We look forward to hearing from you.
OH, SATURDAY, SATURDAY NIGHT HERE I COME,
READY OR NOT, off TO DRINK
the TOWN dry, TWELVE O’CLOCK HEIGHT, its fighting,
time or Saturday night SCREAMING
THE BLOOD HELL OUT SOME
POOR SOUL, I can see
HIS FACE BLEEDING
all over MY cheap POSH SHIRT,
OH HERE COMES
MRS POLICE AND HIS QUIET WORDS, SMELL
down the STREET,
ITS other SATURDAY NIGHT drOWNING,
in of THE SMell OF THe BUILding
of the working class, FISH AND CHIPS SUCH
TANG, OH, SO Good, tHERE’S
A RED HAIR FLOATING
IN THE QUEUE, shOWING
OFF, EVER so PROVOCATIVE PERSONALITY, shine
THE BLOODY LIGHT ON HER dressing
SENSE, TOO provocative, TOO SEX, TOO, TOO,
OH, HELL WHO needs ANOther FIGHT,
TIME to FLAg
A BLACK DRAGON OF THE NIGHT, get
TO BED, AND DREAM OF THE RED HAIR OR,
OR just dream OF THE RAIN.
Bending above the spicy woods which blaze,
Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun
Immeasurably far; the waters run
Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways
With gold of elms and birches from the maze
Of forests. Chestnuts, clicking one by one,
Escape from satin burs; her fringes done,
The gentian spreads them out in sunny days,
And, like late revelers at dawn, the chance
Of one sweet, mad, last hour, all things assail,
And conquering, flush and spin; while, to enhance
The spell, by sunset door, wrapped in a veil
Of red and purple mists, the summer, pale,
Steals back alone for one more song and dance.
Slash of orange flame
sets the garden on its heels.
Autumn’s fire alarm.
Greg Freeman is a local poet, based in Surrey.
Gwyneth (secretary in the mayor’s office in Merthyr Tydfil at the time)
Around eleven we assembled in the chamber,
to be informed of the plans.
‘We’re setting up mortuaries,’ they said.
‘Wherever we can.’ We were stunned, numb.
But of course, had to carry on.
There was so much to be done.
At around four, the women,
as well as the men
were asked to go to Aberfan.
Once there, we gathered in a hall,
unsure what would happen.
But then John Beale, Director of Education,
he came in, school registers under his arm.
He wanted to account for the children
so began to read out their names.
But their sound on the air, what it conjured,
was too much for him. He broke down.
And anyway, nobody knew –
who had survived, and who had not.
So each of the women was given a street,
and told to go down it from door to door,
asking each family a single question
against the grain of natural law –
This is an excerpt taken from;
The Green Hollow available in Surrey Libraries
i went on the bus to Cordoba,
and tried to find the Moor’s
in their excavated floors
and mosaic courtyards,
with hanging flowers brightly chamelion
against whitewashed walls
behind gated iron bars-
but they were gone
leaving mosque arches
and carved stories
to God’s doors.
in those ancient streets
where everybody meets;
i saw the old successful men
with their younger women again,
sat in chrome slat chairs,
drinking coffee to cover
their vain love affairs-
and every breast,
was like the crest
of a soft ridge
as i peeped over
the castle wall and Roman bridge
like a Visigoth rover.
soft hand tapping on shoulder,
and beauty older,
the gypsy lady gave her clover
to borrowed breath,
embroidering it for death,
adding more to less
like the colours fading in her dress.
time and tune are too planned
her Trevi fountain of prediction,
or the dirty Bernini hand
shaping its description.
Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his fourth book Wooded Windows
in your hair
like emotional jewelery
bloom like flowers
in your hair
to your self
as to how
they got there
& to where
the other kisses
Dónall Dempsey is a poet based in Surrey
I used to think nurses Were women,
I used to think police
I used to think poets
Until I became one of them.
The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;
The cloud sheaves
in heaven’s fields set
droop and are drawn
in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face
falling – I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace
Heaven’s muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain
of tears, the store
in the sheaves of pain
caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain
now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
of all the pain
here to us given;
falling as rain.
‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their colour is a diabolic die.”
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Read the full poem here.