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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 13
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In the aftermath of the terrorist atrocities of September 2001, Worm
suspended publication. It recommenced publication at the beginning of 2002.
four dragonflies ..and the call to prayer
...as if we might ..forget
jec
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Things I Remember
In Lynne's diner in Mathews County
we laughed about the Fiddler crabs
that scuttled in the shallow flats
of Comfort Preserve, their grotesque
oversized claw high over their backs
defending their mud tunnels and
perfectly formed females. We worked
our way through bacon and home fries;
you sniggered at the old men
in the booth behind us,
rough and raw from a thousand years
of rope, sea and sun.
You called them primitive.
Beneath me, the sheets are damp
with the smell of salt and sex.
You lay on your back, naked and snoring,
saliva leaking out of the corner
of your mouth. One muscled arm raised
protectively over my pillow.
I remember what you will not:
the smell of salt water, the rush of the wind
and the image of the Blue Heron
as she speared silver anchovies
in the shallows.
© Bunny Goodjohn
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Coat
I love you, Harvey Nichols cashmere coat.
There was no pain, I simply signed the cheque.
My thoughts of overdrafts were as remote
as Xanadu - I own you on the tick.
All I can say is, when I saw your cut,
your quality and style, I was possessed.
And even though your price tag churned my gut
my overwhelming feelings weren't suppressed.
As I caress you, spread across my lap,
or slip my arm inside your lovely sleeve
and finger every buttonhole and flap
or penetrate your pockets, I believe
that you were meant for me - what man-made coat
compares to that of any hairy goat?
© Christina Fletcher
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Munich
A cooling ember red to draw the eye,
Flaked sample from a post box, bloodshot dot,
Dusk wound, a dress against a bonfired sky;
A call gathering a child, hay harvest moment.
Trees waterlogged with leaves billow in black,
Soak into dusk within the advancing night.
The red dress cools against the beech and oak;
The child grows into its mother's silhouette.
Rumours, storm warnings. The honeysuckle's syrup.
First barrage rumbles, marchers drawing closer;
The evening greatcoats soddening into black.
The child grows restless in the oil-lamped house.
His mother tunes the dial against the downpour,
The lightning epaulettes, the paper gesture.
© Martyn Halsall
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Two 'Bobbins'
…Climbing upward to love, I flirt
…………and get hurt
……………..fall
……………back
………..down one rung
curse the ladder whose praise I sung
Across my dreams he weaves his strands
………...each night hands
………….……me
………….……his
……….…..heart again
…..as if there'd been no other men
© Phyllis DeBlanche
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Do Us Part
After ten years his face
has gone mutton sour.
Now this happens -
His eyes ripen and ripen wide.
He favors Kools and muscle shirts.
He has square knees, missing teeth.
He bulges in all the wrong places,
has a tendency to dribble
-- we won't discuss this now.
His spine is in permanent
stiff-as-stickness,
a whole body erection,
a walking, talking erection
with knuckles
-- we won't discuss this now.
Can you visualize this:
We hide between walls
when the door knocks,
tinkle a little
when the phone rings.
We keep the TV low
so we can hear.
We drop bowls or laundry
at a floor creak or
when Jipper is suddenly silent
in the back yard.
We bend under stairs
trying to keep our eyes quiet.
We keep shades drawn,
there's no sense in windows.
We shop very, very early or
very, very late and sometimes
duck for bread and butter cover.
We've run out the back door
holding hands empty handed.
No laws against crazy,
he's not quite dangerous enough
for them. He has his RIGHTS too
-- we won't discuss this now.
Can you visualize this.
Dark half-moons have become
a permanent feature of my eyes.
Live this way
oh forget it forget it
we won't discuss this now.
© Maryann Hazen-Stearns
* Thunder Sandwich #9; January 2000 * Eclectic Magazine, Issue #9, 2-2000 *
Aether; 4-2000 * Poetry.St Corner, Iss. #025; 7-2000 * Under The Limbo Stick
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Calendar Girl
I was the last in our gang to start
the dresser drawer was stocked with pads
leaflets about periods, a pocket diary
and a torn page from some magazine
explaining safe sex for Catholics
The guide said to use a red pen
to circle the blood days
a green pen for safe days
and a blue pen for no men days
all I needed was a partner
I met him when I was seventeen
after two visits to the cinema
a glass of cider and a snog
I checked my diary
it was a green pen day
we were safe I said okay
the following week I had to say no
a blue men means no men
he suggested a condom
I sacked him there and then
© Lynn Owen
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nighthouse
when I broke into the nighthouse
you'd already cracked the lock
standing sky-eyed in the hallway
picking apples from the clock
grandpa slumbered in the attic
breathing like a chickadee
as I watched your wicked fingers
lifting heirlooms off the tree
but you turned to me like nothing
angels cradled on your brow
and I saw your leopard grinning
knew you'd stolen wings somehow
when your finger touched your lipfold
I was thinking of your tongue
though I knew your sails were setting
once the summer dawn was sung
you're a robber and a raider
dusty dry dock buccaneer
velvet coat and pirate pockets
crammed with someone else's gear
sack the magic and the silver
thieve the music and the score
I hid one red shivered treasure
that you'll seek for evermore
© M.A.Griffiths
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Passing Out Parade
I see a young man in a uniform
with wings on the shoulder.
