2011

Poem of the Month - 2011 Collection Poem of the Month December 2011 Leicester born and bred, Mombowie Starchild is a performance poet and emcee concerned primarily with everything: the cosmic and human experience, observations on society - our passions, fears and dreams.  But she really just likes telling stories in a rhythmical, musical way.  Mombowie has performed at ‘Brightside’; produced and directed ‘The Edge’ as part of Lyric Lounge Leicester in 2009.  She has hosted and performed in the ‘Beatroot’ poetry tent at ‘Big Session’ festival in recent years and is a regular compere and performer at WORD! Coda Oh! How they enjoy her – adore her! Enthralled, a noiselessness falls For all the auditorium’s caught In inaudible awe at the adroit performance before them. Gorging on her form forging effortless fouettes en tournant: One-legged; upon points of toes; Spinning her spirit’s finishing throes in this – her coda! Though this moment’s decades ago, These days her frail frame’s broke In the wake of the stroke that held her in choke; So now each day’s played out shamefully slow  Adagio…adagio… No longer swathing the stage as she sinuously sways, She exists imprisoned by physical fallibility; With the additional, unequivocally more crippling disability Of living within a system that’s intrinsically twisted; So inevitably also her integrity’s tested; Her dignity splintered, As the personal aide who helped with her visits to the toilet Is no more to be paid for by an NHS afflicted with budget cuts; So the gloves are up For this sixty-eight year old woman stood versus the government. No need to wonder who won. And when the ruling was done It was considered economically more logical for her to wear pads for incontinence. No matter that she saw it of some consequence she’s not, in fact, incontinent. But must content. For the coda’s over, Bringing ever-closer - ever faster the everlasting curtain fall, As a miasmic dust plasters the OBE plaque that hangs in her flat on the wall, Where in her room at the back she lies in bed trying to detach From the fact that tonight she: a Prima Ballerina in her past, Shall have to recline in her own piss. Because the truth of it is, she must pay with her pride for what her taxes should provide. While ignoring this, she relaxes just enough for sleep to overtake her, And drifts off into dreams of orchestras; ovations…                                                                          Mombowie Starchild July 2011 Bernice Reynolds Born 1943 in S. Wales and brought up in Briton Ferry, attending Neath Girls Grammar School 1954-59. Worked for the Borough Council 59-61, trained as a teacher in Derby 1961-64 and has lived and worked in the Midlands, Surrey, Herts and Essex.  Divorced, she has two daughters and two grandsons and has lived in Leicester since 2007.  Started writing poetry in retirement and realises it is never too late to try something new. FORGETTING  OUR  FEET I follow a frieze of footprints along the corridor wall Multi coloured, labelled - Geraint, Gordon, Alice, Sian. Passing a window voices ring out - Mi a fi ffair yfore I brynnu scudiau newydd Medd a scudiau Clonc clonc clonc clonc clonc clonc clonc clonc. The children are going to the market   to buy new shoes today. The shoes clonk along. Suddenly I’m four years old wearing black patent leather at Mr and Mrs Aazo’s wedding - my adored  Estonian refugees he a musician, she a linguist with seven languages not one of them Welsh. Emerging from the Registry Office a girl calls out, “Look at that child’s shoes!” No mention of the bride, invoking a memory never forgotten, bringing a warming glow more than six decades on. Silver shoes at Audrey’s  wedding for a flower girl in azure blue knowing she’s Ginger Rogers dancing to crowds while the snap shows a shy child in a simple dress. Black canvas ‘daps’ for wandering in woods and bowling along beaches; ‘best‘ shoes for chapel on Sundays - which I wore to the beach and left on the shore line. They got washed out with the tide. I got grounded. Brown lace up shoes for Grammar school with winter woollen knee high socks – scratching my chilblained feet.  