Winter Poetry Showcase 2012

Thursday, 29 November 2012

Archive of all Poetry Space showcases


Chris Sims




we stand on the back step

out of sight

licking spice from our fingers


Even better than your mother’s

Dad says

But don’t let on –

she’ll never forgive me


not a cake at all

sultanas, brown sugar, currants

baked in crisp pastry

(Mum’s speciality)


I’ve pinched her recipe

added cinnamon, apples

and a hefty sprinking of ginger

Just up my street, Dad says


Mum says

You were sent to try me!

her skills lie in the kitchen,

mine in words, in paint


and here I am

beating her at her own game

I can’t blame her

for having a go at me


what would she say

if she knew

Dad’s given me a gold star

for baking?


Moira Andrew

Kit Hill – Cornwall


Do you remember

the tread of Prehistoric Man

who hunted your slopes,

ate your berries,

raised children,

buried their dead?


Do you still hear

screams of dying soldiers

who battled Saxons

Kate Blair

in your foothills

but lost forever

Cornwall’s independence?


Do you recall

the hymns of miners

who burrowed into you

or recollect the pain

of cordite in

your granite bowels?


Or are you

content with change?

Your rain-filled quarry

a lure for dragonflies

beneath towering rocks

on which adders hiss,


while above you

buzzards and kestrels soar,

and Modern Man

explores your trails

on foot or horseback,

oblivious to your past.


Di Coffey



Chris Sims

For two days

I have been breathing him in.


Cleaning out the bathroom:

shaving gear, medicines,



Emptying cupboards,

vacuuming neglected carpets,

dusting drawers.


All that was left –

loose hairs, flakes of skin.


Jo Waterworth



Toby Morgan

Hand sliced wholemeal doorsteps

On a brass toasting fork

Over an open coal fire.

Served with butter

That dripped over hot fingers.


Marriage changed this…


Machine sliced white,

Thin cut

Popped from a toaster,

Served with margarine

That disappeared

Into a serviette.


Worse was to come…


The salesman that sold

The wife the toaster

Starting calling.


Toast was served,

Crusts removed,

Cut into triangles,

With different toppings:

Lemon Curd, Honey, Marmalade,

Jam, Peanut Butter, Marmite.


“Cordon Bleu.”

The Salesman remarked,

Kissing his finger tips.

“King Louis XV

Would have awarded

This a Blue Ribbon.”


The wife blushed,

“I’ve always been artistic,

My way of saying, thanks.”


Thank God, they took

The toaster with them

When they ran away.


Les Merton

Cardboard City


Chris Sims

Come visit my castle the next time you’re in the city?

Look, see. It’s not like the others, filth and mess.

They don’t fold up papers, conserve for other days

Living for the moment, whereas I think ahead

I’ve even made a window; it opens inwards and out

With that homely touch, I put a frill up.

I’ve got thick mattresses in all the bedrooms,

Lined with today’s newspapers, if you open up the window

With the light of the moon, you can read in bed.

A kitchen, with a basin for the sink

Of course I only use royal china, milk just two days out of date!

When the hard long day is over, of kerbs, park benches

Searching through bins, I get caught up in that evening rush.

I imagine the walls made out of granite, the roof slate

With chimneys keeping each room away from the damp

Gatehouse with its keeper, looking after my estate

So don’t forget, come to the city within a city,

Everything is manmade; you’ll see some amazing sites

You see I use to be an engineer.



By Johanna Boal

A requiem


Chris Sims

The sun

Silently soaked

Sings in the yellow

Haze, these forbidden

Days on my heart that

Hang, tip of the weather

The dazzling weight of wonder

Air as light as a feather

Drifting through the seat

The slats of time sit

Slowly in the breaking

Word that spellbinds

Rain has gone


And in it’s will, wept

To nothing but, these

Rolling clouds gleam

Proud in teams

The green

Gaze of hollow

Stumps see through

Trees look, but do not

Sway, their old

Gold leaves



The glaze

Of summer, still

Saturated in the blooming

Sun shall not wilt when

It’s house of rays

Built on the horizons song

Cascading the day

Long is the feeling

Washed and winnowing free

Freshly mown and heavy

Sat scuttling plainly

And settled serenely

The past a dream

A requiem.


Alexander Conyers



Chris Sims

see talking slums

silenced tongues

freedom silenced

hope killed

a bling of ghettos

collapsed humanity


mothers weeping ,

under the compression of religion

trees dripping tears

Ethiopia your festering open wounds

you are my anger!


children burn in smoldering canisters of hunger

time opened new wounds of memories of old scars

chained on rocks of ignorance

you need a compass of decency


my poetry is a catalyst fermenting your injustices

into beverages of justice

you are my sadness!


your heartbeat bleached in political fermentation

rhythm galvanized in furnaces of cultural myth

laughter imbibed by the rude stomach of the gun

culture crushing under the weight of globalization


Mbizo Chirasha



Chris Sims

In the game of shadows

The faintest pin drop

The silent whisper

A snorting snore

Is charmed to hope


A mirror of truth

Revered by light


Torch of liberty.


In the game of shadows

Light is King


Michael Kwaku Kesse Somuah

the blade of the jigsaw


someone squashed the universe

and took its feet away

the box holds the secrets

the secret’s in the box


someone drew the seas

so they were flat

reduced the fishes to thin cardboard

so they could fit inside


the box holds the secrets

the secret’s in the box


the blade of the jigsaw

carefully trimmed the universe

to something more manageable

god is shoe-horned

into a size eight

his toes curled under –

his neck cricked and cracked


the box holds the secrets

the secret’s in the box


someone squashed the universe

and took its breath away




Dave Wood