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					                         Nightingale
                                                                    Devon Special
                          Price £1.00                         April /May 2002

Featuring 17 Devon writers, over 30 young writers and an invitation from The Bridge

AUTHORS IN ISSUE:
James Bell, Devon
                                                      W      elcome to the seventh edition of Nightingale a local
                                                             and global magazine for short poems up to 18 lines
                                                      and short fiction, 800 words or less.
Svelana Bjelica
Kevin Blake, Scunthorpe
Andy Brown, Devon
Ruth Butler, Devon
                                                      A     ll those limits go to the wall when we have a special
                                                            edition and that is certainly the case this month when
                                                      we have not one but three features in a bonus 16 page
Rose Cook, Devon                                      edition. First up are 17 writers from Devon providing us
Stephen David, Devon                                  with a unique sense of place and people. This was the idea
Paul Davidson, Devon                                  of James Bell, Nightingale’s man in the South, so I’ve left
Jack Galmitz, USA                                     him to fill the rest of the details in below. The second
Katy Holderness, Lincolnshire   Priory Master Class   highlight are poems from thirty year six children who
Alfie Howard, Devon             Workshop Writers:     attended a series of Saturday morning poetry workshops at
Christine M. Kirker, USA                              the Priory School in Lincoln.
Kenny Knight, Devon            Roisin Alldis
David Lighfoot, Lincolnshire
Bogoljub T. Mihajlovic, Yugo-
slavia
                               Layla Ameen
                               Annabelle Arnold
                                                      A     s if that wasn’t enough we also have some poems from
                                                            young writers already at the Priory and a brace of verse
                                                      from Emily Bowdler a 13 year old writer from Devon. The
M. C. Newton, Devon            Robert Belcher         final feature is a small sample of poems from the World
NelsRodwell, Devon             Jasmin Billinghay      Haiku Club Poetry Bridge an Internet Poetry Discussion
Sam Smith, Devon               Louise Brook           Group lead by John Carley. I have also managed to squeeze
Sandra Tappenden, Devon        Kirsty Chalk           in a few other poets from around the world and nearer to
Susan Taylor, Devon                                   home.
                               Ami Clarke
Frances Thompson, Devon
James Turner, Devon            Amy Cox                                                                  Joe Warner
Tomislav Ž Vujčić              Danielle Cullen
Shane Wolfland, Devon          Kriss Dunk
                               Ashton Forster
                               Matthew Hall
POETRY BRIDGE:                 Harriet Hambly                             Devon Writers
                               Atrid Hardy
Gary Blakenship
Christine Bousfield            Paul Mander            The genesis of this special      Poets" event at the Phoenix
Mark Brooks                    Zoe Manning            issue was a conjunction of       Art Centre in Exeter. Our
Stephen Clay Dearborn          Eleanor Marchington    two events. One was              contribution to "tEXt2002"
Terrie Leigh Relf                                     the recent Liverpool             is a special edition on
                               Laura Mcleod
Denis Garrison                                        Special and the other            Saturday 11th May at
                               Ellie Ransom           "tEXt2002", a festival of        1.30pm in St Stephens
                               Thomas Ravenscroft     writing in the city of           Church on Exeter High
YOUNG WRITERS                  Sara Rizeq             Exeter, which runs from          Street where our guest will
                               Suzanne Ryan           4th-11th, May. The theme         be this years Whitbread
Emily Bowdler, Devon                                  of the festival is "place".
                               Lauren Teague                                           Award for Poetry holder
Charlotte Hayward, Lincoln-                           Therefore it seemed              Selima Hill. Look us up if
shire                          Kirsty Thompson
                                                      logical to me to have a          you are in the vicinity.
Christopher Millbank, Lincoln- Lyndsey Walker         Nightingale special              Enjoy the read.
shire                          Stephanie Ward         reflecting the work of
Jennie Nash, Lincolnshire                             poets living and working
                               Max Ware                                                James Bell
Tom Nellist, Lincolnshire                             in Devon. Most poets here
Caitlin Todd, Lincolnshire     Rebecca Wilson
                                                      have also read their work
                                                      at our regular "Uncut
Nightingale
 was co-written with poet David Morley (Worple Press, 2001). A selection of prose                                                                                                                         Page 2
 West of Yesterday (Stride, 1998), and two pamphlets. A collaborative book of poems, of Science,
 three collections of poetry, From A Cliff (Arc, March 2002), The Wanderer’s Prayer (Arc, 1999),
 rector for the Arvon Foundation at Totleigh Barton in Devon. He has published
 Andy Brown is a Lecturer in Creative Writing & Arts at Exeter University, and Centre Di-
                                                                                                                                                          'Better to be giving than receiving.
                                                                                                        HELD TOGETHER BY THREADS                           Best to tell the truth than be deceiving.
                                                                                                                                                           Best to be alone than be believing
                                                                                                                                                           We were made for one another's side.'
                                                                                                   1.
                                                                                                                                                          'Together, we sang love's chorus.
                                                                                                                                                           Loneliness can't do that for us.
                                                                                                   Your father lived downstairs, your mother up.
                                                                                                                                                           Better to have loved you, or have tried,
                                                                                                   The hall between their flats a no-man's land-
                                                                                                                                                           than never to have loved you,' you lied.
                                                                                                   your one respite from her demanding needs
                                                                                                   & all that you were frightened of below.