Mortifying. A working girl and my first pairs paid for –  white leather thongs which eluded me and black leather stilettos which tripped me up in chapel at Harvest – my basket of fruit rolling down the steps in the gallery and my new red hat covering my red hot face. Gorgeous green satins for a college ball dyed to match my velvet and lame dress and white high heels for my lace wedding suit and very sixties flower petal hat.. Then joy – my first Eccos – boots and flats They echoed Mam’s and auntie’s warning – ‘Look after your feet, keep them comfy, don’t end up like us - walking through Neath market heading for the Welsh Produce Cafe sighing, “Oh, our aching feet ……we’re gasping for a cup of tea and a chance to forget them! We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one is January 2012 Poem of the Month August 2011 Nicky Pywell Nicky says this about herself: I write poetry, mostly as a way to release my thoughts, which became quite dark when I became ill, several years ago, but from even from a little girl I've been passionate about creative writing, creative arts and designing. At best my work is emotionally driver, but I also produce well using headings or themes. I also write short stories, and have started a few books of which I know all the details but am yet to complete. I have a couple of scripted pieces, one is a stage production which we acted out and another humourous outreach performance with music and lyrics that I did at Costa Coffee live. Skip the Beat Aim; to create a succession of events were skip the beat can be seen with positive and negative consequences. Pacemaker man Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom When his boom skips the beat, he feels all to quick, the pain in his chest, his head it feels thick, he may fall, or swiftly take in breath. Skipping too often causes concern, and off to the hospital blue lights, flashing now he’s anxious if he will return. Wondering why there are so many tests, he longs to go home where he can rest. This is the news he learns;                                                His boom needs a small box, to keep the pace; I’m not sure which emotion I saw on his face anger, relief, confused?? But his fists he clenches in his dispute. Quietly I thought he uttered “pace maker, pacemaker” how can I refuse? Id better take the small box, offered The choice is there but not one I can really choose or in a big box ill loose…. my boom boom ,  boom boom,   boom boom and so he does, but some how he feels out of control its all for the best, or so he’s being told!! No longer able to skip the beat. Listen to your beat Just sit still a while, sit and think, take time out , more than just a quick blink of those pretty eyes, into your own world you can sink, survive. Let your spirit heal, revive You don’t have to run, no need to hide, Just skip the beat FEEL your alive Yes, skip the beat The beat that beats fast,  The  way of the world, unlock its grasp, And slip through the net society’s cast Without their limits, your vision is vast Steady you must relax, Listen to your beat, You with the pretty eyes, cast downward to your feet Your glitter has far too long been overcast. Listen to your beat, not the sound of heavy footed grief Find your heart, Yourself your fears, Instinct will drive you, as you push up the gears, T’dum   t’dum   t’dum   t’dum, Have courage as you wipe away your tears Skip the beat and become what you have dreamed of, for so many years. The dance of life Take steps, move around, and don’t be too scared or too proud, Now listen to the beat and see.  Would you skip, if you were me? For when you dance with the vibrant life, the hard and the fast,  Your path will find. Swishing and stepping to the music’s beat Be very carful now; don’t step on anyone’s elses feet You see my girl a twirl is not just a twirl when into arm of strangers you hurl Befriend them all, and look upon life as it were a ball, The tempo might change, be careful. Your ankle we would not want to sprain, For then the dance you would refrain Skipping a beat, swapping my shoes to go dancing in golden hues. We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one September 2011 Poem of the Month May 2011 Pam Raymond Pam has been working full time as an administrator at the National Space Centre for over 5 years, with what she describes as “the most amazing team of people”.  