Poetry Showcase Summer 2012

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Archive of all Poetry Space showcases

Guest editor: Moira Andrew

 Well swept

Her new yard broom has a plastic, made-in-China handle,

its bristle mane sits on broad shoulders,

a deep thread seals their partnership.

She stores this one head up

–a lesson from domestic science.

Inside she uses soft locks on a head that falls away

from its wooden handle at a mere knock.

She coaxes hair, pinhead paper pieces,

snipped thread ends to their grave;

leaves this one hanging by its hook.

Sometimes she takes a feather duster

that is not made from feathers, whisks

into corners deep as the last C on the keyboard,

shakes it out, unseen debris floats, falls,

floats –goodbye, she whispers.


Outside she sweeps foot-crushed leaves, infant twigs,

bark crumbs from the deck; the dust drops,

like finely sieved flour, between the planks.

She hides the rest under bushes, ready

for the wind to scatter it behind her back.


© Marilyn Hammick



© Chris Sims


My fate’s to leave you,

My fate’s to leave you all,

In darkness,

Sheltered by tears.


I am a shadow and I’ll run in midnight,

I’ve taken what I can,

An erotic sustenance to breathe again.


Promises of love and warmth,

Promises free of pain,

Promises of myth.


You’re alone now.

My silhouette is painted in your eyes,

You’re reaching to the sky,

Offering surrender for a second of happiness.


Meanwhile I am born again,

My demons satisfied.

© Alex Wyatt



 At Ottobanda

I turned aside in my sleep

and woke to see you coiled like a snake –

your slow length –

in the crook of my thigh

and I marvelled how

you shed your sorrow

in the runnel of my body;

your new self

emerging now

stronger in the light

© Neil Leadbeater


© Chris Sims





Enclosing anarchic experiences

© Chris Sims

by holidays from facts,nuances offset

the flights of fancy that could froth

or turn cruel

absurd simplifications.


I prolonged my apprenticeship

leaving behind beautifully dug caves…

for others to enter

or sometimes to go back to

capacious splashes of emotions,

burlesque exaggerations.


I wish to paint on grotesque canvases

long festering issues



like grapes from vines

  ©  Prem Kumari Srivastava




Looking for an Oxygen


I tried to tuck some wee pillows into my

chest as I dreamt in this sunny morning.

I knew it was crude just to be the goner


amongst them. I wondered why a body

didn’t thrive the weather this hot or this

cold that men killed themselves in old


winter times. There was never a snow

in this brown- skinned tropic where all

the lights scattered , where all my brain


got abused, that my cerebellum opposed

the melanism in my skin. I imagined why

I kept getting sick and cured each week.


It was  how they defined life- you jabbed

your own and took the thorn til you saw

those scars that ended  up being stuck in

beds where I laid with my fellow shut-ins.

©Sarah Gamutan



Dream of things that never were

© Chris Sims


I’m not a painter

I am a dreamer

You will be visually rich

and the red army

in your body

will not defeat us

will not defeat us

Nothing is so dark

oh so dark

as where you’ll go

so tread with your eyes closed

Im dropping rocks



I always stumble

upon you




my arms

I promise

I will

keep you warm

Porcelean wrap

you in dreams

whisper feather

I will help you

fit, fit, fit,

even though I don’t

One salt tear


Hello yellow emerald

my heart is broken

but I wont go crazy

before you

The sickness

is in the body

Rub ash

dry brittle

carve me out his little body

and very delicately

saucer eyes

and baby heart

silver threads

all woven around him

wrap him in warm paper

A spell we will weave

and sculptor his nerves

and dance

over and over

Drip his body

in honey and milk

all his dreams wash over me

I cant grow a new heart

My sleep is so short

I love you

please see me through

I show you bubbles

you like?

We shall go follow the marsh

and whilst we are so happy

in this country

not a single green leaf

is left

upon the trees

All the clouds have frozen

and fall down

onto us

in little white pieces

Down in the pool

there lays a child

who has dreamed away his life

he weeps

for he has a dead sister

he has a dead sister

hailstones have danced

on the ground

and snowflakes have fallen

all around him

Purple rashes

rake over the dead!

no sound silent

rustle the emptiness

Shake! Shake!

The river has no ending

the boatwoman will take his body

all frozen

and the coldness is bitter

it never thaws here

his heart was torn

ripped out by the bitter wind

his soul was taken

and fed to the hungry

so sad, so sad.


© Julianne Davis