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Friday, September 9

Tatjana Debeljacki asks 'Are there?' by Helen Ivory on Fri 09 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Are There

Someone is breaking the branches?!

From midnight to the dawn,

The forest is trembling inside me.

My trees are innocent,

Thirsty for milk,

Firm hands, and

The scent of effervesce.

I'm drinking my mint tea.

I'm bringing tranquility without aim,

And flowers for the vase.

When I look at it is never the same.

I'm starting to believe in a fertility of miracles.

Is there the flame, which could turn the heavens

Into the ashes?

Are there any hands to pick up my ripe apples?!

*Tatjana Debeljački was born in 1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of

Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR, Croatia.

She has published three collections of poetry: A House Made of Glass, ART – Užice;

Yours, NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and Vulcano by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK and Ah-eh-

eeh-oh-ooh by Poeta Belgrade. 2008. She edits Poeta.

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Thursday, September 8

Mark Burnhope reviews 'Another Use of Canvas' by Angus Sinclair by Helen Ivory on Thu 08 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Defending Sinclair’s Title

Another Use of Canvas, Angus Sinclair (24pp, £5.00, Gatehouse Press)

Sinclair is both wrestler and poet, a paradox immediately addressed in his debut

pamphlet’s title, which introduces tensions between wrestling as entertainment, and

as art-form. Many poems comment on lives off-canvas, out of camera-shot: ‘soft

peripheral shapes / I understand to be bodies, / visual murmurs’. ‘Looking Up at the

Lights’ begins in the ring (‘…a cold fizzing in my neck; / something has slipped or

pulled.’) then pans outwards, so that the ‘white lights suspended above’ become

hospital lights, and the poem becomes a reflection on infirmity:

and think how an operating theatre

is like a wrestling arena;

the outcome less certain.

I’ll admit: I was smiling to see my childhood wrestling fandom turned into effective

poetry. ‘The Saint versus Lord Nelson’ recreates the colours, commentary and rough-

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and-tumble of popular wrestling. Pace, rhythm and sound bring the scene from screen

to page:

Almost before the bell is rung Lord Nelson

tries to swing and bundle his rival The Saint,

belly-bomb him to the mat for the quick fall –

but The Saint side-steps, little matador working

Nelson’s weight against him, all that power

sent crashing to the corner…

Another style which has made its way into contemporary wrestling is Mexican Lucha

Libre, whose brightly-coloured masks look back to Mexican folk traditions like “Dia

de los Muertos”, with its now-famous floral skulls. Sinclair uses this material in

‘Face’, which begins: ‘A boxer bleeds his nose, eye, mouth. / A wrestler bleeds his

forehead. / His invisible crown of thorns.’ I’m reminded of other Biblical uses of

the forehead: anointing for healing or burial; bearing the mark of Christ or The

Beast. The crown of thorns is a symbol of humiliation, a theme which appears

throughout, and transports us to the folk-magical close:

In the garden, Adam and Eve

cover not only their bodies

but their faces too.

*

All night, folk-devils

try and remove the masks

of little gods.

If I wanted to nitpick: ‘Face’ scratches the surface of its material, and I wish it

had weaved its strands together for longer. And while the repetitions of ‘Muscle

Memory’ are appropriate to its theme, they make its final line less than surprising.

But I don’t. By the time I’ve reached the final poem, ‘Canvas’, its blend of violence

with careful, lyrical observance of the body leaves me in little doubt that Sinclair

was right. Wrestling can be artful:

The ring’s cross-irons have developed a bend

which exactly matches the curve of your spine.

Your bones creak in conversation with the ring.

....reviewed by Mark Burnhope


Wednesday, September 7

Clown Wife by Pippa Little by Helen Ivory on Wed 07 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Clown Wife

Solly, this life will be the death of us.

Fat man prat-falling,

each laugh hurts like a punch

for my poodle-man in a flimsy ruff.

Otto says he no longer finds you funny,

walks you like a tiger he has broken

and taken pleasure breaking.

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I’ll hold your heart up to all of them,

heavy glass jar of thick, bright honey,

show how it curls in its hot descent.

Solly, the boatman’s waiting to carry us away.

Let it be tonight you vanish inside that costume,

its empty cloud collapsing on the stage,

an iron lung you won’t need where we are going.

* Pippa Little says: I live in Northumberland, write poetry and collect sea-glass.

Overwintering comes out from Oxford Poets next October and The Snow Globe, Red

Squirrel Press, this autumn. One day I hope to find a cake stand and a hostess

trolley just like my grandmother's.


Tuesday, September 6

Some short prose from Bobby Parker by Helen Ivory on Tue 06 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Her Face Flickers

Before I go into the waiting room for clinical psychology I go for a piss. My bladder

has been a bit funny lately. I piss too much. Sometimes it's difficult to piss.

