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Three Autobiographical Haikus, by Gordon Lawrie

30/8/2018

Something extra, and a little different, this Friday.

I – On Being Big

A 2XL is
Too small, so's a 3XL –
I'm just a monster.

II – On Being Not a very Good Poet

I wish I could write
Clever haikus that made sense –
Mine are gibberish.

III – On My Strengths as a Poet

The best thing by far
About the haikus that I write
Is that they're all short.

The Resurrection of Mardale Green, by Guy Fletcher

28/8/2018

The summer drought resurrected
some of the walls of Mardale Green
which was framed by Cumbrian hills,
a village flooded and sacrificed
so that Manchester had water to spare.
There are ghosts wandering amongst the stones
lying sad and alone as if bleached bones.

Oh, it is not a glorious return
and soon the rains will cascade again
its history forgotten except by
historians and ever distant ancestors.
But now I visualise village life:
picturesque Mardale Green in its heyday
before the water...took its life away.

A Place Beyond Hope, by Guy Fletcher

20/8/2018

Sometimes in the pub down the road
her shrill laughter makes me shudder like fingers
scraping their way down a classroom board.
She is centre of attention, Queen Bee,
pouring scorn at the quiet man in the corner.
She dances as the tuneles local band play
but soon her zest for life is blown away.

It is midday, curtains are drawn,
she lacks the will to escape
the crushing despair of her lonely bed.
When she alights it is to vodka
and not the anti-psychotic drugs she reaches for,
poison medicine she uses to cope
in a gloomy room...a place beyond hope.

A Trip, by Kirsty Niven

19/8/2018

It was today that my spirit broke,
crumpled after a tumble down the stairs.
There was little I could say, nothing I spoke;
not that anyone who knows cares.

All they can tell me is “Chin up!”
They do not see I have turned to crystal.
I stare and stare at this cold cup,
at the slightest thing I could go off like a pistol.

It’s hard enough to drag myself out of bed,
never mind the reminders that I should be able.
The waves slosh and slosh inside my head.
The scan still sits on the coffee table.

EyesRight, by Rona Fitzgerald

19/8/2018

I
My you are nervous, he said
as I reminded him again
left eye today.

A quick cut
cataract is gone
luminous lens inserted.

Faces flowers
garrulous greens on the Clyde
grainy textures
and yes, dust!

II
When they cut your eye
you can see, red drops
translucent water
pinprick lights.

No pain.

A machine voice intones
aspirating.

Halfway

The nurse holds my hand
remember to signal
a sneeze or vigorous cough.

My mam’s cool hand
on my burning forehead
my sister holding me at night

you hoisting my fractured
leg up our steep stairs
moorings in all seas.

The Iron Duke, by Guy Fletcher

16/8/2018

As I peer from the stone waterfront
onto the Channel at Burnham on Sea
I imagine the steamer back in 1858,
(the first passenger ferry from Cardiff)
trapped in wet sand, indifferent seagulls
gliding and screeching loudly as today
quite oblivious to the people's dismay.

But the passengers from long ago
are far beyond anger and frustration
as my eyes feast on the vast sandy shore
leading all the way to Brean Down.
I walk to the edge of the water
near to where the grand steamer ran aground
listening to the ocean's hypnotic sound.

The Nuclear Mud of Hinkley Point, by Ian Fletcher

12/8/2018

It was once just a name
to most of us in South Wales
this nuclear power plant
across the Bristol Channel
on the sleepy Somerset shore
that seemed a world away
from the bathers at Penarth
or in nearby Cardiff Bay.
But I read in the news today
about the authorization
for tonnes of its nuclear mud
to be dumped just one mile
off from the Penarth coast
at a mere ten days’ notice.
It’s safe the authorities say
yet if that is really the case
why would this slurry need
to be disposed of anyway?
Hinkley Point has suddenly
come much closer to home
so whatever the officials claim
you will no longer find me
bathing in this radioactive sea.

Smuggler's Tunnel, by Guy Fletcher

6/8/2018

Across the red rock bay of Teignmouth
in the quaint village of Shaldon
a smugglers tunnel leads to a secluded beach:
I don't know if any really came
yet I imagine the ghosts of pirates,
rough sailors with torchlights and goods galore
who've alighted from their boat on the shore

in wild winds but now it's sedate,
autumn sun escaping dark clouds
creating silver gems on the turquoise sea,
impotent waves sizzling on the sand.
I re-enter the tunnel a mere tourist
with just a rucksack, nothing of worth,
smugglers from long ago...all in the earth.

Poetry

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