She loves to write poetry and paint as a form of liberation; other out of work activities includes Kung Fu and Tai Chi as a qualified Tai Chi instructor. Pam Raymond The Dance – A Taste of Tango A quiet pulse, a gentle rhythm caught in the air. Fingers finding melody tap, tap, tap on a chair. Slow smooth footsteps draw near, a heart beat, Hands unhurried extend, enticed from the seat. First touch, fingers tenderly, taunted, teased, A spark ignites, gently held hands now seized. First step, flexed feet are now firmly driven As one, the melodic tune is fiercely ridden. Warm breath so close, a fleeting flame felt A fragrance, a scent of perfume briefly smelt. Energised,  eyes meet, a momentary stare A  potent pause, a sensual second to share. Heels clicked, skirt flicked, strutting movement, twists and spins, swirling in submission sent; the room, unfocused, a haphazard haze, the daring dancers swaying in a distant daze. So engrossed, no thoughts, nothing to distract, an audience aroused, absorbed by this act. Blending boldly, each reckless spirit set free, unfaltering in the music's rhythmic energy. Eyes meet, by this gaze, gracefully connected though in movement, arms and legs deflected. In time, in tune, they meld, they melt together; desiring, wishing this dance will last forever. An elixir, an elicit passion devours the room, to be extinguished with the music all too soon. Hands held released,  the enchantment departs. Yet magic will remain forever in both hearts. We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one June 2011 Poem of the Month April 2011 Roy MarshallRoy has been writing songs and poems since childhood. His first ever spoken word performance was at WORD! In 2009. He has since been published in a number of magazines and has a pamphlet forthcomming in 2012. His website is roymarshall.wordpress.com Roy Marshall Fox Who has wondered the city since the city's birth, who searches for a vixen to raise him from the earth, who is insomnia, animated in sodium light, who is a ferrous key in the black lock of the night, who skulks past the perma-lit offices of hell, who killed the Rat king to the Hendrix sound of rails, who ate the heart underneath Kings Cross, who heard the Minister listen to the silent lips of God? Who else? Fox. We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one May 2011 Poem of the Month March 2011 Eddie Lunt Virgin Birth I lie beneath that blinding star, The cradled straw stands warm and dry, The wise men watch from kingdoms far, The shepherds shrive the hills and sky, To hear the voice of pain I fear, To know that child I bear a boy, To know that coming birth is near, To fear the Earth may find no joy, It is not this which makes me weep And brand as beast the child I hold, The dreadful truth that breaks my sleep, To know that marriage bed was cold, The spotless form lay thinly veiled, The one last stronghold to be stormed, How should we tell them that we failed And how these bones and flesh were formed? We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one April 2011 Poem of the Month February 2011 Jacob Saunders Jacob is a true Loughbrarian having been born and raised in Loughborough with only a few years out to get an education* at Bath University. He started writing poetry years ago but never thought to perform until he heard about Pinggg...K! at the LGBT centre in Leicester and after this poem went down a storm decided to lose his Word virginity. *by education we, of course, mean painful debts and a useless understanding of NUS politics. Jacob Saunders An alliterative love story, from A-Z An afternoon and arthritic Beryl bustles brightly, bringing biscuits,coffee, crossword.  Chattering carrying clattering cups.  Crash! "Crumbs, clumsy" Dropped drinks damply damaging the delicate exposed elderly epidermis of her firm friend.  Fanciful foolish feelings, fully forbidden flow forward gushing unguarded as Gladys gaily grabs handfuls of hot wet hem.  Her hand hovering over hidden intimacies.  Indecent, improper imaginings immediately immaterial as juddering j-cloth dries gently just under dress. Just drying? Dress dropped. Geriatric kiss. Lifelong love 'luminating, lifeless lust livens. Lips moisten Movement murmering, monumental. Making no noise, no need. New octogenarian opportunities opening, oppressive otherness passed. Parts previously pert presently plunge. Pleasantly pressing, pecking, petting, quietly, quickly, quintissentially quaint, roaming, rolling, roving, reaching 'round areas readily rotund. Realising. Suddenly. Stop. Shakily smoothing silken skirts, silent sorries as sensual sapphic stroking ceases. Trying to talk takes terrible time. Unbuttoned after unrealised, unbidden, unrestrained urges- uttering ubiquitous vagueness is virtually worthless. Wary women wondering what wicked warmth would wander...  