As I wait for it to flow, I stare at the silver flush button on the wall above the

toilet. It says Armitage Shanks. Armitage Shanks are a British bathroom company that

can be traced back to 1850.

I trace it back to the late eighties. There was a girl in my class called Debbie

Shanks. When I went to the bathroom my mind made instant associations between the

toilet and Debbie. I never mentioned this to anyone. No reason to. It's stupid.

Even to this day, every time I go to a bathroom and see the words Armitage Shanks, I

think about Debbie. And I feel stupid. I can barely remember what she looked like;

her face flickers in the section of my memory labelled Early Childhood Before Shit

Hit the Fan.

But when I piss, I see those words Armitage Shanks and think about Debbie. I try to

visualize her face, her flickering face kind of silver and blue. And it helps. It

helps me piss. I'm not sure how to feel about that. The doctor has told me to avoid

fluid after six at night. I’d like to drink some wine with my wife but I can’t.

*Bobby Parker was born in 1982. He lives in Kidderminster, England. His most recent

collection is Ghost Town Music available now from knivesforksandspoonspress. He is

currently working on the book from which Her Face Flickers has been taken.

Comments (1) | Permanent Link | Cosmos

Monday, September 5

Thelma Laycock's 'Green, green grass' by Helen Ivory on Mon 05 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

The green, green grass.

Looking out at the lagoon, he saw that it was a peculiar shade of bluish green.

Perched on the edge of it, like a large white communion wafer, was the moon. ‘It

looks bloody weird!’ thought Rhys, shrugging his fingers deeper into his pockets.

Venice was getting cold – soon it would be the time of ‘Aqua Alta’ and he didn’t want

to be around for that. He strode into the nearest bar, ordering a ‘grappa’. The



atmosphere was warm and he took off his jacket, standing at the bar, bantam-weight,

short, and as dark as any Italian. It wasn’t just the temperature which was warm;

the language warmed him with its musicality, counterpointing with the pitch and toss

of the rougher Veneziano dialect.

For some reason his mind drifted back to Tiger Bay and to his local, ‘The Red

Dragon’, where they’d all be right now, being Saturday see. Dando would be behind

the bar whilst Dave and Huw and the other lads would be watching the match on the big

screen. Then before Dando could call time, they’d sing. Rhys (when he was there)

would do his imitation of Tom Jones, and then he would get up with old Pugh, who had

known his grandad, and they’d play the spoons.

A couple of weeks later, he flew to Cardiff and that night headed for ‘The Red

Dragon’. It was empty. ‘Moved on to ‘The White Swan’, Dando explained, ‘it’s new,

it’s beautiful and it’s taking all my bloody trade!’ ‘But Pugh will be in?’ enquired

Rhys, pulling up a bar stool. ‘Pugh?’ said Dando. ‘Oh, no, a lot’s ‘appened in a

year, boy. Pugh went to live with his daughter. Up north it was.’ Rhys pulled a

face. Dando went on. ‘Didn’t agree with ‘im, of course. Now he’s back and they say

he’s in a residental ‘ome – one of these convent places – Little Sisters or

something.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ Rhys replied, that’s where Grandad was,’ and a lump rose in

his throat but he swigged it down quickly.

After that it was just him and Dando. His mind kept going back to Venice and to Rosa

and the night he had first met her at the University disco, wearing some fantastic

green concoction. Oh, Rosie! He wondered if the lagoon was still that wonderful

aquamarine colour and if the moon was sitting on the edge of it, like a silver

grapefruit.

*Thelma Laycock is a poet and lives in Leeds. Her new collection, A Persistence of

Colour (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2011) is just out. She doesn't write many stories.


Sunday, September 4

Liz Loxley's 'Cuckoo Sister' by Helen Ivory on Sun 04 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Cuckoo Sister

Your mother named you Denise Florence:

a pencil shavings, navy knickers, inky fingered name.

I bounce the syllables on my tongue: they taste

of sherbet lemon; I roll them between my fingertips:

the grit of salt and vinegar crisps pricks my paper cuts.

Our mother called you Catherine Francesca:

a dulcimer playing, Titian beauty, satin ballgown name.

Like a bridemaid’s dress that cuts into your armpits,

it never quite fitted.

The tightrope between your names stretches taut

as a cheese wire. I have watched you wobble, tumble,

then climb, remount.

Oh, my sister, let me bind your wounded feet.

*Liz Loxley lives in Flintshire. Her poems have been anthologised by publishers

including Faber, Penguin and Oxford University Press, have appeared in various poetry

magazines and have been studied by school students. Liz is now studying for an MA in



Creative Writing (Poetry) at Manchester Metropolitan University.


