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What would your soul look like? by Valerie Lynch

What would your soul look like?


They stand by the water’s edge,

repeated below


If that were your soul, he asks,

how would it look to you?


hunched and yellow, she whispers.


Compressed by the weight of a hump

and battered by fists of wind.


She breathes, and goes on.

Inside this soul is something more.


A woman who triumphs,

and laughs.


Valerie Lynch is an Oxford – educated Guildford- based writer.  This poem is taken from her new collection So the Sky.



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To a Lady who said it was sinful to read novels by Christian Milne

To love these books, and harmless tea,
Has always been my foible,
Yet will I ne’er forgetful be
To read my Psalms and Bible.
Travels I like, and history too,
Or entertaining fiction;
Novels and plays I’d have a few, shock
If sense and proper diction.
I love a natural harmless song,
But I cannot sing like Handel;
Deprived of such resource, the tongue
Is sure employed — in scandal.
by Christian Milne.  
Milne’s sole volume of poetry was her collection, Simple Poems on Simple Subjects, published in Aberdeen 1805.  
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Instructions for Not Becoming a Werewolf by Abigail Parry

Instructions for Not Becoming a Werewolf

You feel it first
as an itch in the teeth, a gnarl
of nerves coiled too tight.
Some taut aperture sliding open
between the heart and gut.
Precautions must be taken.

Do not enjoy too much
the quick grey jolt of hare, the split-crate thrill
of punctured appleskin.
High lonely places, wind,
the supple creak
of oiled leather. Woods

are of course best avoided.
Copses, spinneys, anywhere,
in fact, where the strong-sweet bulk of horse chestnut
crowds too close, where you can raise
the wet note of fresh-churned earth
by digging in the nails. Rivers

are not to be trusted. They know too much.
They nuzzle the base of cliffs and snout
at kitchen doors. They learn
from the granite of the hills, the pulp
of slick black roots and lovely braids
unwinding in the weeds. The moon

may be looked at in moderation.
But don’t let it give you any ideas.


To read the full poem click here




Posted in #twistedread, poetry for a change, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Change by Trevor Dunford



My life has been so full of change

Once fresh young but now tired old

But just the run of usual range

Is what I’m often told.


But change is such a freakish thing

To surprise us through the years

Both joy and sadness us to bring

Bright laughter and sad tears.


And politics can’t be let off light

Promised change their slogans aim

They’ll deceive as much they might

When empowered, then ends the claim.


But it’s our votes they want from us

They’d sell their souls for that

I’m tired of this deceitful fuss

They bring no change just same old tat.


Pay up we’re asked for our taxes go

To improve the lives of sick and poor

The cost increases with nought to show

So where have I heard that before?


But now I sound a grumpy old

Too much time has passed me by

To change from failure we must be bold

Ignore distorted truth, the lie.


When the children were so small

Spoon fed and nappy change

Now they’ve grown up strong and tall

Was this my past? How strange.



Passing years have imposed change

From a life of toil and worry

Now I in reflective age arrange

To wave goodbye to hurry.

When I think of ancient history

All the changes I could name

Shrouded not at all in mystery

Much has changed, but we’re the same.

For we are constant as I recall

We still endure same hopes and fears

It’s those things that surround us all

That’s changed down through the years.

For that which so vexed Pericles

Changes not to taunt us here

We live with that which failed to please

The same old worries we always fear.

We’ve changed from swords to rifles aim

To warring the hapless minions

Thousands in the past were slain

But now it’s blooming millions.

Our hero soldiers’ bodies wrecked

How they come back from that?

All deserve our love, respect

Through pain and change, we get them back.

But change for better is quite rare

As I ever onward grope

To change the future from despair

For a brighter world of hope.




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Forgetfulness by Trevor Dunford



I know what Dulce et Decorum est means

And how long to cook fresh picked green beans,

I remember the name of Wellington’s horse

And all the Laws of Newtonian Force,

Last year is the subject of clear reflection

But yesterday is but a vague distraction

I sometimes remember what thought I forgot

So that which is gone is not always lost

For this and that, I’ve picked up on my way

How much is forgotten, I’ve forgotten to say

But every adventure on which to embark

Do as well as you can, and leave a clear mark

Strive for goodness with every endeavour

You may forget, but others remember,

When the dulling brain serves no longer true

Reducing much I know, to little once I knew,

That was once clear is now shades of grey

Dullness of thought does my memory betray,

Is my mind fading or still am I bright?

I cannot decide, but think I’m alright,

The ferryman’s coming and with a small light

So in long life’s decline, a focus is shone

But when in old age my memory has gone

Will I remember the dark side has won?

I cannot claim to look forward with glee

But hope that my mind does not die before me,

Forgetfulness destined for time honoured age

And never reversed so it’s pointless to rage

But passing through the confusion of age

And hopeful for peace, and painlessly fade

So this is the plan, the futures well laid

From a full life of toil, the ferryman’s paid.


by Trevor Dunford,  September 2018



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Dream by Anna Banasiak


white horses jumped
from the black thoughts
in the open window
they rush play
grow in a dream
sharp words
fall into memory
outside the existence

white horses
in infinity

You can find poems by Anna Banasiak by clicking here


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Deckard was a Replicant by Clive James


Deckard Was A Replicant

The forms of nature cufflinked through your life
Bring a sense of what Americans call closure.
The full-blown iris swims in English air
Like the wreckage of an airbag jellyfish
Rinsed by a wave’s thin edge at Tamarama:
The same frail blue, the same exhausted sprawl,
The same splendour. Nothing but the poison
Is taken out. In the gallery, that girl
Has the beauty that once gave itself to you
To be turned into marriage, children, houses.
She will give these things to someone else this time.
If this time seems the same time, it’s because
It is. The reason she is not for you
Is she already was. Try to remember

To read the full poem click here

To view copies of, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? click here Blade Runner DVDs are also available to hire.

Posted in #reelread, James, Clive, Uncategorized | 1 Comment