                                                                                                   Their hallway was our place to kiss goodnight,         4.
                                                                                                   until he came out once to shoo the cat, or
                                                                                                   put his empties out, dressed in his frock-             I imagine you've changed little since our thing
                                                                                                   the pink one with the frills; it so reviled you.       in the Great Rift, so far away this morning
                                                                                                                                                          as I sit here drinking coffee on the terrace of the café
                                                                                                                                                          La Délicieuse.
                                                                                                   Your mother stood upstairs, her curtain raised,
                                                                                                   waiting to wave me off, your brother's ghost
                                                                                                   behind her eyes. It fell on me to be the son she'd lost. I imagine you still wear a face any other
                                                                                                   Downstairs, we froze until he shut the door.             man could love. I am tempted to believe, however
                                                                                                                                                            briefly, that although there is no antidote,
                                                                                                   These oddities remain clear; these & your three          there's hope-
                                                                                                   kidneys; your sinus-less nose; your uncontrollable
                                                                                                   hurt.                                                  the feeling that we've lived through this before
                                                                                                                                                          & know what's coming next. Your silence is
                                                                                                                                                          profound. Still you're
                                                                                                                                                          imprisoned
                                                                                                   2.

                                                                                                   The rain is light. Light falls.                        by a world where things are held by threads-
                                                                                                   A handstroke of sun tans                               the prince on the princess's hair; Damocles'' sword;
                                                                                                   the sky's western edge.                                all those feelings you never
                                                                                                                                                          fully expressed.
                                                                                                   You sit in the meadow
                                                                                                   by a solitary oak-your feet
                                                                                                                                                          5.
                                                                                                   dipped in a stream of fish

                                                                                                   & frogs, your head among                               I stood before you, lost for words,
                                                                                                   a cloud of flies, crying.                              the bunch behind my star-lit back.
                                                                                                   Tears that gleam like acorns.
                                                                                                                                                          'Silence, that's what flowers are,' you said,
                                                                                                                                                          'or rather, a man's way of silencing.'
                                                                                                   3.

                                                                                                   'Better to be sorry than be safe.
                                                                                                    Better to have left you than have stayed.
                                                                                                    Better to have loved you, or have tried,                                        by
                                                                                                    than never to have loved you,' you lied.
                                                                                                                                                                           ANDY BROWN
Nightingale                                                                                                                    Page 3


Sam Smith - Born 1946, West Country based, many day jobs, from psychiatric nurse to presently arcade cashier, to support
writing habit. 5 collections, latest 'pieces', K. T. Publications; 9 novels - including a Torbay trilogy, 'Paths of Error', Jacobyte
Books. In his spare time he is publisher/editor of The Journal and Original Plus press.

Once                                                 Loneliness Remembered                       Passing By
Hair goes grey.

The skin                                             Like the mystery
                           Above the grey pavement,
of the ill and the dead

goes grey.
                                          of unexplored                               moss mounding its cracks,
Weathered board                                      public buildings

goes grey.
                                                                                      evening light picks out
                                                     are the ordinary
                                                                                                 clustered green-gold seeds
The child's foot                                     secrets of lovers.
makes patterns                                                                                   of a tall garden ash.
in the yellow sawdust                                Parts of bodies
on the square red tiles.                             usually unseen,                             Spilling out from
The butcher's banter
overlays the smell                                   smells and noises                           a closing pub door
of fresh meat                                        and personal histories:                     are men's hardened voices
being wrapped
in soft damp paper.                                  the sort of secrets
                                                                                                 and the smell of beer.
                                                     which aren't secrets
Our desire to care, to protect,
goes beyond death. So do some                        but which belong to
get placed in lead-lined coffins,                                                                An impossibility,
                                                     a time and a bed
others receive ornate headstones.                                                                in an imperfect world,
To keep them, keep them safe.                        shared. Take me in
                                                     I asked of strangers.                       to perfect oneself.

                                                                                                 The wise, therefore,

                                                                                                 believe in contradictions,
Band of Hope                                    Susan Taylor                                     embrace mixed feelings.
for Roy Bailey

In my head as I wake
you sing for El Salvador                        No Respect for the Cloth
                                                                                                 Beyond dark angled rooftops
or the sinking Herald
of Free Enterprise.                             Money built the chapel here,                     fawn and pink clouds
                                                a tomb and this man’s likeness
Such are the brightness                         as splendid as his life.                         make a jig-saw of the sky.
of your words, they play
                                                In death, he wears realistic robes               On the ink-blue corner
in a spume between my
waterbound eyes.                                because he could afford the alabaster.
                                                                                                 young men hang about to
                                                Because I can afford a pocket knife
You sing for the bare defenceless               I’ve left the date and my initials               practise their spitting.
body of the whale
                                                on his ornamental skirt.
that I must own, to survive
being human on the blood-drenched deck.
                                                And no, I’m not the first:                       Unwise
My dream works itself                           lovers, children, pickpockets                    wherever I have so far been
inside the last leviathan
                                                ran risks to make their marks
and dives without trace                                                                          people
in your voice.                                  even on his passive face.
                                                Alabaster cuts like satin;                       have got in the way of the view.
In my head as I rise                            sloughs off quiet and quick
you sing for El Salvador
                                                before an inconspicuous blade.
or the sinking Herald
of Free Enterprise.                             Alabaster is a lot like skin.
Nightingale                                                                                    Page 4



Steven David                           Sandra Tappenden


BOUTIQUE GLASS                         DRIVE
In the window on display               Ray nearly died today.

the speed of fashion lingers,
on-the-button cuts and shades          They gave him oxygen, took him out on a stretcher. 

become objects of desire.              Maybe you can’t love someone you don’t know

                                       but you can love the idea of them. 

You might be a better you
if swathed in those clean fibres
and as the magic quickens              If love were a moment

you catch your wan reflection.         it’d be John Martyn on the jukebox 

                                       in a sleazy motorway stop-off during a blizzard; 

Take your clothes off then and there   a smile, egg and chips, fluorescent lights. 

and put them in the window,
bet you that they'd look good too
through the veil of boutique glass     If love were a moment

                                       it’d be something to write home about 

                                       as if you knew where home was; a postcard in time

                                       to absolutely everyone.

STOOD UP
I met a German woman,
                 What big trucks we drive.

her English better than my French 
    I never know where to park up and get out;

but we never made our rendezvous,

                                       planning a route assumes you can really choose.

what a waste of time.

