Tomorrow is National Poetry Day in the UK and so this week’s podcast is dropping tomorrow to celebrate and I am surrounded by 4 guest poets from as far as New Zealand and as close as Dublin City centre who share their poems on movement, change, time and loss. Join us tomorrow and meantime- Stay […]
Eat the Storms – The Podcast – Episode 5- National Poetry Day 2020
Damien is ‘casting again. If you like to listen to poetry, I do recommend checking it out.
Beacons and battlements –
they build your churches
in high places, with long views.
I think we need you now,
warrior and angel, defender,
I think it’s time
to take a stand
in the heights,
to look out across the sea
and guide us home.
I’m linking this to earthweal’s Michaelmas challenge, and to dVerse’s vatic voice challenge, hosted by Lisa. There are lots of St Michael’s churches around here – always on high ground. Mounts, hills, and headlands.
The truth is
your heart is as big as your fist.
The salmon’s a tin-foiled muscle
following the scent of truth
back to the breeding ground
and the swallow flies a trail of truth
across the gleaming sea
the glittering desert
to build a house of mud
and I just want a small truth
like a white pebble
in my pocket
but your lies
set bush fires
your lies
melt ice
your lies
break the world in two
your lies
are killing us
truth is a feather
on the tongue
a snowflake falls and melts
a million snowflakes
a million billion
form an avalanche
a starling
forms part of
a great moving shape
a fish
swings silver
in a sheltering shoal
and we are stronger together
standing against
your burning lies
Grace is hosting at dVerse tonight, and asks for protest poetry. I’m not sure this is one to shout at the barricades, but I am so sick of being lied to by politicians.
Oh but her hair
smells of roses
she brings summer
into the kitchen with her
leaves a trail of sunshine
on the staircase
birdsong spills
out of the bathroom
but roses
always roses
their soft petals
their sharp thorns
Lillian is hosting at dVerse tonight. She’s inspiring us with artwork by Catrin Welz-Stein.
I didn't break down in Ikea even though you're leaving, even though you turned to me clutching a pillow, the way a fox might hold a bird, too big to swallow. No. I smiled at you.
I suckle on the sky –
drink it like Kool-Aid,
until my belly swells
full with
the blue of it –
the blue that seeps
into my fingertips,
my lips,
my hair,
until I piss blue,
sigh blue,
weep blue,
until I float,
fade,
disappear.
The inimitable Whimsygizmo is hosting at dVerse tonight. We’re quadrilling, and our word is “sky”.
Episode 3 of the Podcast Eat The Storms is on your local platform or coming soon. Definitely on Spotify already and it is packed tight with talent… Thank you to the featured Poets Ankh Spice, Sarah Connor, Ruairí De Barra, Eilín de Paor, Jane Dougherty, Kevin Bateman, Catherine Ann Cullen and Aisling Keogh
EAT THE STORMS – EPISODE 3 – OUT NOW
Damien’s book launched today, with this amazing video. He is so creative. You can buy his book from his website or from Amazon, if that’s your thing.
Laura’s hosting at dVerse tonight. She always comes up with interesting and challenging prompts – I think of them as architectural. Tonight we’re thinking about nines – nine line poems and nonets. Laura has given us some lines from great poems to use as the basis for our own work. I couldn’t resist having a go at both halves of the prompt.
Here’s my first one. The first line is taken from W.S. Merwin’s “To the Light of September”/
Summer fading
It seems as though you are still summer
clinging to the last pink roses,
but the early morning chill
lasts a little longer
every day. Autumn
is so close now,
cold fingers
sprinkling
gold.
And here’s the second, which is based on this line: Those/ pale /flowers /might /still /have/ time/ to /fruit from Karina Borowicz’s ‘September Tomatoes’
Gooseflight
Those geese flying overhead
pale wings spread out, like
flowers on a blue bedspread
might fly on. They are so strong, they
still have miles to go. It’s
time to seek out warmth,
to hunker down. Autumn’s brought
fruit and frost and morning mist.
The children are brought to her for judgement. As ever, she takes them into her home for a month. As ever, they are a little in awe of her silver hair, her black cane.
By day, she feeds them, teaches them the names and scents of herbs, how to keep silent, to move in the shadows.
Now, these two sleep, huddled together in their dreams. They sleep with the moonlight slanting across their faces. She sits beside them all night, until the first rays of the sun fall across the bedroom floor. There’s no sign of change.
She sighs. They’re obedient, sweet-natured, bright – but no good to the pack. They are merely children, untouched by moonlight. The pack won’t keep them. They’ll be sent to the city, to walk hand in hand on stony pavements and forget the forest.
Merril is hosting at dVerse tonight. It’s prosery night – 144 words of flash fiction, incorporating a quotation chosen by our host. Tonight the quotation is:
“In their dreams
they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”