He is standing to attention. By his side
he is holding a Lee-Enfield rifle
with a pig-sticker bayonet attached.
He is waiting for the command.
Shoulder....Arms! -
the barked executive word
is like a pistol shot in the silence.
The young man is instantly obeying.
His hand slips on the rifle
and he throws it up
awkwardly towards his shoulder.
The rifle is too near his body.
The gleaming point of the bayonet is a blur
in the July sunlight. It penetrates
the breast pocket
of his uniform and emerges... and he is... fainting,
head drooping, falling forwards towards the bayonet.
He doesn't hit the ground.
He seems to be unconscious,
yet somehow, he is being held upright,
skewered by the spike of bayonet
impaling his uniform pocket, and by the rifle,
the butt of which is firmly planted on the ground .
The tip of the bayonet has missed his left eye
and is resting against and pricking into the flesh
of his forehead. His hat is falling off, rolling away.
Blood is flowing, dripping down the blade
into the black muzzle of the rifle.
Around him men are moving off,
marching, the band is playing,
drums are beating, orders are being shouted.
Two men with three stripes on their arms
are now lifting the young man,
one is now holding him up while the other
removes the bayonet and the rifle.
The rifle is being laid gently on the ground.
The bayonet is disengaged from the rifle
and replaced in its holder on the young man's white webbing-belt.
The two sergeants are now examining the gouge
made by the cold steel of the bayonet
in the young man's forehead.
They are nodding and are lowering the young man
to the ground and are now arranging his limbs tidily.
The taller man has retrieved the fallen hat
and is placing it on the prostrate man's chest.
They are moving away from him.
The band is playing The Dam Busters' March
and the crashing
of a thousand iron shod heels
on concrete is deafening.
The boy/man is stirring.
His right hand is moving, moving towards his left eye,
he is touching, feeling and then testing the stickiness
between thumb and forefinger, he raises his head
and looks at the redness on his hand.
He seems to realise he can see
from both eyes and feels further
and now, he's found the source, he is exploring
its narrow width and shallow depth
with the tips of his fingers.
He is lying back,
until the parade is over.
© George Laing
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la boheme
As usual,
because he is not able
to open his wallet,
he opens
his heart --
and this time,
he's making a fist
to open
a vein.
© Michael Virga
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Postcards to Japan
We smiled at the story
Of the Japanese tourists
Dashing from their breakfasts on the Lakeland farm
To photograph the knotted herd
Of sheep driven down from the fell.
You can see the odd flock, still,
On postcards we might send,
After breakfast, to Japan:
Stubbed heads down, cropping, their horns flattened
Back by wind, their roughed coats like old snow
Against a bone of crag,
Speared light, damped shadows.
What would we write?
"This is how you remember it,
But it has changed. There is almost a Zen silence.
You stand, listening and waiting; listening and waiting."
© Martyn Halsall
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Chocolate Bruce
it looked like she had a bruise
no two bruises
evenly spaced on her chin
she said it's only chocolate
I said I would call her Bruce
she said
lick me
© Frank Faust
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Vigil
On the pale shaft of beach, I wait,
the harsh high chalk behind me.
The boy fidgets, racks his throat,
reams nostrils for hidden gold, gropes
his crotch for Christ knows what.
The pony snorts, snickers, shakes its head
The boy told me it had been down a pit
pulling tin-ore. I imagine them dark
and hunched like dwarves, drawing it
brownbellied like a swollen bucket
up from a well.The fever in my arm
is heating my brain. God's guts,
I hate this sullen sodden race
spawned by a land below a leaden sky.
I dream of fragrant citrus leaves,
the aromatic ball of bay that crowns
a topiary garden, loud parrots
fed fruit ripe from tropick isles,
Moorish girls quiet as voles, dark
and sweet as caramel, the swirl
of bright fabric, white teeth in brown skin,
sun, by God, the blessed sun
which some men worship as a deity.
Heretics, but this misbelief no more sinful
than these white devils with their bleary light.
The pain from wrist to shoulder,
soon I will be home and warm, drinking
ruby wine, hearing fierce melodies
celebrating our victory. Philip will smash
their ships, burn their ports, humble their
mannish queen in honour of the Faith.
The pony snuffs the air. I hear
myself telling the boy, "Make sure
you keep the beast above ground.
Do not send it down into the dark again."
I give him coins. Feel the gold
as cool in my palm as the fire
in my forearm is hot. Soon, I know
it will be soon. Salve, Regina,
mater misericordiae.
© M.A.Griffiths
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Compiling Editor: John Carley
Associate Editors: Simon Barraclough, Helena Nelson
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