<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Old East German Man<\/b><\/p>\n
In the basement of our apartment,
\nan old man slowly decants rubbish bags
\ninto recycling bins. He shuffles back
\nto the elevator, right foot sloping
\nin that italicized signature of a stroke.
\nI peer down at his bald, blotchy
\nhead and hearing aid. I guess, 70,
\nimagine him wailing his first breath
\nas the fire bombing gulped Dresden
\nDays later he\u2019s playing in the rubble,
\nkicking dusty bricks as footballs.
\nBecoming a man in a grown-up
\nsecret police state, separation
\nshaped as Socialism. Then confused
\nby that blundered fall of the Wall,
\nwondering what comes next: bright
\nadverts, too much choice, smart
\nphones and young people identical
\nto the children of those he was once
\ndivided from. Now he ambles out
\nof the elevator, mumbling thanks
\nto me, an English immigrant, grandson
\nof a man who aimed a tank\u2019s turret
\nat his father or uncle, Germany.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Matthew James Friday<\/b> has had poems published in numerous international magazines and journals, including, recently: The Brasilia Review (Brazil), Dawntreader (UK), Ginosko (USA), New Contrast (South Africa) and Poetry Salzburg (Austria).\u00a0The mini-chapbooks All the Ways to Love <\/i>and Waters of Oregon <\/i>were published by the Origami Poems Project (USA).<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sweet Autumn<\/strong><\/p>\n And years later, you at the bus stop. Sweetheart. The years threaded up on clumsy tongues, the moonbows, in the deafening dawn. Oh day, Stop. Darling, how we used to crease we were here, my heart in your hands, I walked away. Like this. Yes.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Laura Potts<\/strong>, twice-recipient of the Foyle Young Poets Award, became one of the BBC’s New Voices last year.\u00a0She was\u00a0also listed in The\u00a0Oxford Brookes Poetry Prize and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She received a commendation from The Poetry Society in 2018.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n On becoming a bee<\/strong><\/p>\n Choosing when was difficult. What time of year? Honey-scented?\u00a0 I\u2019m over romanticising.\u00a0 It\u2019ll be clustered Spring to summer might be best, a six-week stretch, My children wanted to know \u2013 Why? I tell my children I have to work my way up before I get outside. \u201cYou\u2019re old enough to do it for yourselves.\u201d God only knows they\u2019ve seen the worst of me already and besides Will it hurt?\u00a0 What will happen?\u00a0 What will you do? \u201cWhen I do get out…\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll look for us?\u201d \u201cOh…I\u2019ll have to learn to shit mid-air.\u00a0 They both thought this funny So the day came.\u00a0 We went into the garden.\u00a0 Yes, the sun was out, \u201cHere\u2019s where I turn myself inside-out.\u201d A dandelion clock rolls between us. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jenny Hope<\/strong> is a writer, poet and workshop facilitator.\u00a0 She lives on top of a hill in wildish-Worcestershire.\u00a0 Her websites are www.jennyhope.co.uk<\/a> and www.poetrymaker.co.uk<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Old East German Man In the basement of our apartment, an old man slowly decants rubbish bags into recycling bins. He shuffles back to the elevator, right foot sloping in that italicized signature of a stroke. I peer down at his bald, blotchy head and hearing aid. I guess, 70, imagine him […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17513","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17513","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17513"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17513\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17518,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17513\/revisions\/17518"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17513"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17513"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17513"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nYesterday’s leaves in your hair.
\nThe seat where we laughed.
\nOur words in the air.<\/p>\n
\nour names scratched on the glass.
\nRain argued away the grass-stained
\nfingerprints, the love turned over<\/p>\n
\nthe flimsy suns. My skin soft-tossed
\nin sheets, hard-kissed. The taste
\nof your words. The clench of my fist<\/p>\n
\nwhen the pavement rolled beneath
\nour feet. Bubblegum from the shop.
\nMy Monet mouth, your Friday chips –<\/p>\n
\nat the waist. Pink and white laughter
\npoured from our lips. And when I meet
\nyou at the curb of my sleep it is when<\/p>\n
\nyour hands on my dress. They said you
\nspilt your filth down telephone wires.
\nCheap love. Sex. I wouldn’t know.<\/p>\n
\nWinter could get me five months or so, if you were lucky enough
\nto make the cut, to be spent mostly in the hive.\u00a0 Bee Hygge?<\/p>\n
\ntogether for warmth.\u00a0 And besides, these bees aren\u2019t Danish.<\/p>\n
\nbut I\u2019ll pray for decent weather.\u00a0 I\u2019m reliably informed
\nI can go in at cleaner level \u2013 (accreditation for prior learning they called it).<\/p>\n
\nChildren always do \u2013 especially when full-grown.
\nWhy? Because my job here\u2019s done.\u00a0 You don\u2019t need me now.<\/p>\n
\nCleaning, nursing, building, guarding \u2013 \u201cOh you\u2019ve done all that already.\u201d
\nI know, (but marvel how they do actually remember this)<\/p>\n
\nThey\u2019re not impressed.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019ll always be your mother…\u201d
\nOf course I\u2019d let them watch the process of me becoming bee.<\/p>\n
\nthey need the closure.<\/p>\n
\nThey\u2019re still asking the \u201cwhy?\u201d My heart buzzes.
\nThey look unsure.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes…\u201d they\u2019re happier now.\u00a0 \u201cWhat else will you do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\nespecially when I told them I\u2019d get on-the-job training.<\/p>\n
\na warm mid-spring day.\u00a0 I wouldn\u2019t see the sun for a while.<\/p>\n
\nI pause for effect, and to lighten the moment.
\n\u201c and I officially become hard-arsed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMum…\u201d\u00a0 My daughter\u2019s hand holds mine.
\nMy son catches the clock.<\/p>\n