Read Poetry f The Book Of Dreams
IDIGNA
This is my name, do you accept it or is the Tigris better?
I see the Tigris is the recent bloody name.
I passed by the north of Mesopotamia, I found the land fertile
The sky filled with clouds, the water is pure, the people are Kurds
I found life, flowers, and furs, I came to Mansoor’s city
I saw on the A’ayma bridge crowds of visitors
Walking in sanctity, in peace, in sacred breaths
Marching reciting verses along the way to Musa Al-Kakhum
Suddenly, oh, a bomb, oh, a bomb
And the crowd dispersed
Some threw and gave me their souls freely
I hugged them in my lap
And some children were laid in my depth laughing slowly
The verses scattered in the air, on my surface
And why they fall and fall in my depth, they recite the song of life
On the brink of death, I welcome them all
But there was no bomb, it was on purpose
Waleed Al-Bazoon
Dedicated to Cara, Diana Barsham, Robert Duggan, John Dane and my best friend Douglas.
Born in Iraq, Waleed Al-Bazoon has interests including reading and writing, specifically fiction and poetry. “I started writing in Iraq to express my ideas concerning the suffering of Iraqis and to have the literary voice of Iraq heard not only in Iraq, but abroad,” he explained. Aged 38, Waleed is a university lecturer and is
married to Zainab. They have four children - three girls and one boy. His biggest fantasy is to spread peace all over Iraq and the world.
CLICHÉ
Will it ever be your fingers
entwining with mine?
Or is it always I
who will make the effort
for someone who feels the effort
is not worth making.
To know how it feels,
to look into your eyes,
and know
that they’re searching
for the perfect girl,
stood
just behind
so warm to touch,
a perfectly cold heart,
in a beautiful box.
I think I’ll leave that
love we had,
once upon a time,
in that most perfect place
stood
just behind.
Lauren Hall
Born in Louth, Lauren Hall has interests including classical guitar, art and reading. “My passion for writing started in
primary school when I was selected to take part in a talented English group,” she explained. “I’m influenced by emotional
out-pourings and daily experiences.” Lauren’s biggest fantasy is to be a successful musician, and her greatest fear is to be blind, as “above all else, I would never be able to read again,” said Lauren (16).
MYSTIC RIVER
If in my sight I saw the power of dreams
And, looking once, could catch their burgeoning source
My eyes would gaze but brief on heaven’s streams
And run and play the deep divining course
But I, as all, am made of coarsest clay
So to my burdening flesh insinuate
This sinew bound in sinning has its day
On river’s beach, deposits incarnate
In leaving this behind the current still
Moves on through rapid thrashing sparkling sights
And casts a million diamonds through the hill
And bows the sun’s fair rays in myriad lights
Then, in one instant insubstantial gaze
Eternity is cast upon my days
James Hayward
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Born in Hereford, James Hayward has interests including movies, painting, tennis, swimming and theatre. “I would describe my style as classical to contemporary,” he explained. “I would like to be remembered with fondness by those I love and with respect by others, should I produce a body of work. My ambition is to be creatively successful and I would most like to meet Stephen Fry to pick his brains and find out what makes him so damn good!”
FIREWORKS
White, screaming tadpoles
Pink, flying jellyfish
Spinning, sparkling rings
Smoky air, grey-red ...
Transfixed ...
Startled by light
What next?
Multi-colours
Pink, silver stars
Vivid green, bright yellow
Blinking ...
Gold fountain to end.
Emma Shrimpton
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AIM WAS DIFFERENT
Catastrophic weapon don’t make men,
It will devastate your race and name.
It’s demolished your public area main,
No trace will remain for even sample aim.
I heard a song sung on radio then,
Hair-raising terror travelled in morning lane.
I jumped out from early bed body shrivelled,
Tea spilt on the ground teasing, met the hell.
Ding dong ring rung heartbeat around,
Heed towards sound made alarmingly vigilant,
Situation provoked howling death of horror.
Aim was different, not for men, ringing remained.
Lion and tiger live on jungle don’t harm more,
Birds, clouds don’t fling even they can soar.
Bomb-barding fighter came faster than sound,
I creased as a ball hiding head, leg and arm.
Big bang jet of smoke covered sky whole,
Later televised school area hundred were blown.