                                       If Ray had died today I’d be older.

In a cafe, cigarette, 

watching the smoke rise.

I was prepared to take the risk 

so why she didn't show?
               MORE THAN A WORK-THING
I kept my eyes peeled, open 
          Smiles come up like trained fish and chatter spills out;

for her entrance at the door, 

her lovely high waxy forehead 
        inanities work overtime for no extra. It’s really all right.

and her scuffy blocky shoes
           Tineke’s arm itches with the fresh tattoo, boredom, 

                                       as she fast-forwards out of here and dances all night. 

but I don't regret I met her

and I don't regret she never came. 

I sat there in my seat
                I say “get me a date with that bloke” and mean it 

like a unicorn, caffeine speeding.
    even though I don’t mean it. Yes, it’s all right. 

                                       Hours go quickly like time was new and nothing else.

                                       My face is masked by the promise of pay; so what.


US
                                       People amaze and horrify; their desires; the goods. 

Our words flame like firelighters      Even though that’s not the whole story, it’s the visible part. 

above this cafe table top,             Something cries out to make sense of such awkward trust.

a gimlet wink aimed just at me
                                       Times, I swear the smiles come up pure like love.

above this cafe table top,
over and above the lager
I look into your green green eyes      A small boy is fitting on the floor beside the sales desk; 

and wish I was a sea horse.            his mother’s purchases scattered on industrial parquet. 

                                       Sharon cries and I feel shock resonate. This is it;

Dante and Beatrice on our hols,
our backsides in formaldehyde.         we are angels, witnesses, whatever the public want.

Nightingale                                                                                                                   Page 5



                                                          Kenny Knight

                       Resides in Plymouth and is the editor and publisher of the magazine Tremblestone.


Lush Street                                       Storm                                         Soap
                                                                                                (For Bill And Monica)
Rain falls on Lush Street. 
                      Winter rain falls steadily
The flowers pull it down.
                        On the town                                   The tabloid operatic
The windows. The eyelashes.
                      A few optimistic seagulls                     Society are in town
Pencil thin epics wash
                           Hug the fringes of the bay.                   Working undercover
Old sunshine from reptile kitchens.
              Everywhere there’s a sense
                                                  Of desolate decline.                          Harmonica plays
Clear and torrential magnet drop. 
               Shops locked against the wind                 Washington blues.
Rain falls on Lush Street. 
                      Maraca in tandem.                             Harmonica between
Falls on Halloween witches heads- 
                                                             Your lips softly
Dripping black mascara gothic blood.
             The sun, an unfit weightlifter
               Blowing.
                                                  Fails to lever itself

Covens of soggy goat 
                            Above the wall of cloud.
                     Dallas meets Dynasty
Skin shoes and needlecraft 
                                                                    On Pennsylvania Avenue.
                                                  On the promenade car owners
On Lush Street 
                                  Take root in their comfort zones              Flashbulb vampires
                                                  And evolve into televisions.                  Undress night.
Darkness

Is a soft vice
                                   Only unlicensed madmen
                       Sperm on the flag
On our eyes
                                      Wildlife, dogs and their pets
                While America dreams.
                                                  Breath the storm that rattles

Inverted clouds gurgle skywax.
                   Shutters and bones.
                          The world’s a bar
                                                                                                Of soap.
Let’s dress up for the night 
                    The sea rides in on the back

Is a fancy whore and
                             Of itself 
                                   Slippery.
Lush Street is a thoroughfare
                    Lashes grey on grey on grey. 

For rainfall and echo
                                                                          Pull back the bed sheets
                                                  The vampire wind enraptures flesh             And climb inside the news.
On Lush Street where
                             With a set of teeth
Trees breathe in tobacco smoke
                   Hundreds of miles long.
And cough out wind.

                                                  The crowds have retreated 

                                                  To wallpaper hell. 





REVIEW                                        There was a strong surreal/fantasy           particularly liked, none more so than in
                                              element to much of the poetry providing a    two poems by Helen Foster ­
Tremblestone                                  sense of coherence alongside the essential
No. 2 March 2001                              variety and diversity of the 19 authors.     Until there is only time,
ISSN 1463 - 9181                              Patrick Gasperini is first up with an         in time to make
£4 including P&P                              extract from a longer work called Silenus,     dark sweet treacle
                                              which takes us into a strange world
An eighty page A5 magazine with an            where strong images take precedence          (From After Brittany )
intriguing black and white illustration by    over reality -
Frank Sixsmith on the bright yellow                                                        They speak quietly and swelter
cover. This issue includes the work of 19     I slept soundly until something familiar     in the stick jazz
poets giving us a good taste of their work    woke me,                                     of malignant fruit
over several poems, it also includes brief    A rivulet of radioactive jam was petting
biographical notes for each of the authors.   my feet.                                     (From Durian)
Ten pages of reviews covering 18
magazines published in the UK rounds          The strong and original imagery used by
this issue off.                               many of the poets was something I            Joe Warner
Nightingale                                                                                                                             Page 6



