Poetry - QueenSpark Poetry Anthology 1

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Author(s): Joe Benjamin, Danny Birchall, Jackie Blackwell, Carol Brown, Thomas Clark, Beryl Fenton, Louise Hume, Geven Wayne Jones, Elaine Kingett, Fay Layton, Simon Mumford, Nick Osmond, Sam Royce, Tim Shelton-Jones, John Tatum

Co-authors: Louise Rowe (proof reading)

Editing team: Danny Birchall, Jackie Blackwell, Cyril Daugy, Geven Jones, Lorna Jones, Elaine Kingett, Russell Nall

Published: 1994

Printer: Seeprint Limited, Ship Street, Brighton

ISBN: 0-904733-79-3

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    Poetry

    Won’t fight my battles for me / Doesn’t necessarily make me feel better / Only sometimes says what I mean / Isn’t the only way out / Isn’t a death wish / Is a gem in my fingers / Is turd in my hands / Is physical torture / Or bliss / Loves indiscriminately / Hates with a passion / Likes the sound of its own voice / Isn’t at the service of anyone’s revolution…

    Listens when it hears / Speaks in many voices / Cries out in the night / Doesn’t drive a car / Walks when it has to / Runs after its enemies / Is hardly cricket / Is a tiny bug in the undergrowth / Lusts wildly / Recants without grace / Whis¬pers “nevertheless it moves…”

    Is repulsed by the truly ugly / Feigns madness occasionally / Eats fish on Fridays but meat never / Is an English curry / Spits glass in the mayonnaise / Swears at the streets / Gets weepy in the country / Has no national boundaries / Swears no allegiance / Pledges support…

    Peers slyly out of a cupboard / Eavesdrops shamelessly / Doesn’t read letters pages / Eats when it’s hungry / Takes fright but never flight / Stands its ground…

    Doesn’t write politicians’ speeches for them / Sings to itself / Is shy and coy / Is bold as brass / Questions itself constantly / Sometimes finds answers / Takes heat from the fire / — There’s no smoke without it / Cuts its own throat / Doesn’t pay for the razor blades / Eats grass to survive / Borrows but pays back…

    Indulges in a kind of drug abuse / Respects itself / Lives in the neighbourhood / Isn’t the girl-next-door / Never watches soap operas / Lasts only a flash / Is there forever / Doesn’t write thankyou letters / Is on strike for a better deal / Takes in the neighbours’ kids / Does horrible things to them / Burns churches / Laughs at the powerful / Teaches its granny to suck eggs…

    Isn’t faithful / Philanders / Returns to true love / Cries itself to sleep at night / Listens to music / Makes a cup of tea and thinks / Doesn’t want to go home / Stays up late / Is a dirty stop-out / Leers madly / Feels sorry for itself / Always recov¬ers / Sneezes adolescent confidences / Is Black & White in Technicolor / Makes films about the poor / Hitches a lift to somewhere / Reads in the dark / Gets up early for the dawn…

    Contradicts itself / Is a two-timing, lying, double-crossing bastard / Rots your brain / Makes your willy shrink / Has a dry-weave top-layer lyric / Wears shiny, shiny boots of leather / Eats its young / Smells like last night’s dinner / Lives in a shotgun shack / Has a steel bucket on its head / Says “fuck you” / Has four shredded wheat for breakfast / Takes no bribes or backhanders / Is true to itself / Lies to no-one…

    Kills fascists / Loves lefties / Is ultra-liberal with a bite / Has bile / Gnaws its own testicles off in frustration / Has big tits / Exercises daily / Sleeps in, dreaming / Wakes scream¬ing from its nightmares / Feels dead funny sometimes / Concerns itself with the abused / Cuts and slices up / Folds in upon itself / Has heroes but no gods / Is at the cutting edge of the new / Eats dinner in the past / Waits for the stranger to visit / Despises the man from Porlock / Skins up / Lives at the top of a towerblock / Is white-noise static / Is the best thing since sliced bread.

    Danny Birchall

    Introduction

    This is, we hope, the first of a series of QueenSpark poetry anthologies.

    The poems within were selected by a group of six people, members of QueenSpark Books who volunteered for the job of sifting through the many submissions we received. We decided to publish several works by each poet, so as to give the reader a feel for the style and interests of each individual writer. In this volume you will find poetry written on many different themes, by people of widely varying ages and backgrounds — from an ex-con in his twenties to an ex-don in his sixties. We hope that we have chosen a selection of poems that can be appreciated by an audience as varied as the contributors. These are the poems that we enjoyed, and we enjoyed them for many different reasons — some made us laugh, some made us think, some resonated with our own experience and some gave us insight into experiences outside of our own.

    All readers of this book are welcome to get involved in the production of our next anthology, whether by submitting your work (one of the QueenSpark writing groups might be able to help you with inspiration) or by helping to make the next lot of difficult choices!