Poor humanity showed me tear living alone,
Radio was ringing on, aim was different not for men.
Deepak Chalise
DELIGHTFUL EXPRESSIONS
A digital clock ticks away the time
On the platform passengers wait in line
An attractive figure stands serene
Her beauty oblivious to those at the scene
Her sparkling eyes survey the throng
The train arrives, they move along
Her soft mouth creates an impish treat
Observing the crowd, seeking a seat
Her uniform outlines a shapely figure
She portrays a body full of vigour
A ticket will always bring her near
Her charming voice makes one sincere
In a world of celebrity and glamour
We can discover among the clamour
Natural loveliness in unexpected places
Away from the media’s airs and graces
When we find a precious gem
Should we leave it there and then?
Or will our memory always store
This beautiful picture for evermore?
Thomas Conlon
Dedicated to the female staff at Durham City Railway Station, North East England.
MOON MIRACLE
Fifty years have swiftly passed
Since my son was in my being.
The moon above enchanted us
She seemed to be all-seeing.
Mystery surrounded her
Now partially unravelled
My son has wandered all the earth
A philosopher who travels.
I once looked up and wondered
If our moon would be explored.
Later to see a satellite
From earth’s familiar darkness
And see its flight around the moon
Intriguing and entrancing.
Are we here and is it now?
Or is all yet to be?
The moonlight casts a milky glow
Softening all we see,
Mysterious moon who rules our lives
What is our destiny?
Christine Clark
Dedicated to my son Andy, with love. Thanks for being there.
FAMILY
They are the seeds that take the soul,
Plant it in the soil of life,
And in this act, love grows.
It knows blood is the binder,
Goodness, kindness and a jigsaw lock,
Is its finder,
And constant reminder.
Sometimes we may not like our family,
But in the golden cord of their significance
We cannot shed our bonds,
For love is the fertiliser, the surpriser.
In a reflective mood
I leave my testimony to my family,
A son whose victory has been won on his wedding day,
As an angel made him listen to what she had to say.
A girl whose courage and endurance, with spina bifida
Made her shine,
I’m so glad she was mine.
As a family our nightmares and our joys were mixed
But we were firmly fixed.
We all shared the divine - amen.
Heleneia Brierley
Born in Banbury, Heleneia Brierley has interests including climbing mountains, art and poetry. “I started writing when I was diagnosed with terminal bowel cancer in 2001,” she explained. “My work is influenced by my challenges, for example, I just ran the London Marathon.” Heleneia is widowed and her greatest ambition is to be loved. She would like to be remembered as a healer and a soul searcher.
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DAWN ON A DRY WINTRY DAY
A wintry light tinged with blue
made silhouettes of the trees
that had woken to the peace
of the early morning dew.
In the sky an orange glow,
like translucent stripiness,
had risen from the greenness
of the disdainful hill brow.
Two birds glided to the trees,
cutting the silence like ice,
leaving a sense of presence,
as an imprint in the breeze.
Keith Bootle
Keith Bootle said: “I suddenly found at 16 that I could express myself and my experience of the world around me in poetry. Only much later, as I found the courage to share my poetry, did I find that others enjoyed it too. I’m married with two daughters, and I enjoy walking, athletics, travelling and music with my wife. I also enjoy reading and photography. I’m most influenced by beauty and ugliness, love and injustice I see, and the work of Ted Hughes and the life of Jesus Christ.”
SKYSCRAPER SKY
Sunlight on a skyscraper sky
Sound of packed trains rushing by
The city awakes to a slow distant hum
Another day of business has begun
The pressure is on, money to make
What happened to the life as it used to be played?
Are we as happy, content and alive, or have
We lost direction with no place to hide?
The money, the gadgets, material things
Should we be grateful for what his cash brings?
Should we redeem the things of the past,
The things that bring joy?
Or should we keep the things that destroy?
Sunlight on a skyscraper sky
Should we stay with you or just walk on by?
Anne Lawrence
Born in Watford, Anne Lawrence has interests including cooking, writing and gardening. ”Life and day to day conversations influence my work,” she explained. “I’d describe my style as contemporary and compassionate.” Anne’s ambition is to always be happy and inspire others, and her biggest fantasy is to drive across Australia. She would most like to be the Queen for the day and she has written over 100 poems.
