and he once gave me advice. “Just make up the numbers!” He had an affinity for fiction, as an English major at my alma mater. I had wanted to study English, too, but my mother vetoed English as impractical so I studied International Relations and Economics instead. I always envied English majors until I realized we might end up in the exact same place.

Word Games

I never cheat at Wordle or the Spelling Bee—New York Times word games that I play on my iPhone every morning. I like to share my legit ups and downs with my brother in law, who excels at these games. But I sometimes google crossword clues—like the many obscure pop culture references—when I play the Times’ Mini Crossword. I also google word scrambles to solve problem words on WordScapes, an app on my iPhone. I never share my illegitimate wins at these games. Cheating is my dirty little secret, a harmless crime that keeps things fun.

Karol Nielsen is the author of the memoirs Walking A&P and Black Elephants and three poetry chapbooks. Her first memoir was shortlisted for the William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. Her full-length poetry collection was a finalist for the Colorado Prize for Poetry. Her poem “This New Manhattan” was a finalist for the Ruth Stone Poetry Prize.

 

Masseuse Musings, by Mohammad Zahid


By Robert Garnham

Mohammad Zahid is a poet and translator from Kashmir, India. His maiden poetry collection The Pheromone Trail bagged the Best Book Award from the Academy of Art Culture and Languages, Jammu & Kashmir in 2015.

His poetry has appeared in many Indian and international journals. He is a translation editor for Kashmiri Language at Muse India and Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts.

 

Feral Dogs of Riogordo, by Hilary Willmott


By Robert Garnham 
Feral Dogs of Riogordo

It's three a.m and I need a pee which I have been delaying
since it takes but the slightest movement to rouse the feral dogs of Riogordo.  The dog who sleeps behind the house likes to conduct proceedings.

In my half sleep I see him with a baton which he raises and with two sharp yelps has the rapt attention of all dogs within a five mile radius.  They quickly reach frenzy pitch to become a canine
cacophony of sound echoing across the countryside  and down into the pueblo.

Pleased with tonight's turnout the conductor discards his baton and after a perfunctory nibble on his testicles, curls into a ball and sleeps.

The choir note his absence and become sotto voce until they too
abandon the proceedings to await the next tap of the conductor's baton.

Hilary Willmott

Hilary has been writing for many years and has been published by Templar Press, Bristol PoetryCan, Leaf, Velvet, The Exeter Broadsheet, Obsessed with Pipework and Mr Garnham himself.  She lives close to the river in the south west of England, with her partner and a small pack of dogs.
 

Cucumber, by Susan Lindsay


By Robert Garnham 
Cucumber                                                                                                                                                   

Cucumber cool man

definitely, if not definitively
wears a bowler hat
 
like the balloon man
blown up and twisted into shape
each twist a joint
in which to fit another
 
one quick swirl and in no time
the bowler hat man
becomes a sausage dog
elongated body, nose
short legs and perky tail.
 
Not the cucumber cool man
who is only a caricature
squash that tube
and you’ll get juice
seeds for small creatures
to feast upon if left too long
it’s better chopped
sliced into a salad
 
thinly enough, reputedly fine,
between refined slices
of brown bread - crusts off
 
where the upper crusts
might remove top hats to dine
with ladies and gentlemen
of their acquaintance
for afternoon tea
at Dublin‘s Shelbourne Hotel  
or other exaggerated theatre
of exquisite cuisine
 
or not. Twirls
of the vegetable scooped
by the latest sharp blades
more likely now, perhaps
to appear alongside
show-stopping capers
artisan food.
                                                                                               
 
      

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
 

Life isn’t all unsolved murders by the sea, by Casey Jarrin


By Robert Garnham 
Life isn’t all unsolved murders by the sea

gaunt detectives drown in another pint 
old pains swim inside suits and bones 
a savior complex walks into a bar
sits next to a gentle sex addiction
both in search of a wall to punch 
immutable truths
to prove.

mom’s eyes swallow horizon 
dad sits frozen in his car 
little sisters listen
at the door

a scarf washes ashore
a body floats in with the tide 
we realize this is how
life comes undone.

meanwhile
wild turkeys cross city streets 
necks wiggle in winter fog 
uninterested in the price of gas 
or whether a stacked Court 
this December morning
will decide who dies
and when alive
begins.

