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).
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
Hongwei Bao
Every five minutes it does its job,
hoovers every inch of her memory,
declutters all pains and sorrows.
Gary Day
And once the father frowned
As the boy struggled to fasten
The drawbridge on his fort.
‘He’ll never be any good
With his hands’ he declared,
As if the boy wasn’t there.
Royal Rhodes
Perhaps the friends of Lazarus, who died
and slipped his shroud, on seeing him might swoon
or rush to hear the tales of that beyond
they hoped and feared to face.
Dmitry Blizniuk for World Poetry Day
God in his worn, greasy jeans like a car mechanic
is lighting a new life from an old one.
Jeff Skinner
It takes ages. Tell me what it is you’re after
she says, when finally I get through.
Annabelle Markwick-Staff
I devoured the Olympics, filled my mouth
and scrapbook with sticky ephemera.
Charles G. Lauder
beneath night’s skin he unearths raw stones
serrated encrusted enigmatic cold
Arlo Kean
we are at a cafe just round
the corner from hampstead
heath & sipping berry sunrise