EMOTION
I feel myself drowning in a sea of emotion
Yet I know that I’m being pulled closer to shore
The hour is midnight and the night lingers on
But the darkness is not as dark as before
Though the blindness is hindering my confident stride
I know I will see the turn of the tide
Though the darkness has enveloped my path for a while
His hand still guides me mile after mile
The journey has become unpredictable and full of lies
But still I walk on with the hope of sunrise
The blindness is hindering my confident stride
But even now I know that you will be my guide
Ellen Eagling
Ellen Eagling said: “I’m passionate about my Christian faith. As a youth worker I love working alongside young people and seeing them shine. I started filling journals with poems when I was growing up in the beautiful Suffolk countryside. I continued to write while living in the United States with my family for eight years. During that time I was able to travel to many different places. The beautiful people that I met along the way inspired me to write more and more. I’m also currently writing a book on self image for young girls.”
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OLD KASPAR
They argued politics
And all the while
The grass was busy growing in the fields,
And in their gardens weeds
Claimed right of way.
They talked of strikes,
And what to do about the latest one.
Meanwhile the river wore away its bed
And carried their pollution
To the sea.
They talked of distant lands,
Of famine, pestilence and war,
While butter mountains melted in the sun
And acid rain ate up the shelter belts.
They drew the blueprint for Utopia,
Where all were equal, all were free,
And everyone could win.
Old Kaspar stuffed tobacco in his pipe
And sat behind the wall,
Watching his garden grow.
Helen Nisbet
Born in Glasgow, Helen Nisbet has interests including reading and music. “My work is influenced by nature, love and human behaviour,” she said. “I would like to be remembered for my creativity.” Helen is retired and her greatest fear is dementia. She has had around 25 poems published.
NOSTALGIA
Space empty, church clock stopped
Reflects the image by my side
Nothing moving, inside grieving, vacant now
Bar cluttered dust
High above the central square, the parish church
Inspired by chime, to clock the hour when all was fair
A time we left behind
To play the stand in Clifton Park, to strike his baton
On his score, my Grandad knew the time was good
When music mused the English air
Street corners chat with busy folk, awnings flap
The towns reply; colour greets expectant shoppers
A tradition once we used to find
Trade is falling all around me, I can hear those distant bells
Always calling, still recalling never hear
Those tinkling tills
The old churchyard fingers plenty, grassed in their newfound plots
Estranged through retail foreign plunder, Mars the townships Holy Grail
Take me back to the old times, let nostalgia be my staff,
to walk the streets of Rotherham before my breath be lost
Philip Cranswick
Born in Rotherham, Philip Cranswick has interests including
gardening, karaoke, reading and the arts. “I’ve been writing all my married life,” he explained. “That’s 53 years. I write for the love of poetry, expression and romance.” Philip is married to Alice and is inspired by Keats, Wordsworth and Hughes. He would most like to meet Stephen Hawkin, as he’s interested in space.
MOZART’S JUPITER SYMPHONY NO. 41K551
If I could meet you, I’d be starstruck.
I’d stammer something maladroit
About your not finding time to sleep
Or ask if you’d play a sonata for us.
I’d play a recording of your Jupiter,
The masterpiece you never lived to hear.
It would be astronomical for you,
A curtsey, followed by a fanfare.
Conjuring figures out of black holes
In a lost galaxy, light years away.
You’d be seeing your supernova
Exploding, for the very first time.
David Jones
Born in Hartlepool, David Jones has interests including classical music and visiting Hungary. “I started writing in 2008, I felt an urge to try it and am now a regular writer of poetry,” he explained. “I would say I have a lyrical style with a romantic edge.” David is a retired headteacher and has ambitions to publish a book of poems. He is married to Marti and they have four children, William, Megan, Jonny and Nicola. David’s biggest fantasy is to renovate a chateau in the south of France.