    Joe Benjamin

    Present Tense

    I sit on the beach
    And dream of my youth;
    Of the girls I courted
    In search of the Truth.

    What happened to Hilda?
    Did Minna marry?
    And was there an aura
    Around Leonora?

    No, I don’t want to see them;
    It wouldn’t be fun.
    I’d do well to remember
    They’re now seventy-one.

    My wife sits beside me,
    Aware of my dreams.
    I’m glad she’ll soon leave me —
    To return with ice creams.

    Hair Today

    My hair always had a will of its own
    And, on the left, a parting.
    But now it’s on a different tack,
    And when I try to brush it back
    It waves before departing.

    Ancient Rites

    Tonight, my love, when the moon appears,
    And the stars are brightly dressed,
    We must dance
    And take a chance
    On a cardiac arrest.

    But, I guess, when the moon is high,
    And the stars shine overhead,
    We’ll talk for a while
    About walking that mile,
    Then decide to take a taxi instead.

    Testament for Today

    God said to Allah “It would truly be news
    If I blessed the Arabs and you praised the Jews.”

    “But the truth you well know” Allah replied,
    “Is that headlines are based on the numbers that died.”

    “And they fight and they die” cried the Humanist
    “In the name of religions that claim you exist.”

    The new Church is the Media
    Whose ethics we share.

    Its high priests are the ad. men,
    Their jingles our prayer.

    And the One Truth lies bleeding,
    For there are no gods who care.

    Image

    If we are, all of us,
    Made in the image of God,
    Why ain’t I a saint
    As well as a sod?

    Danny Birchall

    The old man grows pigeons

    One of those late August Sundays
    In the park — the sound of sweet funky jazz
    Should permeate, instead the soft click
    Of bowling balls launched by ladies in white
    Provides the afternoon’s soundtrack.

    Stooped, sweltering, in a grey suit,
    He gives birth to pigeons from his skin;
    They feed and flutter off as he bears more.
    Feathered scavengers stream upwards
    Towards the sun, grateful for the bread
    Of his afternoon stroll.

    Fixed-fluid, a statue to the unknown
    Bird-nourisher, he feeds as they feed,
    Gaining power in his ancient rusty limbs
    With the ceaseless coming and going, and slowly
    Pushes out his chest…

    Strutting slightly at first,
    He throws his shoulders back to twitch
    Newfound feathers on unfamiliar wings — turns
    A proud beak to watch the white bowlers.
    No longer belonging to this stifling afternoon:
    Grey as grey, he cocks an eye
    And throws himself into the sky.

    A Swan at Apsley
    On the Grand Union Canal

    Once, it seems
    This was a paper mill
    Or factory
    And the driven waters of the canal
    Brought timber to pulp and press
    (“You don’t hear many birds around here”
    says the old man.
    — Not since the Industrial Revolution, I guess)
    Now, scum eddies
    Around submerged trolleys
    Brought to final rusting-place
    And derelict-eyed children
    Have smashed holes in the windows
    Of the delinquent warehouse storeys
    A train thunders through, not stopping.
    — By the sluice sound of the lock
    In overalls, a few remaining industrialists lie
    Soaking early spring into their pores.

    Ask the swan, who floats like fine china
    Through wet concrete and corroded steel
    What she dreams of.
    The swan who, with one strong wing
    Can break the arms that ran presses
    The arms that threw stones
    The arms that signed demolition contracts.
    Ask the swan where her grandmother rested
    Before a nice brown armchair
    Was placed in the water for the convenience of wildfowl.

    Here, a talented landscape painter
    Has been, with brush, and eye, and pigment,
    Retouched the world with shattered greys,
    Rusty browns and polluted yellows — but careless
    He neglected to recolour the swan.
    She drifts on.

    And dreams of paper white as her feathers,
    Of steam, opaque mother-of-pearl smudges
    Against the sky, and strangely, newsprint
    Floating on barges down to London’s press
    Her grandmother, once, on the Serpentine
    Graced the front page of a national daily.

    Nowadays, of course, nobody reads newspapers.
    We watch TV, and dump our shit in canals.

    Junky Boy Tom on the Nod

    The problem is this man
    Uninspires the poetry in me:
    A toot on the tinfoil flute
    And he slumps forward uncomfortably;
    Stupor certainly not slumber, I find him
    In the livingroom each morning
    Out cold, stained silver strip by his head.
    As a drug experience in the watching
    It’s unlyrical to say the least.

    Art Therapy?

    Shaky cold junky boy and I
    Set to sketching in chalk
    On the livingroom walls —
    The front bonnet and steering wheel
    Of a sportscar — speedo at a ton,
    Road clear ahead, a single tree.
    We step back to admire our mural,
    Both dreaming
    Of places we each want to go.

