Left Luggage Office at the European Border
So! How may I help you, dear?
Your little life has gone missing?
Oh my!
You will need to fill in a reclamation form.
Was it a) misplaced b) forgotten c) left behind d) stolen, e) abandoned?
Try to remember, dear.
Concentrate.
When did you last see your little life?
Was it brimming with a) youth, b) years,
c) thoughts expanding like smiles?
Or none or all of the above?
Where were you when it went missing, dear?
Try to remember exactly.
Was it before the difficulties came?
Or after?
Or during?
Describe its purpose and meaning in ten words or less.
We need to know a) the color, b) the size, c) why.
Who else was present, dear?
Do you have proof of that?
I wish you would be just a little more cooperative.
Perhaps you never had a little life.
Not everyone does, you know.
You’d be surprised to learn
how many come here looking for lives they never had.
So!
I’m afraid I can’t help you, dear.
Next, please.
Janice D. Soderling‘s poetry, fiction and translations are found in such journals as Wasafiri, Light, Modern Poetry in Translation, The Ghazal Page. Her work is included in four new or forthcoming anthologies.
Birds I have known
Patrolling pigeons, initial links to an outside world,
welcome me to the first dawn of my three-year prison term
this harsh reality of nature calls its greetings to a sleepless RB8466,
airborne, scavenging rats comfortable with their place in the natural world.
Their inclusive curiosity allows interaction with nature,
their calls for attention drown the sound of the falling young man
this harsh reality of prison debt calls its warnings to a wakeful RB8466
threatening, scavenging rats comfortable with their place in the prison world.
After a few weeks a transfer to Open Prison beckons, another
sweatbox ride to a strange destination, daffodils spotted through
darkened windows. On arrival light of day dazzles a wondering RB8466
unusual conditions as I feel more comfortable with my place in the prison world.
Amidst a forest setting, watching buzzards climbing, soaring,
seemingly floating as they catch the thermals, they are free to decide.
I am also able to flee if I wish but now freedom is a threat to a scared RB8466
comfortable and secure, scavenging existence with my place in the prison world.
Here I achieve purpose, I plan, work, play, study, make friends
enjoy Thursday afternoon walks, anticipate spotting a magnificent
large buzzard nest, accumulate experiences, become a positive RB8466
scavenging comfort, security, free, respectful of my place in the prison world.
Andrew C Brown is an ex-prisoner, recovering addict and a winner of a Koerstler Award and a community regeneration award. He performs spoken word as ‘The Grandad from Knowle West’. He has been published on three continents.
Freedom of the Season
One morning unexpectedly
your senses return to you,
dullness done with,
ears freed of caustic mud,
touch loose and working,
taste a trigger
and smell like a shotgun
blasting obstruction.
You’re cleared to see reality
and through it to phantoms
planted on the ocean,
the liner striding past you,
four raked smokestacks
superstructure gleaming,
boiler room blackening.
Perhaps Autumn bonfires
have burnt away the fences
that pegged you to the present;
this season sets you closer
to a panoramic window
before the first
sudden splinter of frost.
Roy Moller‘s work features in the anthologies The Sea (Rebel Poetry) and Neu! Reekie! UntitledTwo.
His recordings include My Week Beats Your Year, described by Louder Than War as “profoundly moving and inspirational”. www.roymoller.com