I shall make a list of three things
and place it behind my ear
I shall lie on the sofa
and stroke purple velvet, men's knees
heavy tassels
I shall walk the alleys
pulling the clouds by their
"..there's nothing in the desert and no man needs nothing" - Prometheus
Captain's log. Stardate: now.
Mission 1-9-692-012 accomplished.
The crew is alive. Vital signs - stable, although many
'So, there's uncle Bill, Jenny, Victoria, Tony, their kids..and...'
'don't be stupid, he'll never wear that, he hates brown'/
his car is brown and I thought...'
'oh, aren't they lovely!!!!
the coffee will taste the same
the blue chair she sat in
will stay blue
her PC screen – darkened for a while
her pictures – gone
people will chit chat in lower voices
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his
The National Poetry Competition has been one of Britain's top single poem competitions since 1978. It is judged by a new set of judges each year, and all poems are made anonymous before they are
the world is pouring into you
a waterfall
a rush
a once in a lifetime
you drink your usual earl grey
milk, no sugar
under a pile of clouds
you feed your pigeons in squares
and
for better for worse
the club of Christian happiness is now open
patients are granted a place in heaven
dead or alive
the pharmacies are closed
doctors grope their nurses in utility rooms
and
a woman is caressing the scaffold laughing
here, she says to her servants, here i shall rest my wrists and my chin over here
and in between
there shall be nothing but the lump in my throat
I have a
the first verse has some sort of divinity in it
innit?
followed by blah
induced by education
influenced by footsie
screwed by governments
you never get the bike you want
spider-man is a man
I swear with my hand on the heart
[mine, another’s]
that I know nothing
that I get on the train on my way home
and come off at some Glasgow terminal
that I write on my shopping list b r e a
The sun is nowhere
This summer’s delayed
My throat is like sandpaper
Earth is my head
I read Wendy Cope’s masterpiece and I blabber:
“Will I ever be published by faber and faber?”
The news just
the thunders are bringing the storm to the shore
and strings of rays are pulling the sun behind,
like a golden chariot
is that you?
the man who asks who am I?
are you the magician without a wand?
am
we wonder from room to room carrying words
on dry lips like paper
and the windows keep them inside
so tight that we have to draw on them
with our last breaths
these fingers, once caressing the
your seconds stretched over me
like the arms of a lover
day and night
I thank you for my gifts
the whispers of his lips
(oh, his lips)
the air built around feathers
in towers and towers of
Established in 1984, The Rialto features international names and established poets alongside emerging talents.
The Nature Poetry Competition 2012 is a unique chance to have your poetry published by
We sit in twos, in threes, at a black table
At the door the ones who want to weep for us are furiously knocking. At times
one of us stands up, as from a life from a afar and
writes on the door
"we will find it we will bind it
we will stick it with glue glue glue
we will stickle it every little bit of it
we will fix it like new new new"
(The Mending song - Bagpuss)
*
your stripes are
Jason,
since your gloved gesture stopped me
near this curb covered in lichens
I stare at you straight in the eye
a dead sea
where the paragraphs of law swim
as a bank of tuna
you’re so tall,
you remember the corridor?
the corridor which carried our footsteps
like a golden chariot King Ahab
it took forever to understand
the white piano’s tune
our heart beats put it to shame
with
the day will follow its night
like a Labrador
the post box
the window in the attic
the piano key
the heart in the chest
shall be in complete harmony
with
plank exercises
the apple stalk
Soul of mine, how do you love me?
Listen, lover, what am I to you:
I am a man, am I not? Am I more? And more?
The angel caressing the dead Sun?
The circus beast, tearing all apart?
A blade of
I was wondering if the scarf made last year
feels warm and soft to your neck
holding above the chin I have bitten and kissed
or
if the Victorian blanket I knitted
covers well your knees
the
A man had one love which he kept hidden.
He was dressing it, feeding it, reconciling it
And kept it hidden. One day, it turned winter
and our man has forgotten about his hidden love.
When he
CP