Emily Bowdler, 13 years                 Nels Rodwell                                                 Katy Holderness
Emily recently started to write , in­   LEFT                                                         OVER THE TOP
spired by her mother, Nels Rodwell,
who also writes poetry and recently                                                                  splish splash splish splash
attended the 'Uncut Poets' evening in
Exeter,                                                                                              thick gooey slimmey mud
                                        Did I sleep silently
                                        Through you leaving                                          cold wet alone
                                        Or did the sound of you
EXPECTING                                                                                            what have i done
                                        Creeping away
                                        Penetrate my mind                                            splish splash splish splash
I awoke with a feeling                  Breath held
I was drawn down the stairs                                                                          black fat bodies long thin tails
                                        Expectant
The air rushed past my face             Your voice to say                                            razor sharp teeth bright eyes
I pounced onto the door                 Goodbye
It flew open                                                                                         rats rats fear
                                        Did you move past me quietly                                 splish splash splish splash
There she was                           Hoping not to disturb my slumber
In her water pool                                                                                    dirty tired hungry
                                        Without a word of farewell
With legs spread wide                   Till later                                                   rat a tat tat go the guns
Birth giving                            The air more cold about me
                                                                                                     thump thump thump beats my heart
                                        Told a tale
There was the head                      Your presence missing                                        splish splash splish splash
Dark in between                         A kiss missed my cheek
Slowly coming                           Blown away by your hand                                      watch your step-over the top
Panting and heaving                     As you stand by the door                                     walk-don’t run
Body turning around                     Your eyes upon me                                            mind the wire
Almost there                            One more time                                                splish splash splish splash
Everything nearly out                   Before you take your leave
                                        Your warmth around me                                        bullet blood pain
Big breath in                           My senses grieve                                             all fall down
One last push
Baby almost arrived                                                                                  sorry mother
Sweat on her face                                                                                    splish splash splish splash
One new life
To our world


GRASS
Lush shades of colour                      The Bullies
Carpet the ground
Among the blunt blades                     Your heart aches emptily as you peer through the mist
Buttercups found                           They are there again readily raising their fists
                                           You try to avoid them but they will never stop
Sprinkles of frost                         Whatever you do, try or say, no matter what
Imprints of feet
Spongy green moss
Smelling so sweet                                    Charlotte Hayward The Storm
                                                                                                 Rugged mountaintops
Watery dew drops
                                                                           Age Twelve, Lincoln




                                                                                                 Like bears in the rain
Dried by the sun                                                                                 Looming above
White daisies gay                                                                                Closing in for the kill
Till summer is done
                                                                                                 Thunder clashes over head
Long slender shoots                                                                              Lightning strikes from afar
Ripple in waves                                                                                  The rain drives down
Cut to the root                                                                                  And the whole world drowns
Harvested hay
Nightingale                                                                                                             Page 7



Priory School’s Poetry Master Classes 2002
During January and February The Priory School in Lincoln put on a series of Saturday morning classes in a wide range of
subjects for primary school year six children who might wish to attend The Priory next September. About thirty children
aged between 9 and 12 years took part in five sessions on various types of poetry - limericks, ballads, haiku, sonnets,
performance and rap poems. I taught a couple of these classes and was impressed by the enthusiasm and ideas of the children
involved who all arrived well before 9 am each Saturday to take part. The next three pages contain a selection of the poems
from the five weeks, plus a some at the end from some of the children already at the Priory.
                                                                                                                    Joe Warner


Louise Brooks, 10 years                      Ellie Ransom, 11 years                      Matthew Hall, 10 years
old grey heron                               Pens up 
                                   old man nodding 

never doubt its crying fear                  Heads down
                                 a young girl growing

as it flies away…                            A, B, C or D?
                              as raindrops fall


                                             Questions, answers

                                             Ticking, scribbling 

Laura Mcleod, 11 years                       A, B, C or D?

daisy in the night                           Peeping, sneaking 
                         Annabelle Arnold, 11 years
smooth silver on its petals                  Just checking!

beautiful and white                          A, B, C or D?
                              I love her in the day
                                                                                         I love her in the night
                                             Maths, English 
                            The way she bounces
when I’m in a crowd                          Geography, no!
                             And the way she hops
I feel so overpowered                        A, B, C or D?
                              She is cuddly as well as warm
and always alone                                                                         She keeps me company in the winter
                                             Five, six, seven,
                          So I keep her company
                                             eight minutes
                              She listens when I come
                                             A, B, C or D?
                              She comes hopping out
Paul Mander, 10 years                                                                    She is two-years old
                                             A minute peeping 
                          And I am eleven-years old
silver night stars                           not cheating
                               She is white with black spots
slow rain making spring                      A, B, C or D!
                              And I am human
bud and flower

                                             Kriss Dunk, 11 years
Zoe Manning, 10 years                                                                    Suzanne Ryan
                                             summer morning 

stormy winter wood                                                      ­
                                             young heron on the horizon 
                growing a petal 

beautiful morning trees sway                 silver moon
                                in to a violet 

leaves twist in cold breeze                                                              flowers in full bloom

                                                                                         listen, spring breeze

                                            Kirsty Thompson, 11 years                    raindrops everlasting 

Stephanie Ward, 10 years                    My mother popped in this morning
                                            Dressed in white and black
moon dipped in black                        Instead of her usual bag
over the wood leaves sway                   She carried a Hessian sack
in silver light                                                                           Lyndsey Walker, 10 years
                                            She had a wicked look
                                            Upon her motherly face                        Autumn – violet flowers glisten 

Rebecca Wilson                              I removed her mask and saw                    Winter – blue trees glow

                                            An alien from outer space                     Summer – green drops ring 

Yellow, gold and brown                      She stole the colour from my hair
As autumn falls one morning                 And the shine from my shoes                   No spring!
In time upon the windows                    She stole the red out of a rose
White snow, silver ice and frost            And the purple from my bruise.
In winter darkness descends.
Nightingale                                                                                                  Page 8