A TIME FOR SEEING
Take time out from the troubles of the day
And you will see flowers and birds in full array
Look in hedgerows and you will see
Finches, robins, butterflies and perhaps a bee
All in striking colours to behold
There’s red and green and sometimes gold
If you are quiet, you may see a snake
A stoat or a hedgehog who is half awake
Gaze at the stars so bright in the sky
Their magic and beauty you will see if you try
You won’t see these things with a troubled mind
But they’re out there, and are not hard to find
Just take time out from the troubles of the day
And you’ll see a new world amongst the hay
David Blake
A RIGHT RIDE
It’s the oldest trick in the book
We all know that
They don’t mean it
When they come out with the
I love you line
And when it comes to other people
You can spot one a mile off
Him spinning her the lines
Delivering that grin
Her feeling so special
And the marvellous sex
Which it would be, wouldn’t it?
But when it comes to you
You have no idea
This isn’t like that
He isn’t like them
And how would you be expected to know
When you have no reason to
Suspect anybody of taking
You and your naivety
For a right ride?
Susan Bedford
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ARE YOU AWAKE?
Did you listen as the wind blew the trees
And the grasshopper chirrup in the grass?
Did you hear the sweet lark as he sang in the sky?
Did you see the shy deer with ears pricked high?
Did you feel the warm sunshine on your skin today?
And the moon, did you see it when the day was away?
Did you see the bright stars in the inky black sky
Twinkling like diamonds so high, oh so high?
Did you listen to raindrops as they hit window glass?
Did you see coloured rainbows when showers had passed?
Did you smell the sweet morn as you strode through the grass?
Did you notice the patterns frost makes en masse?
Did you see jewelled raindrops hung from the trees?
Did you notice, did you notice any of these?
June Patterson
IS IT REALLY THE BEST TIME TO THINK ABOUT THESE THINGS NOW?
She is sitting by the window.
Looking outside.
In the yard, a child becomes a woman, becomes an old woman.
A toy becomes a scarf becomes a pillow.
How and why and when? The child is smiling naïvely at her.
She wants to smile back, but her wrinkles hurt so much.
She caresses her body, but it burns her fingers.
Her eyes spot the woman trapped in a box.
Can hear her thoughts, but not her voice. It’s too weak.
Trapped with others, many others,
Trying to convey content into form.
But the box is too tight and dark.
The box is melting.
Some got out, but not her.
A woman becomes an old woman.
A scarf becomes a pillow.
Time to sleep.
Marianna Pliakou
WINGS OF SYMMETRY
By what is known is all I have
Be unknown, the infinite path
To give unto a gift of sense
Is to lay the path with perceptive fence
For these are your limits and perception be
A fence for thought, but not for me
For I am knowing but knowledge I have none
As is to feel the earth orbit the sun
Though infinite I am one
Now all the wonders are out in the sheen
Of the waters in my waking dream
Spontaneous shadows in lights imagery
I am here again with wings of symmetry
Not a shadow to be seen
Daniel Tebano
BLACK AND WHITE STILL
Life left you in two cries
The only trouble you gave us
In your eleven years
We were there in seconds
Trying to catch you
In the net of our shock
But you slipped through
As if you knew the way
We were stunned
By the beating
Stolen from your heart
A heart felled
By an attack
No defence could disarm
Not forgotten by us
Or our other dog, as she follows
Your scent through the woods
Like echoes
Leading her nowhere
And everywhere
Anne Broadbent
THE PARTING
Let not your eyes and secret smiles suggest
That something in our past is still alive
Alas it’s over, gone, no more to be
That which then meant so much to me and thee
Suffice enough to know we had this love
For years, happiness, planning, whispering, exchanging hopes
Seizing the stolen hours to meet and kiss
Exciting, risky, longings, broken dates
In our hearts we knew and feared the worst
Needed by others, family ties, fed on our guilt
It touched the core of selfishness and swung our moods
It crept to friends, shared experiences, outings, children
Would these thoughts could disappear our minds
Contentment might have come, enjoyment then return
The anguish of our parting is still fresh
Please forgive me darling for this awful mess
I cannot see a way to make amends; a heart with eyes that overfill
Can only say I love you dearest and I always will
Goodbye
Hilary Ingle
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SAD LADY
It was late Saturday evening
When I saw the sad lady
Slumped on the pavement
By busy Holborn station
She looked a benign, loving, person
White hair, large glasses
Sturdy cardigan and floral dress
But her shoes were forlorn
In front, was a small paper cup
From the ominous betting shop
Entreating alms, but ignored
By the disengaged horde
Sad Lady appeared so saintly
But bore the stigma
Of a tainted medieval leper
And the little cup was bereft
Donald McDonnell
MISSING MORGAN
Hungover
On a sunny day,
I walk by the river
And watch many dogs
Walking their owners,
And I remember
The way it used to
Be with you.
