Sunday, December 20, 2009

Harry Godwin ~ How Poets Seep into the Unconscious

dream : 19/12/2009

cloudy ceilings

emily howard - elegant . demure - sister of simon
polite conversation / waiting for mark
cobley - red top / blue jeans - arrives late
apologies / must leave . s

shafts of dust / lit
must . wood . door
sun on the porch on the grass

I have never dreamt of grass
of cloudy ceilings
but staircases -

Harry Godwin is a London-Devon poet (discount rates on Sundays) who publishes, is published and founds things (like Cleaves Journal). He spends his time and that is why he is in debt. He also looks after a pregnant lady and a kitten, so please support him and buy his books from The Arthur Shilling Press (they are cheap and there is no profit from them).

Harry Godwin ~ How Poets Seep into the Unconscious

dream : 17/12/2009

dim lit
red balcony seats
red .

Tony . Lopez /&/ Fraser
prat about -
scolded by the old

Harry Godwin is a London-Devon poet (discount rates on Sundays) who publishes, is published and founds things (like Cleaves Journal). He spends his time and that is why he is in debt. He also looks after a pregnant lady and a kitten, so please support him and buy his books from The Arthur Shilling Press (they are cheap and there is no profit from them).

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Diminuendo ~ Emily Howard

I play the piano

In the clothes closet

One pump about to tumble

from the shelf. High heel

black sequined. Shape of a gun.

I wore it in a concert once.

One pump is tumbling

high from the shelf

I play the piano

Black sequins, light gradations.

Gun metal strings, quarter tones.

a crime scene really.

I am a woman playing the piano

One high heel pedaling

the other one tumbling

Crime scene, quarter light

Gradation of tone. Little Bach Fugue

Black sequined gun.

Clues to the crime. I am a woman.

I wore it in a concert once

Fugue, gradation, metal quarter

Might have been for a lover

Tumbling tone, yes.

shape of a gun.

Yes, I wore it for a lover

Little Bach sequence playing

once in a concert. Gradation of tumbling light.

Other strings, quarter time, black clothes.

in the closet on a high shelf

Shape of a crime scene really.

I play a crime scene. Black sequins pedaling

sequence. A fugue tumbling.

A woman by gradations, quarter tone.

Other times, high heels once in a concert.

Gun metal Bach. A closet.

A high shelf.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

let me explain ~ angie werren

I can hear
in your silence / leaves turn
branches crack / flood waters rush
cold air thud into warm

your sigh is
the screech of a red-tail hawk
your laugh is
the click of talons on soft rabbit neck

be careful of the loud words you speak
be careful into which ear you whisper

there is always a calm / and sandbags

in hidden corners

there will always be a great horned owl

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Brighton Beach (NYC) ~ Beth Levin

I swim far out
to where a man sings an old Russian folk song
my skin like eyes and ears
senses the sky the water the wind
a wobbly seagull escorts me back
to my blanket in the sand

Beth Levin is a classical pianist in New York City. Beth says "Working on a poem is a chance for me to work with words, break out of a score and in to the spoken world for a little while.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

The Hard Shoulder ~ Richard Barrett

There is astrology though
unreliable / amongst the Debenhams
reduced rail
Every night + for ages
(Sometimes) But you suit purple
Dear Store Manager
That word 'glamorous' recurs
often. More than you'd think
The wind today is blowy
+ 1000 feet hit
(I guess) lets go!
chase yr. bus ticket then
+ with reference number----------
The feet hit those town gardens
Can I have a quid please for chips?
I am a Leo.

Richard is currently in transit

Friday, November 20, 2009

The Hard Shoulder ~ Richard Barrett

I was a cloud
The selection process used was mysterious
It might be difficult to mistake one house for two but
it can be done
And mythologies can also get confused
/ They will disappear with hard enough concentration
- if the coach moves fast enough
In that spare room, across that single bed
My swollen thumb
Someone who doesn’t notice time / or
notices it perhaps too much
Says: I am still the greatest / I am
the bowling-alley king
That clock is fast
Isn’t it? We’re awaiting confirmation anyway, so
best not to worry.

Richard is currently in transit

Friday, October 30, 2009

Shadows ~ Gideon Xenos

What is the shadow of a home’s
leaning age? The shadow cannot lean
more into distance than the mind’s
fingers’ eventual control.

Inside, a family lives, speaks
dialect of au courant recollections:

birth, maturation, meals paralleling
evening surprise.

Soon, they will wave into wind’s
musical science, forming
hallucinations of the former
life, living inside the shadow of
elegant control.

Gideon lives in California

Same is the Difference of Intelligent Control ~ Gideon Xenos

Sole leaf wore variants of green. These
greens spawned satirical shadows of
initiated selves, as moss
as grass as lizard’s blurred
absence. When asked
if self was the self of syncopated memories,
myriad green voices
spoke of tomorrow’s
finalized casualty:
its browning edges
finding bug-eaten crevice
italicized motion of understanding

Gideon still lives in California

Here Though Silence is the Echoing Vernacular ~ Gideon Xenos

his wandering sameness (sandals, white cloth, intent)
wore on sleeves of reason a
brand of continuous questioning.
when answers failed to fit body
of elongated remorse,
words of which were intensely untrue
fell near paths his tired body
delved into the
entrance of enormous

Still Gideon lives in California.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

the open window ~ emily howard

Quiet now after the wedding.
Pouring rain I am still sitting fancy
Katie’s ghost is smoking on the front stoop
I won’t let her in although
I would really like a cigarette.

Apparently ghost love is all I know
For example, I love a ghost across the ocean
He loves another ghost, well his wife really
but ghost nonetheless-he sends me memories of her
line by line. I don’t really mind although
I still would like a cigarette as I read.

My brother died and now he’s a tree frog somewhere
Is this relevant? I wear his shirt sometimes.
My ocean ghost sent me one that looks just like it.
I’m not sure this is relevant.
If Michael weren’t a tree frog, I’d say he should join Katie on the porch.
but they wouldn’t necessarily get along.