Roisin Alldis, 11 years                 Jasmin Billinghay, 9 years               Danielle Cullen, 9 years
as frosted snow falls                   growing a white flower                   daisy shimmers
his hand waves a tearful farewell                                                on the summer horizon
                                        raindrops listen to dew in the pool
he sways with sweet love                                                         nodding happily
                                        beautiful spring breeze
                                        blowing in the breeze
Layla Ameen, 12 years                                                            Kirsty Chalk, 11 years
silver raindrops fall                   night petal in spring                    sweet morning daisy
beautiful summer evening                daisy in autumn                          beautiful summer breeze
stars fading away                                                                standing by blue lake
                                        rain shimmers
                                        in stormy weather
Max Ware, 10 years
                                                                                 Eleanor Marchington
Oh how I love thee, bleak white snow
When you can go out to play             Sarah Rizeq
The fun you have with snowball fights                                            Farewell to…
And sledging down the hill.             Ballad of Discovery
Oh how I love thee, winter                                                       the growing summer,
When we put up the Christmas tree                                                beautiful one never spoke
                                        Along the lines                          in love and in day
Baubles wobble on the branches
Oh how I love thee, Christmas eve.      Ten years back
When nerves are here,                   I stood in Egypt
Wanting Santa to bring our presents,                                             autumn shimmers
Oh how I love thee, Christmas day.      With my rucksack                         moon mountain glow over
When we open family presents                                                     whisper
                                        The start of my great find               autumn shimmers
Eat our Christmas turkey
And pull crackers around the fire.
                                        This was only the start
Ami Clarke                                                                       Harriet Hambly, 10
                                        Of my great find
                                                                                 years
red glowing hedges                      A collapsing pyramid caught my mind
nodding birds singing all day           Fourteen metres high                     When I look up in the sky
flowers growing old                                                              I see the stars above
                                        Noticed the underground stairs           There is no sign of life
                                                                                 Above or down below
                                        Who knows where they would lead
                                                                                 The galaxies are sleeping now
                                        Closer to my find?                       My mind wanders
Amy Cox, 11 years                                                                What is happening up there
                                                                                 A whole new world
fading snow now spring                  Hey that’s just a pile of bricks         I wonder, I wonder
winter has disappeared                                                           Whatever different creatures
                                        You’re an archaeologist
leaves sway in the wind                                                          The weird or the norm
                                        Look for something rich they called      I wonder, I wonder
                                                                                 What is out there
                                        But this is going to be my great find!
Ashton Forster, 11 years
                                                                                 Astrid Hardy, 11 years
ice pools shimmering
                                        Thomas Ravenscroft
the silver, winter full moon                                                     dark autumn morning
glows beautifully                                                                trees sway in cold breeze
                                        There was an old man from Spain
                                        Who ran down a hill in pain              raindrops whisper stormy wood
                                        He was really quite insane
delicious fruit sways
                                        So they locked him up in chains
light fading breeze of spring
                                        Poor old man from Spain
bud sprout sweet
Nightingale                                                                                                           Page 9


Lauren Teague, 11 years                     Charlotte Hayward                     Jennie Nash
                                            11 years, Priory School               12 Years, Priory School
To Hear The Word
                                                                                  Bored
For every plant that thought to die,
       Snow sparkles in the lane
Or every plane that fell from sky.
         The robin hops along in peace         There is one lesson where I

There is one word you have to hear;
                                              get particularly bored,

“Peace”
                                    Followed by the hungry eyes
                                                                                  so I start to chat,

                                            Of a russet fox                       to no-one-in-particular:

For crying thy bed,
                                                              A pencil with its wooded inside,

For every child that rests their head. 
    Poised and ready for the kill
                                                                                  and weird hexagonal shape.

There is one you have to hear; 
            SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!                     A ruler with its measures. 

“Rest”
                                                                           A dispenser with its tape. 

                                                                                  Scissors that chop, 

Far across the distance lay,
                                                     and a rubber that rubs.

A child who often cannot say.

There is one word you have to hear;

“Joy”
                                                                            Robert Belcher
All in all, with well be well,
                                                   Love isn’t just a feeling,

You made the rain that poured and fell. 
                                         Deep within my heart.

There is one word you have to hear:
                                              It has to be built, 

“Love”
                                                                           Not bought by gifts.

                                                                                  But I’ll treasure the friendship,

To hear each word, to speak the thrill, 
                                         And our love might just grow.

Of those who read this poem will.
                                                The love we share with our families,

There is one word you have to hear:
                                              Isn’t the same love I give to you.

“He will cherish you, far and near”
                                              Family love grows with us

                                                                                  from childhood,

                                                                                  Parental love appears as we hold our

Caitlin Todd,
                                                                    newborn baby.

11 Years Priory School 
                                                          The love we have for each other, 

                                                                                  Can be destroyed with one argument.

                                                                                  So hold on to love,

My First Day 

                                                                                  And treasure it always.

I looked at my watch
                       Tom Nellist
My heart was racing 
                       12 Years, Priory School               Christopher Millbank
Worried about being late, 

Arriving early, My heart pacing!
                                                 12 Years, Priory School
                                            Snake
I’m going to class,
                                                              The Forest
My heart still racing, 
                    Snake sits alone, waiting
Trying not to get lost, 
                   Under his rock, he waits for food
                                            Suddenly like a spring he strikes     Silent all night, but moving so slightly
I arrived early,
                                                                 The sound of the birds and the bats
Should have slowed my chasing!
             The small weak mouse,
                                                     impaled on his fangs.        They chatter like two old ladies
I’m going to break,
                                                              And sing as if in an opera
Worried about not making a friend, 
        The poisoned carcass slides
I’m now panting,
                           Down the tight muscled throat
                                            Like a trapped animal being pulled    Then night will come and all will be
And that’s not how I want to end!

                                            Into quick-sand, never ending death   revealed
I’m off to next lesson, 
                                                         For the birds and the bats
But I have no idea how,
                The lump that once was a lively,
                                        furry little mouse, now disappears        Are not all that’s out there
My new art teacher is really nice, 

                                                                                  A whole lot more of nature lies beneath
And she does not know I can draw mice!
 Like a spaceship being sucked
                                        Into a black hole, never to reappear
It’s near the end of the day now,
                                                Night has come and all are out
And I have to say,
                         The snake again slithers
                                            Back under its rock to wait           Including the owls and the rats
I quite enjoy it here,

                                            For the next unfortunate mouse        And that’s not all for there’s lots more
And I think I’m going to stay!

