Author's note: Sung, of course, to the tune of ‘Deck the Halls . . .’

Hail! The annual bourgeois spendfest!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, the cash tills ring –
Time to bloat your children’s toy chest!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, the cash tills sing –

Hark! You’ll hear now
Christmas ditties;
– jing-a-ling, have a sing, while you shop –
In the mood for
yuletide pretties?
– jing-a-ling-a-ling, so buy the lot –


Hit the mall and grab a trolley!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, you’re welcome in –
Tis the time to spend your lolly!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, see Santa grin –

A.T.M. won’t
give more cash out?
– boo-hoo-hoo! What to do? Tell you what . . . –
Punch your pin and
max your card out!
– ching-a-ching-a-ching, we’ll take the lot –


Hear the Sally Army playing.
– boom-de-rum-te-bum, de-dum-crash-tum! –
“Pennies for the poor,” they’re saying.
– boom-a-bang-a-thrum, de-too-tle-tum! –

Salve your conscience
with some copper
– rat-a-tat, look at that, fifty p! –
But spend your pounds in here, dear shopper!
ching-a-ching-a-ching
Thank God we’re free!

© Anthony Baverstock

Holidays Arrive Early With The "Christmas ...
--------------------------------------------------------
Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

Mark Snow pulled up in his van
alongside a very old beech tree.
The county said it had to come down
and he’s a carpenter, you see.
The tree was troubling a boundary wall,
for a hundred years it had stood there
and Mark was eying up the wood,
thinking how beautiful, thinking how rare.

Before they knew it he’d shimmied up
and tied himself to its branches.
Three days later he hadn’t come down -
somehow he fancied his chances
of saving the tree from the chainsaw blade,
a spur of the moment decision,
armed with no more than a woolly hat
and a can to store his fluids in.

Villagers plied him with fish and chips,
sandwiches and cups of tea.
People drove past and honked their horns -
they said he was just like Swampy.
But Mr Snow (Snoz to his friends)
said, “I am not a crusty.
I’m a reluctant activist,
I don’t want people to recognise me.

I’ll stay up here as long as it takes
and then I’ll shave my beard off.
I’m normally tidy and smartly dressed,
I don’t make a habit of looking a scruff.”
He rose to the challenge, an ordinary chap,
and this is what impressed me.
He’s not like Swampy; I’m not like Snoz -
My way is writing poetry.

© Heather Wastie

Barking mad? Not me, says the arboreal answer to Swampy
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Heather Wastie is a wordsmith, humorist and musician with a rich professional life as poet, composer, singer, songwriter, keyboard player and facilitator.  Find out more at Heather's website.

So now we're rid of Tony's nasty chum,
See freedom beckon! Look, we've blitzed your way!
What? Preferential treatment? Oh, come come!
The civilised do not do things that way.
What's that? A drop of cheap petroleum?
One for the road, indeed? Well, I won't say
No to a tipple, if you're having some.

© Philip Challinor

UK trade minister begins business talks in Libya
-----------------------------------------------------------
Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

          Ask the experienced, not the wise one, Arab proverb

The ladies room is empty but for two.
Whisper – May I borrow just a few bullets,
I have an urgent need now.  Two handfuls
move from one handbag to the next.

She’s on her way to the secret hospital
in her uncle’s flat – a rebel needs an
operation – she’ll exchange the bullets
for anesthesia vials, stolen…

printers, guns, money – women have
a way.  Secret phone calls to TV and radio,
the world hears a woman’s voice calm,
it represents a people they are half of,

skilled, not just wise, and now is the time
to drive cars alone, build hospitals, to control
towns and people they’ve nurtured since birth
to stand and fight.  And believe they can

hoist the red of the flag, color of blood shed
when they shot at soldiers and the fiery blossoms
of pomegranate, the green for a new spring unfolding,
girls and women planted on the ground in plain sight.

© Lavinia Kumar

Libya’s War-Tested Women Hope to Keep New Power
------------------------------------------------------------------
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

It is getting too crowded down here.
Drenched in condensation
hot, plump breasts squeak like wet rats
against the glinting, purple glass.
Full lips, fat with blood
grate on pearly razors
Dry tongues claw like sandpaper at neighbours’ shirts.
Clothes are melting.
Toes, elbows, shoulders fill every nook
Fresh pinstripes and pipedreams are
thrust     
from the depths relentlessly
Salt burning raw skin.
Bare fingers have only the space to tickle the polished surface.

The spectators fill their lungs
they stare down
trousers fat       bulging
sweat sparking from clenched palms
trusting their own creation to hold fast
to protect.
Beards matted with bubbling saliva
and fuming aftershave
Some press their faces to the glass
smearing drenched tongues over the writhing mass
contained.
Pleasure ripples, shudders, erupts
those below wince, clench bloodstained eyes

We are waiting.
    a crack    
        just one

Have patience ladies.

© Natalie Moores


No 10 and the glass ceiling: token gestures and hot air
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Natalie is a 21yr old MA student writer from Manchester. She currently sells cheese for a living, but is determined to make it as a writer.

Me and you and Netanyahu,
What, oh what are we to do?
Say we let the hate abate,
And let them have a separate state?

Me and you, Mahmood Abbas
Help us make it come to pass.
Accept the presence of the Jew,
Most native born, the same as you.

© Stafford Ray

Israeli-Palestinian talks must resume - Mideast Quartet
------------------------------------------------------------------
Writer of musical plays and reading resources for schools. Wannbe novelist, one completed, two more on the way. Poetry happens when moved, limericks when amused (interchangeable).

Hello, I'm back! And hasn't Martin done a very good job of keeping things going in my absence (as, to be fair, he does in my presence)?

We've had a very sparkly week this week, with flowers and medals and lights and mirrors - who knew the news was quite so frivolous... or was it?

For starters, in 'Nimby' Anna reminded us that we have to put our non-sparkly stuff somewhere - as long as it's nowhere near us. Then Charlene Langfur showed us in 'Safe' that (unless your name's Gaddafi) those ribbons and medals are hard-fought and well-earned. US marines appeared again in a first contribution from slam poet James Schwartz celebrating the end of the 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy with it's simple but powerful message: 'As You Were'.

Helena Nolan brought us flowers on Wednesday, all the way from Kenya in 'Day 44' - a clever, unsettling poem that hints at human immigration, the package handled 'As if somebody cares' but ultimately forgotten. Another new contributer to Poetry24, Kashmiri poet Anjum Wasim Dar chose the curious subject of clever corvids to suggest we should be better able to use the tools we have for peace in 'Who Is The Cleverest Crow Of Them All?'

Well, someone who is very clever (but doesn't crow about it) is Anthony Baverstock who finished the week with his gem of a poem 'Talisman.' There were more notes from him on some of the unusual words used in the poem - do chat to him in the comments section if you're interested.

His poem serves to remind contributers that we're interested in all forms of poetry, including the 'concrete' poems, audio files and your recent additions on YouTube - as long as they link to the news!

Clare

© Anthony Baverstock

Author's note: As talismans like this were believed to prevent and cure disease, I thought this form would be an appropriate one in which to construct a kind of acrostic-cum-pattern poem about human ingenuity and endeavour in the current fight against HIV-AIDS. 

Online gamers crack AIDS enzyme puzzle
---------------------------------------------------
Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

Mirror mirror on the wall
who is the cleverest crow
of them all, Caledonian crows?
The elite group of species, who
can use twigs to fish insects
out of holes and crevices,
whittle branches into hooks
tear leaves into barbed probes,
are innovative problem solvers,
blithely elegant,in pure dark robes?

