Today’s choice
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Day Seven of ‘Wonder’ for NPD: Helen Anderson, Sue Johns
I Wish This Phone Had a Better Camera
I need to show you these sunsets/
feisty last breaths/coral on flamingo/blood
yellow carcass/tiny theatre/blazing deaths/o soothing
apocalypse, haul my agitations on your olden back/blue borne/ shallow
purple/day vanquished/deft dip/off-black relief/pledged resurrection/
o so… very… pretty
Helen Anderson writes poetry and prose in a small town on the North Yorkshire coast. Her debut poetry pamphlet ‘Sagrada Familia’ was published by Nine Pens Press in 2022. www.facebook.com/
Written by Candlelight in March
When the light returns
I will remind the garden.
Along with the robins
who have cast off
their Christmas card coyness
to mate.
They’ll say and I’ll agree
that every worm-blind soul
must immerse themselves
in soil.
Embrace a pot plant
as worthy as an acre
pausing only for birdsong –
any bird
or in their absence
a child.
Sue Johns originates from Cornwall where she started performing as a punk poet, in the 1980’s. Publications include Hush (Morgan’s Eye Press, 2011) , Rented, Poems on Prostitution and Dependency (Palewell Press, 2018) and Track Record (Dempsey & Windle, 2021). She was highly commended in the Prole pamphlet and the Amnesty International competition. She has an MA (distinction) in Writing Poetry from Newcastle University/ The Poetry School.
Her work has appeared in anthologies such as can You Hear the People Sing (Palewell Press, 2020), Alter Egos (Bad Betty, 2019) Welling Up (Palewell Press, 2019) and Time for Song, Contemporary Cornish Poetry ( Morgan’s Eye Press, 2009), Ver Prize anthology, 2022 and magazines including Poetry News, The Morning Star, Southbank Poetry, Dreich, The Atlanta Review, Prole, The Alchemy Spoon, Brittle Star, The Big Issue, London Grip, Dream Catcher, Black Iris, Tears in the Fence, Orbis, Magma, Obsessed by Pipework and Culture Matters
@suejohns facebook
@johns_sue insta
Mark Czanik
I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.
Nigel King
My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.
Clare Bryden
seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear
hear
Gail Webb
He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.
Kim Cullen
I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair
Mark G. Pennington
Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets
Ivan McGuinness
Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge
Elizabeth Wilson Davies
There are places in Wales I don’t go: reservoirs that are the subconscious of a people – R S Thomas
Cofiwch Dryweryn, that two-word protest,
white on blood-red background, landscaped in green,
Kay Feneley
Some days I must immerse myself in the waters
These days are more than others
Monday 09.06 – a sewage overflow has activated