It hurts,
Death of sorts,
Though you still
Live,
And walk with new
Legs...
Following happily behind your
Wagging tail.
Pam Dunbar
SO SAD
The moose’s head stood so forlorn
Now just a statue on the floor
It was only now fit to be fixed to a wall
Or simply hung behind a door
It looked so sad, as its eyes had gone
With its fur all tatty and dry
And if it had had its eyes
I’m sure I’d have seen them cry
Had it been the king of the land
Which it knew as its domain?
Where it felt the sun on its back
And cooling drops of rain
It was just a lonely bust
A shadow if its former self
I only hope it had died naturally
Not just shot, to display upon a shelf
Christopher Bartlett
SHED A TEAR
I still can’t believe you’re gone
Knowing you were by my side is what made me strong
I still shed a tear from time to time
When I remember you’re not here when I cross the line
Or do something wrong
You’re not here to shout
Not here to pick me up in times of doubt
You taught me more in my life than anyone else
Told me that when times get rough just believe in myself
You never gave up on me or lost faith
And I owe it to you that I have found my place
Rachel Evans
THE STATION PLATFORM
We said our goodbyes
Doors slammed shut
The guard signals
I wait as the train pulls
Away from the platform
I watch as it snakes
Around the bend
Moving slowly
Red tail lights glinting
Now you have gone
I have to leave
Feeling desolate
I turn to go
I will miss you
Elspeth Anderson
THE LIGHT OF DAYS
Flies forth the light of days
From the wound that I compress,
The mist milks the windows and my eyes
And your knees are apples, open and polished red.
But nothing melts or mixes on the tiles
Your blood will not go in, the blood will not go back in
We must fly or drown.
It is without you, and it gags me then to realise
That you are
Without it, you are definitely missing something now,
The howling scratches are translated
And I see the pit
Where in the wide red flames you face you
All covered in shit
One eye turns upward and dies, is hit
You must look at the light
Read your own face by the red light.
The day bids me follow and flies
Our hands slip,
How white the mist that melts on your red eyes.
Hollie Lewis
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SNOWY LINEN LANDSCAPE
Pressed cotton; white
Clean, air-dried smell
Undulating
Smooth.
Muffled crunching embroiders patterns round
Plumped up snowy pillow mounds, and
Black angled shadows melt into softer curves.
Linen snow drifts sewn across the field
Stretched from side to side and
Tucked in under frozen hedges
White and bright
Fresh and undisturbed
Clean laundry landscape
Pressed cotton snow.
Alison Perry
ONWARD THEY TRAMP
Onward they tramp
In Old California
For
Gold
On the bends of the rivers
In Old California
Bent backs
Over pans of dirt
Gold
Onward they tramp
In Old California
Pan after pan
Of dirt they discard
Gold
Destroyer of man’s soul
Sickness within the mind
But onward they tramp
In Old California
For
Gold
Janice Edwards
HOW TO WRITE A VILLANELLE - OR NOT
It’s not easy to write a villanelle
It’s fun trying to choose the second rhyme
It has to be something exceptionelle
Forget grammar, forget how to spell
It can be ridiculous or sublime
It’s not easy to write a villanelle
It has a particular tale to tell
That can be encased in chalk or is it lime?
It has to be something exceptionelle
Ring out the bells down in the dell
It’s not slide down a tree, but up you’ll have to climb
It’s not easy to write a villanelle
In your eyes tears may well
If you have to cheat, it’s not easy that’s the crime
It has to be something exceptionelle
Sometimes it’s like driving through hell
It’s hard work and may take a long time
It’s not easy to write a villanelle
It has to be something exceptionelle
Patricia Tausz
NOTHING IS BLACK AND WHITE
In this climate of change and political exchange
Is coal off-white or char?
Do we tinkle on the ivories, promote the ebonies,
Or just harmonise in a bar?