Said the rook to the mirror
'the latest research makes me shiver,
people will not consider us thirsty,
hungry, capable or free, since its
proven, we were never fools.
The corvid family, ravens, rooks,
magpies, jackdaws and jays, were
cautious, cooperative, concerned
and cool, tis no argument as scientists
say, and I just read the news on BBC, that
'clever crows can use three tools'

Mirror mirror, now what's your suggestion?
The crisis deepens, descending to recession.
Should it be a round table conference,
summit or a mediation, or a call for a corvid
crow collection? Beware for they can locate
hidden secrets in succession, and solve
serious problems from reflective reflections.

With so much warfare and so many dead
No one knows where Ghaddafi has fled.
Tis worthwhile that research has led
to the discovery of problem solvers pool,
a mixture of brown, grey and black,
if humans and animals have failed,
lets call the corvid crows, to use
the tools to make peace instead.

© Anjum Wasim Dar

Crows use mirrors to find food
-------------------------------------
Anjum Wasim Dar was born in Srinagar Kashmir. A refugee migrant to Pakistan, she was
educated at St Annes Convent Rawalpindi. She is a published and award winning poet.

His Marine uniform,
Glittered in the strobe-light,
Swirling conversations pausing,
To applaud.
He grins, swiftly, saluting.
To the drag queens, shirtless men,

And:
"As you were."

© James Schwartz

Gay military members come out and celebrate
--------------------------------------------------------
Poet and slam performer, James Schwartz strives for the simplicity of Cavafy mixed with modern gay wordplay. His book, The Literary Party: Growing Up Gay and Amish in America, was published by in Group Press in 2011.

Two weeks before you die, you take a flight
Leave Africa in darkness for the stark
European light of a new beginning.

Your first time on a plane, first time
To feel the weight of air as coolness
Not the breath of heat.

You are too chilled to shiver, your long limbs
Wrapped up for protection, as if you matter,
As if somebody cares.

Soon everybody wants you, calls out your name
Naming a price, strangers put you in a vehicle, roads,
Then ferries carry you away.

Within days, your final destination - a hotel, a private suite
With bed and silver vase - nobody sees you but the maid
For a whole 8 days.

When you die, there are no mourners and no funeral,
Why should there be? You are a rose,
You are one in every three.*

©  Helena Nolan

The life and death of a rose
* One in every three roses sold originates in Kenya and lives for 44 days from bud to death, the last 8 of which are usually spent in a vase.
---------------------------------
Helena's work has appeared in anthologies and literary magazines including; The Stinging Fly, The Moth, and the Spoken Ink audio website. Last year she was runner-up in the Patrick Kavanagh Award.

In the decade-old war, there is still more. An ambush in the night,
a firefight in the Afghan hills,
an area not to be entered until cleared.
Marines call it a kill zone.

How can any of us avoid thinking of danger here
is a mystery.
In spite of all the risks
how the Corporal's gunfire provided the cover for the escape.

"I did what I did," he says.

Everyone in the village was trapped.
So, he went in to save them, 37 men and women,
Aghans and soldiers.
The red-haired Kentucky man, a grown-up boy really,
Dakota Meyer wanted to follow orders
but not when it came to this.
Against orders, he went back
again and again,
saved all but four of the soldiers, mourning their loss even now, as if
his compassion is all he has left to give.

On the day of the ambush the kill zone was too dangeous to enter
but he went there anyway to save his friends.
He rode into the gunfire of the 50 insurgents, into the town with all its lights on.

"You do not think about it until you look back," he says.

The hazel-eyed man doing what he believes we all wanted him to do,
save everyone left behind
in the only way he knew how, and now,
the baby-blue ribbon draped around his neck, the dark gold star
hanging on the chest of the young soldier come this far. home again,

home again and safe.

© Charlene Langfur


US Marine Dakota Meyer awarded Medal of Honor
---------------------------------------------------------------
Charlene is an organic gardener and a graduate of the S.U. graduate writing program.

So you think me
A two-faced swine
For suggesting
A waste plant
In your backyard
Is fine? 
I can’t see
How you can’t see
Its not
Breathtaking
Hypocrisy
When I say
I don’t want it in mine.

© 'Anna'

Ministers accused of 'hypocrisy' over relaxation of planning regulations
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Anna is passionate about her world and writes about her feelings in both poetry and prose.  She lives in the UK and for personal reasons, prefers to remain just 'Anna.'

On the day following the 10th anniversary of 9/11, we published Lavinia Kumar's prose poem, World Trade Center. Lavinia, herself, was unsure as to whether this form would suit Poetry24. It did, perfectly.

From remembering an atrocity, to living with a potential tragedy, David Francis Barker's Today Marcoule raised the nuclear question, following an explosion at the French site.

On Wednesday I penned Collage of Conviction, unable to let the passing of Richard Hamilton go without a mention. He did, after all, design the cover and poster for The Beatles' White Album. Enough said.

Philip Challinor came up trumps with Davey's Not For Turning, even though our Mr Cameron is probably on course to match Thatcher's high water mark unemployment figures of the 80s.

Fran Hill treated us to a sonnet about a sausage…and we think it could be a record 'first'. The title, Probably one of the only sonnets written about a sausage…, which is pretty much the longest we've had so far, is also in a league of its own.

Newcomer, Laurie Kolp, states that she doesn't usually stand for any monkey business while writing, but when she read the story of how a monkey's sweet tooth was its downfall, she couldn't resist sending us Chocolate Bites.

You'll be pleased to know that Clare has now returned, safe and sound, from her travels and, as ever, she and I are putting out the call for your poems. Without them, there would be no Poetry24.

Have a great week.

Martin.

A monkey was caught in a blaze
Went missing from warden for days
Until her Reese's
Chocolate pieces
Bit taste buds long covered in haze

© Laurie Kolp


Monkey on the loose killed after biting game warden
Editor's note: Laurie says, "I won't stand for any monkey business while writing, but I sure likes to keep that chocolate handy".
----------------------------------------------------------------
Laurie's poems and short stories have appeared online and in print publications. Her story "Signs of David" is in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotionals for Tough Times, due October 5, 2011.

They held auditions by the back field fencing.
I’d never done this kind of thing before.
But something had to change.  I was pig-ugly –
And running out of pig-luck, I was sure.

I grasped the chance for this with both my trotters.
Had been rehearsing day and night.  My piece?
A bit from something I had read by Orwell
About farm animals who want release.

I couldn’t take it in when they said, ‘Porky!
You’re in the Tesco advert, mate.  Well done!’
And wandering round the field with cameras on me ….
My new career as Piggy Depp begun!
              
But now they’ve pulled the ad.  I’m piggin' shaken.
I’ll end up, not as TV star, but bacon.

© Fran Hill

Tesco sausage advert banned for misleading consumers
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

Alas, the proles again have let us down!
We still have failed to make our message clear.
They sit at home, or vandalise the town -
Why can they not get out and volunteer?
Alas for chavs unworthy of our vision!
Societally small, they cannot see
That we intend to stick with our decision
And stay on course for Maggie's million three.

© Philip Challinor

David Cameron under pressure to soften hardline deficit strategy
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

We will eagerly consume,
whatever fills the space
where you made room
and changed the face.

Art can be like that
when the final phase
shows where we're at,
ripe for the next craze.

Bid for it, stop and shop,
have it now, today,
de rigueur, 'Father of Pop',
so sad you could not stay.

© Martin Hodges

Pop art pioneer Richard Hamilton dies at the age of 89
------------------------------------------------------------------
Martin is a writer, and former columnist. He has twice been editor of Viewpoint (a forum for INDEPENDENT internal comment within the University of Southampton), and is co-founder of Poetry24.

Now at least there's no rats left here in Marcoule.
It's getting hard to tell who is the bigger fool;

we Brits who left Blighty in search of the sun,
the politicians making sure their deal is done.