Tonight was nice. I should ask my therapist
Why I hate weddings so much or is it
just a resentment of those who do not live ghost lives
But I think maybe everyone lives ghost lives.
Still they are pert and neat in their barriers
between here and there. And me,
I danced, fleshily, in a séance shawl
and felt solid at least in my whirling-they smiled at me
It was nice. Tiny nervous Thea left to go smoke.
I almost went with her.

In the story I read
one woman left her French doors open
every autumn so as to let in the long dead
Hunting party of her sons
And through the doors they came.
I read it, eating dried dates, under my covers
with a flashlight. We had similar doors in my house.
downstairs, where Michael sat watching television.
Because he was there , it didn’t frighten me
But I also wanted to be frightened.

I almost wish I knew what I am getting at.
And yes I see my lined face in the computer screen
ghostly, but so what? Hardly the point I’d say
but maybe the arc. The window is open and rain blows in
Michael is a tree frog. Katie smokes on the porch.
Nobody asked me to live as lonely as I have.
At least, he sleeps across the ocean
At least I can think of that.

I look in the kitchen for dried fruit
I find blueberries instead, cold in my mouth
I accept this little by little.

the gable

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Sunday, September 27, 2009

Seventh Month ~ Theophilus Kwek

It is the seventh month.

We visit relatives, unseen
for the rest of the year
and are welcomed with Chinese sausage
wrapped with diced
carrots in warm flour rolls,
bulging orange like angry shape poems.

Teeth slice through sweetened
sauce and greetings
exchange themselves with biting nicety;
comments about the weather
become errant popiah fragments
soaring through the stuffy afternoon.

Further into the conversation,
voices talking at
each other exile
the younger generation reverently
to the background, leaving
them to study rolling TV headlines –

Somewhere a bomb kills
an entire family.
Long-lost son is reunited
with dying grandparents.
Minister cautions against
growing generation gap.

I lower the volume and
there is an awkward silence
we retreat into being

hungry ghosts.

1) seventh month on the chinese calendar is also known as hungry ghost month, because of a traditional belief that ghosts emerge to play and feast on the living in the night.
2) popiah is exactly what it is here - chinese sausage wrapped in thin flour sheets with vegetable and sweet sauce.

Theophilus is from Singapore and is 15. These are his first published poems. He is also a musician with the Singapore National Youth Orchestra and his school Strings Ensemble. He is also very polite.

Love Letters ~ Theophilus Kwek

If the ‘my’ in love is spelt m for ‘me’
and y for ‘you’, then let me keep
the Unbelievable Secret of ‘us’ as well
so I can taste its wait-sweet words
by dappled moon and softly laugh
at young and tenuous follies;

when you were to me
a state of mind
and I to you
a sometime find.

And if hearts by time wearied are
then give me scarlet paper ones to light
quiet fires red as forever sun,

or better still leave
me Every Yearning Eclipse of ‘eye’,
that open window to your soul, to give
me a glimpse of journey’s end.

But since your pen and these my words
soon roped, spell open doors when mixed –
then we might here in somewhat time
love, learn, talk, kiss
or switch the letters of our lives
and make pair with our initials.

Theophilus is from Singapore and is 15. These are his first published poems. He is also a musician with the Singapore National Youth Orchestra and his school Strings Ensemble. He is also very polite.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Northe's wall

Saturday, August 29, 2009

She weren't just a Dollymop ~ Polly Peachum

"Cor! did ye hear about Cora"
I says to Judge Mortimer Plumb
He was dressed in a nappy with his gob at my dairy
Looking right nicky and then some.

"What are you on about Polly?"
He says in a right stupid way
"She's dead sir", I said, "from a knock in the head"
"Now the angels have took her away"
“I'm sorry to hear it” the Judge says
And shifts his great arse in me lap
“The wages of sin, no doubt did her in-
Still a shame she had to go like that!'

"Enough of the dollymop gossip
He then says with a petulant pout
"So sorry to disturb ye. Turn over I'll burp ye"
I says with me patience near out.

But my mind kept wandering to Cora
Her smile and her coppery hair
Her knickers were whiter, her corset pulled tighter
Than all the toffers in Haymarket Square.

She'd knick ye a ointment if your madge had an itch
A meat pie if you had a craving
She'd give her last half penny to a Shivering Jemmy
Didn't care if he was barking or raving.

She always had a song to sing
Or a joke so's to keep us all happy
And I think our Dear Lord, who Cora adored
Prefers that to some bloke in a nappy.

And then I grows right ill tempered
As I'm fixing his bib and his bonnet
She was so gentle and kind! I got it in mind
to say a few word to His Dishonor.

"She weren't just a dollymop, Sir"
I said with flash in me eye
"She was the finest friend in all the East End
And now she's an Angel on High"

"She weren't just a Judy!
and now Sir, I bid you Good Day"
And as I heads to the door, I heard then I swore
A most beautiful harp start to play!

Polly is a Victorian lady with very high standards. This is her first published poem ever.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Short Love Sonnets ~ Duane Locke

(Poems written to appeal to the metaphoric sub-structure of the cognitive unconscious of the embodies mind)


Less stars tonight. Less than last night.
Fewer that a week ago. The stars tonight
Are more obscure. Not silver or white,
The stars tonight are obsidian. The stars
Tonight are not familiar, do not have five points.
Stars are shaped like dead Osiris, Osiris with
An Old Man Face, a broken back, intense desire.
Some are shaped like orphans with open arms.
These enigmatic, non-intimate stars emanate
Loneliness, walk downward, come closer, closer.


The abandoned orange grove at the time
Of evening when blue becomes a glow of bruises
When the abandoned new oranges darken
With foresight, their skins will never be touched,
Will become the isolated letters of alphabets,
That although intensely longing to be a sentence
Will never be conjoined to form a single word.
The angular almsgivers are in other publicized groves offering
Illusory paragraphs to the au courant poseur paupers.
A flutter of evening light on leaves, hidden, an oriole.


