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Poets are sought to start Concrete String open poetry circle.
Supportive poetry sharing and criticism.
If interested send an email using the contact box at the base of this page.
Supportive poetry sharing and criticism.
If interested send an email using the contact box at the base of this page.
P O E T R Y
WALKING HOME
pidgeons flap Monday out
squinting at writers
between scrolls
air gentles over ridges
from atomic day
to evening rustle
airborn they slide
playing the mist
in heels and long feathers
I don’t just go out in suburbia
I have to aclimatise it on
feet thumping regimental pavings
I sink between cracks
where city flows
fearing they‘re headstones
for the creative
I rush on
stretching time
you are MY Swansea
I, no forms attached, claim you
if this is greedy
chase me down Caswell beach
or to cockle beds
before floodrise
where dirt lies in families
conversation pipping
between beaks
of temporary residents
that old sea, she knows I own you
a marker bell
in solemn dong
where toss and tell chime
catch YOUR paper horizon
to hear screaming views I lost
So many drowned afternoons
drinking my mother’s ocean
DAWN RHYTHM
magpies burst dawn out of branches
in squeaking mattress bounce
next in section
come robin, wren
wily baritone rook
milk van trickles past
to not crack my window,
nor creak my floor
still lofty pines
cackle carrion lie-ins
slowly radio joins thoughts up
walking ground about
till the bit at the bottom is shoe
and the rest is poet
DOWN
Its so quiet I hear
the house drop
energetic beetles
chewing our descent
slowly enough to not notice
above swelling drains
the dismembered rat
in the relationship u-bend
unless you’ve marked a tree
with the previous position
unless the tree is also sinking
Wrong Because Different
remember me
the lame daughter
crippled with art
wrong because different
still black
as original sheep
my scrawls pervert
the family line
smear our slate
to recycle the stony face
that crushed my weightiest draught
the smirk
that patterned home
I flush in earth’s breath
and begin again
recycle dawn walks
and tipped by the last miner
plunder silver spill
then sit hours unexploded
to paint on marsh
happy with the warning
“live shells”
we artists, unique and cunning
like dandelion in seed
wisps storming strongholds at our pick
luminescent in May glow
beneath, harvest waits
to crack our fertile crust
inevitable
but seldom spectacle
These poems copyright© Sue Mann published in "Talking The Hind Legs Off A Donkey," by new small press Concrete String.
For workshop and or reading enquiries telephone 01792 203514 or 07974391251