I heard them say there's no reactor here;
no leaks, all under control, nothing to fear.

But folly is folly, however they try to dress it;
if it can go wrong, it will – get used to it!

Yes, fission might be feasible, even squeaky clean
but those in the money are nowhere to be seen.

© David Francis Barker

France nuclear: Marcoule site explosion kills one
-----------------------------------------------------------
David says, 'I try to paint, write poetry, prose, sometimes music - I guess that makes me an artist.'

They fell straight down.  A slow breath out.  The nation held its breath. The New York smell lingered for weeks.  Ten years later still a memory.  We remember Chris playing defense on soccer fields.  Gone.  His wife and children know memory in pictures, video, the sound of his voice, his laugh.  Soldiers in countries filled with pale brown earth now gone, too.

We will show their names when their pictures
are available  –

TV shows the family picture before faces and limbs were splattered by bullets, IEDs.  And no pictures or names of those bedridden in hospitals or homes, without legs, arms, working brains.  Without jobs.  No pictures of those not American either.
 
Around 4 Million Afghans face unemployment

nearly ten years later. Crops of poppies grown by Afghan men, they dodge bullets.  The pile of war dollars – even taller than the world trade centers – spent.  Gone.  Papers floated downtown while the holes grew that day, but no-one would read them.

Five more NATO soldiers killed in Kabul –

a headline forgotten by afternoon. Soldiers have memories of dust storms in Iraq and deep blinding snow in Afghan mountains.  They picture their partners in dirt.  Cars park and people walk where smashed dust was.  Chris’s name is on the memorial plaque at Ground Zero.

             More than one million people dead and gone.

© Lavinia Kumar

After a decade of war, the west is weak and in retreat
Editor's note: This is the first prose poem we've published, so it's worth remembering, we will consider poetry in any form. Lavinia tells us, "...somehow, it came out that way." We're pleased it did.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

Last week it was Shaun Parrin's Sunday that took the place of our regular review and, as Old St Martin's was getting a new ring of bells, executives at Tesco were preoccupied with the tinkling of cash registers, having finally gained a foothold in Harrogate. Anna mourned the capitulation with The Last Bastion.

Speaking of a foothold, or lack of one, on Tuesday, David Francis Barker's offering invited the Scottish Conservatives to Go Now, in view of the party's dwindling support, north of the border.

I contributed my five penny worth with Twiss. Test Pilot, Peter Twiss, who became the fastest man on earth on Saturday, 10 March, 1956, died aged 90 years. A tribute to this true hero of our times seemed fitting in a world where celebrity status has been so devalued.

Lavinia Kumar offered us a wonderful political spoof from the USA, with Tea Party Debacle, as Congress returned from recess. Still stateside, New Jersey resident, David Caruso, offered us a reflective New York Sonnet, as the shadow of 9/11 extends to ten years.

Douglas Polk rounded out the week with The Reality Menu, inspired by the extraordinary predictions made by futurist, Ray Kurzweil.

A couple of days ago, I read a poem that almost came to Poetry24. It met all the requirements, was nicely crafted and news-related, but sadly it never arrived at our door. I was left wondering how many of you, out 'there', have almost sent us poems for consideration. If it helps, remember Poetry24 is about encouraging people to write poetry, inspired by events taking place in the world around them. It's about you capturing a moment and inviting others to see it as you did.

Please don't let you work become an almost poem. We'd love to see it here.

Have a great week.

Martin.

Reality, a computer program to open or close,
options available where to reside,
Virtual Reality,
a place to dream, a place to hide,
Financial Reality,
the only asset,
paper passed back and forth,
again and again, until we die,
grab the mouse and let’s give it a try.

© Douglas Polk

Technology will enable us to live forever says futurist
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Douglas is a poet from Nebraska. He has published three books of poetry; In My Defense, The Defense Rests, and On Appeal.

When I was small I watched the twin towers

As we drove to New York each passing year.

They bloomed from the water to always appear

Steady as time—yet no longer ours.

From concrete made temporal as flowers

With the crash of a plane, the stall of a gear,

The turn of a channel where they disappear

To leave me wondering where they now were.



All of the seconds, minutes and hours

Abandoned their posts from all of our clocks

As we kept watching two falling towers

That fell on the city like children’s blocks.

From those two tall tops down through their cellars,

Gone, all those stories and story-tellers.

© David Caruso

Getting Here From There
-------------------------------
David plays guitar and writes haiku. He lives in New Jersey. He can't see Russia from his front porch but most nights he can see the moon. He invites you to browse on over to DavidHaiku.com.

The Tea Party toddlers threw the US in the sea --
they had a tantrum -- stamped their little feet with glee
but while they were sucking their thumbs with their blankies
their parents were squabbling until they were cranky.

First came the Cantor, a wild shooter on his horse
and then came Boehner hoping he could get a divorce --
but the Tea Party todds kept on wanting the treats
they’d been promised if they ate up all of their meat.

Yep, the TPs as candidates had eaten rubber chicken
and bathed in PAC money till their hearts were quickened –
so they used divide and rule, and McConnell’s bullying glee
and invited the Cripps and the Bloods over to tea.

So now the boat is sinking and they are too little to swim
and at least one of their parents is sick of their whims.
Meanwhile, the dollar is burning, the lifeguards gone home
and everyone had hoped that September was a new dawn.

But, now the super committee comes armed with its spears
to throw at the White House and the man they can’t cheer.
Still, the TPs want to get behind those old wooden desks,
remember?  - they once held congressmen we could respect.

Meanwhile jobs are going overboard, just watch them gone
‘cos states must fire civil servants  – oh, but the lobbyists fawn
since the TPs want low taxes for the increasingly rich
who still haven’t created jobs for the lower class – a glitch.

So, here comes the GOP – who made deficits and wars -
looking for WMDs behind every door,
and while candidates postulate that the tea plants did not evolve,
they have sprinted to create more problems than they can solve.

© Lavinia Kumar

Returning From Recess to a Full Plate
----------------------------------------------
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

He ripped a record
out of the blue,
and pinned it
with his FD2.

A Fairey tale
of derring do,
in delta form,
his FD2.

Now on his way
beyond the blue,
Tally-ho! Peter,
1,132.

© Martin Hodges

Air speed record pilot Peter Twiss dies
-----------------------------------------------
Martin is a writer, and former columnist. He has twice been editor of Viewpoint (a forum for INDEPENDENT internal comment within the University of Southampton), and is co-founder of Poetry24.

If you are going, go now; let's not prolong the pain
or pretend that the past means nothing at all.
Oh, I know – go back fifty years and MacMillan
could count on fifty percent, even up there.
But then came the oil, that all too English woman
branding herself British while handbagging the North
and the Left wherever they raised their ruddy heads.
Even I realised you'd had enough by then.
So go with my blessing and I'll reclaim the baggage;
you know it won't go to waste. We'll recycle it down here
where they still fall for it each time in our leafy shires,
so prime for development – but that's another tale.

© David Francis Barker

Scottish Tory leadership favourite 'to split party'
----------------------------------------------------------
David says, 'I try to paint, write poetry, prose, sometimes music - I guess that makes me an artist.'

Oh Harrogate, my Harrogate
(tis where I live in grand estate).
The game is up,
the deed almost done,
Harrogate has lost,
big business won,
no more shall we
in peace
dine alfresco,
for we shall
have to abide
the noise from
Tesco.

© 'Anna'

The only postcode without a Tesco – but for how much longer?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Anna is passionate about her world and writes about her feelings in both poetry and prose.  She lives in the UK and for personal reasons, prefers to remain just 'Anna.'

"What shall we do today?"

If reason were not enough to stay inside
encased in the blue moon chill
of what weekend remains,
the expression on her face
said we will be joining them
not would, or could or maybe.