Submerged under morning moisture a molten silver,
Under a crystal umbrella, a color, silver,
By the silver, a yellow-lined spittlebug plays an oboe,
The music crawls in a hole to weep,
This silver has a silver color like no silver color
In the entire world, in the entire cosmos.
This silver, this unique silver, is trying
To tell me something, something deeper
That all our known profundity, something opaque.
The silver only speak silver, I only understand words.

Duane Locke lives a hermetic life by an ancient oak, an underground stream, and osprey’s nest in rural Lakeland, Florida. He has had, as of August 2009, 6,389 different poems published in print magazine, American Poetry Review, Nation, etc., e zines, Counterexample Poetics, Pen Himalaya, etc, and 21 books. His latest three books published in 2009 are Yang Chu’s Poems, (Crossing Chaos), Voices from the Grave, (erbacce-press), and Soliloquies from a High Wall Hidden Cemetery, (Differentia Press)

He is also a painter and photographer. An account of his paintings can be found in Gary Monroe’s Extraordinary Interpretations ( University of Florida Press, 2003)

More information can found in Marquis’ Who’s Who in America and Google search, 4,850.000 entries

Saturday, August 22, 2009

little gallows man ~ Angie Werren

you’ll think you thought these things alone

it was early morning when that dog broke free
pulled me from the ground / up by my questionable roots
he carried me in his slobbering mouth
he laid me at your door

you wanted me then
you washed me in red wine
you fed me milk and honey

you saw in me a semblance of yourself
a thing you could cajole and
manipulate / but that hanged man
was more wicked than you knew

you’re stuck with me

eyeballing you
slyer than sly

dress me in white / sit me on a shelf
I’ll hop down in the dead of night
I’ll crawl into your ear until
my whispers become your words

you fed me milk and honey
you washed me in red wine
you’re stuck with me now

hanging / there was another
innocent seed dropped down
that dog will be howling at the door

you’ll think you thought these things alone
and you'll think like roots / like nightshades

Angie Werren writes poetry from a little house in Ohio. She has poems published in a few lovely places like The Ouroboros Review and Bolts of Silk. She is also a bit delightful and a true sport.

Friday, August 21, 2009

rubble ~ Angie Werren

during the dismantling / feathers
were found in the mortar and
deep exhumation unearthed bricks
that crumbled like paper maché

there were no remnants of shale / no
traces of clay / simply a molded mass
of sentence fragments / hollow quills
bits of paper and / odd consonants

the structure seemed sound but
the lack of vowels mixed with
disjointed emotion proved unstable
the foundation / succumbed

it simply slipped to the ground
authorities have exhausted all leads

said someone close to the source:
she was a bird / down dripped
from her wings as she flew away

Angie Werren writes poetry from a little house in Ohio. She has poems published in a few lovely places like The Ouroboros Review and Bolts of Silk. She is also a bit delightful and a true sport.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Aeolian Skinner ~ Emily Howard

I heard

a hundred swallows

released as notes

in high cathedral ceilings

We’re up there too

in the fragrance of the leftover lilies

in organ pipes from long ago.

In the moment

I had

a little vessel to uphold

all bullying and restless edges

smooth wood


a tiny ship

take me back across the ocean

Tired blackbird


Her spire

Her singing

as if in pain

and in fact in pain.

I heard a hundred swallows

released as notes

some of them were in my throat.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Metro Stances ~ Gareth Durasow

The rickshaw mice are all stone deaf, having spent their
youth scavenging the gap. They consider this for the best,
and the only way to skin a cat. Let’s pay them no mind,
just the racket of cash and safeguard ourselves from the
cobbled tour – we’d be fools to let this opportunity pass,
to put an arm round you but talk about me, and address
the complication posed by surgeons and students who in
waging a tug of war with my murderous guts have come
to know me best. Here’s to the evening when you’ll chip
your new nails and find bits of my blood underneath.

Scrap your plans to sell the sky for advertising space
because our new mannequins have webcams for faces,
or mirrors at least, and quash that sweatshop stigma
by telling you about a Panorama they watched where
those children were smiling – with music for uppers,
spared the indignity of raving with giants, the relative
leisure of building a polyester Jerusalem here: where
bubblewrap billows on the scarecrow trees and there
be bodies in them there hills. What we’re telling you
now is this: the model we flogged you prior was shit.

Dear Father, I’m apprenticed to the bloke in the back
whose duty is to re-adhere the flies to the replica heads
that the punters end up blundering through in the dark.
Son, imagine your city, the city of misnomers, its story
unfold in a minute or less. Consider the horror of the
populace petering off till one morning there’s nobody
about in the street – the poverty’s eaten its HD façade.
Dear Father, I hope this photo will bring you over to
my way of thinking. We met at the closure of the last
laundrette. Her washer was caput. I was just fortunate.

The swan is Jesus, tranquil atop the effluent tide I’m in
knee-deep, tipping a pail over another stranded Beluga
beached in our garden, soon to explode & cover us with
entrails. My blubber-splattered bride how we danced in
their gore, in the middle of what once was winter – till
scrawny polar bears came mewling at our door. The kids
drank the water against the party’s advice, lost their lives
beneath the ice to sharks too weak to tackle stray dogs. I
serenaded you with a passing guitar under stars restored
to the sky since the city lights sank… a hell of a divorce.

Teach me to roll, my suddenly Rastafarian friend. The
improper authorities once kyboshed this cash cow so
basement empires like this one fell under the COSHH.
Let this millennium’s successors correct the dinosaurs’
skeletons once and for all, make use of our paper and
publish this crap before time turns the trees back into
stone, the elephant departs with her keeper in tow; no
evident reason until the tsunami collapses on London
arborists undercutting one another, Domino’s cyclists
running reds for a quid pro quo. Surely must be close.

If you’d care to lend a pen then I can start learning you
a lesson or two, beginning with why we’ve switched off.
Those who don’t write have to memorise this scenario
where a sardine goddess lost in the murder she’d wrote
flashes you her hopeless Underground smile like a death
sentence: priceless, which leads you to think about how
you’d like to pick the last bits of Kabuki Queen from her
cuticles. Then you remember you’ve never once written
a love letter. Now you can’t help but resent the poor girl.
And the accordionist’s rollicking seesaw shanties begin.

