Blog Archives

Ex, by Ian Fletcher

30/3/2018

My husband’s a barrister in a pinstripe suit.
I’d heard that he’s an unfaithful brute.
Our son Nate’s something big in the city.
I’d heard he’s a reprobate, such a pity.
I go to yin yoga classes every single day.
I’d heard you’re always in therapy.
Things seem to have turned out well.
I’d heard that your life’s a living hell.
Are you still teaching and scribbling out rhymes?
I’d heard beneath the sarcasm you’re all bereft.
You might give me a call sometime.
I’d heard quite enough and left.

Langstone Rock, by Guy Fletcher

26/3/2018

We used to discuss God and people
once pivotal in our lives
amongst the multi-coloured pebbles:
white, gold, grey and purple
on the way to red Langstone Rock
but today I'm alone on the coast
looking quite mad, conversing with a ghost

as I pass black seaweed slumped
over the rocks on this pavement grey day
with a slither of snow remaining on Holcombe Hill
an exhilarating view as I pause,
admiring the cliff hole by Coryton Cove.
The wind is wild, sea restless as I stroll
and memories flood...deep into my soul.

He Who Rides a Tiger..., by Sofia Kioroglou

21/3/2018

I long to keep a grounded sense of stability
I've got time sensitive projects
A pinch of positivity won't come amiss
Methinks, reveries are kick bollocks scrambles

You Fuel My Ambitions, by Adam Smith

20/3/2018

If you had known me back when I
had flown, or rather, touched the sky,
then you would know a different me;
a man who knew but victory.

But you must judge me as I am;
a lion not, but rather, lamb.
A lamb who cowers in the night,
paralyzed by lack of light.

Memories of my lion days
bolster me beneath your gaze.
And though at present I am low,
you're looking deep, my heart to know.

Your love is fuel for my ambitions,
because it comes with no conditions.

Castle Gardens Transformed, by Guy Fletcher

20/3/2018

The statue of the Marquis of Bute
stands impassive, his grey cloak
adorned with snow as flakes dutifully
follow each other to the pebbles and hedges
each one with unique DNA:
a vast battalion doomed like us all
but it's hypnotic to watch snowflakes fall.

They snuggle on the barren trees
on this rare mid-March whiteout
and nobody resides on the seats today
but I remember it here in the summertime
with tulips swaying in a gentle breeze
and a young woman with eyes far away
now a ghost as frozen daffodils sway.

Behind the park a canal hides
and with gothic Cardiff Castle across the road
I feel I'm in an eastern European land.
But this beauty is transient
as birds sing under a slate-grey sky.
Just a few short days before winter's death
I experience...its defiant breath.

Goodnight Professor Hawking, by Ian Fletcher

14/3/2018

A mind of such profundity
with such fine apprehension
it could effortlessly plumb
the vast depths of the cosmos
and, god-like, construct theories
beyond the ken of ordinary men
of gravity and matter affecting
the stars and farthest galaxies
all this while pitifully bound
within the constrained limits
of a useless broken body
that would not bend itself
to your commands or will.
An atheist, you well surmised
the starry universe you loved
whose mysteries entranced
you throughout your life
would care not a jot that
your mighty consciousness
would shrink to a singularity
of the utterest nothingness
sucked into that black hole
from which no man returns.

Mourning Song, by Guy Fletcher

12/3/2018

I woke on a dark, wild wintry morning
rain weeping down the window panes.
I could not return to that other land
so wiped dreams from world-weary eyes
surfing the radio hearing Tainted Love.
I sang along turning the sound up high
remembering the 80s now long gone by.

This was our song and the memories
brought an ache into my soul
but I listened to Marc Almond until the end
switching off the radio only to dream
of the tune playing in a club in York,
bright red lipstick with her hand touching mine
in a different world...where life tasted fine.

Snow Falling On Roath Park Lake, by Guy Fletcher

5/3/2018

Snow falling on Roath Park Lake
dancing to the path below
where a child skips with joy.
The scene belongs to Christmas time
not the dying days of Winter,
snow adorns the crevices of trees,
daffodils shiver in the brutal breeze.

Snow falling on Roath Park Lake
as white as the Scott Memorial
though only a pale imitation
of the great blizzards which led to his doom.
Swans and mallards gracefully glide,
I pause for a while, my breath ghostly steam
as if drifting in a fabulous dream.

Outcast, by Sadia Munir

3/3/2018

Sensuous, secluded, seductive and suppressed,
She is the one facing a quest.

Pious, purged, paragon and pacifist,
He is the one having the best.

She is sinful and perfidious.
He is holy and fastidious.

Feminism in a constant test.
Chauvinism in the constant best.

Poetry

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