The cat stole its way from the void,
that endless repetitive space which
existed when we never could agree;
When the hunter gatherer required more than
an interest rate for barter and exchange;
When the science of numerology
meant more than a new car every three years;
When two houses meant two mortgages
but then two is supposed to be prime.

And besides we didn't need a new sofa
or fridge, or freezer, video, DVD or telly.

"What about... words and archers?"

The blowpipe's dart hit dead wood
the vine of silence tightening
until isolated thud of the letter box
and loud protestations from the cyclist
interrupted my wishful thinking.

"What about the new bells?"

Cat, unable to sheath the claw
during the high brunch stand-off
softened, playing heedlessly
with last nights accompaniments.
Red-faced negligence -
a decision not long in the making.

"Ready in five?"

© Shaun Parrin

Old St Martin’s gets its new ring of bells
Editor's note: We rarely receive a 'Sunday' poem, so this week's Review is making way. Normal Sunday service will be resumed next weekend.
-------------------------------------------------
Shaun is a non-professional award winning photographer and published writer.

We were not like those criminals at all.
To say so is offensive and inane.
Our gang was most exclusive and quite small -
When we got drunk, we did it on champagne.

One can't compare with Bullingdons and banks:
These rioters, I think, were simpler folk.
We had few coloured people in our ranks,
And rarely had to pay for what we broke.

Our antics were mere foolishness and fun:
No symptoms there of morals in collapse.
We all commit some follies when we're young,
But only some of us need take the raps.

Above all, we grew up to give our names
To propaganda sprogs and trophy wives;
And now we have our stake in greater games,
And play Monopoly with smaller lives.

© Philip Challinor

Bullingdon Club antics were nothing like the riots, says Cameron
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

All that is asked
is that you not go mad.
Which is not such
a tough request,
surely?
But they will not be coming around
to see how we are doing.
There is important work to be done
to mend the damaged economy
and broken businesses,
who line the streets
piteously
asking for help.
And there are major
circuses to stage
but no bread for you.
Yet they are all
that stand between
us and the devils
who would overwhelm us
and steal our things.
Yes, be scared citizens
but DO NOT ask for help.
Just do not go mad
there's a good chap.

© Hamish Mack

Uncertainty for public servants as job cuts loom
----------------------------------------------------------
Hamish is a 51 year old New Zealander. He has been writing poetry for a couple of years.

He's got a gun
He's got a gun a guitar
and a hair cut like Che
He thrusts up defiant v-signs
at streaking vapour trails
the evidence of an enemy he's yet to meet
He's got a gun eye to eye

All the same he unloads his weapon
He's got a gun into the no-fly zone
He's waving it on high
at this illusive foe
singing songs like a Dylan or Baez
and wishing on stars above
He's got a gun the scarlet stripes of the horizon

Tomorrow he's the hero
He's got a gun He can sense
the smell of change
which wafts in his stubbled face
this monster of cool
arraigned against a monster unseen
He's got a gun who has made him all he is

© David Francis Barker

Massoud Abu Assir
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
David says, 'I try to paint, write poetry, prose, sometimes music - I guess that makes me an artist.'

in his mother's arms the boy said ta-ta
to starvation, now lays on the mud floor
his dead eyes blindfolded with a coloured cloth
ready to be buried alongside a crowd
of small mounds of clay where dead children lie

she keeps her son's death a secret so as
not to loose his portion of ration too
to enable feeding his twin sisters, whose
scared eyes witness the life's ghastly drama
unaware of what is in store for them

© SK Iyer

I hid my dead baby so that I could keep food for his twin
Editor's note: This isn't the first poem we've published, associated with this particular story, but such is the gravity of the situation in the Horn of Africa, we make no apologies.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India. His poems have been published. He is a member of PK Poetry List, UK.

I left them on the doorstep for a good while.
That’d show them what it was like to live slow.
Then I let them in.  Didn’t offer them tea.

‘Haven’t played tag since primary school’
didn’t go down well with the burly one.
Worth a try.  Miserable gits, both.

I stuck my leg up on the coffee table.
Had borrowed a pair of Dad’s old flares.
Looked a right knob.  But needs must.

‘Must’ve been a nasty injury, that,’
said the thin one, tapping the bandage.
I winced a bit.  Always liked Drama.

He unzipped a rucksack, full of tags
for lads not going out tonight.
Lads with both legs.  Ha ha ha.

‘Tag's not too tight, is it?’ said Fat Bloke.
I nearly lost it then, I’m telling you.
‘Can’t feel a thing.’  It was the truth.

‘That’ll keep you out of trouble,’ they said.
I watched them walk down the road.
That’d be Kane, then.  At number 33.

I left the leg in a corner, home alone,
And practised with my crutches in the alley.
Been a while.  Lump in the throat.

No one at the pub had a better story.
Still came home without a girl
but, hey.  As days go, fair enough.

© Fran Hill

G4S sacks pair who tagged offender's false leg
--------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

Irene you stole the thunder of our grand entrance
And made sure the spotlight was on you
For the first dance
Thanks Irene,
Because of you there will be no Motzi from Uncle Murray
No toast from the best man who was finally going to admit
to my mother, that he is to blame
for the “wrong” turn my life took
Oh so many phases ago.

Thanks Irene,
Because of you there is three quarters of a wedding cake
Sitting on my mothers kitchen counter
Headed for the garbage bin.
My father hording a salvaged platter of chilled shrimp, crab legs and crudite’
For himself, with a plastic cocktail fork keeping us all at bay.

Thanks to you Irene,
There will be no vodka bar, slice meat station, regional wine tasting
Or cheese’s from diverse European nations nibbled upon.
No pigs in blankets, hamburger sliders,
fried calamari in tempura batter or
caprese salad on a skewer.
No cocktail hour small talk
No family secrets whispered over high end whiskey
No past grudges quietly toasted and forgotten.

Thanks Irene,
You imposing blustery bitch,
Because of you the Hora will not be danced
And the ice cream bar will not be scooped.

Thanks Irene,
For not only raining on our wedding day
But for flooding the neighborhood
Causing the bridges and tunnels to be closed
And twisting the power lines into Bavarian pretzels.

Thanks Irene,
The ultimate uninvited guest
Not only did you crash my wedding day
You could have at least given us a gift.

© Joshua Baumgarten

New York recovers as Irene passes
Editor's note: Joshua writes from New York, "Here with my wife to celebrate our marriage with the American side of my family.  Due to Irene it never happened.  The big party was cancelled due to the storm.  Which luckily for us, the hype was worse then her bite."
------------------------------------------
Joshua is an ex-pat New Yorker living in Holland. He organises the Irrational Library evenings - nights of poetry, rock n roll and casual chaos, and performs as a Standup Spoken Word artist.

It's easy to say: 'How can one person make a difference?' and in saying it, to not be the person who does. This week we've had poems about individuals who have made a difference - whether intentionally or inadvertently - and some who are trying to.



We started with Nedjo Rogers' powerful 'Renewal Scourge' which looked at two agents provocateur: Tunisian fruitseller Mohamed Bouazizi, whose self-immolation provoked the Arab Spring and the killing of Mark Duggan which sparked off rather less altruistic riots in Tottenham. On Wednesday Lavinia Kumar's 'Spinning Wheel' on Indian corruption being highlighted by campaigner Anna Hazare. With it's references to sandals, home spun cloth and cups of salt, there were clear echoes of Gandhi.

So what difference can poets make and how best to expose an issue? Well, you can pack a punch with very few words - as Karen Neuberg did with 'By-stander' and Stafford Ray with his 'Shorts'. Or you can home in on the intensely personal like Katherine Lockton on love 'n' marriage with 'September the 3rd' and Martin Hodges with his devastating 'No longer' on the appalling situation in Tripoli hospital.

