Six great writers; six superb, vivid, sensory, compelling poems. Which will you choose as your September 2024 Pick of the Month?
- Roger Allen, ‘After You Have Gone’, a poem for the senses, one that brings with it an atmosphere of peace and quiet
- Ruth Aylett, ‘Seven Days’: hilarious until it’s not – funny and eerie
- Carole Bromley, ‘The Last Person on Earth’: matter-of-fact, honest, about regretted moments remembered in the middle of the night
- CS Crowe, ‘Lines’, a wonderfully surreal, contradictory prose poem that enthralls
- Eliot North, ‘Homunculus’, exploding with colour and emotion – this poem is larger than life
- Laura Webb,‘Tour of the Excavation’: feels like reaching through deep time – sensitive and creative use of existing text
All six of the shortlist have been chosen by Helen, Kate and Sofía or received the most attention on social media. They can be found below. (Please scroll down.)
Please VOTE HERE: Voting will close at 6pm on Wednesday 23rd October.
Our ‘prize’ is £20 towards the charity of your choice or an emailed National Book Token giftcard*.
*Book tokens can only be used within the UK. Sadly, we are unable to find suitable cost-effective alternatives outside the UK.
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THE SEPTEMBER 2024 SHORTLIST
After You Have Gone
Morning moves with tempered sound.
A heel turns by the green gate.
The alley setts rest in purple curves.
Some night seems to have been left here.
Pots of sweet herbs are placed
to fill the yard with subtle scent.
Somewhere a call comes, an unseen voice
waiting for the sound of a reply,
finishing its note on an echo.
There is small table with an open book
making a diamond shape in bright sunlight.
On a page a photograph of this scene
flicks in the eleven o’clock air;
the only movement in a solitary place.
•
God had been playing computer games
for a chunk of eternity when he became aware
he’d left creation in the oven for a long time
forgotten to check what was going on in there.
And that smell of burning was no coincidence
he saw when he opened the door
inside it was far too hot
some of the ingredients were out of control.
Black smoke billowed into heaven
various singing angels started to cough
creation had failed to rise, had burned,
it seemed like only humanity was left
of all the complexity he had crafted.
God was not at all chuffed
and when he examined the whole mess
he could see it was completely fucked.
So god cleared his throat,
and in his terrible voice spoke.
Let there be no light
Ruth Aylett teaches and researches robotics in Edinburgh and has been known to read poems with a robot. Her pamphlets Pretty in Pink (4Word) and Queen of Infinite Space (Maytree) were published in 2021. For more see https://ruthaylett.org
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The Last Person on Earth
I don’t know why I went,
I’d already heard about the time
a colleague’s husband turned up
at the staff barbecue and punched him.
We met at The Prince of Wales
but he refused to go in because
a sixth former was working at the bar
so he insisted I got in his car.
I said I’ve got nothing to hide.
We drove to The Black Bull
and talked over a pint.
On the way back to my car
he pulled over in Windmill Lane
and tried to kiss me. I ducked.
I remember his after shave,
how I couldn’t wash it off.
Back at school I sent a pupil
to fetch the TV we shared.
He came back, puzzled, and said
Mr C says he wouldn’t lend it to you
if you were the last person on Earth.
Carole Bromley writes for both adults and children. Winner of a number of prizes including The Bridport, Hamish Canham Award and The Caterpillar Prize. Twitter @CaroleBromley1 website www.carolebromleypoetry.co.uk
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Lines
He lived next to the funeral home with his three daughters. A cherry picker beeps in the distance. I cannot see it, but I know the light is red. Who brings roses to a funeral? Rain rolls down window glass, but not here, only somewhere in the metaphorical distance. Someone hands me a fifty-cent mint. It sits in the bottom of my pocket.
One of his daughters loved horses, but she worked as a nurse in the city. These two trees hang too far over the highway. They must be cut down. Thunder deafens us. Lightning blinds us. Why does the rain soothe us? This is an example of life being unfair. I have a pocket full of them. I have never touched a horse with anything but my eyes.
