A True Version
honest to god
i can’t bear
to look at myself
in the mirror
i stalk her she’s my new poem in her fitted coat and high heels on the number 10 bus put bars on the lines
last night
i told him
Megan’s seeing
a married guy
in the morning she’ll wake to cadence and pauses rhythms of wingbeat flocking the page
that’s good
he says
if it
makes
her happy
she’ll soon forget her passionless marriage when i leave her here for others to find
then i say so you
don’t mind
if i start fucking
whoever?
let’s hope they bring food let’s trust they bring fresh hope that she isn’t alone in this fortress i’ve built her
that’s how low
we’ve sunk
rock
bottom
i hear calling in my sleep she wants to go home she wants her own grievance
i can’t
stand
to see
myself
these days
she wants the truth of her own shadow
Linda Rose Parkes lives in the Channel Islands and has published four collections, the latest, This Close, was launched last winter. She continues to run poetry workshops and is also a painter.
Confessional Poetry
So how long have you truly felt this way?
When we converse about your infancy
I have the sense there’s more you need to say.
Sadly I think you’re withholding on me.
It’s always the same. Novels say too much,
they go on and on, I can’t shut them up.
But you Poems? Always I’m left guessing.
You just smirk there. Hinting, half confessing.
Yeah, we both know you’ve done a little time;
you’ve stolen stuff to get yourself a ‘line’.
And this thing about being a sonnet
in a past life. Just grow up – be honest!
All poems can change – and that includes you.
Of course you must really, truly, want to…
Marc Woodward is a poet and musician living in the rural West Country.He has been widely published in journals, anthologies and online sites. His collections include A Fright of Jays available from Maquette Press (2015) and Hide Songs from Green Bottle Press (2018). www.marcwoodwardpoetry.blogspot.co.uk
What I have to Say
Can I tell you
before it’s tarnished?
Before the lichen crust
absolves me of need to share?
Well, listen:
this is a bud of a story,
a soft shoot, weepy-
green leaf of a dream;
it is all yours
if you hear
what I have to say
is blooming on my tongue.
It is rare,
it is syrup
in my pharynx.
As it spills,
I feel it leave
like a lover
with an eye on my heart;
with a tug
at the tears
held back
from my teens.
Can’t reign it in,
this runaway . . .
Catch.
K. S. Moore‘s poetry has recently appeared in New Welsh Review, Spontaneity, Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Stinging Fly and Southword. Work is upcoming in Other Terrain and Atlanta Review. Shortlists have included: Trim Poetry Competition and Americymru West Coast Eisteddfod Poetry Competition.