We fight for equality, freedom from poverty
Live Martin Luther’s dream,
Yet Luther King was proud of his skin
Without it he wouldn’t have cried, just died.
Still, my words are offensive,
Young folks get defensive.
They give me flack for saying black;
Confrontation
Justification
Suffocation, of culture.
Freedom of speech.
Martin Luther would scream
If we denied him his dream
When void of colour, tomorrow, today
Our world and its people
Will just become grey.
Pam Mellor
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A LONG LOST LETTER TO CHARLES BUKOWSKI
You wrote me these letters
Like dreams from another world
I hold them in the darkness
You let me taste the wine of corruption
And to dwell amongst the devils
Without a sign of jealousy or hate
You loved me for my words, for my soul
They loved me for my breasts and my waist
My success
But they all hated me in the end
Just as you would have hated me
Had we met
Kimberley Braxton
HARRY MORGAN
Broken nose and staccato speech,
could deliver a slap with some elan.
Since I was on the end of such a cannonade,
during the first week of school,
I can confirm their fire power with confidence.
And so the age of slapdom rolled along unchallenged
for five more years until Bradley Philpot,
(who had once fought Moss Side warlord, Johnny Toto to a draw)
dared raise his fists to Harry Morgan.
The exchange was quickly shifted to
the privacy of the changing room
where Morgan patiently reminded his charge
of the rules of engagement.
From the look of Bradley when he returned,
it was Morgan’s view of the world that had prevailed.
But barely three decades later,
the battle lines had been completely redrawn
with pupils, now students, terrorising teachers.
Robin Theobald
THE GIFT OF LOVE
As snow melts into a river
So your love melts me into you
As the eagle is lifted up on the rising breeze
So is my heart lifted up by your sweet tenderness
As the rose opens her petals to the dawn
So do I open myself up to the gift of your love
As the sun rises giving light and life upon the earth
So your love warms me, moves me and illuminates me
My life once black and white is now coloured by your smile
Lift me up into the arms of your tender embrace
Let my heart feel the touch of your kiss
Let our souls be united in love
I give you all I have and all I am
Take me and never let me go
Flood my life with yours and drown me in your passion
With you I am truly me, the person I was meant to be
You fill me, consume me and complete me
I am yours totally, for all eternity
Sarah Konopka
MY CANUTE
A king arrayed in all his pomp
And glorious ceremony, decides
That earthly power become more great
Than Heaven’s own, commands the tides
And there upon the shore he stands
And bids them come to his command
So vain that man, to think to bid
The sea in such servility
But it came not, and left him there
In all his power’s futility
Nature that day a lesson taught
And set his vaunted might at naught
And yet, thou, Canute, my king
Whose sceptred sway I lie beside
Thou hast that power which he did not
To bid the rising of the tide
From soft ripples lapping the shore
To great wave’s final crashing roar
Alison Clare
ISA
Its Isa season,
So young and pristine,
Sitting on the piles of pounds you can earn tax free,
Isa will take you out to the Caprice.
To bond on a fixed rate
And ease in to a comfortable lifestyle
That makes plainness cower
Isa is waiting for you at a table for two at the Caprice.
Saving lots with the look,
Isa has poured your chilled champagne
In a tall, slim flute
With excited bubbles.
Marry in, put a ring on those Isa shares.
I love you Isa
Yes, so do I.
So, digest the best chips in town, dancing by the piano,
Lifting Isa higher than the flattened base rate
To be held, mid air,
Hands cupped, to catch the free-flowing notes.
M J Childs
INTO THE UNKNOWN
A journey into the unknown
begins with a walk through the mysteries of time,
Seeing only holograms of what you think
should be there
but in reality are only dreams of life’s dramas.
Closing your eyes and praying for the future
peeping only when it is time to come out and play.
No manic monsters will ever take away the scenario
Which the mind has to offer
When the mind has its way.
Michael Avery
RETROSPECT
The past comes back
Swiftly, sweetly, lingering
Just long enough to tell
The tale that no one heard.
A man. A woman.
Together?
Alone?
They dance
To the same tune,
Just to a different beat.
The heavy boots,
The velvet slippers,
Lace and sweat,
Laughter,
Tears.
Whispered voices,
Hushed by passion.
Monica Reynolds
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