Wednesday, 23 May 2012


We are breathers of water
take sea air
We waltz in breezes
dream of waves
We break voices on shores
sink in the deep
We swim with sea horses
drink the ocean
We are poets of surf
skim on tides
We are dancers in sand 
dip toes in sun
We soak poems in North Sea
rock with the roll of it
We are fishes flying
scream with seagulls
We walk on coral streets
awash with words
We are sharks at the seaside
laugh with dolphins
We hear echoes of foghorns
lonely in dunes
We are singers of shanties
roar with ships                                


Monday, 21 May 2012

World View

Cussedly, the old communist
Shuns the lift and, pausing on each
Landing to drag rare oxygen
Into clenched lungs, takes the stairs step
By step, finally struggling out
On the plateau of his tower block.
A rasping rattle in his throat
Becoming so desiccated,
From where once his radical voice
Sounded loudly for the future,
Confirmed the presence of his being,
Now the notion of his not-being,
That concurrence of particles,
Granting him the privilege of life,
Are silently dissipating.
Just one last look along the Tyne
To the rim of his world wherein
Ideas as well as ships were drawn
And welded into new vessels,
Carrying visions of his class
Beyond shipyards and iron foundries,
Glass works and pits, further even
Than St. James Park. All gone now,
Of course, except for the football
Though even that is being consumed,
Swallowed by the esurient
Maw of finance. Perhaps ideas
Lie abandoned in breakers’ yards,
Rusting or dismantled piecemeal,
Some precious or popular parts
Recycled, once rendered quite safe.
From this elevated platform
The old communist banishes
Diabolical conjectures,
However tempting they might seem.
Unfurled beneath him, Newcastle
Appears a testament in stone,
Tinted glass and dark metalled roads,
Concrete, brick and uPVC,
To labour, to co-operation
And to the collective striving
To do ever better next time.
This is how he can mount these flights,
This is how he isn’t defeated.

                                    Dave Alton 

Friday, 18 May 2012

Man of the Cloth

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,
It’s all too much for a preacher man;
And it’s new to him and it’s all for him,
But what’s money to an Eton man?

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,
It’s all too much for angelic lads;
And the two of them who did pretend
How his praying hands turned bad.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,
It’s all too much for the single life;
How the single women would run after him,
But he’s not looking for a wife.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,
It’s all too much it’s a heavy load;
And the thief and tramp he would put them up,
They could stay till they hit the road.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass
It’s all too much for these low life men
Of whom the papers they reported on
And his place they called Fagin’s den.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,
It’s all too much for what was claimed;
And the law could never do him down
So he got back his once good name.

This man of the cloth had his brick and brass,
It’s all too much for a man of ease;
And he’d always stood by what he said,
No, he’d not do things just to please.

G. F. Phillips

Tuesday, 15 May 2012


If I had been a really professional poet,
I would be still rewriting this,
poring over the umpteenth draft,
burning the midnight quill.

As it is, all I want to say again is this:
that a songbird does not need an Arts Council grant
to sing.

Keith Armstrong

Monday, 14 May 2012


So you’re in print with a small press

a little press for a short arse

Well I want my poems in a big press
a large press with big breasts
with poems that talk to the world
with spirit in every word


Thursday, 10 May 2012

From the New Zealand Poetry Society

Short Bio for Kristina Jensen:

Kristina is a ‘poet afloat’, freelance writer, musician and home school mum living on a boat with her family in the stunning Marlborough Sounds of New Zealand. Her inspiration is greatly enhanced by the presence of wilderness, and she definitely prefers spending most of her time in nature at this point in time.
Her poetry has been published in Bravado, Valley Micropress, Eclecticism, Shotglass, Granny Smith, One Smile magazine and A Fine Line.

Sacred Confusion

Muddy mind,
stirring tidal flow,
swirling clutter of
where I’ve been
what I should
what I could
why I don’t.

How I’m not and
I don’t got
it takes to be
what they want.

The sea does not care though
about any of that, it whispers
OK OK OK hush
OK OK OK hush
OK OK OK hush
little baby don’t say a word

Do your duty.
Look after the earth.
Hold everything gently in
the palm of your hand:
don’t try to
‘get’ it.

Digging Potatoes in The Pouring Rain

Please remind me why I am
here: earth clogging my fingers,
dirty water running down my sleeves,
the rain of heavenly bodies
sheeting down, washing me, washing
dirt from round white earth starchy bodies:
ah yes, I will eat of your flesh tonight.

In The City

Here I am in a stuffy grey
box, addictive grey,
city with grey
snakes hungry to take me
anywhere I desire.

Inside my mouth is a
dense greenness of tree, a
mystery of water, a
coral sunrise hue.

An invisible wall no-thing
stealthily tries to invade
my mind-memory sanctuary.
Even dogs are infected.
Look friendly.
Practice ritualized

The check-out girl,
she’s from Malaysia,
maybe she hasn’t been
infected yet:
her smile reminds me
that I know where I belong.