Today’s choice
Previous poems
Antony Owen and Martin Figura on Remembrance Day
Death of an autistic war child
I was born on the sleeves of an immigrant
father whispered God into my ear
My tears were folded in muslin
Stars stayed in drone-moan sky
I was a difficult birth early as the Thrush
Freckled as the bullet ridden minarets
Always crying at the call to prayer
God, it seemed wanted me back.
I died on the palms of my ululating mother
My father wants to fold me in muslin
Whisper some kind of God into me
Summoning a mythical paradise.
Antony Owen is writer from Coventry who is sick and tired of conflict. Post-Atomic Glossaries: New and Selected Poems is published by Broken Sleep Books.
Sacrifice
after Genesis 22.2: Then God said, “Take your son, your only son,
whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah.
Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you”.
Let fathers bind their sons
to altars, so the wind
might winnow the chaff.
Let a million feet
trample out
a threshing floor.
Let the harvest moon
light the hunter’s path.
Let the guns begin again.
Let the earth feed
on bone-meal and rain,
let fire do its work.
*
The ground marks digging men
with chalk, the Somme moves gentle
and slow. Primroses litter No-Man’s Land,
broken trees sprout green buds
and men clamber into the uproar
of a summer morning.
Some drown in fire, some lie close
with the earth and feel it quake, of those
some blacken into filth, some crawl,
try out sound and scavenge words.
In the quiet that follows
starlings cloak the shifted sky.
*
I am wire tangled into
the approximate shape of a man
in a fireside chair. At dawn
rain broke heavy along the valley,
sent sheep bleating to the trees.
If I dream gas as wood-smoke
it isn’t so harsh on the throat.
By chapel time, sun spilt
through clouds blinding the road.
I am waiting for the mud
on my boots to dry.
When still I hear the choir.
Martin Figura left school at 15 and joined the Army from a care background. He has published numerous collections. This poem formed part of sequence commissioned and published on-line as Maps by The Soldiers’ Charity in 2020. The commission included interviewing veterans with PTSD. Some of those poems appear in his most recent collection The Remaining Men (Cinnamon Press).
Philip Dunkerley
We leave early, drive for two and a half hours,
park, find the church where you were married.
Marc Janssen
The sky opens
Blinking its single slackened eye.
Sigune Schnabel tr. Simon Lèbe
She cut letters out of me,
which quietly and unnoticed
danced red poems.
Pat Edwards
He is in white-out, stopped in his tracks,
dying for the comfort of a fag.
He makes a chalice around the flame,
hands becoming shield so he can light up.
Pamilerin Jacob
Annette the gap-toothed,
You kissed a man & I was born. You gave him
your laughter & he built an empire,
Fatihah Quadri Eniola
There is an album of all the men
your mother have loved. It sits every
night in the deep silence of the
basement.
Nathan Evans
If they ask where I am, tell them: I am
wintering. I have secreted small acorns
of sadness in crevices of gnarled limbs
and shall be savouring their bitternesses
on the back of my tongue until the days
lengthen.
Jim Ferguson
we can travel anywhere
she winks, but let’s rest here
in amongst these words
a moment can take a while
Gabrielle Meadows
I am tearing the peel from an orange gently and somewhere
Far away a tree falls in a forest and we
don’t hear it but the ground does and the birds do
