~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (the poetry) WORM ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 9
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The Angel of Mons
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The Angel of Mons
who was not
furnaced in a sky
who did not walk
on mud sweating darkly
not with blood or bile
through clumps of hair
sere grass nor
bleached feathers
from his shadow
who did not weep
over the fallen
black tears like
poppyseeds
the Angel was not
imaged forth
in retrospect
was still and stillborn
as rumours of peace
spat square
into the ranks
of chill and cankered clay


© M. A. Griffiths

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When Does the First Train Leave for Atlanta? (extract)
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red dirt or yellow clay
did not clog our lives
or ruin the wash
in ‘49

our world was colored gray
and stained brown
from granite gravel
and Cascade mud
3000 miles
from the red hills of Georgia

too few years gone by
too many blowouts ‘long the way
for Grandpa to quit
fighting long-dead feuds
with cheap whiskey
and bad beer

too few curves and passes
too many cold nights
and hot days hoeing beans
for Grandma to accept
his fight was real as her 16 babies
and not an old drunk’s raves

In our town in 1949, there were no what we now lump together as minorities. No coloreds, Indians, or Mexicans. No one with a name that ended in vowels or started with Gold. There were Catholics, but mostly they were German. Smedley’s Pass was white folk on the road to nowhere and not in any hurry to get there. Farmers and loggers and a few veterans trying to forget the war.

in ‘49
they sent Dot to the sanatorium
Buddy drowned in Willow Lake
Carl lost his arm in a mill accident
Henry screamed in his sleep about killing Japs
Alice lost a boy-baby
Frank packed up his family and moved to San Diego

Grandpa swore at Grandma
for not getting the red and yellow mud
cleaned off his boots
that he couldn’t take Livie
to the dance looking like no hick hill farmer
mud on his boots

Grandma prayed
for the crazy old man to die
prayed for the Lord God Jesus
to forgive her
for those evil thoughts
for sins past and yet to come
in ‘49


© Gary Blankenship

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Lessons
------------

The first time it happened
she was twelve years old
The whistle had gone
it was time to line up
She stood out
The grey school uniform
didn't camouflage her body
She was ordered to his office
he called her a naughty girl
She held out her hand
he caned her, she didn't cry
She tried hard to keep in line
but every Friday playtime
she stood out
She was ordered to his office
he called her a naughty girl
She held out her hand
he caned her, she didn't cry


© Lynn Owen

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The Shooting Party
---------------------------

"The Queen declined an invitation from the Home Office to attend saturday's ceremony to mark the nation's first Holocaust Memorial Day because she did not wish to interrupt her Christmas break at Sandringham. (...) She will attend a shooting party hosted by her husband that day." The [London] Times January 25 2001

The cartridge cases have changed. The long-remembered
Sturdy cardboard and brass are largely plastic
And somewhat baser metal. I expect the children
Still come to the butts and collect them, afterwards.

Otherwise the charm of a shooting party continues,
Defined by weather and old, familiar names:
Land Rover, Harris, Eley, Harrods, Barbour,
And birds rising to test their fate in gunfire.

There is the danger of sentiment; knock of the shots,
The ragged carpets of rough gorse, leaking peat
Where we crouched and stamped, dogs bounding back like swimmers
With bulging mouths; shot lodged among the feathers.

We need our customs. Together they condition
Our history, all that holds us all together
As a people on an island. Others' have been slightly different,
An over reliance on arms; people going missing.


© Martyn Halsall

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haiku
--------

a secret world ….behind the curtains... ~ …daylight


© John Carley

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the rising flight
--------------------

we were listening
to an old album
like amber it holds
an ageless girl

singing an ancient air
in the Gaelic
a Celtic knot
plaited of love and pain

her voice like fingers
touching wet strings
draw out the chords
of my well tuned heart

the melody swoops like a gull
above sharp rocks
always in the rising flight
the danger of a fall

you refill my glass
with rich red wine
touch my cheek
with your fingertips

say nothing
play the song again
always in the rising flight
the danger of a fall.


© M. A. Griffiths

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Madame Sosostris Becomes Sootys Manipulator
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and I
Madame Sosostris
I have seen it all
rows and rows of dead bare puppets
hanging on a line across the room
cheeky bear in many different guises
panda and dog woven on times loo
and I have heard
what the thunder of applause has said
in the glittering month of December
which is the cruellest month
with competition from the pantomimes
and from Santas Grotto
for I have seen the eternal usherette selling ice-creams
and in short
it made me sick

they are the hollow puppets
they are the stuffed puppets
Sooty grows old
Sweep grows old
there are more Gameboys and Playstations sold
but
this is the way the show ends
this is the way the show ends
this is the way the show ends
not with a bang but a
…..…..Bye-bye everybody
…..…..Bye-bye


© Nyki Blatchley

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Making Ready
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Tonight I write about Elsie Mae
again. I write to bring her close.
I write her words to me.