Waiting. Wishing. Worries wane when: "Wow, what wonderful-" "Experience?!" Exclaimed exuberantly. "Excellent" "Exquisite" "Exhausting!" "You? You're?" "Yes" Youthful yeses zealous as zips unzipped. Kerry Orange Kerry is Lecturer in Creative Writing at Loughborough University. He is currently working on a series of poems for a Museum Buddies project based at Alford Manor House, Lincolnshire. Other projects include a series of landscape poems and a translation of a novel by Ingrid Thobois. www.myspace/kerryorange Kerry OrangeAutumn at the Bus Stop The woman in the headscarf asks (as the wind bangs three times on the 17B shelter): “Is this bus going to the Universe?” I’m sure I’ve not misheard and turn to look down on brimful eyes and bitten mac. The letter she holds is pinched, the head is smudged, her tan handbag open, the clasp... helpless. And I say “It hasn’t got much choice, has it? What else is there?”  And I... smile. And she frowns, trying to get The Question understood, not sure if she’s misheard and thinking it can’t get much worse, asks again: “Does-this-bus-go- to THE UNIVERSE?” The wind whips on, carrying my answer college road mercilessly down. We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one March 2011 Poem of the Month January 2011 The first WORD! of 2011 brought its usual collection of ecclectic poets showcasing their wonderful work. Baring this in mind is was practically impossible to chose only ONE poem of the month, so Pam Thompson & Tara Gatherer share with us their highlights of the evening below.. Jayne Stanton Dear Diary I’m sick of being a side wheel  a cog wheel, a tread wheel. I’m ready to cartwheel, freewheel without a spare wheel. I’m stepping out of my down-at-heel flat heels.  I’ll take to my heels, ditch the excess baggage: social, parochial, filial, familial  marital, parental, accidental all things sentimental.  I’ll shelve them  somewhere compartmental  try being truly experimental maybe achieve something monumental. I’m sick of feeling comfortable  of acting the Little Miss Sensible  predictable, adaptable one hundred percent unflappable  -or merely disposable. I long to be adorable, delectable  improbable, unstoppable and much much less dependable. I’ve had my fill of winter times down times, bad times, war times downright not-on-your-life times -now they’re past times.  This year I’ll work flexi-time permit myself some fun time  give myself a break time  a blissful peace and quiet time a doorstep slice of dream time  It’s high time I tossed my cares away and took that long overdue breakaway.  I’m making a super-swift getaway  I’ll be a runaway stowaway a desert island castaway far, far away… …maybe not straightaway but sometime soon, anyway. Conor Cantle This year This year I turn 21, but you can still catch me doing childish things, watching cartoons, reading comic books, going to laserquest...yeah, and the last time I was there I met a child his name was Nim and he was seven years old, dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes, he stood there like a shadow. A shadow with a laser. Our eyes met and I said Nim, don't do this to me, don't make me feel old,I need you to do something for me Nim... I need you to remember when there were only four channels, when The Simpsons were on BBC2, the first series on robot wars and the new BBC ident with an aerial that went backwards, He stared back at me with those cold, cruel...mostly confused, eyes. I cried Nim! Can you remember when you had to choose between plugging in the phone or the internet, ...yes, you had to plug in the phone, you know, like a cassette player, or a VHS. Oh please tell me you remember finishing a film and then rewinding it, tell me you remember that,Tell you remember the dial up noise?  I crouched down at eye level and I told him...dododododododobrrrrrrrbrrrrr... How else would you know the internet was loading? This year I turn 21, with so much left to remember,  This year I turn 21, and one day Nim you will be where I am, and I have no idea where I am. David Pollak Dark and White You are dark brown and I am rosy white It’s clear that we’re a quite divergent pair But in my arms you feel completely right. Although it feels so dreadful when we fight In our contrasting ways we make things fair – You are dark brown and I am rosy white. You’d like to eat hot curry every night And I prefer to dine on milder fare But in my arms you feel completely right. You credit Hindu gods with power and might; Such faith is something I just cannot share - You are dark brown and I am rosy white. I rather like the difference in our height And how we treat each other with such care For in my arms you feel completely right. My life has passed from darkness into light And all my worldly goods with you I’ll share You are dark brown and I am rosy white And in my arms you feel completely right. We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one February 2011