11 Years On The Mic
Your framed photos line the mantelpiece,
there's that holiday, a countryside walk,
birthday cheers, standing next to your sister,
together with the grandchildren.
I see you everywhere, I close my eyes, I have
to accept the facts, use the past tense, every room
in this house reflects back memories. I cut roses from your garden,
taking a moment, a piece of you, doing my best to be close to you,
I can't get near.
I try, I can't reach you, I can't get us home,
I will always be your child, be part of you but our words
no longer touch, you can't hear my voice
and I am losing yours.
Ros Ayres
HULL HATH NO FURY LIKE A POET SCORNED
I refuse to enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said my poems were shit.
Not for all the tea in China
would I degrade myself and enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said I was semi-illiterate.
No. I will never ever enter
the East Yorkshire Arts Centre
after someone who works there
said I was many things but not a poet.
I know she's not been well
since her husband ran off with a slag
but taking it out on me
and my wonderful poetry
isn't going to make me give him back.
Dean Wilson
|The bonnet is a shield protecting you from the modern sickness; its lines are the supreme creation of an era.
The headlights are the meticulous eyes of the first robot looking into the future from the past.
The exhaust is a sardonic goodbye.
The boot is the old suitcase in which you keep a well thumbed copy of your escape fantasy.
The bumper is a cut throat razor that has never been opened; the threat of it alone is enough.
The chrome trim is Connery as Bond, skiing down the volcanic slopes of a villain’s lair.
The FM radio is a telegram, agreeing with your disappointment at the state of things.
The antenna is a 1955 Gibson Super 400 archtop.
The fuel tank is a single malt in your father’s stomach.
The door handles are rabbit holes leading to adventure.
The angles are your first crush or notes in a perfect chord.
The doors are your boyhood self as batman.
The windows are a private screening of your favourite film.
The indicators are a civil ‘excuse me’ in a theme-pub brawl.
The odometer is the best anecdote you’ve ever heard.
The speedometer is a beckoning index finger.
The ignition is a toe dipped in the sea.
The spark-plug is a popping cork.
The hubcaps are rose-tinted mirrors.
The engine is a cheering crowd or the blind leap between lust and love.
The horses that power it are more mythical than bestial; they chain smoke Malboroughs and take long lunches whenever they like.
The hydraulics are a boy showing off to his big brother.
The dashboard is the face of a benevolent alien god.
The steering wheel is a tossed coin that always lands in your favour.
The passenger’s seat is an invitation.
The driver’s seat is a time machine.
The day is an unwritten to do list.
The sunset is your sat nav.
The accelerator is your favourite song.
The road is a Choose Your Own Adventure book.
The rear view mirror is filled with things that can wait.
Ahead of you there is nothing, or everything, whichever you prefer.
Byron Vincent
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