Saturday, September 3

Morgan Shnier's 'Cracking Voice' by Helen Ivory on Sat 03 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

cracking voice

i lied to my friends

to borrow the money

but i think it was worth it

so i could hire the contractors

and seamstresses necessary

to shorten my pants and shirtsleeves

a centimeter at a time

and sand the rims

of my drinking glasses

and sides of my toilet bowl

overnight

so i can at least pretend

that i'm growing too big

for this all.

*Morgan Shnier is a poetry student at the University of Arizona. He is a big fan,

conceptually, of dogs. Several of his poems will be in the October/November 2011

issue of Milk Sugar.


Friday, September 2

'Helen Of Troy Takes A Citizenship Test' by Sarah Crewe by Helen Ivory on Fri 02 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

Helen Of Troy Takes A Citizenship Test

Tired of being Princess

And stunned to read prophecies

Of dumping your kids for the Eiffel boy

You flee and fumble for passport stamp

To world of woman warrior

You hope a brother in Brazil

And legs that last for days

Will help your case at border control

Just swerve that blue bump of yours

Away from Amazon Airport Detect

and eject male body scanner

A trace of testosterone

And you'll be shipped straight home

To infinite boredom

Cold coffee with Penelope

A list of shallow suitors

Christ, big boys with boats

Never sounded so dull

You falter from fear to fierce



Unknown forest of redbush

And newfound double Ds await you

Did you know your new race

Is both fetish and feminist?

You may be conscripted

But beats being kidnapped

By a son of the sea

Playing out your days

As deity dinner lady

Rinse your hair in the river,

But keep those long limbs of yours

Safe from piranhas.

Did i say piranha?

I meant anthropologist.

Did i say anthropologist?

I meant obstetrician.

*Sarah Crewe: I was born in 1981 in Liverpool. You can hear both sides of the River

Mersey in my voice. I wish i was in The Fall.


Thursday, September 1

Clare Crossman's 'Flower Festival' by Helen Ivory on Thu 01 Sep 2011 12:00 BST

The Flower Festival

When everything is gathered in as for an ark

or the Last Day, I hope there’ll be a place like

this: where cultivars lean against wild flowers

and Sweet William is arranged among green leaves.

That red Pillar roses will climb in shade

through, oxeye, sorrel, yellow spikes of grass

and there are five pink sweet peas and two

deep blue delphiniums in a jug.

That I will know as second nature, Ladies Mantle,

Yarrow, Elder, Poppy, the gardens where

they grew, the hands that planted them,

the faces who waited to walk there on warm afternoons.

Perhaps the air will be spun with mint, lavender

and blossom. All the agrimony remedies from

Culpepper’s book, as healing against serpents,

temper. and augues. There may be no need for names:

as each petal frond and stem will hold a memory

of somewhere loved, fields and verges known

since childhood, a wedding dance, winter goodbyes,

the burn of autumn, a meadow in spring.

And so collected, on cool sills, in vases

and old jars this heavy headed lilt of summer,

will be proclaiming laughter, our voices



and these words:

‘This is the ribbon of how we spent our days.

This was beauty. This was good.

This was grace.’

*Clare Crossman has just finshed being writer in residence on Heritage Lottery finded

Sharing Stories project in the village of Weston Colville.(Cambs) In March 2010 The

Shape of Us was published by Shoestring Press Nottingham.She runs a writers workshop

at The Tavern Gallery Meldreth and is working on a new collection.


Wednesday, August 31

Chris Emery's 'Snails' by Helen Ivory on Wed 31 Aug 2011 12:00 BST

Snails

are death’s pale eccentrics, the poets of disgust, they

bring their great sadness to the shelves, to the world.

They are the lethargy every husband chews on in his sleep, biting his cheeks.

You can fit one thousand of their tiny mouths beneath your eyelid.

They spend the bloodless night mouthing the word “oracle”

beside the fuming pumps. The outlets gargle around their grey supper.

Why are they all called Tony or Erasmus or King Nacre?

Tonight they will extinguish all the red dresses of the world,

then weigh out all the bones of the ear

and pile them into wigwams in the wet dirt of the village.

They keep trying to form this mighty ending

that shimmers grey and frazzled above the velvet seats

of the cinemas in all the gardens; except they never end.

They are slowly weighing up the cruises of the children now.

Their appearance is like a secret circus act that doesn’t stop.

They break into all the graves beneath the peonies and salsify.

Tonight we will pile them, pile everything of them

into the whorl of a bucket and then we will fill it

to the top with the forest of tears and let the silence do its work.

*Chris Emery lives in Cromer with his wife and children. He is studying Creative

Writing at UEA and is a director of Salt, an independent literary press. His work was

anthologised in Identity Parade: New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010).




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