Gareth Durasow is a West Yorkshire poet, performer and playwright who has a tendency to run with the mainstream hares and the avant-garde hounds. His poetry and performances have won prizes at Ilkley and Huddersfield Literature Festivals and his plays for the award-winning theatre company Horizon Arts have won nothing at all. He also collaborates with the editors of Spine magazine to host Letterbomb, an open-mic event in Leeds city centre.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Lost in the City ~ Howard Good

All the streets
go one way

the wrong way.
What’s next

but looking
for clues,

a playing card,
a swallow’s egg,

a cigarette butt,
tremendous dynamite,

and wishing
they added up.

Howie Good is the author of nine poetry
chapbooks, most recently Visiting the Dead (2009) from
Flutter Press. He is also a rather nice chap.

A Brand of Pain ~ Aristotle Sinclair

Her perfume was a melon’s
blood, a sword of suicidal
hara-kiri. An ache belongs
on the lips of a hungry kiss,
her vital leaving of understanding
want, dragged the clock’s hands
to a crawling exhibition. Youth
is this formation of burgeoning
As she walks into the door of
distance’s creation, her scent remains
a haunting voice, one lying dormant
on the tattered thread of a memorable

Aristotle lives in California and has been writing poetry for a short time. He has recently had worked accepted for publication on Writers' Bloc and the Catalonian Review.

Layered Investigation ~ Aristotle Sinclair

At night the owl’s search is active, awake
connected to the oscillating
neck of mirrored study.
The owl asks the bodies of night:
Why do men choose this time to collect
crime’s of selfish desire, and among
this philosophy of self-sufficient paradigms,
where do the tragedies hide when
their fear of retribution echoes
over subsequent darkness more fantastic
than their disappointed shadow?

Aristotle lives in California and has been writing poetry for a short time. He has recently had worked accepted for publication on Writers' Bloc and the Catalonian Review.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

merope ~ mark cobley

i will not visit

or your memory
over and over

blue white and dove grey
are the colours of cloud
breath on a cold morning
halo of the eye

my face never to be
touched by
fingerprint whorl
wind caught
but from

to be gone
is not darkness
or blindness

or the treacherous sea ink
rising and falling

fade light
thin away

the hurt is within

cover eyes
in shame
a spiral

cheat death wise Sisyphus

my sisters

you will know me

no more.

From dove flock a work in progress

Friday, August 14, 2009

Painters’ Exhalations 499 ~ Felino A. Soriano

after José Lerma Untitled

In the correct light, her forehead
evaporates from the flaming fervor
her lips utter, sporadically. This
is why the light has to be correct,
near the farthest corner of day’s
smallest room. For here, near the room’s
tiny, crawl-through window, adequate
light can dictate an abstract appearance,
and her face, the face I find lovely
as auroras always find the eye of a
gazing fool, can behave according
to the moment, one of falling leaves outside
from the growing-beyond tree’s anecdote
for decamping.

Felino has authored 10 collections of poetry and is the editor and publisher of
Counterexample Poetics, and Differentia Press, More information at his website,

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

fragments ~ David McLean

fragments of dead men

scattered over heaven

rotten pears and scented apples

we cut with razors blunt
listening fingers fucked

and the scars on our arms
are from laughter

importunate ecstasy

as life scowls at the sun

murder in the victim's blood

is us, temporary

death, fragments

of love, rotten pears, thinking skin

and things written,
periods missing,

scented drugs

David has a blog mourningabortion A new chapbook hellbound can be found at Epic Rites and an anthology is due out from them next year.

The Lay of the Land ~ Andrew Taylor

Instructions have been left
take me back to where my heart

fields shorn within the day
bales are removed
soil finally rests

procession through landscape
a pace amplified against that of
the narrow boat

a house beams exposed tip
of the hill hedgerow borders
map precursors

Saplings plastic guarded
a future generation’s guidance

Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool poet and co-editor of erbacce and erbacce-press. His latest collection is Make Some Noise (Original Plus) and an e-book is forthcoming from Differentia Press.

Endanger Fencing ~ Andrew Taylor

blinding division walk the Brecon Beacons
amongst pale horses at Easter

creatures caught in traps shot in the back
of the head a countryside of carnage

from the beginning hotels near Heathrow
twenty four hour rolling news

a chance to study war how I’d have liked you
to walk with me around cities at night

drinking whiskey and listening to shock
radio like a bad mistake I ponder

anonymous scream pilots descend
at half mile intervals in a seated night

I was unaware that you would wait for me
like the ghost ration of a slow light I isolate

Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool poet and co-editor of erbacce and erbacce-press. His latest collection is Make Some Noise (Original Plus) and an e-book is forthcoming from Differentia Press.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Constable Country ~ Alec Newman

Suburbia rises
over the charred
offering of the orchard

Smoke surrenders to
the odour of summer rain
and roses
and climbing jasmine
and fresh stained decking

Houses made homes
Panasonic Sony LG
Griman Noresund Groland
Gravyr Stockholm Vaxholm

Homes unhoused --
the apple leaf’s cockchafer
unboughed -- the fly-catcher on the bough.

Come Basisk series lights
come mourning for darkness
come the eternal twilight.

Let cocks crow
with owls at
dead of night

Alec Newman was born in Essex in 1975, but now lives in Bury. His first chapbook, 'Earthworks', is due out with knives, forks and spoons later this year.

fragment (part 5) ~ Richard Barrett

painted the colour of water
the city leaks

we can say a heart is
a regeneration zone. badly publicised

same old yuppie-scum frisson
from buying up history

the Sea Life Centre. the I.C.C.
compass us back / my nineties mixtape

my hometown is called Christine
and I am a redrawn map

Richard is currently in transit

fragment (part 1) ~ Richard Barrett

extra-terrestrials crash
bubble-pods disappoint.