Submissions have been a bit thin on the ground of late and I'm going off on holiday now, so do please keep sending your poems to Martin.

No longer crying for attention,
meeting mother's eyes
as I form the first words.

No longer shaking my laughter free,
gasping in wonder
as the gift of life is unwrapped.

No longer pleading for mercy,
whispering a prayer
as the darkness descends.

No longer a name,
echoing off the walls
as days ricochet about me.

© Martin Hodges

Horror scenes at Tripoli hospital
---------------------------------------
Martin is a writer, and former columnist. He has twice been editor of Viewpoint (a forum for INDEPENDENT internal comment within the University of Southampton), and is co-founder of Poetry24.

The sins of the father…

President Barak Obama
Was handed the whole Panorama.
Recessions and wars,
Huge debt, all because
Of Dubya’s unfortunate karma!

Better off with Hillary Clinton instead of Barack Obama?

Watching.

No Ghadaffi
People free?
Democracy?
We shall see.

Rebels appeal for Gaddafi capture

© Stafford Ray
 ----------------------------------------
Writer of musical plays and reading resources for schools. Wannbe novelist, one completed, two more on the way. Poetry happens when moved, limericks when amused (interchangeable).

Long robes, chappals on their feet, simple men
spinners of threads, of intricate webs – fabric
made of white cotton, but woven to hide pockets
where there are cups of salt taken from the sea,

goods from ships laden with steel, oil, coal.
And the many hands turn and spin to rot
knots in the web, till holes open wide wider
and money falls through where no one can see

but it is caught by tentacles of plastic gods
their arms around births, deaths, weddings,
businesses – pockets open before lighted paths,
gates for the gods that spin for champion of greed.

© Lavinia Kumar

India corruption: Hazare heaps pressure on government
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

i.
At the very least:
junk floating

in our oceans.

ii.
While it is still possible
to choose to not look

it is impossible to continue
to not see

© Karen Neuberg


Marine Pollution - Centuries of Abuse Have Taken a Heavy Toll
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Karen lives in Brooklyn NY. Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies. She has always lived near the ocean.

Drunk with despair, he sets himself ablaze,
a man no longer able to pretend
his princes merited their loud self-praise.
Better the phoenix death, the fiery end.
The street explodes, first with kinfolk and friend
and soon with multitudes—the poor who bring
only their lives, only what faith will lend
against the guns. Abroad, the magpies sing
in fulsome praise of cleansing sparks, this Arab spring.

Stopped in a cab—a siren's wail, a blaze
of bullets and his chest explodes. Pretend
who will that such be justice—no false praise
of right will quell the anguish of this end,
restore his touch to family or friend.
Raw anger long suppressed bursts out to bring
thousands to arms with what the street can lend:
a stone, a brick, a voice. The magpies sing
now with disdain—from what base class such insults spring.

© Nedjo Rogers

Mohamed Bouazizi: memories of a Tunisian martyr

London riots: Dozens injured after Tottenham violence
Editor's note : The two news-links, although separated by several months, illustrate how the death of an individual can be a catalyst for social disorder, even a national uprising.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Nedjo Rogers has worked with anti-poverty and environmental organizations, has travelled and lived in Latin America, writes folk songs, and is parent to two artistic young adults. He writes open source software.

Fran Hill got this week off to a witty start. Inspired by the digital antics at Grazia, the fashion mag, she penned The royal split. Poor Kate, appearing to be a lesser woman, due to that tweaked waistline.

Karen Neuberg turned her thoughts to Perpetuity, a poem that illustrates the deadly and long lasting effects of radiation, following the earthquake damage to nuclear reactors at Fukushima.

Brent Calderwood's first poem for Poetry24 flagged up Sarah Palin's struggle with American history, with Sarah Palin's Ride, and Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro's sobering account of how famine forces mothers to choose which of their children will live or die, Water over head, is a heart-breaking piece by this prize-winning poet. Meanwhile, Palestinians praying in the Gaza buffer zone, and protesting against land confiscation, set the scene for Lavinia Kumar's Land is an Old Friend.

Philip Challinor rounded out a fairly reflective week of poetry with his, Not Our Sort of People.

To continue that reflective mood, Poetry24 passed the six month mark on 16th August (cue virtual applause), and Clare has come up with a few stats.

In our first six months:

• 4 out of 5 poems were accepted
• 3 out of 4 poets have had something accepted
• 161 poems have been published in 185 days
• 77 different poets - 35 men, 42 women
• 40 Britain, 15 America, 9 Ireland, 4 Australia, 2 Canadia, 2 New Zealand, 1 Puerto Rico, 1 India, 1 Serbia, 1 Netherlands, 1 unknown
• 40+ different news sources
• The strangest keyword search that led someone to the blog was, "custard pie fight porn movies" 
 

In light of that last one, never let it be said, stats are boring.

Now for the audience participation bit, where we make requests and canvas
opinion. We would like to know your feelings about the positioning of the news-link that accompanies each poem. It has been suggested that people might like to see it before the poem, rather than after. Let us know if you have strong feelings about this.

But don't let us take up all of your valuable thinking time. Leave some for composing those all important poems.

Have a good week.

Martin.

They lie at every level, and persist
Even when caught. Their style abrades
With harsh attacks and verbal ambuscades.
They're not your smooth US diplomatist.

Defiance is their thing, and this has meant
Much nastiness and some non-sequitur.
They fail to understand that we prefer
Our lying, thieving brutes subservient.

© Philip Challinor

Why the WikiLeaks cable about Syrian regime is spot on
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

Under the dew of the morning, soil rustles

as worms make their way down, larvae stretch

before re-curling in earth, and your fingers dig

around the tomatoes while droplets fall on the back

of your hands and marigolds reflect the early sun.



At night worms come up to air, band together

in pairs, ring to ring, while the moon hides its face

behind haze, a woman behind a veil, the air star-cold

on her cheeks as she looks away from animal ecstasy

in the wet open field of un-mown grass.



Now guns point at you as you pray on your land:

standing soldiers steal the earth, your children’s roll

down these hills, your women’s picking of oranges

and berries, even your sons’ watch over grazing

sheep - sons who would have taught their own sons.



You taste the grass as you bend to the east, the soil

under your knees, your feet, your hands, the ants

and beetles crawling as they have for centuries

on the rocks that you had jumped from as a boy,

and had once seemed solid as the earth.



© Lavinia Kumar



In Israel, Time for Peace Offer May Run Out

Editor's note : This article was published back in April, although the issue is very much an ongoing one. The original piece was revised and 'corrected', with regard to granting statehood to Palestinians on Israeli-controlled land.

------------------------------------------------------

Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her family includes a variety of cultures and immigrants. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, and more.

I look at others passing me
purple mothers
yellow mothers
boys and girls been dragged by the arms
arrastrados
one mother pull a hand
pressed all fingers
light-skin colored
the girl’s name is Aishia
the mama called her
several times last night
fearing her death
we all fear it
but no one say a thing
the child was playing
with tree leaves
also eating them

today all mothers walk with their babies
with their heirs
successors of the hopes of a nation
obligated to keep on foot
obligated by belly ache
some are tall
big eyes
hungry eyes
hungry mouths
famished chests
and mamas
blue mothers
pale mothers
violet mothers
obscure ones
and their skirts
rainbow skirts
they all are so weak
can barely hold them
on the back
on the arms

I hardly can stand myself
looking for clouds
praying for rain
observing
carefully
the head of my second one
so weak
he is just about to speak
but fell over the Dadaab land
I ask for help
which god will help us now?

my other kid
the first one
is awake
closed eyes
flies over the skull
moscas sobre el cráneo
the sky answers my prayer
milagrosamente
water over the heads
water sprinkling the eyelids
water inside the lips
my first open eyes
put out the tongue
my second was silent
she make
an emphatic
no reaction

© Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

Famine forces mothers to decide which child lives and which dies
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yolanda is the author of the novel Caparazones (2010) and has won prizes including National Institute of Puerto Rican Literature Prize in 2008. She is a Director of the Puerto Rican Word Festival. 