    Jackie Blackwell

    Morning Coffee

    A tea room in Rottingdean,
    Only me and a sixtyish couple
    Sit
    And drink coffee.
    “Nice coffee …. proper coffee …
    And out of a proper cup”
    She says,
    “Nice scones, compliments to the Chef’
    She continues;
    He just wipes his nose
    With a large white scrumpled hankerchief.
    She wants to talk and anyone will do.
    She captures the proprietor,
    (Whilst He pays for their drinks),
    And begins her life story.
    It’s not busy and
    She is able to recall
    Her life before she came here,
    She gets nods and uumms in reply;
    Business is quiet, so keep the customers happy.
    Meanwhile in the corner, I can just observe,
    And they leave
    Not even noticing I’m here.

    Confessions of an Artist

    Alone in the Underground
    Waiting for a train,
    Surrounded by images
    Driving me insane.

    Breasts, buttocks
    Clear white skin,
    Sensual mouth
    With a Cadbury’s flake in.

    Happy, healthy mother
    Cooking the family tea,
    And the ‘dumb blonde’ stereotype
    Smiling over at me.

    Long, long legs
    With shoes high heeled,
    A beautiful tanned body
    With all revealed.

    But where do I fit in
    With these images on the wall?
    I know that I am neither
    Slim, blond or tall;

    I feel I should ignore them
    Pretend they don’t exist,
    But as I see them daily
    The thing I can’t resist;

    Is to spray them with graffiti
    And have my own say,
    To reclaim the free spaces
    That these adverts took away.

    Alone in the underground,
    Still waiting for a train
    Images of female parts
    Just swimming in my brain….

    A Royal Wedding Day

    The feeling of terror
    As he hit me with his shoe,
    My tears unacknowledged
    And my expected and delivered denial
    Of what had happened.
    Yes, I stayed until morning,
    Crying silently through the night
    And crept out
    Not daring to wake him.
    I wondered through the streets of Bayswater,
    Distraught and unable to understand
    What I had done to deserve this.

    I arrived back to the Stanhope Hotel,
    Confused and unable to tell
    Anyone.
    Embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated;
    My work shift began at 7.30 am.
    I put on my uniform
    Leaving behind my acknowledgement
    And adopted the pretence of being
    ‘Normal’.

    I never saw him again,
    Although he did phone.
    I don’t think he even thought
    About what he had done,
    How much he had hurt me
    Outside and in.

    Many years later
    I don’t often think
    About our chance meeting
    During an after hours drink,
    In a pub in South Kensington
    On the very day that
    Charles and Diana said,
    “I do”.

    A Homage to Stevie Smith ?

    I walked to the sea,
    And got my feet wet,
    I’d gone too far,
    To come back just yet.
    I had to go deeper,
    I knew I was winning,
    Right under the water,
    Not drowning,
    But Swimming.

    Carol Brown

    White Bloom

    As I walk through the shady woodland, I am aware of the
    deep roots beneath.
    Roots of life, so embedded in the rich soil.
    A home not to be taken away.
    Not to be hammered down by stone, but grow rich in life, as
    the vine entwines upwards over the green body.
    With green leaves and warm sun a bloom appears.
    Heady in perfume, Virgin white in colour.
    The giant leaves protect this innocent Virgin.
    Like a Mother and her child.
    But in all walks of life the young age.
    The delicate petals time will fade, become brown on the
    outside.
    Inside the perfume is not so enchanting.
    Sadly the bloom shrivels.
    Your tears cannot save this life.
    As it turns to dust in your hands.
    But look onwards and you will see a green shoot, peeping
    out of the soil.
    Next year a white bloom will be on the vine.
    Life is never ending.

    The Child

    The joy, the happiness that bubbles when you are having a
    child; wanting the whole world to know but the
    impatience of waiting for that very large bump to arrive.
    The eagerness of the year of firsts;
    The first white tooth.
    The first word.
    The first tumbling step.
    Laughter, fun and tears, that child brings into your life.
    Fun times at bath times, the warmth and love you share
    from a goodnight kiss.
    Hopes and expectations you have. Not the dream of having a
    holiday by the seaside, but the joy of
    having that holiday.
    As the child grows, you try to make that child understand
    all walks of life, to find it in himself not to judge
    others hastily.
    Try to teach that not always money makes you happy, to
    enjoy the simple things that can be plain yet
    beautiful.
    The child grows, wants to leave you.
    History repeats itself.
    Child leaves Mother.
    Child becomes Mother.
    Child leaves Mother.
    Tears flow.

    Thomas Clark

    Run, quickly
    down those hills
    thick with grass
    and adventure.

    Jump those fences,
    highest first,
    climb those bastard trees
    don’t let ’em beat ya!

    Get your clothes dirty,
    don’t let Mum forget ya!

    Soon, it will stop.
    And Sunsets and trees
    will somehow never be
    quite the same.

