an itch of compassion

the pad of your index finger

has wee hooks

like a spider’s foot

you climb up my chin

grip the edge of my lower lip

and meticulously pull it down

exposing my lower teeth

Marisa Cappetta

and in the centre ring

I take you to be my precarious husband

we’re orphans adopting each other

stretching muscles before we climb

the ladder to the high wire

with a toe-hold on our home

you feint to the left the crowd gasps

and throws particles of our children

like applause like flowers

Marisa Cappetta

Autumn

Cold flatlight morning

the chill slipping under the door

like a furtive thief

greyblade steel threatening to slice her

She is not scared.

She lies, warm and round in her bed

her nipples erect in languid defiance

and laughs

Why would she

defend against the inevitable?

The fruits of summer are all about her:

Apples, ripe figs, sturdy children, lovers, pumpkins

She can build bonfires

and dance, whirling dervish

in seven shades of red

or mimic the stillness of snow

her rebellious collusion

once Autumn’s insistence begets Winter

Nickei  Falconer

After the funeral

 

After the funeral:

- When the funeral is over?

- After we have buried him?

 

We walk across the grass.

We walk across the grass leaving

footprints in the dew.

 

Footprints in the dew

how is this possible?

In God’s name

how is this possible?

 

With him forever.

And now, forever

footprints forever.

 

Looking back across the grass

the warmth of the day

losing us all, forever

Sean Joyce

 

Aftershock

The dairy down the street is fenced off

behind those broken bits of parapet

and the roughly patched-up awning

a man is sitting with the lights on.

 

When I go past on my way home

there is still no way in but the man

still sits there with the door open

and the lights on, playing his violin.

 

I want to take a photograph but

he looks out and sees me looking.

This is such a private moment

it seems best to smile and cycle on.

Sean Joyce

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shakti/Diwali

Six women filled the room

Several continents

One colour

Laughter chasing

a small child

Found in hide and seek

Terrors for a moment shut firmly outside the door

Cold sinister shadow fingers uninvited in the hall

Momentarily displaced

She danced, this maharani,

Hands winding in on each other,

Belly sensuously curling in and out

A remnant of spirit unharmed

Weaving saffron in fine threads through the room

She danced

for Saraswati, for Lakshmi,for Kali

for Rama and Sita

diyas lighting the way

Japanese South Polar Expedition, 1910- 1912, A Silent Movie

A young Lieutenant Nobu Shirase
unflinchingly faces the camera,
then an old man in a kimono
and a bowler hat smiles
as he turns and walks away.

Black rowing boats move swiftly across white waves
disgorge men, dogs and sleds for the dash patrol.
Emperor Penguins sway together, their long necks
twist like snakes. In the grainy flicker of time
it is another galaxy, another planet, one of them
turns his back, burdened with despair.

Men in black torment the long bodied birds
herding them, bewildered, to and fro across the ice.
Slap them till they fall.
Kick them, grab them by their heads.

One by one men face the camera
followed by white lines of Japanese characters.
They pose briefly, smoke a pipe, smile shyly, look left and right,
some salute, some stare straight ahead,
some adjust their hat in profile.

The laden Kainan Maru  heaves to,
phosphorescent icebergs rise through the ships rigging,
like mountains, like temples.
Men stand and raise their mugs three times
shouting a silent Banzai !

The great seal is chased through a glimmering distance,
it looks back, sadly, into the future.
Nobu Shirase you will die old and alone
in a rented room above a fish shop.
No one will know who you were.
But you and I will flicker for 36 minutes over and over
in a memory room in a lonely corner of a foreign museum.

Through the speckled screen a marching band appears,
stunned faces of exhausted explorers, crowds, children,
swathes of Japanese lanterns in the air,
flags erupt in the wind and sled dogs trained by the men
from Hokkaido, swirl and swirl
looking for the end of their leashes.

Victoria Broome

Spider’s Web

The division of chores is a sore point
a bone picked at, shards of bitterness
slice the domestic air.
Women’s work he snarls as duty-bound
and fearing reprisal, he hangs out
the washing, gripping the luminous
pink  plastic pegs in his teeth.
A spider’s web, glistening in the
morning dew forms a gossamer
curtain through which her bikini
briefs sparkle. He strokes the  white lace,
allows a tender smile at their absurdity.

Annie Orre

Shadow Girl

I am loneliness
Measured in stars
I am the whole night sky
I am loneliness
An empty hallway
With wide yawning doors.
I am loneliness
The black shadow cowering
Behind dancing red flames.
I am loneliness
But the day you left
I cleaned my windows
So I could see the world again.

Emma Currie

Yesterday’s News

A.S.Byatt lost her son age eleven
a space in the bed
a child lost she said
always stays with you
footprints unseen/unheard

yesterday Laura lost her toe of eleven years
a space in the bed barely missed
until the black tar seeps out from under the asphalt

a foot runs across the sand
popping balls of golden heat
grains rub against burnt skin
feel it with your other toes Laura
feel it with your other toes

Karen Duncan