(after H.W. Longfellow and Dr. Seuss)

Listen my children and you shall hear
The sound of the ocean in Palin’s ear.
On the third day of June, 2011,
Sarah’s fresh hell entered blogosphere heaven.
She’d stopped in a shop in the Olde Town of Boston,
Surely a detail that cannot be lost on
Anyone—anyone, even a kid—
For everyone knows what Paul Revere did.

We all studied English, and history too,
From sunny L.A. to Kalamazoo,
We all read that poem, we all know that quote,
That romanticized fantasy Longfellow wrote.
“The British are coming!” That’s what he said.
But Sarah’s apparently touched in the head.
Poor thing, she’s a moron, our almost-V.P.,
A Madonna-like media whore on T.V.

A lesson in Longfellow’s long overdue,
A fellow could help—hubby Todd? Levi too?
They’d line up to teach her, the whole GOP,
They’d drop all their golf clubs, they’d spill all their tea.
They’re fine with the fact that despite all her looks,
Our Sarah just frets when she gets grown-up books:
“Where are the pictures, the bunnies to pat,
Where is that moon or that cat in that hat?”

She’s got fabulous suits, she’s got nice shiny hair
But her poor head is hollow, there’s nothing in there.
O Sarah, you should have prepared for your trip!
Next time bring buttons to button your lip—
One if by plane, two if by tour bus.
’Til then you’re our favorite clown in the circus.

© Brent Calderwood

Sarah Palin claims Paul Revere warned the British
-------------------------------------------------------------
Brent Calderwood, a Lit Editor for A&U Magazine and Associate Editor at Lambda Literary, currently divides his time between San Francisco and Atlanta, and between poetry and writing that pays the bills.

Unrelentingly,
water pours
for the next 100 years

swollen with radiation.
The fish have not been told.
Nor birds warned.

Clouds lift mist & vapor,
rain it back down
10,000  & more miles away.

The children are swaying
in our arms. They cannot drink
the milk. Mothers help them

put on their masks. Fathers
weep. Whoever remains
will hear the stories

that will grow like cancers.
Whatever remains
will glow in the dark

bone by bone.

© Karen Neuberg

Japan Held Nuclear Data, Leaving Evacuees in Peril
-------------------------------------------------
Karen lives in Brooklyn NY. Her  poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies. She has always lived near the ocean.

I was at my Mac

finishing off the front cover.

I thought it was one of my best.

The boss leaned over my shoulder.

'The Prince. Take him out.'



I said, 'Isn't that treason?

Remember the Tower of London.'

But he was reapplying his nicotine patch

And didn't hear me.

He's not one for jokes these days.



'Lose him,' he said,

sitting on the edge of my desk

so I could smell his stress.

'I don't know what she saw in him anyway.

Bald as a newborn's arse or what?'



I said, 'I can't erase the future monarch

from his wedding photo.

It would kill my mother.

She's bought plates and everything

and watches the DVD every Sunday.'



He was checking his watch.

'11.30,' he said. 'Time for my lunch.

Just do her a new arm

where he used to be.

And tidy up the waistline a bit.'



At the door he turned.

'Ah, second thoughts?' I said.

'Thinking of your knighthood?'



'You cock up that lace,' he said,

'and you can start ringing Mr Sainsbury.'



© Fran Hill



Grazia admits digitally slimming Kate Middleton photo

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

This week got off to a bang with Jane James's 'Harvest Time' - a rapid response to events in London... and an even bigger bang with David Bateman's irresistible 'A New Universe In The Basement'- which sparked neatly off a small item of news about a chap who's been splitting atoms in his kitchen.

We were surprised not to receive a deluge of riot-related pieces after all the coverage in the UK, but Lavinia Kumar's 'The Dalai Lama' was a fitting reminder of peace, wisdom and the 'sluggish river of sadness' ...and also echoed a more local sense of unsettled youth itching for a fight.

In the end I wrote a riot poem myself: 'The morning after' which attempted to show the feelings of futility and, like much of the exhaustive coverage, left you with more questions than answers. Yesterday we brought together Smash and Grab - a compilation of reponses to the riots including a haiku from David Caruso, a few lines from one of our Twitter followers and links to poems by previous contributors - Chris Lawrence's measured anger and Ana's more visceral polemic.

Jinksy's 'Aftermath' - five months after the Japanese Tsunami widened the perspective: it is well to remember that other people are in worse situations - and not self-inflicted! "Yet they survive another day..."

As, I hope, we all survive another week - have a good one, and keep those poems coming!

Clare

Some responses to this week's riots in England:

fire in London
can’t put it out
with Potomac water

© David Caruso

Trouble erupts in English cities
David began writing haiku and tanka after taking a course in Buddhist poetry of Japan under the late Professor William LaFleur. He invites you to browse on over to DavidHaiku.com

~

And here's a couple we 'looted' from amongst our followers:



Chris Lawrence lives with his muse in West Kirby and writes, having been published in many journals internationally and can be found on twitter @clawfish.

~

And, for a different flavour, Anna's poem was already on her blog, and longer than our maximum so we couldn't accept it, but here's an excerpt:
How easy
They succumb to stereotype,
The looters, the arsonists,
The bigot's fodder;
The bigots dream gifted,
Gifted by the very underclass
They wish to further
Marginalise.
Read the whole poem here: What is this?

~

And this from Twitterer Arron Shilling

"Time is short now
the hoods are glowing white
dark moods blind the rats
and glass coppers shield the streets."


~


Related posts
See also: Harvest Time and Dudley Road by Jane James and The morning after by Clare Kirwan

Money is a tinpot god, it rules the lives of many,
and yet the world is full of those who really haven't any.
The Japanese tsunami left chaos in its wake.
Now homeless, jobless people have hearts near fit to break;
many still owe mortgages on houses that are gone.
How will they buy another? What is to be done?
It's money rules, not common sense
when people have to live in tents
and know their old life's washed away...
Yet they survive another day...

© Jinksy

Tsunami aftermath in Japan
---------------------------------
Jinksy blogs as Napple Notes and Alias Jinksy. 

Copy writers test fancy names

for the unrest: ‘recreational rioting’?

Newspapers plump for ‘scum’;

PR officers of politicians,

police forces, earnest agencies

spin webs to make point-scoring capital.



The uninsured Asian shopkeeper's

still shell-shocked in the shell of his shop;

the hoody has new trainers but his mum’s

too scared to ask him where he got them;

a dad catches sight of his pride and joy

on cctv and has to make a choice.



Chain store fatcats offset the damages

with more staff cuts, and won’t lose any sleep;

Police officers who held back after all

the complaints, now vilified for holding back,

not holding back the mob; some stoic Sikhs

take up cricket bats ready to defend



families above shops, nerves tuned

for smash of glass or curl of smoke;

insurers calculate the costs to spread

to everyone: the flat-dwellers who fled

with nothing but their lives; the family firm

a smouldering crime scene.



Sharing camera footage of him

and his mates and what they did,

damning, laughed over; Twitter alive

with the chirpings of disturbed birds

in their silver cages and their nests of rags;

police drafted in and dying for a tussle;



the brush and bucket brigade

blitz the streets in brittle war spirit,

and the same questions bubble up

at office water coolers, in government

departments, supermarkets, on phones

and forums and behind closed doors:



What happened? And why?