    Fun will change
    and so will the adventures.

    Most people live on the world, not in it.

    I look at this day
    and what it holds
    in its hands.

    For me, for us,
    there are endless
    possibilities.

    To learn, to teach.
    To watch, to show
    and learn
    that this is life.

    This now,
    this very breath I take.

    This very moment,
    today.

    Don’t waste time living lies.
    Find your truth and cut the ties.

    Remember this,
    Life is infinite,
    we are here forever,
    though our face may change
    and memories will too,
    we will meet,
    in another future.

    When someone throws
    your soul up high
    like a ball
    through the trees
    above the clouds
    into the blue…

    …Trust them enough
    to catch it.

    These are the days,
    that never mattered,
    until they were gone.

    Weightlessness.
    I feel, today,
    like an angel…

    On golden wings
    I fly above
    lost souls.

    With my bow
    and arrows,
    I shoot away sorrows.

    I kiss the toes
    make light of fears
    that have held them
    to the ground.

    Gravity
    is meaningless today.

    Beryl Fenton

    Train of Thought

    ‘then she said … so then she said …’
    snatches of gossip
    behind me on the train
    and something about Tuesday
    often repeated.

    ‘Incorporate, how d’you
    spell it?’, asks a colleague
    solving a crossword.
    How can these few phrases
    link with my thoughts devising
    a poem about
    sixteenth century
    oriental porcelain?

    Painting peonies
    on plates, did Japanese
    artists prattle and gossip
    to lessen tension,
    or, silently solemn,
    meditate on puzzles while
    intricate dragons
    crawled out from their brushwork?

    ‘Is there a word in English
    beginning with X?’
    My mind takes flight with eight
    orange ho-ho birds in gold —
    feathered circles … lands
    with ‘Is a bistro an
    Italian cafe or French?’

    Funny how you get
    it eventually —
    CAFETERIA ! There’s a
    link — a plate in a
    cafeteria; but
    this one’s sixteenth century
    hand-painted porcelain
    from Japan … ‘It works the
    brain, these crosswords’.

    Night Window View

    Above dark blue, which in day-time is hedge,
    a light-streaked ledge supports pearl sky
    where, leafless and high, a webbed bell-shape
    seems to escape from one slender trunk.
    Gold studs a punk might wear are lights
    speckling the heights far away to the left.
    Below’s bereft. Window bar shadows
    cut small meadows in the lit sleeping lane.
    The window-pane mists with my breath
    and every path is softened.

    ‘Jackson Pollock’ speech

    Her speech, like muddled rubber bands
    was riddles, after her stroke. Her wrath,
    gabbled torrents of gutter sounds,
    her mirth, chuckles chained to coughs.
    For years she yearned to be understood —
    goo on — goo on — she’d urge us to pursue
    our guessing of her jumbled words.

    In her bedroom, still as in a tableau,
    the holland blinds half drawn,
    she finally managed an unmistakable goodbye.

    Holding a Hen

    Holding a hen
    in a chicken run
    at the age of two
    isn’t much fun
    when you’re used to
    pet cats — glossy and plumpy
    whereas the hen you hold
    is light and lumpy
    so you let it go
    with its flutter and squawk
    and you recall,
    decades on,
    that your sense of touch
    at the age of two
    found something new.

    ‘What’s the Title?’

    I take my poems
    around workshops
    in order to make them
    better. They get
    decapitated or resuscitated
    according to
    critics’ whims.

    ‘Use everyday language …
    Cut out personification —’
    or ‘Try syllable counting’
    My head swims.

    (Apologies for the rhyme,
    it slipped in)

    So why do we go
    to workshops
    to push words around
    on paper, when
    we could be at home
    making curtains,
    or with pals, sipping Pimms?

    You could liken poems
    to children.
    Their first few years are ours
    until out in the world
    they go, to come
    up against other limbs*

    * Also means ‘Impish children’.

    Louise Hume

    Lake Te Anau

    Water,
    Air,
    Spirit.
    So the wind
    Breathed gently
    And I threw a pebble
    To break the
    Surface, smooth.
    Just needed
    To see movement,
    Remind myself
    Of
    Things changing.
    So the surface
    Rippled, trembled,
    Silver,
    Black
    And I saw
    The beach,
    Reflected,
    Full of
    Pebbles.