Selfridges blistered exterior as
distance broken feet.

walked multi level, not built
shush. on the flat. meet at

the planet’s simulacrum
sidelined, toppled
‘take a photo of that’; a
representation of a representation

ripples backwards
from promontory sweats

ambition and capital

Richard is currently in transit

the bridge ~ mark cobley

when you are gone

and i lie alone.

my mouth tastes of odd things

old pyramids
lost packages

those bits of wood
that railway lines run on

yachts. that is the end of yacht trips

sometimes exotic fruit.

fun fairs after fun fairs have gone

diesel colours in the lake following the boat.

reeds, cardboard cups, ice cream sticks

token polystyrene


i am afraid to kiss.

when you approach

a derelict house
in an acre of field
the red hair
grief is a terrible monster.

Scarecrow ~ Emily Howard

Position yourself widely over the tan checkerboard

land and tell me if you are feeling better.

I had a hope that you could be hawk by now -

it's not romantic. It's all still an exhausting flight and

lonely. Still you didn't have to do any of it. Didn't have to hang

martyred over the fields in wheat too still to even look like paintings, but

still moving imperceptibly and sensually under your silly sandbag shoes

You were a fine walker, even better runner. If flight is now the order

then let the crows eat your insides, your liver until you are not bound

to representation, to book or to emblem. This boulder dissolved and only

your clothing drifting down the valley into some neighboring farm, pretty

patchwork into patchwork. Then, I'll remember your enormous

former eyes and how you drew them on to take this in.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Rob's Tattoo Studio

lighthouse ~ mark cobley


sterope, merope, electra, maia, taygete, celaeno, alcyone


mercury as an evening star


the house
the mirror is musty and crazed
the streaked brown coffee


up the steps 199
in my garden mermaids mock lack of land

tsunami fossil (the big dipper) the ear orion corn.

stopped now It has been passed safely safe tied


sirens. cygnus

polish jet a glossy black as night
at night the lamp strokes the quiet sea

longitude seagull blown inland
you walk along a path

all that was ever wanted was an orchard
to whisper in the ear.

decorated with pomegranates, a crown of stars, a rod, a heart-shaped shield with the symbol for venus, a field of ripe wheat

the weeds could be constellation.

waves. diamond. veronica.

stars like orchards

heavy with fruit

Sunday, August 2, 2009

The Mason's (ii) (the elder tree) ~ mark cobley

tomorrow will always be better

I will lie in bed

think of plums, orchards, trees

then I will walk up the hill

my hands clasped firmly behind my back.

Once I thought I saw them all on a coach

they were having a ride out

visiting the seaside.

I remember the punch and judy show

the yellow surf.

But now you never txt

Saturday, August 1, 2009

hawthorn (the elder tree) ~ mark cobley

A craving for nicotine.

Then the fire

the sun dawns when sleep is impossible. quick

they come back

not holding hands or in groups

but every way you turn your head

they are beneath your eyelids like heartbeats.

recording, derbyshire (the elder tree) ~ mark cobley

Twelve Vein, Old Dining Room, Bull Beef, New Dining Room,
Five Vein, Organ Room New Cavern and Landscape.

Blue John mines.

fluffy clouds.

hang gliding.

Disley. Marple.

We fell asleep under the oaks at Lyme Park

the fine gardens.

Who was to know.

I love your silences.

the pause

and it is all black. Elder Black.

rich black.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

lucky charms

Saturday, July 25, 2009

geometry of her smile

Sunday, July 12, 2009

poem ~ Emily Howard/ Mark Cobley

we looked for it in love
a small nut to worry in our pockets

smoothing the grooves of minor mystery
not so mysterious, not really
quite. the transference

we looked for it in words and
the mercurial mirror.

I have
starved, days on days. only

so that I might describe so
you might agree. but love

somewhere excellent birds live

by a river by
Almond trees.

Sunday, July 5, 2009


Thursday, July 2, 2009

notes from the broken book ~ mark cobley

whilst they find the pages
for which we wait.

it could well be your birthday

via crucis
via dolorosa.

my father's house was
such a fine house with
a lovely.
the beautiful clouds don't

help they just confuse the issue

i have flat lined. i am drifting. they search for things.

little conkers form in the trees. it will soon be time for school

by the river that
has boats and weeds that smell of skin.

whilst waiting
the long ladder leans against the wall (we notice)

like the letter A

like a light coming on.

the long walk to the railway station of parting company

I am on the train home.

We don't hear them calling after us.
But none of this

Mr. Richard Barrett. Pig Fervour

Mr Richard Barrett (of Manchester) is now to be found at the very fine The Arthur Shilling Press

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Moss Rose ~ Emily Howard

Word like a poultice I put on your chest
Words like a stew you give me when I am hungry

Words like a cell that endlessly divides
Words like a membrane between us

Words like a stepping stone across the narrow river
Words like a fragile row boat in a choppy sea

Words like a wand
Words like a Swiss Army knife

Words like kites, like balloons
Words like a subtle addiction

Words like a horse riding me swiftly to your house.
Words like a train that already left the station

Words like curtains blowing
Words like ducks in a pond

Words like a Buddha statue
Words like a raspberry staining my dress

Words like high walls we cannot see over
Words like chinks between the stones

Words that I want to claim as mine
Words that don’t belong to me

Words that I want to give to you
Words that fell out of the package on the way

Words that were said long before us
Words that are artifacts in the ground

Words like a glass of cider
Words that sputter drunkenly down the street

Words like attic roofs
Words like umbrellas

Words that pick up the high winds
Words that float down like a Victorian governess

Words that hanging gardens
Words like those who have abandoned us.

Words like us
Words like us.

wood (the elder tree) ~ mark cobley


a craving for nicotine.

then the fire

the sun dawns when sleep is impossible.

they come back

not holding hands or in groups

but every way you turn your head

they are beneath your eyelids like heartbeats.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

the elder tree

Friday, June 19, 2009

Vanish ~ Emily Howard

Some of us were given away at birth

To satisfy our mother’s cravings

And we know it even if we remain at home

Throwing chicken bones in the attic

and casting fortunes until childhood passes

These days, most days I just wait

for night and the glow of electronics

love is banter from light boxes

I wonder if I have only written to myself

Later, I scan the evidence

Most of it disappeared.

