Monday, April 25, 2011

poetry snapshots: helen cadbury




From the Norse



Stones and sand
tipped in to my mouth
when I first spoke
your language.
How I gave myself away
as the wind blew
my vowels into
a new shape.








Helen Cadbury writes poetry and plays. If she can sit down for long enough, she writes stories and novels.  Some poems have been published, three plays have been performed, one short story has been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and the novels take up space on her hard drive. She lives in York.

Monday, April 11, 2011

poetry snapshots: juliet wilson



Amazonia


The year I was born

the plane went down

over uncharted land, drowning

in endless forest, choking damp heat.



Rare parrots watched.

Howler monkeys shouted

through the trees

news of something never seen before.



The crew had no chance.

Rescue teams heard the call

but failed to locate

in endless dense canopy.



Now the bones and wreckage

lie in arid suburban gardens

where at night, the ghosts of howler monkeys scream

and extinct parrots flutter through restless dreams.




published in Unthinkable Skies, 2010, Calder Wood Press (http://www.calderwoodpress.co.uk/).

Juliet Wilson is an Edinburgh based poet and adult education tutor. She blogs at Crafty Green Poet (http://craftygreenpoet.blogspot.com/) and edits the online poetry journal Bolts of Silk (http://boltsofsilk.blogspot.com/). Her poetry chapbook Unthinkable Skies was published in 2010 by Calder Wood Press (http://www.calderwoodpress.co.uk/). She is a volunteer with the Water of Leith Conservation Trust, helping to look after one of Edinburgh's rivers (http://www.waterofleith.org.uk/)

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

classic poem, with photo of king's cross station


At the Railway Station, Upway



"There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!"
Spoke up the pitying child -
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in, -
"But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!"
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
As the fiddle began to twang;

And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
Uproariously:
"This life so free
Is the thing for me!"
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in -
The convict, and boy with the violin.




by Thomas Hardy

Friday, April 01, 2011

special feature (part two) albert huffstickler

I'm pleased to be featuring a painting by Albert Huffstickler, and Felicia Mitchell's poem 'Victim'.
 'Victim' was written in response to writing by Albert Huffstickler (Huff).
Huff, in turn, created this oil pastel picture in response to Felicia's painting.
Felicia says, 'Huff had so much creative energy.  And he inspired so many other writers and artists'.
More of Huff's paintings and poems can be seen on the archived website http://www.reocities.com/albert_huffstickler/
Oil pastel by Albert Huffstickler. Permission granted by Felicia Mitchell.


Victim

      For Albert Huffstickler

There is no furniture in her room,
save the shelf where her hymen lies
like a geological specimen.

The museum is her mother's.
Flaunting her proprietary rights,
the mother ignores her own signs
that say "do not touch."
Jealousy, pride, awe, confusion:
this is what the mother feels.

The girl feels her insides turned inside out.
Her face is inside her belly,
her belly where her lips should be.
Her eyes must substitute for her heart.

The fluorescent lights never shut off.

The mother is turned inside out as well.
Instead of being content to push this girl
right out of her fertile womb,
as far away as she can go,
she wants to climb inside her daughter
and stay there.
She wants to get there first.

There is no father.

Felicia Mitchell


Credit:

The Medulla Review 1.2 (2010). Online

Also included in The Medulla Review Anthology I (201o). Print