…..Look in the top drawer.
…..Not that one, that one.
…..There should be a box there.
…..No, under the hankies.
…..Yes, that's it. Give it to me, Dear.

Tonight I write about her gifting me
with Woolworth treasures, paste pearls,
select trinkets. I write about
my gifting her with receiving them.

…..Do you like this, Honey?
…..Here, you take it.
…..Don't be like that.
…..You take it. Here.

…..…..But I don't usually
…..…..wear brooches, Gran.

…..You don't? Well take it anyway.
…..Ray gave it to me when he was ten.
…..I want you to have it.
…..Here, take these too.

Tonight I write about her eyes,
the change purse in her bra,
her bottomless candy dish,
warped knitting needles,
swollen ankles, laughter.

…..Maryann, remember the blue dress,
…..you know, the one with the lace
…..collar and silver buttons?
…..It'll be easier to get me into it.
…..One of my favorites.
…..Put me in the blue dear.

Tonight, I write her high into the blue.


© Maryann Hazen-Stearns

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The Hat
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The hat lies on the table.
It has been there a long while.
The owner, or someone, put it there.
Two chairs are by the table.
The hat does not need the chairs.
It has the table.
It should have a hat stand.

The hat lies on the table.
It has been there a long while.
The situation smells
of cruelty to hats
for the hat has no head to speak
for it.

There is a very litigious case
developing.

The hat at least has the table
though its owner does not have
a leg to stand on.


© James Bell

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That Business in Dublin
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She died during the snow; her full, white night-dress
Tightening like frost, crumpling like a small thaw.
Her pillow in that last wrestling with pain
Spilling its cargo of goose feathers like plucked sky.

The family had moved away. For the hired priest
It was hard to compose the valediction expected.
He tried to trace the woman behind the roles:
Magistrate, warden, patron; her insistent work

Minuting, chairing; frequently in command
Among titles, cats' homes, several donkey sanctuaries,
Friends of the Abbey Theatre, hunt ball committees:
Her politics taken for granted and never mentioned.

He kept to the unsigned note:I trust there will be
No reference to that business in Dublin (in case
Anyone should raise it). She was extremely young
You will understand. It was all a long time ago.

The priest ploughed dutifully on: community service,
Love of the outdoors, donations of gardening trophies,
A passing reference to shooting, he sensed a spring,
Tightening. He added geraniums, chess and brass rubbing,

How she married an accountant. But her one great love,
A grand-daughter had confided, was a Dalkey postman
Never mentioned today, but whom she half-imagined
Recklessly pedalling to the city in tweeds, with a shotgun,
An infectious laugh; a huge fondness for revolution.


© Martyn Halsall

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fade to black
------------------

fade to black
as i watch you
faking nonchalance
not looking back
you know
what i feel
must hurt
understand how much it
knifes and burns
this pride
this smile through
tears uncried
in the
stillness and silence
i wish i could shatter the
reflection
in the mirror of your green-apple eyes
in the mirror of your green-apple eyes
reflection
i wish i could shatter the
stillness and silence
in the
tears uncried
this smile through
this pride
knifes and burns
understand how much it
must hurt
what i feel
you know
not looking back
faking nonchalance
as i watch you
fade to black


© Andrew Michael Hull

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When Jeffty Was Five
------------------------------

Black flags hung limp
under yellow Texas skies.
Pecans littered underfoot,

cautious yellow dogs
licked the wet ground,
weary of impatient boots.

On his Pa’s shoulder,
Jeffty sipped a lemon ice
as Uncle Frank sharpened his buck knife,
dulled on bone and tooth,
and Ma fumbled to load her Brownie.

Aunt Rose fussed she would never
get her sunflower dress clean again,
and Bobbie handed Jefferie
good throwing rocks.

Joe Groggins hollered to the crowd
"Come on boys, let’s burn
the whole damn lot of thieving dogs
out of their filthy nests," his sons
dumbly peering up the high yeller.

Pa set Jeffty down
and said to Bobbie, "Come on, son. Time
you were a man." Ma nodded and Frank,
guffawed as he spit tawny
chaw at the flag’s fringe.

The evening sky split
with the clamor of crows
calling clan to feast.

A wet Texas dawn,
men in khaki burned
tattered flags in bean fields.

When Jeff was seventy-nine,
he cried when Mrs. Washington
in room 206 down the hall died.
He seldom slept without awakening
to someone’s whimpers from dreams
of her sister, Thelma, being pulled
apart by yellow dogs.


© Gary Blankenship

This poem first appeared in MAP of Austin

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We gratefully acknowledge the support of:
North West Arts Board & Mid Pennine Arts

Celebrating Year of the Artist
June 2000 ~ May 2001
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