Autumn Showcase – September 2013

• Archive of all Poetry Space showcases

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Chosen by Poetry Space Editor Susan Jane Sims

Copyright of all poems and photographs remains with their creators. Please do not reproduce material without express permission.

This Morning

 If everyone was looking at this morning,

The way the light hits the floor,

The train seems softer,

the birds on a low key,

As I sit in my chair, I think of the one

we squeezed into, side by side,

the oldest and the youngest,

A skyline we both could never imagine,

Not for me, fragile in our chair,

the youngest and the oldest,

And we were looking at this morning,

The way light hit the floor,

The train seems louder

and the birds break the silence.

 

Rob Benson

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 Red Geraniums

Aunt Kate

and red geraniums

go together

 

I remember

rubbing the leaves

so my fingertips

smelt green

 

window boxes

heavy with flowers

balanced on the sill

at a precarious angle

 

pots on the step

scattered red petals

and a door

that didn’t fit

 

I remember

Aunt Kate’s long white apron

I have no memory

of Uncle Andrew

 

just the sound

of the sea

and an empty wheelbarrow

 

Moira Andrew

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Sylvia Longworth

 

Without a doubt it was Sylvia.

I recognised her instantly… .

After what, fifteen years?

 

Her unforgettable looks,

the cascading tousled hair

and those pouting, teasing lips.

 

The long, slim neck,

sweeping exquisitely

to shapely full breasts.

 

Yes, it was Sylvia Longworth.

Even standing this far back

straining over the shoulders

 

of other gallery visitors

I recognised her.

Who could forget a girl like Sylvia?

 

Slowly the crowd thinned

and I edged nearer the painting,

now I could see every inch of her.

 

How I recollect those long

slender legs, and remember

how I imagined her pubic hair to be.

 

I recall her arms around me

the hesitant, gentle kiss. A tender

and unforgettable moment.

 

Yet, there was something different.

I studied the painting closely

and I realised…

 

her eyes had lost their innocence.

 

Les Merton

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Making a cup of tea

 

My tea ceremony is this:

The feeling of nothing like a good brew

Mornings are best, that cup of tea

I’ve cut down on workloads

A tea bag, boiling water, drop of milk

My little china mug,

 

Tea ladies, but you’re the masculine,

Addressed as Master Tea!

In 1660, who introduced tea?

A Portuguese princess

Married to Charles II

A class; afternoon tea became high tea,

 

The great British culture,

Tea Clippers, the Cutty Sark

Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon

Herbal tea, Earl Grey,

Whose idea is iced tea?

Oh the world and my cup of tea.

 

Johanna Boal

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Music for Two Players                                                        

 

In Tsugaru the snow falls on heavy winter

Cold fingers pluck shamisen’s three strings

Its sounds are at once tenacious and tender

They tell of blind wanderers who play at home doors

Lending sight to spring

Picture cascading streams

Fresh green freed from frost

And the blossoming of cherry trees.

 

In Tsugaru the sun heats red-chimneyed roofs

A drum beckons summer celebration

Light taps are made lazy by blazing days

Intermittent like distant gunfire

in hot battle.  First Jonkara

Telling of temple priest braving cruel disgrace

At a rival’s grave, punished by lord of war

Driven to river’s edge, to self-immolation.

 

Then Aiya brought by shippers and fishers

A southerly song for shifting workers

Now heard at Tsugaru parties

Sung with light spirit on white nights,

And long Yosare intricate, woven

Of tight-stringed highs falling to open notes

Seeming to die in their deepness

While vowels bend like late flowers towards Kyoto.

 

Antony Johae

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Coward

 

Private Thomas Highgate

winces as rough sacking

is pulled over his head.

He smells sour wheat grains,

peers through loose weave

at the line of soldiers

across the yard; restless men,

fingering their guns.

 

Fear gnaws his bones,

sickens his stomach

and he shudders in dawn’s mist.

Yesterday a thousand men

were blown to smithereens,

or shot, or bayonetted;

bravely dying for King and country.

 

Over the top, men.

Had been the order.

Up and at ’em.

He’d endured the boots of men

climbing over him,

heard them die,

screaming for their mothers.

 

He remembers running,

hiding in a barn,

puking when discovered.

Was it only yesterday?

Why had he lied about his age?

By rights, he shouldn’t be here

at The Battle of Mons.

 

Guns are cocked, aimed,

and Private Thomas Highgate,

at seventeen, too young

to be in his regiment,

is old enough

to be shot for cowardice.

 

 Di Coffey

Private Thomas Highgate was executed on September 8^th, 1914. 

He was the first soldier to be shot for cowardice in WW1.

He was 16 when, to get into the army, he lied about his age.

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A value this small

 

On occasion doubt sends
A sway so strong, griping to shiver
Like dust storms of the Sahara

To envisage a passage through
Seems, close to the unthinkable
And madness line a front row

So it came to be, that all was lost
And funeral processions, as last rites
Holds the only dignity in honour to have

But you see, seeds planted in the earth
Takes a while to germinate, their way of doing things
To hold court to announce their credential like royals

And naturally, passers by unaware of seeds planted
Would not no miracles to emerge to foster
Do not place a value this small, before curtains close

 

Kodjo Deynoo

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 Dexterity

His big moment

We watch – fascinated –

Spherical object,

In his hand a sharp knife!

He cuts, red liquid spurts

On his white coat.

Suddenly, flowerlike,

It opens in his palm.

Oh, what artistry

The orange was sectioned!