The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE
POEMS ADDED DECEMBER 2011
By Marc Carver
My son asked me
if Tom Wolfe had stayed with us
You know daddy
the one from the Simpsons.
No it was another Thom
and besides Tom Wolfe is not a poet
he is a writer
No you are right son
there is no real difference
they are just names
by Martyn Halsall
by Martyn Halsall
Ochre heat, melt of rain; Dutch light
harried through clouds at different speeds, the sea
rumoured among them, never far from reflecting
dredged shadows along canals, a drain of blues,
left-over mudflats, sheen of creeks and eels.
Indoors a painter rephrases Caravaggio.
Outdoors becomes indoors, oils framing
a family starched to Calvinism among courtyard roses,
their silence a prelude to letters from the New World.
A woman peels apples with utmost concentration,
as if to break the spiral would disrupt horizons.
Behind glass, landscapes maps confront interiors.
Still lives: lemon rind, oysters, water encrusted
with jewels about a shattered breakfast glass.
Hazel nut, twist of newsprint, iris, porcelain.
A night watch of birds; a pelican flared by lightning.
Quickly it could become October, the same
turning into twilit landscapes of greyed varnish, where
Rembrandt is weighing shadows, re-casting his portrait
as the Apostle Paul, borrowing Italian chiaroscuro.
The landscape along his forehead is engraved with doubts
an apostle would dismiss, but an artist harvest.
Perhaps Thursday, quizzical; you hear leaves
gathered by a Delft wind, inside the studio you sense
raindrops from the mirror he is using, a deliberate
turning away as he re-defines biography.
His hat's a swirl of meringue with a lemon pause.
His eyeline follows the evening, into the next world.
by Louise Hastings
by Louise Hastings
On Sunday morning
Among the calm
You roll over
light to dark
to the beginning
by Chris Jackson
The moon was a slow strobe, lilac-ing your skin;
the night illegible with salt, vaster than our meeting.
You pressed down on my collarbone, half-angrily.
Beyond our hut, clouds succeeded one another,
like border territories over time, sped up on a graphic.
A hawker called prices along the beach,
proclaiming our peace by his lack of any takers.
Waves elapsed, equally different and the same.
On the balcony opposite, a hammock
was heard to ruminate, he balanced a djinn
on his lips, then addressed the banana tree.
A friend was in a car crash with some Dane,
they drove into the hotel for no reason.
The hammock declared the crash ‘a scary pigeon’.
We fell asleep to his sudden declaration
that he’d eat ‘all the nearby marshmallows’.
At dawn, the beach was bright, even in sunglasses.
You kept on saying surprising things that came in
slant, like birds from a bay I’d not yet visited.
We’d not see each other again, and the hammock
was lucid about our returning, X-raying us
with something about the hard luck in life.
Is A Poem Fiction?
by Bruce McRae
There’s blue blood in my pen,
AT WALDEN POND
by B. Z. Niditch
to an eager audience
along the bridge
in a windburn July
the soft breeze wafts
by veiny Evergreen
echoes as words
in my grasp
and falls as hyacinth
next to still tourists
listening and overheated
before our leafy eyes
unsure of a summer's guide
and the pond's stones
our shadows above waters
in visible horizons
giving off sun
from gilded nature
worthy as a filament
of luminous sensations.
By James O’Sullivan
Parting her stinging lips, she inhaled, deep, and savoured
the tasteless air upon her exhausted tongue.
Leaning upon the creaking divan, she rose,
knees raw from the redwood floor, chest laboured,
slowing the beating of an old heart in a body, young.
She blessed herself and reached for her clothes.
Deep in her pocket she could feel its rustle –
true sustenance for the day ahead.
She rubbed her blemished skin, pulling
back on perpetually taut muscle.
The tattered notes for which she had bled
passed from her grip when none were looking.
Bruised, she lay upon the fetid floor,
hands tightly bound by their own grasp.
Eyes shut, she spoke with him.
Cowering, as blood wept from every pore,
she bargained, with a frightened rasp,
and cast herself upon his whim.
by Mark Stopforth
by Mark Stopforth
Out of the bedroom’s pocket watch dark,
the lamp shade curls an edge of white,
a new moon hanging in its box of
picture book stars, headlights
passing in the fox hide night,
draw the phases new to old,
and back again to a lunar eclipse,
that slowly creeps across the walls,
orbiting the pillow locked dreams of
those who silently turn planets in their sleep.
