Today’s choice
Previous poems
Frank Phelan
Renegade Voices
I am most visceral
when being disarmed
by a song, a lyric
written and sung…
in the broad New Yawk vowels
of Dean Friedman.
The scowl of Dylan.
The scat and growl
of George Ivan.
Matthew Devereux’s demonic staccato.
Pierce Turner scaling a single word
to a symphony of syllables.
These renegade bastard voices
of unconvention
dismantle the notion
of the perfectly formed,
crafted to within an inch of bland.
The very sheen of it dimming the soul of it.
Blunting the grit and sharp edge
of what it means
to be truly alive.
Frank Phelan is a Dublin born writer living in County Kildare, Ireland. His work has appeared in a broad range of print and on-line journals across Ireland, America and the UK. His work has been shortlisted and won awards the UK and The Republic of Ireland
Daniel Dean
A beastly man swallowing leeks. His throat
Is dirt, and yet his ghost could sit with Raphael
Lesley Burt
a conch found in hot white sand
on the shoreline at Sanur Beach
a Fibonacci whorl
among morning offerings
Annie Acre
i am sun-shot / green-beamed / stem-steep /
hands cupfuls of heartlines / conjuring water
Jennifer Cole
take your wedding ring
or it might get “disappeared”
Eithne Longstaff
On the road to Belfast today, I failed
to recognise my father. I saw a flamingo
by the Tamnnamore turn off, but paid
little regard as it took off…
Mark O’Connor
At half a tonne in weight
It was like the anchor –
Michael Mintrom
They lie deep in a forest, wounds
unseen, unhealed. Further back,
an escarpment with dark scars.
Thea Smiley
There’s a hiss as he eases himself in
to the green pool, steam in his smoky hair.
Roger Bonner
It’s forbidden to call it war.
We’re here to liberate you;
ignore the glide bombs as they roar.