    Twelve Shopping Days Before Christmas

    Hands in sink,
    I hear television’s chirpy
    Commercial-break cheer,
    Chocolates, toys and aftershave
    — So another Christmas has come
    To measure poverty.
    Children, wide-eyed at
    T.V. promises and a
    Million mechanical marvels
    Tease and taunt.
    “Mum, can we …”
    Mum plunges hands
    In sink, scratches egg
    From plates,
    “Maybe next year, darling,”
    Not this year, as
    Mum’s disgraced
    — The villain in a tale
    Of unseasonal ill-will,
    A two-line back-page
    Newspaper column
    Is all her gift
    This year.
    SHOPPER DRAGGED AWAY!
    SHOPPER HANDCUFFED!
    SHOPPER DRAGGED SCREAMING
    INTO POLICE VAN!
    Lies, of course,
    I didn’t scream
    When there was
    The smashing of glass,
    bright, burning lights,
    And sudden sirens,
    Only felt
    Cold emptyness in my hand
    Where the brick
    Had been.
    Shopper couldn’t help
    Feeling sudden rage
    With shining, shimmering
    Toy-trucks, trains and dolls,
    Dressed better than she
    Could ever be,
    Flirting, flaunting
    At little eyes,
    How many sticky finger-marks
    On gleaming
    Window panes?
    And how far does love go
    When measured by money
    And computer games?
    Suppose I’ll plead
    Battered insenseless
    By consumerist, cruel, crass
    Christmas coming…
    …Still, the shattered slithers
    In street-lamp hue
    Were a most beautiful
    Sight… Sigh,
    …But it’s only the dream
    Of one soured shopper, sick of
    Sticky fingers and frustration,
    Twelve shopping days
    Before Christmas.
    “Mu-u-um!” brings me back
    To here and I feel only
    Cold emptyness
    Where the scourer
    Had been.

    Separation

    Petals of the
    Same
    Flower
    Scatter,
    Touch the
    Ground,
    Make more
    Flowers,
    Even more
    Beautiful.
    Goodbye,
    My
    Love.

    Geven Jones

    My Friend Called ‘Hash’

    Well hello my friend and how are you today
    Three days since I last saw you I hope you’re
    here to stay.
    You make my life so much easier and you take
    the weight off my back
    Just having you around keeps me on an even
    track.
    You escape me from reality and keep me at an
    even pace
    When you’re around me you bring a smile upon
    my face,
    It’s such a pleasure to know you and you’re such
    good company to keep
    If I had my way I’d see you seven days a week.
    You smell so rich and you smoke so pure
    Any problems I have you are an instant cure.
    And when I smoke you – you are gone in a flash
    I hope to see you soon my friend – my friend
    called hash.

    ‘A’ Wing

    ‘A’ Wing in all its splendour and glory
    Condemned to be lived in and this is my story.
    Cells with grime over the walls and cracked tiles
    on the floor.
    Handles missing on the windows and tales of
    frustration written on the doors.
    The recess with dirt and filth all over the floor.
    Someone ran out of toilet paper – so decided to
    use the door.
    The smell of human shit wafts up my nose
    Surely it’s time for this wing to be closed.
    The bins overflowing with rubbish and full piss
    pots on the side.
    Has anyone here got any pride?
    Half the wing has been closed because the cells
    are in such a state
    Why can’t the Governor close it all down and
    call it a day.
    I don’t think it’s fair to be treated this way
    We are supposed to have certain rights
    or so they say.
    The mood of anger, frustration and depression is always in the air.
    Prisoners have given up – they just don’t care.
    Well I for one do.
    And this is why I’m telling this story to you
    If you come to ‘A’ Wing you would see what I
    mean.
    I promise you this, it is far from clean.

    He told me last time we met

    ‘Hello Jones – how are you son
    three years since we last met,
    been having fun ?’

    You know how it is boss – back for another spell
    I didn’t learn the error of my ways, so here I am sitting in jail.
    Thought I’d got it lucky with a bit of crime – same old story every time.
    I’ve done four moons now, so that’s a touch.
    Could be out soon with a bit of luck.

    ‘Don’t make me laugh Jones, you’re here to stay —
    you broke the law and now you’ve got a price to pay’.

    I’m on Judge’s remand boss, waiting for a date,
    and when it comes, I’ll be walking out the gate.

    ‘You’re a dreamer, I told you before.
    The only place you’re going is behind your door’.

    Yeh, yeh whatever you say —
    I’ve got some things to do so I’ll be on my way.

    ‘Jones, just one thing before you go,
    remember what I said last time we met —
    I told you so’.

    Imprisoned from reality

    I was forced to escape reality and what did I find?
    A semi-conscious existence and the slowly
    ticking away of time.
    Isolated from anything that makes any sense.
    Living in a closed-in world of false pretence.
    Stoned faces of sorrow I see as I look from my
    door.
    Soulless bods, intent on killing time by
    entertaining some mundane chore.
    The stale smell of regulations floating gently
    through the air.
    Fighting to survive in a world where no one
    really knows how to care.