                                            To end up on his plate                For day will come tomorrow
Nightingale                                                                                                          Page 10



Rose Cook                                   Ruth Butler                             Frances Thompson
Based in Totnes, Devon, Rose performs her   Say it all by Text
poetry individually and as a member of      (inspired by news from Kuala Lumpur)    THE CATCH
poetry performance group Dangerous Car-
digans. She has been published in various                                           between the thing
magazines, including The Otter, Fat         You can date by text-phone.             and its name
Chance, Envoi, Psychopoetica, Seam,         Can you relate by text-phone?
South, The Interpreter’s House, Rain Dog    - handle romantic conversations         between the word
and Still.                                                                          and its shape
                                            in sound-bites, abbreviations
                                            and one-liners;                         between a thought
Fierce Love                                 make cryptic, staccato seductions;      and its silence
                                            have affairs no more deep
If I should deserve it                                                              between the language
                                            than your patience
                                                                                    and the voice
bring me your fierce love                   when tap, tap tapping on the keypad -
like the dragonfly that pushed its way                                              between the eye
                                                                                    and the object
into my kitchen that day and filled         - perhaps you'd develop a penchant
the whole room with its buzzing             for the ingenious use of words          between one breath
                                            spelt mostly with A. D. G. J.           and the next
and need to breed, fluttering at
                                                              M. P .T .W.
the paper dragonfly I keep in the fern                                              the catch.
                                            OK ­
till I lifted it up on my finger              that's a challenge I'll set you.
and carried it to the outside air
                                                                                    IN HORA SFAKION,
with its magnificent wings                  For marriage you could upgrade
and its striped angry head                  to 3-way video conferencing -           CRETE
and its muscled legs which trembled         - each of you and a priest
                                            in the comfort of your own homes,       Like a cat, I wait

and clung light and trusting to my skin
                                            posing "portrait" at your desk
then flew straight up like                                                          for a square of sun.

                                            with the digital camera on zoom.
an aquamarine helicopter thief.             You might like to quickly use a comb,   I move with the day.

                                            but no need to polish your shoes
                                            or tidy the rest of the room.           My body learns how

Alfie Howard                                                                        to be with itself.

                                            Convenience matrimony.
                                                                                    Whiskers would help. Soon

a few words on divorce
                                            And if it doesn't work-out,
I had a heap of memories                    Yes,                                    I'll forsake the pier

a store in which to fall
          and feast                           you can divorce by text-phone.        where I've been dozing

now I have been barred                      The Mufti of Kuala Lumpur says          with half of one eye

I am no longer welcome                      that under Sharia Law
& can no longer use                         Text-message divorce is legit.
          the facilities.                                                           on the dancing sprats -

                                            Just type "I divorce you" 3 times -
                                            a real quickie, no need to meet.        I'll stretch, yawn, and slink

                                                                                    between the tourists

poem for my daughter
                                            But have you looked at
she is five, and then she                        I .V .O .R. C .                    to where, already,

is six, and in the crackle                       on the keypad?
of a firework                                                                       the sun is painting

                                            It could take all of 3 minutes.
time has passed and                                                                 my white balcony.

left me stranded                            It would be quicker to speak.
Nightingale
Shane Wolfland - published in Poetry           Glancing thoughts,                           Bloody in its contempt 
              Page 11
Manchester, First Offense and Axiom. Co­       Thoughtful glances                           For cities.

ordinator of cross-artform group Garret Art­   One to the other
ists.                                          Placed around it.                            That place where you are from...

                                                                                            Streams running endless

No.1         Eclipse                           That ideal globe                             Like schemes inside my head.

                                               You turned from                              Pinnacles, reachable without

Starlight                                      With never a glimpse                         Straying too far from the road: 

Silhouette                                     Backward -                                   Like being with you.

Tongue lash lick
Touch to mark                                  Do you see the lights                        And in the absence of malcontent prodigies,

Bite sweet black                               Reflected on                                 What have we here?

Hollows of bone                                The bricks ahead?                            Could it be love in another form? 

Moon glints soft                               Or did the crystalnacht                      - Or just another

On skin.                                       Leave you blinded?                           Geometric shape?


            Slant eyed                         No.3     Black Angelis                       No.5         Treasure & Monsters

            Green-gold
            Glisten salt                       Copper trees                                 On a dark bright day

            Featherhand                        Black angelis with                           In the howling gale,

            Burns the skin                     Golden trumpets                              I come across the treasure ­

            Consumed                           The white stone                              Piles of it, heaped, 

            Blood on blood                     Against black wood.                          Open to the sky,

            To flame.                                                                       Some broken,

                                                               Here once more               Much whole

Curls of jet                                                   In the time of               And finely wrought,

White flesh                                                    Shades and hazy gold.        Like walking on the walls 

Shadowed in                                                    The red splash               Of a shell-house.

Blue half-light                                                Leaves like dried blood
Lip sealed                                                                                  I tread amongst the glass and jewels, 

Tiny blood-marks                               On yellow, on green -                        Till suddenly out of nowhere

On rose quartz-                                Dreamfire.                                   Comes the rushing of the guardian - 

Coloured silk.                                 Land¹s sacrifice to                          Engrossed and enchanted

                                               The god of Winter                            By the hoard,

            Silver chains                      Who takes the shed blood                     I had forgotten about

            Entwine                                                                         The monster,

            Eclipse                                           And the harvest of berries.   And step back,

            To union-ring                                     The sun glows and             Run back,

            The sacred fire of                                Fades - tints of the flaxen   As it stretches out long arms 

            Blaze                                             Touches of scarlet            Of icy cold to drench me.