Are you alright? Were you insured?

Where can we go? How can we protect?

What should we do? Who did this? When

and where will they strike again?

Where were you last night?

© Clare Kirwan

Liverpool and Wirral riots see 50 people arrested

--------------------------------------------------

Clare Kirwan occasionally wears a hooded top but has never broken any windows she didn't own. She performs poetry around Merseyside and blogs as Broken Biro.

Clare says: There are so many articles on this, but I chose one local to me - I wonder how many more disturbances there have been away from city centres and not reported nationally?

They say that sadness is a sluggish river
of patience, or it’s a road to shape new time,
so he came over mountains, a night climb
through passes, as he prayed to the moon's silver --
a wheel of wisdom for a land now gone.
Years are gone too, but never gentle hope,
his people behind walls, quiet on slopes
of snow winds cold at their backs each dawn.

Yes, the karmapa and the young wait for him
to die, they yearn to travel up the river to fight --
claim right to fly prayer flags like kites in the sun,
their Buddhism streaked across the sky. A new leader,
rebirth of a holy sea, is ready to storm from under a banyan tree.

© Lavinia Kumar

A Young Tibetan Lama Prepares for a Greater Role
----------------------------------------------------
Lavinia lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in Waterways, Thatchwork (Delaware Valley Poets), Orbis, US1 Worksheets, Caper, Pemmican, Ascent Aspirations, New Verse News, and the US1 newspaper.

“It looks like it would probably work. It’s actually
safe to create a universe in your basement.”
– Alan Guth, physicist

As long as the weekly washing is done,
they never wonder for even a moment
about my secret science...
so upstairs the washing machine rumbles
and the television talks to itself
of ordinary Saturday lunchtime worlds
while down here, I do bigger things.
Amongst the clutter of basement apparatus
I make tiny adjustments,
stare deep into the heart of a small glass jar,
then flick the final, vital switch.

A small flash flashes, leaves a single dark spot
in the centre of my vision –
and then otherwise, all is as it was before.

Not quite.

For the fleetingest of moments, I have pulled the huge forces
from beyond our own small universe
into my little jar – a crashing together of things
from the eleventh dimension, never more
than a millimetre away – created
a new universe: tiny in the instant of its making,
but growing at the speed of light,
flipping out of our own universe in that same instant
to become itself.

What galaxies, stars and planets may grow there?
What worlds and lands and creatures?
Will they worry about work and school on Monday?
Will custard-shaped somethings
fall in love and live forever?

I write my careful notes,
then return upstairs to the washing machine.
Somewhere another universe makes its new beginning.
In this one, I check that the clothes are clean.

© David Bateman

Swedish man arrested after trying to split atoms in his kitchen
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
David was Liverpool Poetry Slam Champion 2007, and still hasn’t got over it. His one proper book is Curse Of The Killer Hedge (Iron 1996). He also writes stories and teaches some creative writing.

Seeds rashly
Scattered
Ground
Underfoot
Latent anger potent germinates

Shot-triggered
Sudden shoots
Watered by
Familial tears
Sweep through startled streets

Rage grows
Blossoms
Bursting
Fire-flowers
Acrid-scented choking smoke


We dread this
Deadly flowering
Yet
We sow
And reap
And reap and still we sow

© Jane James

Tottenham in flames as riot follows protest
----------------------------------------------------
Jane works in Arts & Heritage in the West Midlands, spends too much time
on Twitter and is constantly surrounded by fish.

In what has been a turbulent week, with mayhem in the markets and the news that America has lost its AAA credit rating, Anthony Baverstock's The Tragedy of Obama and Boehner set an ominous tone. While economic analysts were wringing their hands over the 'dead cat bounce', Chris Lawrence's thoughts turned to the deaths of 140 people in Hama, at the hands of the Syrian Army. His poem, Men In T-Shirts, reflects the chilling dilemmas faced by ordinary citizens in pursuit of democracy.

On Wednesday we published Charlene Langfur's, Gift of a Particular Miracle, just two days after Gabby Giffords made a surprise return to Congress, to cast her vote in favour of the debt package. Seven months previously, she had received near fatal head wounds, during a shooting that left six others dead.

And, as one politician continues along the road to fitness, Hosni Mubarak arrived in court on a hospital bed to face charges of corruption and ordering the killing of protesters. Kim Rooney neatly captured the moment in the Cairo courtroom.

Poetry can make the greatest impact when it's kept short and focused. Fran Hill's Progress was perfectly summed up in a comment which read, "All that pathos and irony generated by just a one-word title and eight short lines - a sharp slap to reevaluate priorities. Very efficient and effective." We couldn't agree more.

Heather Wastie offered us The Velvet Glove for Saturday, a quirky tale of spilt shiraz. And on that note, here's a toast to you all. Keep those poems coming!

Sparky's handiwork
dripped from the prongs
of a forklift truck

When they opened up the container
the murder scene
smelled phenomenal

Brett McCarthur gasped -
462 cases
in one fell swoop

When Sparky got the call
he was gut-wrenched
at having to kiss goodbye

to months of hard work,
over a million dollars
and his Velvet Glove

finest shiraz
dropped from a great height
never making the ship

Thankfully he wasn't a man
to operate
without insurance

© Heather Wastie

Australia: Forklift mishap destroys $1m of shiraz wine
------------------------------------------------------------------
Heather Wastie is a British poet, musician, performer & facilitator, born in the Black Country, now living in Worcestershire.

She turns to her children
who lie silent-curled beside her,
their bodies bloated with
someone else’s shame.

‘My little ones,’ she says,
her lips as dry as crusts.
‘The clever people have
found water on Mars.’

© Fran Hill

Mars: Nasa images show signs of flowing water
------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.

The judge's eyes
stream LIVE
from Cairo courtroom
toward the Nile

Mubarak lies
stretchered, caged, docked
flanked by sons
they too, deny

For this
there is no shock
in Egypt, where long dynasties die.

© Kim Rooney

Mubarak trial: Egypt's ex-president denies all charges
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Kim (aka wordturner) is a writer, editor, and poet. A former BBC online journalist she has an MA in Life Writing from the University of East Anglia.

Some of them happen to all of us.
Like this one. Or that one.
With unexpected recoveries,

returns to life that leave us breathless.
Today I believe the same,
look after
what continues. Night become morning,
look after thin slow-moving lines of darkness
turning to light.
I get up out of bed,

trace light's flow. Look to see who made it home,
soldiers home from Iraq,
Afghanistan.
Made it back uninjured,

saved men and women beating out
the crush of chance.
Inexplicably they are on another day alive
among us

a woman recovers from a gunshot to the head.
The undoing of the worst.
Like flower making it through
a long hot summer.
All of us relieved on such a day.

Is it so? All we can do for one
another exceeds all else? Healing.
Salience. All we know.
Again, tomorrow maybe.

The woman with the injury comes back.
Readying herself to go.
Unbowed

anything is possible.

For Rep. Gabby Giffords January 2011

© Charlene Langfur

Six Months After Tucson Shooting, White House Readies Gun Control Stance
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Charlene is an organic gardener and a graduate of the S.U. graduate writing program.

smoke encroaches the sky
men gather
unarmed
by the barricades
gunfire rattles
a chattering fear,
they move in groups
seem aimless powerless
what to do
to call , to chant
to pray,
to unify,
and hope together
will survive
tank wheels
closer now,
fear a sharpened
swordswinging ever closer
do you hide
inside,
or call and shout
defiance.

© Chris Lawrence


Syrian Army Extends Hama Assault as 140 Die
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Chris Lawrence lives with his muse in West Kirby and writes, having been published in many journals internationally and can be found on twitter @clawfish.