Between he and I, we don’t know who is

Whom. Between us, we don’t know if our bodies

are text. Texting, I fall away into the dark

my body a jumble of letters, a ticker tape

across Columbus Circle. a broadcast from

Rapunzel Towers in two steady beams.

Love is a radio sound

made to chase away ghosts

When we turn it off we are startled at the relief.

Quiet, followed by a very bearable loneliness

Tomorrow we will want its static again

Tomorrow, he will garden rampions

I will crave their taste without knowing their taste.

Tomorrow, my mother will call

Wants to know am I coming on vacation

And did I get a haircut yet.

in the woodland they chop the trees down

I am taking away the room

the long room

when it rains

I listen to the radio.

As night progresses

it is getting dark

the woods are getting closer



you just look out

from the letter box

not saying goodbye

you never said goodbye.

it wasn't even raining.

Thursday, June 11, 2009


Monday, June 8, 2009


Sunday, June 7, 2009

no subject ~ mark cobley

I will be blamed.

like the silence since you left

has grown slower.

Now i watch the doors

their changing shapes.

Watch the ash grow


listen to the church bell

in Berlin.

In winter
the bare trees
criss cross the sky.

Friday, June 5, 2009

June ~ mark cobley

to come back
cannot be done.

along the edge of the woods

It is an unusual moon

but it doesn't rain

easy the walk here

I like having this to myself

I like the breeze



it is not far past

the wooden bench of a fallen tree

last years leaves left

to disappear.

Speak again soon.

Two swans
by the river banks reeds reflect

dog rose bending
as the rain falls

the traffic in the distance.


In the cushions memory I like that I see you

the window steaming up here
in the kitchen by the kettle

it is true we loved
still do

not long gone

I imagine never coming home

the long slow days touch
short nights
on the rim
in the borders

traffic and yellow cabs

columbus circle

59th St and 8th Ave.

Because you have gone too far away now

I measure

with sweet seedless black grape
rye bread

from here

the thinning river


sun ripening tomato. fountains, distance from monuments

the stone houses

Sunday, May 17, 2009

further are the mountains ~ mark cobley

you are not dancing

and I have nothing to say

as blank as the field

inside the winter


I video the electric fence
I video the two horses
I video the foal that is about to die

I video the nettle
two types of cloud
the crab apple


beyond are the hills

the silent hills.

the swollen river believes me

station 11

grey flock of doves

little deaths.

I am the village

an unlucky summer

like a genie

quilt works

how the light comes on
when two rivers meet

I watch from this

the medlars

a fruit rotten before it is ripe.

The room is full of birds



placid bats

two bushes.

we watch the river

people and landscape

watch how the cloud

lips like Monroe

saints days sister

hennaed hands

the seven sisters

Saturday, May 16, 2009


Tuesday, May 12, 2009

hello ~ mark cobley


I am in West Hampstead

I am on a hay stack

I have found gold

at the back of Aldi supermarket.

I lie back on the kiss me setee
put my feet up on the hello there chair.

Are you alright?
Are you sure?

we don't know.

I attempt the next day

Are you ok?
Are you still here?


this cursed house.

when we meet

then we don't know if
any of this is true

in actual fact we no longer know each other.

we are as different

as birds

Saturday, May 2, 2009

the view ~ mark cobley

the big country.

the vast land.

please stand
with you arms out wide at the door
see how much that is
how much landscape how much town
and all within it

this is bigger. wider. larger.

you laugh at the television show.

i like the word laconic.

i'm going to have to take
a headache tablet.

i knock the glass of water
over. But here
i can make it stop in mid-air
not a drop of water
or glass will hit the floor.

there will be no crash.

dead daffodils now in the vase
sun. refracted sun. glass.

what you buy
is who you are.

the birches bend this way
and that way in the wind

from the window i watch.

the house is never really empty. knowing

you are still upstairs. walking about.

drawing curtains.

i have been here before.

in truth i have the ability to change things. alter outcome.

watching red trains depart almost on time. going somewhere.

Friday, April 24, 2009

I watch your lips form the words ~ mark cobley

you smell of fresh air.

you are not here but in scotland
or in a car
going to the seaside laughing.

i see the stone walls, the curve of hill
the clouds.

and in yours eyes reflected
in the mirror
your turning away white teeth towards sheep.

it is misty. morning.

i am stood in the garden
where silence can mean more.

in the trees are your hair.

i lost the last line
but it began with

we don't know each other anymore

that it is all in code
numbers for letters.

hills higher than your thought.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Carte Postale ~ mark cobley. Trans. Emily Howard

carte postale

les petits lacs n'ont rien du mal
mais je préfère des grands comme l'océan

avec des petites îles
soutenant une conversation
á episodes

la parole bouilonne

comme un sac de sable

contre couteau

les nuages


le soleil tourné à l’envers

coupé en deux

par un catamaran


être vu de la montagne


la libellule

la fumeé bleue

no photographs

because I spilt wine all over my mobile phone

the orchard ~ mark cobley

I have lost it

and miss it badly

I have missed it or lost it oddly.

the orchard will grow it self

blue delft

chinese willow

& the apple trees of brown

and the rust of old things

will be found in the garden

by the lady’s well

when I am not there.

Sunday, April 19, 2009


they are away at the moment

the saint ~ mark cobley

Being the richest man on the island
he had to live in the deepest hole
away from all his money and his gold
so he found a stony place
high in the mountains and started digging
and with the aid of ladders
dug himself a tiny cell down
far deep into the rock
so light couldn't find him hidden away
and lived off condensation which
he licked from stone in the darkness
without air

And because he was the richest man
the islanders built a vast temple
of gold with fragrant candles
around the hole that befits
the wealthiest man to protect him from the rain and elements

Then when he never showed his face and then when he had died and smelt of fish and then when they had spent all his money then

they said he will be our patron saint of madmen
and he will cure the sick
and we will parade him around the streets
And beat drums
And dance
and kiss his fragrant feet
every 8th of August.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

well then?

what now?