    Elaine Kingett

    Lipstick

    Sticky lips
    lipstick
    tart stick
    hear I am
    look at me stick
    cat’s willy pink stick
    hidden stick
    fragile stick
    use up the last little
    bit stick
    smelly stick
    mum’s stick
    Max Factor case stick
    round stick
    cold stick
    slippery slidey on stick
    old stick
    dead stick
    five years ago stick
    bought in New York stick
    free gift last year stick
    Pale stick
    hell stick
    glitter out of sight stick
    red stick
    dry stick
    spread me on thick stick
    save it stick
    keep it stick
    never know when
    you might need it stick
    life stick
    dream stick
    make me look younger stick
    nick stick
    whip stick
    stick it in your pocket stick
    touch me only with your lips
    stick

    In praise of Mr. Bright

    My grandad was a ballroom dancer
    he’d take me round the floor
    his beefy hand spread out like sausages
    across my back.
    A golf champion,
    he made a putting green on our lawn
    and taught me so well
    I nearly won competitions.
    He took me to London
    on a train
    for mixed grill at the Corner House
    and then a show,
    the Crazy gang at the Victoria Palace.
    With lips like liver in a plastic bag
    he drank his tea out of a saucer,
    covered his food with salt
    and always had a slice of bread with his dinner.
    He drove his old van as if the roads
    were still empty
    his labrador sitting beside him
    leaning out.
    My mother did his washing,
    enormous underwear
    and shirts as big as sheets.
    He spent hours digging and planting
    I sat beside him
    and stole carrots & peas.
    I climbed on his lap
    and styled his hair,
    Thick with Brylcreem
    as he watched Billy Cotton
    and sang along to the Tunes.
    He told me about everything
    and stood up for me at home.
    I took my son to his funeral
    and we marvelled at the smallness of the box.

    Audrey’s Frock

    Once I could have held your body in my arms
    and you would have wrapped yourself around me
    my face nuzzling your mouse scented neck
    your dress would ride up exposing
    my hands on your white cotton
    knickers flat across your tough little bottom
    and I would smooth it over to protect
    you from chill winds and men’s tremendous glances

    Fay Layton

    “I got the message”

    I was walking in the street
    When suddenly from way up high
    A pigeon released its droppings
    With a plop from out the sky
    Of all the thousands of people
    Why did it seek me out
    The pigeon couldn’t give a toss
    Of that I have no doubt.

    “Writing Poems is my Obsession”

    Writing poems is my obsession
    I can’t stop or use discretion
    Off my tongue the words are running
    And twisted round with such cunning.
    “I’m having a ball, it’s great fun
    To let my imagination run”
    In fantasy I live in a world of my own
    I’m no Thackeray, I’m not well known
    But I derive the greatest pleasure
    A joy for me beyond all measure.

    “Cor Love a Duck”

    I bought a super duckling
    All strung up nice and neat,
    I cooked it to a turn,
    And did it look a treat.

    The table was inviting
    My guests sat down to dine,
    I said “I’ll do the carving,
    Will someone pour the wine”.

    I cut into the duckling
    And to my horror and surprise,
    The giblets in their plastic bag
    Were still safely tucked inside.

    The odour was unpleasant,
    It looked an utter mess,
    I’ve never felt so embarrassed
    I apologised to my guests.

    We settled for a pizza,
    I gave some to the cat,
    The duck I threw in the dustbin,
    What do you think of that?

    I owe my friends a dinner,
    When next we went out to dine,
    The waiter said “There’s duck on the menu”,
    We replied “No thanks, fish will be fine”.

    Nick Osmond

    Autobiography

    Well, 33
    Gave birth to me
    I saw
    The sun
    Became
    A son

    And lived through

    Fearful thirties
    Funtime forties
    Faltering fifties
    And psychedelic sixties

    In 66
    At 33
    I had
    A lad
    Became
    A dad

    And lived on through

    Socialist seventies
    And agitated eighties

    In 83
    (Half-century)
    “I” looked
    At “me”
    Began
    To see

    Into

    The new-born nineties.

    Baby (1)

    fuzzy white shape overhead
    rasping rush of breath
    hottish tobacco smell
    looming down
    darkens his sight

    wet slobber with bristles
    stifles,
    heart-stopping

    no!

    stop everything!

    hold breath
    hold on
    hold out
    and

    ROAR!

    Baby (2)

    up

    wheee!

    flying, floating
    cool air brushes past his skin

    world upside down

    down

    falling, fearing

    free fall
    far fall
    delicious terror recurs

    underneath
    are
    the everlasting arms

    landing
    landed
    held

    safe

    delighted laughter recurs.

    Sam Royce

    “Family Traits”

    I am writing a tale recalled of my youth
    Of a time I remember and telling the truth
    It goes back to childhood before even school
    While growing and learning and acting the fool

    The barrow was rigid and wood was its shell
    It belonged in the garden I recall it so well
    I bounced it along in the pathway each day
    In my youthful adventures, allowed out to play

    I sat and I rode and I hit hard the gate
    In this tank of my dreams with it’s armoury plate
    Then I climbed out and cried at the hurt I had done
    While pretending to others it was my kind of fun

    With my arm in a sling I marched to and fro
    A soldier at heart I had routed the foe
    I ordered the troops to advance up the bank
    To imaginary fire from my wheel-barrowed tank

    Many years had to pass before it was seen
    My Grandad had served as a ‘full-blown’ Marine
    No wonder I marched up and down with my pride,
    I was part of that person long before he had died.