Barack and bill
Went up the Hill
To try to save the dollar;
Talks broke down
Between the clowns
And markets tumbled after.

© Anthony Baverstock

US debt crisis: Republican budget proposal passed in House of Representatives
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Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

Getting out and about at poetry readings, I am well aware that there really isn't any subject that a poet somewhere won't tackle. It's good to know this.
After the shocking events in Norway, it was a brave Martin A. Bartels who took up the gauntlet to write about it. And his 'Epitaph' was a fitting poem, zooming in on a map from the broad sweep of global tragedies right into our own homes, where: The coffee mugs are always clean. / The muddled bedroom is empty.
Another brave poem was 'Of Somalia' by 'Anna' which powerfully denounces regimes that allow their people to starve for the sake of religious differences or political point-scoring. It reminds us of the importance of humanity amidst tragedy. The same is true of Charlene Langfur's 'Baghdad Morning in America' - the subtle rhythms and repetitions reminding us of the still-growing list of the dead: And the names are read quietly. Paced. A number. Another.

Also this week, we had some nifty wordplay from David Francis Barker in 'Debit' and further welcome 'relief' from new contributer David Bateman who took a 'wee' pop at the police in 'We Are Sorry (But...)'. We finished the week with Philip Challinor's Soldiers of Fortune which took a cynical look at politicians wanting old soldiers to 'spend a penny' too!
When choosing which poems to publish, we try where possible to get a variety of subjects and styles, light and dark - tricky sometimes when we have such a fast turnover! We want poems on the subjects everyone is talking about, and those little stories most people won't have heard of that capture the imagination.
We'd be interested to know what you think about the mix on Poetry24. Do we get the balance right?

Come join us, for we love you; you are many.
No other party offers rates like this.
Come join us; let us help you spend a penny.
You have our word we will not take the piss.

We are no longer Halliburton's poodles;
We're not the ones who sent you to Iraq.
Come join us in your regiments and oodles -
We need your help to get our numbers back.

Come join us, for the Tories do not love you.
They're not your friends as they have oft been billed.
Come join us; we're your equals, not above you.
We want your wisdom, if you've not been killed.

© Philip Challinor

Labour party to offer military veterans membership for 1p
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Philip blogs at 'The Curmudgeon' - He insists, "You'll come for the curses. You'll stay for the mudgeonry." Philip is the author of a number of books.

“Police chiefs fear the lack of loo breaks is
behind complaints from members of the public
of ‘incivility, impoliteness and intolerance’.”

We are sorry – Mail Online, 20th July 2011

We are sorry about the incivility
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about the impoliteness
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about the intolerance
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about the baton charge
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about going a bit mad
in that beanfield in Wiltshire that time
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about Jean Charles de Menezes
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about Sharpeville
but we were dying to go to the toilet.

We are sorry about Dachau
but we were all really, really
dying to go to the toilet.


© David Bateman

Riot police demand toilet breaks 'to stop them from wetting themselves'
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David was Liverpool Poetry Slam Champion 2007, and still hasn’t got over it. His one proper book is Curse Of The Killer Hedge (Iron 1996). He also writes stories and teaches some creative writing.

What kind of zealot
By oppression and denial
Would further starve
The very bodies, minds and souls
Of his brothers, sisters
Who through famine
Linger, emaciated
As death waits
Expectedly, hungrily
In the shadows?

What kind of zealot
Would refuse
Western, Christian aid
As his people
Who long to live
Sweep up innocent tiny
Scraps of life,
(Who suckle hungrily
At arid breasts)
And trudge wearily
On perilous journeys
For weeks, days
To escape
The ever expanding
Famine zone?

What kind of zealot
Believes his God
Will allow him
Entry to Heaven as
He watches, weeping,
As mankind, His creation
Spews evil in His name?

What kind of zealot
Truly believes that
Allah by His judgement
Will allow him entry
To Heaven by His mercy
And not cast him
Into Hell by His justice?

© 'Anna'

Somalia's Hungry Need Urgent Help
-------------------------------------
I am passionate about my world and write my feelings in both poetry and prose. I live in the UK and for personal reason prefer to remain just 'Anna'.
Anna says: "I realise that the reasons for the famine are complex, global politics have played a part and interest in providing aid by some governments is driven by Somalia’s oil production – but nevertheless for Al-Shabaab to deny a problem and deny aid horrifies me."

The last time I looked,
there was no I in debt.
Default isn't anyone's fault.
The I of irony is much more telling:
Where democracy was first wrought
in ancient Athens' crucible,
there's now a furnace for the Euro.
The meltdown that makes Merkel
wish for the Deutschmark,
makes Sarkozy cosy up
to the Franc of his dreams.
But who dares pull the ace
from this temple of cards?
And should America say 'no dice',
then whose turn is it to throw?
It would be to our credit
to put the I back into debt.

© David Francis Barker

Eurozone leaders warned over seriousness of Greek debt
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David Francis Barker: 'I try to paint, write poetry, prose, sometimes music - I guess that makes me an artist.'

We are stilled by such tragedies
as we cannot comprehend. Those
children in Russia, Virginia,
Norway, Colorado. So many.

Nature, too, inflicts inertia.
Tsunamis, hurricanes, and fires
deconstruct the careful longing,
our sure pretense of relevance,

leaving inadequate options:
to take comfort in words in which
there can be no comfort, to paint
our religions, coax them to life.

Mapmakers today understand
the world is made entirely
of layers: air patterns, land and
watersheds, forest and roadways,

urban densities, also known
as towns and the people within.
Remove these layers and the earth
becomes almost invisible,

surely as it must have been when
God laid the framework for first sin.
Are we to take heart knowing that
even He started over once?

It is easy to view the stars
as souls, and if the stars then birds,
some rivers. And if rivers we
might be baptized in each other.

The coffee mugs are always clean.
The muddled bedroom is empty.
God, after this grief, every
I love you feels like goodbye.

© Martin A. Bartels

Norway gunman 'has accomplices'
-----------------------------------------
Martin is a poet, author, artist, and songwriter living in the Washington DC area. He is currently president & CEO of the humanitarian organization, Seed Programs International. His poetry can be found HERE.

I listen to the names and try to imagine the faces.
In the desert three soldiers died today.
The news on TV is 24 hours a day.
The weatherman's in the desert . Checking for rain. Rain's coming. No one
expects it. Baghdad is hot.
Rain is rare, a gift.
And the names are read quietly. Paced. A number. Another.

Inside the house with the AC on and the TV on,
how easy here to forget what living in the hot sun is like.
In the desert. A sweet taste of water under the sun. The gift of shade.
A palm in the middle of danger.

And the bombs in the sun in this season of reading the names.
A child sits on the curb in the sun in a new pair of sneakers.
He is completely afraid in Baghdad.
The palm is the desert, oranges on the tiny toy truck
in front of him.
The soldiers names are read each day.
All of this, what sounds beautiful in a single day, soldier's names,
oranges,
a boy, palms, going home, a small finely made truck, a toy really.
No talk of this on the TV. Only talk of time lines, troop numbers,
poll numbers, numbers of days engaged, how only a few troops are needed
to do this job.
Danger in the middle of a continent of so much desert.
The plan for the war is to get on with the plan. Forward and not backwards.

But all I know today is about the rhythm of the speech, how it comes
back again and again. Talk of rain. Oranges. Palms swaying.
Things that stay.
And how the buildings all look the same if they are bombed. The landscape,
the window frame where the lavender grew like crazy hours before,
lavender to ward off harm.
A house in Mosel gone. A report of spectacular attacks.

This morning the sky is cloudless and blue again. Today they will read the names.

© Charlene Langfur

Iraq Veteran Returns To Baghdad As A Tourist
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Charlene is an organic gardener and a graduate of the S.U. graduate writing program.