            Made to belong                                    Like paint on glass.
            One to the other.                                                               Whipped by the wind-cords,

                                               A presence
                                  Something ripples and rises,

No.2    Crystalnacht                           Eyes of the wolf, lurid 
                    Till the sand-snakes

                                               A daemon in wake
                            Tendril and slither

Fractious the fracture                         Play of shadows against the colour
          With a hissing sound,

Faceting the glassware                         To set the essence on celestial fire. 
      Conjured like fire,

Sharding the crystal                                                                        Over the shore,

A cobweb of shatter lines                      No.4       Fugue in 3 Angles
                Meeting a man in black.

Like the most fretwork
Of networks.                                   This cruelty is stillborn.
                  He walks as if

                                               It has all the dream-quality
                Through geometry

Splinter glass                                 Of an electric light-bulb.
                  Or cyberspace,

In brittle flinders                            Flaring at blue-ship harbours
               He walks like

Smash to pieces                                In the mornings of
                          One in a sand-storm.

The transparent tracery                        Tower-block kitchens.

Razor sharp and filigree                       It has all the intimacy
                     The fire wind serpents

A lacing of frost                              Of an addiction.
                            Meet the ocean monster

Or the ice, starcrossed.                       I do not feel it.
                           And the battle commences,

                                               It does not surface in me,
                  White flecks skimming from the 

The shivered image                             Thank God
                                   Arms of the beast,

Refracted                                      But originates in you.
                      Where the gold dry fire

To a thousand shard lights                     In London¹s clay, cardboard facade.
         Meets the silver cold spray.

Or pin points
Dazzling the eye                               This place is somewhere else;
               The man in black

And leaving an imprint                         With its dragon skies
                       Seems to walk into water

                                               Film-set mists and 
                         Vanish into the sand,

- Like your arrow                              Opaque suns.
                                And then, like a mirage, 

Through the mirror ­                           It is not for communication
                 Is gone... 

The surface that held                          Or isolation amongst many. 

And exchanged each image                       It is as where you are from.

Each most elusive of                           Bright, bold and

Nightingale                                                                                         Page 12



James Bell                                            PREPARED FOR FISHING
                                                      We sit and wait, watch in silence
                                                      for the tide to lift our boat
DUSK                                                  whose bottom still bumped the river bed
                                                      when water laps its sides
There is still daylight
                                                      too vigorously.
reflecting on the water
though this will change
                                                      While we watch, ready in waders,
soon to orange lights
                                                      our orange net heaped
beginning to glow
                                                      at the boat's stern, the river birds
on the bridge where
                                                      wait too for food to flow
the starlings are making
                                                      below in the water.
their daily cacophony
as they prepare to roost
                                                      Together on the bank side we all wait
underneath the old stone
                                                      focussed on how this place
arches while ducks feed
                                                      provides us who are prepared, watch
on the seeds on the shore
                                                      as the sun bends towards dusk
and seagulls flap and wash
                                                      and take our turn.
their wings in fresh water.
The day is on the turn,
and as every bird here knows
all will soon be still                                Paul Davidson
and silent as only people
continue into the night
and cross the bridge above.                           HONEYS
                                                      (for Scott and Kiera H.)


                                                      Here, where pines move from dusk to dusk,

AT THE RIVER RIM                                      where hills run silently to bracken;

                                                      where stones dream, and seaweeds

Glowing silver today,                                 tell the tide’s time; here, 

the water low - tide out - a concave hub
dug out of the earth through time.                    for the first time in however many months,

                                                      our shadows have come to cross; mine

Bank mud with a slight, silky texture                 accelerating to some greater dark, 

the water has moulded in womanlike curves,            yours’ still turning slowly.

soft, though still could be adamant.
                                                      You are both too young to tell time, 

A static heron stands                                 or language in all its ebb and depth, 

in the shallow, slow flow -                           though you will soon grow into this. 

struck with serious purpose - fishing.
                                                      For now, all our words

Swans glide, own                                      for you are incoming ripples, 

the way downstream; aloof royalty                     dandelion seed, unnoticeably settling.

taking up their rightful position.                    Your own clocks are growing

                                                      almost out of pace with you.

Snipe potter on the muddy edge, thin
clawprint trails in and out the river -               In this place, where the sea 

theatrical business in apparent stillness.            reveals its secrets in stages, 

                                                      where we will cross again from time

Transient anger is displaced ­                        to time, in snatches like the flight

gone by the time it takes                             of angels or oystercatchers,

a fish to die and a heron eat.                        you will learn the words for life 

                                                      and how to walk within its meanings. 

You can see and feel cold rime in the head
when the river flows, when it tricks sometimes,       You will also learn, at length, to step, 

floods other days.                                    like me, towards the dark,

                                                      under pine and under stone,

A temporal calm belays the storm                      pursued by the winged dead,

of affairs at the river rim -                         your own bright days.

while we try to build a bridge between both shores.
Nightingale                                                                                                              Page 13




James Turner                                          M. C. Newton

Easeful                                               I was on the way to Wells
"Not to be here,/Not to be anywhere,/And soon;
nothing more terrible, nothing more true." - Philip   I was on the way to Wells, not all that long ago,
Larkin
                                                      when the word I was searching for appeared on the grass verge:
Office, Tesco, hospital bed...                        a slighter word than I’d imagined it.
malfunction of the heart or head,
liver or kidney, lung or gut...
the where and why have faded but                      I knew this was the word I needed, even though

when people ask you how I died,                       I’d caught no more than a suggestion of its size and shape
just mention all the ends untied.                     as we drove past.
So unprepared! - yet I succeeded,
lawn unmown and beds unweeded,
                                                      When I looked back, I couldn’t see it anywhere,
floors unhoovered, rent unpaid,
dirty pants on, will unmade,                          but the poplars on the bank were real enough,
depths unplumbed and heights unscaled.                with their shadows stretching out across the grass.
It wasn't a test or I'd have failed.

