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What it’s all about, really.

Poems below, and an incentive to submit to the National Poetry Competition. Read all about it here.

3 Comments leave one →
  1. July 31, 2011 9:20 am

    I wrote this poem about 20 years ago after a difficult Poetry Society AGM, the last one I ever attended personally. It was meant as a kind of manifesto for the organisation. It was first published in Acumen, then in my third poetry collection, The Way to Go, published by Loxwood Stoneleigh in 1999.

    (for the Poetry Society)

    This is no church, although we do divine
    the soul, and those who enter here are urged
    to wipe theirs on the tabulae outside,
    to leave the purse-strings but bring in the purse.

    This is no stock exchange, but you are free
    to audit us. We deal in paper prophets
    (at a loss, sometimes, for words). Come clean.
    What’s in it for you? We run with foxes,

    you with hounds. Canine kin, we scent
    the dog-eat-dog about you when you bark
    in language we’re not meant to comprehend,
    but being linguists, do. It is no lark,

    is it, that draws you to this lair? You’ve heard
    the pen is mightier than the sword, and want
    a piece of it. Here. Take it. Write a verse
    if you can; a cheque, please, if you can’t.

    This is no prison and you are no guard,
    though it has come to that before and may
    again – words on prison walls in blood
    and a clear light shimmering, anyway.

    (c) Leah Fritz

  2. Stephen Wilson permalink
    July 16, 2011 9:35 am

    I published this poem in Poetry News about six years ago. Somehow I feel it wants to address itself to the present situation.

    Can I Take Your Coat

    Let’s work back through it all,
    starting with the outer layers—
    first, today’s residue, dark-eyes,

    bad-feels, brushed aside only
    to reveal a tissue of thorns,
    too much history that could be

    poisonous and needs to be removed.
    What’s left, an indifferent varnish,
    cracked like parched earth or dry lips

    dissolves slowly in methylated spirit,
    dabbed on with a cotton-wool bud.
    Next, there’s a viscous pigment,

    purple bound in egg, a clinginess
    that spreads all over you and must
    be pared away with a scalpel blade.

    And then, at last, the original picture,
    dove-white streaks on cobalt blue,
    love’s wind in the sea’s feathers.

  3. Vicki Feaver (posted by admin) permalink*
    July 14, 2011 9:27 pm

    Log Jam

    What clogs up the rivers
    of the world
    is being wrong
    and stubbornly
    holding on
    until logs
    and fallen trees
    and all the other stuff
    that floats down a river
    piles up in a jam.

    What releases the jam,
    so a river
    on its course
    towards the estuary,
    clear and freely flowing
    force of water
    bringing nourishment
    and energy,
    is saying sorry.

    Vicki Feaver – 14th July 2011

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