Round Robin
The north wind doth blow,
and we shall have snow,
and what will the Robin do then?
James played his first piano piece in public
In June we lost our much loved cat
David has done less flying this year
Poor Thing,
We finally carpeted all the upstairs
The social life here is absolutely wonderful
A plumber set fire to the back of the house
He’ll sit in a barn,
Karen graduated in September
Jamie is teaching English in a Tibetan Monastery in India
Flowers seem to have taken over my life
And keep himself warm,
The Cats have settled in well and the tortoise
We still walk beside the sea before breakfast
Raleigh was hit by the school bus
And hide his head under his wing,
Pam’s mum had a fall (which did prove fatal)
Phil is still busy teaching air warfare
I learnt a traditional method of Portuguese carpet making
Poor thing,
We crossed rivers endlessly on horseback
Eagles and Kites flying overhead
Sarah got another degree – her third
Poor Thing.
Anne Bailey, originally from Yorkshire is a poet living and writing in North Norfolk. She has had her work published in various journals.
Advent
These are the days of opening and offering morsels of chocolate or wise, kindly words,
of frost in the hedgerows and robins on a branch while the Bethlem boys beat the tar off each other over the saviour’s shoe size and the length of his beard,
religious men driven to madness or heading there on foot as Christ on a bicycle goes pedaling past.
These are the days of unvarnished truth told to your boss at the office party, of counting the days to your disciplinary hearing, the seasonal spirits claiming yet another lemming.
These are the days of “what the fuck was I thinking” of “FOMO made me do it Judge, I should have left at a respectable hour” of glitter, glitz and things that smell of coconut though not in a good way.
Of roaring fires and fuckwit fools doing the twelve pubs in shit shirts, festive hats and a lurking violence waiting to erupt like a stripper from a cake,
of “all you need is love” condoms and at least a basic understanding of what constitutes consent.
These are the days of memory loss and existential dread, of unexpected kindness from those you didn’t think capable though hostilities resume in January,
of those who are gone, revisiting for a moment to say “hello” or “I fucking told you so”
of broken sheds with yawing roofs where exhausted women and terrified kids
lie down in dirty straw to sleep.
Mick Corrigan’s debut collection, Deep Fried Unicorn, was released in to the wild in early 2015 by Rebel Poetry, Ireland. His poem, Snowbound was nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2018 by San Pedro Review, USA, his poem, If Harry Clarke made a stained-glass window for the Magdalene Women was nominated for a Forward Poetry Prize 2018 by Poetry Bus, Ireland. His second collection Life Coaching for Gargoyles will be launched, like a clown from a cannon, in early 2019.
We proffer milk to the holler-wool jaws
we proffer milk to the holler-wool jaws
from a glass gin bottle
to the gnash on teat
orphan-drawn in seconds
bulk-white in the darkness at the stone of the house
Words by Helen Pletts (www.helenpletts.com ) whose two collections, Bottle bank and For the chiding dove, are both published by YWO/Legend Press (supported by The Arts Council) and available on Amazon. ‘Bottle bank’ was longlisted for The Bridport Poetry Prize 2006, under Helen’s maiden name of Bannister. Working collaboratively on Word and Image with Romit Berger, illustrator, since 2012.
Image by Romit Berger who says “I am a graphic designer. I met my very dear friend, Helen Pletts, in Prague, several years ago. Helen’s inspiration has led my graphic design career into that magical realm which combines illustration and poetry, and our creative wings continue to connect our souls through time and distance.”