    “Those Purposeful Pills!!!”

    I’m puzzled to learn of the knowing
    How tablets we take for our ills
    Disperse in the bloodstream and travel,
    Are there ‘maps’ on those colourful pills?

    The Nurse tells me sickness is treated
    With a Suppository entered below,
    But how does it find out its purpose
    And which way to follow the flow?

    If my knee starts to ache and it stiffens
    A pill is prescribed as a cure,
    Just how does it know where to function
    And which one to work on for sure?

    Do they know they are very important
    Destined for nerves and our heart?
    Thank heaven for miracle tablets
    But how do they play out their part?

    I am tied to these mystery ‘talismen’
    That travel along in the veins,
    But still there is left out unanswered,
    Do they feed right into our brains?

    Are there left-sided tablets and right ones
    And long distance ones meant for our head?
    I’m longing to hear all the answers
    As I rest in my Hospital bed!!!

    “Holiday Snap”

    She was fifty and way past her bed-time
    But rounded and warm to the touch
    Her chat and behaviour excited
    I fancied her eversomuch

    She looked at me closely when talking
    Pretended me only a friend
    But knew in her heart we were falling
    Not sure as to where it would end

    We strolled then we stopped and we cuddled
    The world was a wonderful place
    We kissed and caressed in the twilight
    As I held her quite close to my face

    The sound of two people so happy
    Was drawing us ever so near
    We laughed and we loved ’til the daybreak
    Then parted, until Summer, next year.

    “Gone at my Convenience!”

    The lighting had dimmed in the bathroom
    I was alone with my Duck in the dark,
    My clothes were adrift airing nicely
    It was getting to be quite a lark.

    I grappled to cover my ‘tackle’
    Reaching out to get hold of a towel,
    Then the Duck quacked and emptied its water
    To a sound that was really quite foul.

    The drying was quick and decisive
    As I started on top of my head
    Forgetting just where I was standing
    And the length where the towel had spread

    I tripped and fell onto the toilet
    “How convenient for me” thinketh I,
    Then my head banged hard on the cistern
    I was flushed and beginning to die

    It was all nice and clean at the finish
    As I lay there a person at rest,
    So I remained and never recovered
    With a smile and a new woollen vest!

    Tim Shelton-Jones

    When Nothing Moves

    When nothing moves
    Beneath the apple tree;
    No insect hums
    In the lead-scented grass:
    And all clouds flee
    The blue, low-pressing sky
    Then let the sun drip its golden dew
    Through the lily leaves of your hair;
    Let your lips curl, red in the grass,
    Soft as earthworms
    That wriggle, and wriggle,
    But not away.
    Then I will laugh at the light
    That splits a thousand ways in the trees above
    To paint your body gold and grey.
    — For it is no light
    To the welcome
    In your eyes.

    Happy on a Friday

    Don’t Worry.
    We won’t print anything
    Too Dangerous.
    We won’t explain the meaning of
    The Word.
    Or the theory
    Of Cosmic Radiance.
    We won’t discuss
    It.

    Don’t write in, please,
    The deaths were all
    Accidental.
    We had no responsibility.
    And remember,
    Our elections are always
    Fair,
    Of course.

    So watch the trend,
    It’s always Good.
    The statistics always
    Prove it.
    You like your work, the hours,
    The being told what to do,
    The management initiatives.

    You like
    The New Thinking.

    This is the new reality,
    It’s here to stay,
    Don’t worry,
    It won’t go away.
    Nor will we,
    Nor you.

    So be happy
    Switch on the telly.
    Turn on the tap,
    It’s Friday.

    By Train to Hassocks

    I love the tunnels,
    The compression of sound and space
    The drowning of common talking
    By this one unbreathing roar.
    The journey is vertical, downward
    To a place I know, the earth-belly.
    I am a sort of king there,
    This is my music that you hear.

    Nobody moves in the tunnels,
    But I can feel their blood running
    Waiting for it, waiting for the end.
    One day soon I’ll turn the points, and out we’ll shoot
    Out into the purest white cloud
    Silent, Amazed.

    John Tatum

    Low Tide

    Those distant figures seem arranged,
    as by some god-like typographer,
    like punctuation marks
    along the shining sands.

    Some are curved like question marks,
    some straight like exclamations;
    others — much smaller than the rest —
    scuttle about like commas.

    A few — colons, semi-colons —
    are set apart,
    huddled together in a little group,
    as if they are unsure
    of their positions in the scale of things.