One of his daughters cried whenever she looked in the mirror, but the power was out. We eat dinner in the dark, and we do not talk about our day. The closed casket smells of flowers and something burning. My stomach rumbles; I have not eaten today. Someone glares at me. An old woman tells me that’s what the mint is for. Have some respect.
One of his daughters was still his only son. A storm is coming, but he will not be here to see it. A line of cherry pickers park in front of the funeral home. His daughter twists a bottle of water in her hands. The cap goes flying.
Maybe these are all the same daughter. Maybe these are all the same storm, coming and going with the wind. One by one, the cherry pickers follow the hearse to the graveyard. Despite our best efforts, it is not going to rain at his funeral. He had repaired that power line a hundred times. The power had always been cut.
At the empty funeral home, a cherry picker beeps in the distance. A pile of fallen limbs on the street corner gathered one by one, still damp with the rain. I have always wondered where the city takes them.
CS Crowe is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.
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Homunculus
Explaining to my little man
about proportion,
he responds with feeling:
a picture of daddy
with thousands of fingers.
Sensory and motor cortex
guiding the felt-tip pen,
big tongue lolling as he draws.
A little man with huge hands,
fingers like eyelashes.
My son looks over, all coy,
mini version of his father.
Flash in time, distance,
proportionality: three
purple artichoke flowers
held in one giant hand.
Oranges and almonds,
painted pigeons on the wing.
The sun’s eye ablaze behind
Green Horse Mountain.
Breath held, he waits,
heart a flutter of bat wings,
rising wall of sound:
frogs raucous in the Riu Girona.
Crush of water mint,
my lips press to a smile.
Picture of worship, I kneel,
At his too small feet.
Eliot North is a writer-doctor living in Valencian Country, Spain. They have been published in print and on-line for their poetry/prose/hybrid work… but not for AGES! Long story, but they are back writing after a hiatus and sometimes go on the site formally known as Twitter @eliot_north www.dreleanorholmes.com
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Tour of the Excavation
Collaged from text in the ‘Ice Age to Iron Age’ gallery at the Great North Museum, Newcastle, UK
The enigma is why this civilisation became extinct at the same time as a peak in carbon 14, which is a natural element, but in an unusual arrangement. More than 100 ideas have been put forward, including warfare, ritual activity, and technology which aimed to capture carbon or shape the landscape. Some even imagine that people left for a nomadic existence as hunter-gatherers.
There is very little surviving evidence. Settlements were submerged by rising sea levels; metal and bones are rarely found due to the acidity of the local soils.
We know that these people had a concept of history: our excavations discovered a house built for collecting and recording the past. This is a rubbing stone, used with a flint to light fire. How do you feel when you handle it?
They also created art. Stone surfaces, carved with abstract imagery, can be found throughout this site. The meanings of these symbols are lost to us today, yet they clearly held significance for their creators. Look at the different patterns: the simplicity of the spirals, the distinctive leaf-shaped designs. Trace them with your finger.
This is a battle axe made from granite. It is likely that fighting sometimes scoured the surface of the land. But burial monuments suggest that people had a belief in the afterlife and higher power.
Here is the most important find. Pollen is a virtually indestructible, microscopic part of a plant. It’s being used in a research project, to create seeds. Experiments show that these vast, treeless plains could easily be transformed.
Both tools and pollen being deposited in one place provides evidence that, even as technology became increasingly sophisticated, people still honoured a relationship with the land.
Look through the viewers to see what a grain of pollen looks like. Here, please touch. Thousands could fit into the palm of your hand.
Laura Webb (she/they) is a junior doctor whose writing explores themes of illness and healing, working-class history and the climate crisis. She co-edits Consilience, a journal for art and poetry about science. Instagram: @laurawebbpoetry