THE FLYING MONKEYS
by Ron Yazinski
It’s her own fault she takes such small steps
And can’t keep up with her mother
In their walk around the development.
If she moved faster,
As fast as her mother,
She wouldn’t notice the two black vultures in the oak tree above her,
Each as tall as she is, looking like the Wicked Witch’s Flying Monkeys,
From the WIZARD OF OZ,
Shaking their branches as if taunting her for letting go of her mother’s hand.
Across the street, a bickering of twelve more vultures
Gouge an armadillo in a neighbor’s yard.
Suddenly three of them screech up in a squabble
And with their ragged wings veer across at her, almost at eye level,
Frightening her with their slobbering mouthfuls,
Before swerving farther down the block.
And the little girl would like to scream,
But her pretty mother, with her ear buds firmly in
And her music turned up loud
Is in that special place she calls the dark side of the moon,
Where crying cannot reach;
And so the little girl whimpers and hurries to catch up.
I have just published my fifth collection of poetry with Lapwing press based in Belfast. I perform my work to anybody who will listen, probably more in America than England. I work for a poetry publication in New York as a sub editor and have had well over two hundred poems published around the world but most of all, i hope people like my work and in some ways respect it.
Martyn Halsall is a former staff correspondent with The Guardian, now working as a communications adviser to the Church of England from his home in rural West Cumbria. His most recent publications include a commission from the Lancaster Literary Festival, and poems in New Writing Cumbria and Third Way magazine. In 2011 he was awarded the Jack Clemo Memorial Prize for poetry, for the third time.
Louise Hastings is based in the beautiful county of Somerset where she gains much inspiration for her writing. The connection between the inner workings of the human psyche and the natural world interest her deeply. She has been writing for over a year now, as a way of allowing her thoughts and emotions to breathe through the powerful medium of poetry, and has found it profoundly healing to her soul and spirit. She has had several poems published in various anthologies and online sites. You can read more of her work here at: http://poeticdelusions.com
Is a poet and award-winning foreign correspondent writing for global syndication. His poetry, reviews and polemics appear in current issues of Ambit, Contemporary Review and Orbis.
is a poet, playwright, fiction writer and teacher.
His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art; The Literary Review; Denver Quarterly; Hawaii Review,; Le Guepard (France); Kadmos (France); Prism International; Jejune (Czech Republic); Leopold Bloom (Budapest); Antioch Review; and Prairie Schooner, among others.
He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts.
James O'Sullivan is a journalist, researcher and creative writer from Cork city, Ireland. James' first collection of poetry, entitled Kneeling on the Redwood Floor, was published by Belfast-based Lapwing Publications. James is a graduate of both University College Cork and Cork Institute of Technology. His work has appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies, including the Bray Arts Journal, Motley Magazine and The Southern Star. Further information on James’ work can be obtained from josullivan.org.
I'm currently Head of Art in a school in Gloucestershire and as an artist I have exhibited several times at The Royal West of England Academy, Bristol as well as being a finalist in the Exeter Contemporary Art, International Open 2009. As a poet I have been published with Leeds University Press, Sentinel Champions Magazine and Writer’s Forum, winning Fleeting Magazines “short writing of the year 2010”. I was shortlisted for Poetry in the Brit Writers’ Award 2011.
I am a retired English teacher who, with my wife Jeanne, divides time between Northeastern Pennsylvania and Winter Garden, Florida. My poems have appeared in The Journal of the Mulberry Poets and Writers Association, Poets Online, Strong Verse, The Bijou Review, Recursive Angel, The Edison Literary Review, Lunarosity, Penwood, Jones Av., Chantarelle’s Notebook, Centrifugal Eye, amphibi.us, Nefarious Ballerina, The Talon, Amarillo Bay, The Write Room, Pulsar, Sunken Lines, Wilderness House, Blast Furnace, The Houston Literary Review, Menagerie, H.O.D., Forge, Miller’s Pond, Muscle and Blood, Indigo Rising, Sixers Review and Crash. I am also the author of the chapbook HOUSES: AN AMERICAN ZODIAC, which was published by The Poetry Library and a book of poems SOUTH OF SCRANTON.