    A lone figure walks slowly
    down by the water’s edge.
    He alone seems sure of what to do
    and suddenly he stops.

    Evening Music

    Behind a bay window a harpsichord is playing
    in a darkened room. Pigeons rise,
    flapping and wheeling, and dead leaves fall
    in the eddy of their wings…

    And old man whistles thorugh the park. The
    bells clang over the rooftops, buffeting
    the sky, and children’s voices echo
    down the fading afternoon…

    There is a sudden crash of laughter and
    the slamming of a door. The world has
    shuttered into silence and I wait to hear
    her footfall on the stair…

    Fat Sunday

    Hand in hand we ran down to the sea.
    You squealed at the shock of the first wave;
    we swam, our laughter muffled under the damp sky,
    the green water around us stippled by rain.
    Far-off, on the promenade, a solitary preacher
    harangued an audience of three old men.

    About the poets…

    JOE BENJAMIN

    Joe Benjamin has long had an ambition to be recognised as one of the new wave of young poets. With people now living longer he feels, at 73 and with the help of QueenSpark Books, he might yet make it.

    He has appeared in the TES and The Independent, but hopes to conquer higher peaks.

    DANNY BIRCHALL

    Danny Birchall lives on the dole in Brighton, and gets up as late as commitments and conscience will allow. He smokes too much and doesn’t drink enough. He loves making books, poetry that comes from the heart, alternative cultural prac¬tices and explosions that destroy buildings but not people.

    JACKIE BLACKWELL

    Jackie Blackwell left school at age 16, did some bum jobs, travelled about, then went to a women’s college at age 25. Sussex University beckoned, where she eventually gained a baby daughter and a degree in 1993. She now fills her time with QueenSpark Books, nightschool courses, job applica¬tions, babysitting rotas, charity shops and chocolate bars.

    CAROL BROWN

    Born in the East End of London in 1956, now living in Newhaven, she is married and has two children.

    In 1992 she discovered that she had been deaf from birth. Going to A.B.E. classes developed her writing skills. Her inspiration is the love of people and places.

    THOMAS CLARK

    The way I see it, my poems are little time capsules. There are moments in our lives so precious, we swear never to forget them. But time passes, the dust settles, and we do forget. This is how I remember. I write to remember things I might otherwise leave behind…

    BERYL FENTON

    is in her sixties and has lived in Brighton or Hove for most of her life. Is married, with one daughter. Likes to write short poems and paint small pictures — very intermittently!

    LOUISE HUME

    I am from Yorkshire but have lived in Brighton for three years. My writing draws much on experiences while travelling and working abroad, particularly in France, Australia and Asia. My current job, working closely with passengers at Gatwick Airport, gives me plenty of ideas and characters for the short stories I enjoy writing!

    GEVEN WAYNE JONES

    Born 26/5/71 Brighton. I personally feel that poetry has a very strong impact in the way the writer comes across to the reader. My aim is to write about issues and situations and hope that the reader can relate and understand through my perception of life.

    ELAINE KINGETT

    Elaine Kingett has lived in Brighton for nine years despite many attempts to leave.

    FAY LAYTON

    I began writing poems about 15 years ago before I became a senior citizen.

    ‘Writing Poems is my Obsession” says it all.

    It’s great to put pen to paper and write, I’m sure many others reel the same.

    SIMON MUMFORD

    I have been writing since I joined QueenSpark Books over a year ago. I write stories for amusement and poems to express myself in a more serious way. Being more comfortable with written than spoken words, poetry has enabled me to find a ‘voice’.

    NICK OSMOND

    When I was an academic I wrote about writing. I felt I knew all about it. But I didn’t write for myself; I was a writer who didn’t write.

    At QueenSpark I’ve worked mainly as facilitator and editor of other people’s writing. Now, gradually, the writer in me is creeping, peeping out of his shell.

    SAM ROYCE

    A ‘Driver-Refresher-Course’ with the Sussex Police Authority triggered Sam Royce’s talent for Poetry writing. Having published four books he now travels the County reading and sharing his love of verse. This enables him to raise money for the Royal Sussex County Hospital. Humour dominates much of his work and provides great therapy for listeners and readers alike.

    TIM SHELTON-JONES

    We moved to Brighton in 1984, in search of fresh air and culture. Then I joined QSB Nightwriters, and found both. I’ve been writing since boyhood, though poetry today comes usu¬ally at times of intense experience.

    I’m 44, married with 2 children, and work in Haywards Heath with computers.

    JOHN TATUM

    Born Edinburgh 1933 of English/German/Danish parentage. Written poetry and stories since age 16. Inspirations: jazz, trees, cricket, real ale, the ‘Titfield Thunderbolt’, English countryside, Church of England. Also paints watercolours and plays trumpet. Dislikes: cars (except for doctors and drummers), crooked politicians, logging companies, arms manufac¬turers.