"Nothing more terrible" - Larkin said it.
Tell them he was wrong to dread it
(he knows that now), and then add this:                                      Bogoljub T. Mihajlovic
dying's a doddle. Piece of piss.
                                                                1                                           1

                                                      spring morning                              proleć jutro

                                                      and look toward a hill -                    I pogled ka bregu

Haiku                                                 cranes are returning                        vraćaju se žralovi


wasp on window ledge -                                          2                                           2
two tired antennae conduct
symphonies of rain                                    down the slopes                             niz padinu

                                                      tonight, together                           noćas su zajedno

                                                      the moon and the river                      mesec I reka


                                                                3                                           3

               Svetlana Bjelica                       on a dried branch                           na suvu granu

                                                      the orange moon                             narandžasti mesec 

                         1                            has moved into its nest                     u gnezdo se uselio

                 piano and softly
                 clouds are passing
                 ozone traces
                                                                                 Tomislav Ž Vujčić
                           2
                 lilac in blossom                     bitter storm -                          jaka oluja -
                 stays with wind                      the dogs stopped barking                u selu
                 on lawn                              in the village                          presta lavež pasa

                          3
                 butterfly                                                       Christine M. Kirker
                 is seeking shadow
                 hot summer noon                      flashing neon sign                         endless giggling
                                                      peep shows cheap blows a good time         children playing at the park
                                                      dad says evening grace                     a mother yawing
Nightingale                                                                                            Page 14



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Nightingale                                                                                                        Page 15




David Lightfoot                                             Kevin Blake

After The Music
                                                            I live in the colony of a parasitic thief.

“And, apart from The Bible and Shakespeare,
                In the shadow of a professional fanatic.

one book?” Impossible choice but, 
                         In the tongue-tied mouth of a monster.

like Sophie’s Choice, you’d let your instinct rule.
        In the history of it’s lying teeth. 

If, from a house-fire, you had only one

fraught chance in which to snatch some favourite clear, 
   I live in the warzone of a waking thought.

which would it be? What value would you put
                In the life of ritual decomposition.

on leather-bound World Classics won at school
              In the relentless chaos of a fly’s mind.

or names the Booker Judges smiled upon? 
                   In the fusing of its intellect.



That first edition? No. the one your dad
                   I live with the uncertainty of no religious tongue.

bought you the day you passed the scholarship?

Perhaps, but, sentiment aside, you’re glad
                 Yet

to grab the hardback which first let you dip,
              I hold the pliable sky between thumb and forefinger, and 

by means of magic words and talking mice,
                  Pray with fury.

shy fingers in the pools of paradise. 



Politicians
                                                            Jack Galmitz
and others like them like philosophers 

are dirt to some but others like them 
                     Outside City Hall
and philosophers, love them or hate them, 
                 Leaves are beginning to form -
like politicians, like talking.
                            We take wedding vows
Such types of thinker, types the unthinking typist,

it’s kind of unkind to class as careless. 

Neither cares less who cares about
                         Summer in New York -
who thinks their careful enough
                            A clerk shakes a paper weight
to be thought to care for their country.
                   Snow begins to fall
Country bumpkins couldn’t care less even more, 

being certain certain certainties 

are not, clearly, as clear cut
                             Periwinkle shells
as philosophers, qua philosophers 
                         Stranded on the office desk ­
like politicians, qua politicians, 
                        The sea within
like to assert, 

being both thought dirt by some,

though others unlike them 
                                 Cold morning -
like them, thinking
                                        Petals of the primrose
Who’d be a politician?                                      Opened
Nightingale                                                                                                   Page 16




                                                                                                              you like Nightingale you will like The Bridge. Ask john@villarana.freeserve.co.uk or just go straight to http://groups.yahoo.com/group/WHCpoetrybridge Be there.
                                                                                                              Poems from The Bridge. The World Haiku Club is pleased to invite you to join us on The Bridge. All you need is an email address and the desire to explore poetry. If
 Reflections on Noise (free verse)                                   Let Age... (pantoum)

 Soun -                                                              They happened while sleeping,
 one word                                                            hieroglyphs on my face;
 may be too much.                                                    as the shadows were deepening,
                                                                     someone else took my place.
 Noisome silence
 runs backwards down your spine,                                     Hieroglyphs on my face:
 bottle stopper.                                                     I'm not long for this earth,
 When to be done with words,                                         someone else took my place,
 even one letter too many?                                           someone born at my birth.

 Strike words                                                        I'm not long for this earth,
 before they strike you;                                             someone else took my place,
 old bamboo breaks when bent.                                        someone born at my birth
                                                                     who looks out of my face.
 Gary Blankenship
                                                                     Someone else took my place,
                                                                     … I fall out of time,
                                                                     she looks out of my face
 Two Haiku                                                           and this flesh is not mine.
 I cull my keys
 listening to Django -
                                                                     Christine Bousfield
 nightfall in autumn
                                                                     Scifiku (1-breath)
 mackerel sky
 wiping the dog shit                                                 cramped quarters - - your head in mine
 in the tall grass
                                                                     Terrie Leigh Relf
 Mark Brooks



Unvanquished (nautilus)                                              Inspiration (mirror cinquain)
         Low                                                         Bright bolts
        sun                                                          crackle and arc
      finds a                                                        from inner thunderheads;
    tar paper                                                        illumined by the flash of "if,"
  shack, by the train track,                                         we dance
 slumped one day deeper in debris.                                   and pray
As day fades, slowly umber shadows swing and taper.                  for paper, canvas, strings to blaze,
                                                                     for breath to spread the sparks,
At last, the day star sends a shaft of light from bright decline,    for night to burn
through the shack’s encrusted windows, in rainbow-tinted shine.      away.
The sills are filled with bottle glass, crowded against the panes,
placed there by the resident, discards from passing trains.          Stephen Clay Dearborn
No rose-windowed cathedral boasts colors half as fine.

        Passengers, in passing, pity his decrepit home.
                     They can't see the place's glory,
                                 nor his vital spark,
                                       nor how he
                                      beats back
                                            the
                                         dark.
Denis Garrison

				
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