Casey Jarrin is a poet, painter, and educator whose writing appears in Irish, UK, and US journals (Banshee, Abridged, Washington Square Review, Belfield Literary Review, Banyan Review, Buzzwords, Grand Journal, Perisphere). She’s received the Verve, York, Goldsmith, and Fingal Poetry Prizes, been on the Bridport shortlist, and performed as a featured poet at Lime Square and the Nuyorican Poets Café. A Jewish-Catholic atheist raised in New York who’s since lived in Dublin and Minneapolis, she received her PhD in modern literature/film, taught at Macalester College for several years, and is founder-director of Live Mind Learning. She’s now completing her debut collection, Untethered. Website: www.caseyjarrin.com

 

Boxes, by Rodney Wood


By Robert Garnham 
BOXES

I’ve found your secret Daddy.
What have you found son?
There is a room beneath the shed. It’s full of little wooden boxes of different sizes.
You won’t tell anyone will you son. I’ve only told the butcher and undertaker.
Why only them Daddy?
The butcher has promised to cut up my body and put away what should be in boxes. While the undertaker has promised to collect everything else, bones, flesh, skin and so on and have them put in a box labelled “Miscellaneous”.
I’ve lived my life being put in boxes, working in a box, living in a box, travelling in a box, dreaming of boxes. When I die I want to be buried in lots of little wooden boxes and not just the one to show that I’m an individual.
How long have you spent making little wooden boxes Daddy?
My life son, has been spent making little wooden boxes. I’ve made boxes for my toes, my false teeth, my heart, my ears, my eyes and well, you get the idea son.
When will you be finished Daddy?
Next Tuesday. After that I don’t know what I’ll do son.
Daddy, what if you're cremated?
 

By Robert Garnham 
THE FULL ENGLISH TAKES A DNA TEST

Old Bean, Old Sausage, there are question marks. 
I know you’ve had a lot on your plate.
How can I break this to you?
Your bacon is pure Viking.

Baked beans arrived here illegally
Uncle Sam wants them back
Hash browns have no right to remain
Plum tomatoes only speak Italian
Since 2006 HP sauce has called the Netherlands home 
PG Tips must face up to its colonial past

Three mushrooms on your shirt 
your England’s still dreaming

If you know which side your toast’s buttered 
you’ll be a good egg.

Mr Full English, you are thoroughly scrambled.

John Lanyon lives in the Cotswolds. He works as an organic gardener, linguist, musician, and writer. Having failed his English Literature O Level, he came to love literature through reading it in French and German. He writes about art, the body, childhood, society, nature, the spirit of places, the secret lives of words.

 

The Yarn Spinner, by George Bastow


By Robert Garnham 
He sits in the corner of your local boozer 
Wearing a smile as broad as a battlecruiser 
He's got the spiel of a champ and the luck of a loser 
But lend him an ear and he's sure to amuse ya 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He's got a mouth that moves at the speed of light 
Emitting patter sickly sweet as Angel Delight 
He's as old as the hills and as young as the night 
Halfway between an oracle and a gobshite 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He used to work for MI 5, but he keeps that on the low 
He used to be a roadie, went on tour with Status Quo 
He used to be a boxer, trained in the States with Smokin’ Joe 
Plus, he played all the instruments on Enya's Orinoco Flow 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He's a world-famous artist with a masterpiece on his easel 
He's an ex-Hollywood tough guy, former stuntman for Vin Diesel 
He’s a lapsed circus performer with his own troupe of dancing weasels 
Oh, and his wife’s a scientist who's discovered a cure for measles 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He spent decades as a TV exec, commissioning comedy and drama 
He spent his work experience at the British Museum spit-polishing suits of armour 
He spent seven years in Tibet as an organic yak meat farmer 
And he spent yesterday as a Buddhist monk, making tea for the Dalai Lama 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, you know him 
 
He’s been known to beguile crowds with his eccentric charm 
He often bewilders bar-staff with his far-fetched smarm 
For a pint or three, he'll no doubt twist your arm  
But everyone can agree he don’t mean any harm 
He's the Yarn-Spinner, we all know him

George Bastow is a poet, writer, blogger and hat connoisseur from the picturesque wilderness of North Warwickshire. 

 

He has written for numerous publications and regularly performs at spoken word events. 

 

George also facilitates workshops for Writing West Midlands’ Spark Young Writers Programme. 

 

Blog: https://gdbastow11.wordpress.com

Twitter: @GDBastow