Sunday, April 12, 2009


Thursday, April 9, 2009

non what so ever ~ mark cobley

your glance


when the moon come over the horizons
when waves laps the sands in perfect and oh so
almost italian, nearby ocean, sea

I will breathe

more often


this is so much easier

I will care no more

it is easier on certain days. In the magazine I read the horoscope

Saturday, April 4, 2009


Friday, April 3, 2009

my walk out today ~ mark cobley


windfall apple
crumpled maps
up hill wind

see saw

absence of something

the wallpaper

loss of insides


A robin landed on my shoulder.

This really happened.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

weather report. 22.29 hrs


cool and misty overnight

black now white/sometime/a helicopter overhead

look here

as zebra flicker. shadow becoming light. Accept

cobble stone path edged with red brick

hosta. the garden. deep dew.

speak these words:

in the winter air/the roots of trees

the smell of the skin/like a little place

ripping up things/so little stars

the railway station

the girls red hair/the twigs in the wood.

I have nothing more to say.

Friday, March 27, 2009

penelope ~ Emily Howard

For many years I had stayed next to the maid so that
When he returned, his body was unfamiliar to me
All night I crashed against him, wave against rock until
Morning and china cup colored relief-my tea tasted soapy and sweet
I gazed the careworn face -an absent minded return.

It was his fingers, spatulate against the cup
My tenderness returned for that instant
Our silences seemed cinematic
And full of strange beauty.

There were details to discuss, a matter of
Course, I needed to show him the property
I took him to look at the old sea wall
Do you see how the stone has been gradually transformed by the water?
I do not see, he said, nevertheless I will attend to it.

She and I nestled like birds
Our nests made of small quotations and scraps of

I wove and unwove
Everyone, including me
Grew tired of the same story

Frequently in dreams,
I did see him
Prow of a ship with his hand around a coffee cup
Such a majestic breakfast table.

His collusive body
His silence.
His sex
I take it in like a necessary medicine.

Truth is I wanted it.
Cessation of this ceaseless
Bird chatter.
Yet through this healing I am also hollowed.

I weave and unweave
By the old sea wall.

Emily is an opera singer, hack pianist, teacher, organ pipe polisher, evil part actress, theatrical director, waitress for nuns, prep cook for priests, libretto writer, mermaid, muse, and Agony Aunt. She lives in Brooklyn, The poems here are her first published poems.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

goodbye ~ mark cobley


Fond wallpaper
sweet yard
the window.

This time is wrong and has been over and over
like the ice cream vans arrival.

I’ll say no more and watch no further
than the wheelie bin

for you will not come home tonight.


Saturday, March 21, 2009

the beach ~ mark cobley


the scent still.

landscapes within linger
wide green
rises falls and rises again.

Now I am home and understand.

In your untrained eye
castles are made
rise again

moons grow full
become new waves
turn to surf.

the world

well the world just does
what worlds do.

vice versa

my tactic is

thank you for the fire the fire

thank you for saving me from being just me

thank you for the sand still in my pockets. Ship

our disappearing footsteps

the shell in simpleness


sea mist


and further out
to new land

(but no fossils there)

flags flutter
tides come in go out
birds dance sing

people comb.

message from home ~ mark cobley

beyond the picket fence

the saplings rise grey
as your eyes
whites as white as polar bear

a cartoon flicked
shadow over light

slowed down

floor boards. thought in shorthand.

absence. loss. decay.

we have nothing more to go by.

more absent than present
dots in paper
when you are away.

ticker tape

I think you are

sycamore seed

honey field

a book about birds

english birds

with 57 colour plates.

In the lane
someone smiles
with half of your look.

Friday, March 20, 2009

stethoscope ~ mark cobley

i lie a down a lot these days
and ache

but i can see the thingy tree from here
and count magpies
smell fuschia
see weeping willow flower

sometimes the little lad from next door
comes around and knocks

then goes and drops


down the lonely well

and counts how deep it is

and over
and over again.

(from The Sad Bush)

postcard ~ mark cobley

there is nothing wrong with small lakes
but I prefer large ones like oceans

with little islands
in installments

speech bubbles

as sandbag

against knife



the sun turned inside out

cut in two

by catamaran


seen from the mountain



the blue smoke.

Friday, March 13, 2009

the door


Thursday, March 12, 2009

fools gold

iron pyrite

I chip away
on the red hill

at night numb
fingers place under
the pillow softly

a few grain
dark hope

nothing else matters ~ mark cobley

for the one recently gone death is not death

even at the edges of this room

they need tea bags and jam
breakfast at joe's.

of course it wasn't like that then

hidden by darkness
the light gone out.

it was

sound seep
in from the other room colour
like red wine creeps
in to the carpet
breathes in
breathes out


joe's painting
ten drawings by da vinci

the rest just noise

my friends in brooklyn
I am still finding chrtistmas tree needles
at easter this easter

a house stood here once like a light gone out but

in the park
by the sundial
under leaves
with the earth

where we walk

phthalo blue
dioxazine purple
lamp black
indian yellow

night is not night
but a plastic bag blowing down the road

Sunday, March 8, 2009

quartz ~ mark cobley

I wait
there is



(In the lake is your face)

emily ~ mark cobley

in its branches

behind the dry stone wall stands the whitebeam

are paint shades of islands of seas

but their faces, in the magazines

shadows with names not yet made up

I notice in the corner new shadows

when the wind lets up and litter settles

i gaze twice, once in a mirror

when frost whitens your gaze

sung sea shanty, old song by the harbour

Yokohama pear tree. Sometime willow

Thursday, March 5, 2009

work in progress

the unkind things that were said at the gate

rain grey rain

cold hood tree

long types of cloud

and some tied into the shapes of animals

the fence how it followed the curve of the hill towards the wood

the wood we don't speak of

the wood where the children wont play

lords and ladies
fungi big as umbrellas

blue overcoat.

red glossy glistening shiny berries. Red lipped berry
big cup fruits

sunset mist coming. bent hawthorn. a damp wet wood

silent really
really silent.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

stone head

Friday, February 27, 2009

things to do

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

good moss like a knuckle duster

green mill wasted


Sunday, February 22, 2009

erika's list

1. A black cat.
2. An apple.
3. A dog barking.
4. A window
5. A blue pen.
6. A yellow flower.
7. The air.


in silence
at night
in sleep
I turn to you
like a magnet

how strangely
your voice
alters the clouds

the yellow cottage ~ mark cobley


the emerald ring
the bluebottle
the spoon

and sepia
the smoke stained fingers


cry now stone
the blue grey
tap of honey

a leaf
the new door
the big white barn
the wind blows

we are here
we touch
we share
we see

i see the sweet corn

we kiss


another strawberry

a blue house with smoke
from the grey chimney

smelling of barley.

churchyard, lattin

bills garden

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Friday, February 20, 2009

Q number 2







camera lucida ~ mark cobley


they appear to appear
and thus that they appear
truly exist

and somehow appear in our world
or seem to appear
which means simply that they appear
to appear

& thus that they appear as lines

Blue is the colour of the sky
and its happiness

the opposite of the gaze of love
is not the gaze of hate.

the tall trees. the very tall trees are getting
like eyelashes

swept sharp with mascara. others

& are mistaken for something else entirely
somehow they appear in our world
or seem to appear
which means simply that they appear to appear
& thus that they appear envy

air & light against the earth & shadow of envy

the opposite of the gaze of love
is not the gaze of hope

mal occhio

my child

this line is also the serenity of azure, turquoise, sea.

ghost trees

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

girl on a train

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Micrographia Restaurata* ~ mark cobley

The point of a small sharp Needle

A printed Dot
The Edge of a Razor

A piece of fine wheal'd Taffety Ribbon
A piece of Watered Silk
Fine Lawn

The Sparks of Fire struck from a Flint and Steel
The Structure and Configuration of several Sorts of Hairs
Hair of an Indian Deer
A pretty minute Shell found amongst Sand

Some curious Forms of small Diamonds, or shining Sparks in Flints
The Forms of Gravel in Urine
A Variety of regular Forms resulting from various Combinations of Globules

One of the Six-branched Figures on the Surface of Urine, when it begins to freeze
The Forms of Falling Snow
A Flake of Snow magnified
The Form of Ice on Water
Ice on Marble
Ice of another Configuration

A Piece of Kettering-Stone
A Sea Moss
A Piece of Spunge

A Piece of Charcoal
A Piece of petrified Wood

The Pores in Cork
The Sensible Plant

The Form of Blue or White Mould
A curious Plant on the Leaves of Rose-Trees

Small Wall-Moss

A piece of Sea-Weed
A piece of Rosemary-Leaf
Fine Lawn

A Piece of Stinging Nettle
The Beard of a Wild-Oat
A transverse Section of a Wild-Oat Beard
A Hygrometer made with a Wild-Oat Beard

Seeds of the Corn-Violet

Seeds of Thyme

Poppy Seeds

The Seeds of Purslain

The Scale of a Soal
A piece of Skin of a Soal

Couhage, or Cow-Itch
The Sting of a Bee

A minute Part of a Goose's Feather
Two parts of Goose's Quill
Parts of a Peacock's Feather

The Foot of a Fly
Another Foot of a Fly
Part of a Fly's Eye
Part of a Fly's Wing

The Eye and Head of a Drone-Fly

A Blue Fly, or Flesh Fly
The Blue Bottle's Wing

The Teeth of a Snail
The Egg of a Silk-Worm
Eels in Vinegar

The Nymph-Worm of a Gnat
The Nymphia or Aurelia of the Gnat
Apiarium Marinum

The Tufted or Brush-Horned Gnat
The Great-bellyed or Female Gnat
The white Feather-Winged Moth
The Back of the long-legg'd Spider
The Eyes of the long-legged Spider
The Bely of the long-legged Spider
Hunting Spider

The Ant, Emmet, or Pismire
The Wandering Mite.
The Crab-like Insect
Cloth-Worm, or Moth

A Cheese-Mite with it's Back uppermost
A Cheese-Mite with its Belly upwards

A small Creature hatched on a Vine

The Flea
The Louse

* or, the Copper-Plates of Dr. Hookes Wonderful Discoveries by the Microscope

Copyright Mark Cobley 2008

Friday, February 13, 2009

steps and stone


she love ~ mark cobley

sprouting seeds of certain beans, esp. mung beans, used in oriental cooking.
3 red buses. big buses. sleeping people.
she loves large divinity recipe. the swings in a park

she watches TV
she watch video
she go show

she write she love
she types not my cuppa tea.

a place or angle where two or more sides or edges meet

an area inside a room, box, or square-shaped space
near the place where two or more edges or surfaces are

a place where two streets conjoin
the sharp bend in the road

a part, region, or area, regarded as secluded or remote

come into the presence or company of (someone)
by chance or arrangement a week later

she is is
she is was
she is then

she is so
she is here
she gone

she is so

by mobile phone
by txt
by twitter
by facebook
by blog

in the room
in the t bag
in the departure lounge
in a white cup

the edge of a hollow container or an opening
to be eaten drunk spoken

the piece of paper
the magnolia tree
and blossom

in stone in amber in tinsel

she love

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Friday, February 6, 2009

satnav ~mark cobley

philip treacy hat

tattoo heart


to eat fish so far away
from the sea
seems odd
up a mountain

the stopwatch
(in its lovely silver case, engraved)

high heels
cobble stones
arm in arm

a collector of string
things thrown away
plastic bags

apples falling in autumn

you drink you drive
you apply lipstick in the mirror
chanel limited addition
lovely packaging

sweetpea by the bedhead

birds singing barber shop

by the river

swans clouds
swan cloud
fields clouds
as you lie back
pinned to earth

by the lakeside
six small pebbles


grand hotel europa
bedrooms without bathrooms

beehive, bird nest, wood pile

vivienne westwood

powder and shot

you have arrived at your destination

you have another coke
not diet
but the proper stuff

I note your stillettos
in my I-Spy stilletto book.

St. Brigid

up the track

cheshire fields

Thursday, February 5, 2009