Instructions for making a quick video
This will turn on the voice recorder ttesting testing
1...press the camera key on the right side of the phone for a few seconds
Okay I have done that
TIP! exclamation mark must be important To switch to the camera mode or video mode slide up/down the camera or toggle video icon on the right centre viewfinder.
I do not have any idea about what that means
I cannot see anything resembling whatever it says to toggle
but I can see figures starting to move in the bedroom
2 Holding the phone horizontally point the lens towards the subject of the video
I now have a problem because the screen is bright and is illuminating my face
they only have to look outrt of the window and they will see me in this tree
but it’s handy because I can read the instructions
3 Press the camera key on the phone once to start recording or touch the red dot.
and I cannot find either of them unless -
no that has started to redial the last number I phoned
how do I stop that?
no need to worry I can hear her phone through the window
and from what I can see she isn’t going to answer it any time soon
I hope the court take into account how devious she was
and the lengths I had to go to to prove it
and that solicitor who said he could get a private detective
well I am showing him showing them all
no get up and go she said whatever that means
a man of your age the solicitor said my age no age at all
but it did take a while to climb up here
and I wrecked my trousers though it will be worth it in the end
I am glad I decided to record this voice record
as collaborative contemporaneous evidence
should put me ahead in the court
ok start again checking
yes it is recording now
I will just get along this branch a little to get their faces
and that will be the evidence I need
what is that cracking sound?
is this recording that cracking sound
I can hear a cracking sound
City of glass
through an empty glass
the sun split into a million colours
like an oil slick
and that is how it is
that is where I live
populating my own love story
in a city of colour
a city of faces
a city of voices
a city full of love stories
a city of wildness
a city of streets going nowhere
a city keeping the wilderness at bay
keeping it away
a city that wears you out
makes you mad and sane
makes it possible to grab the next line
to see the words transparent meanings
pregnant with possibilities
or know where it is coming from
somehow the future is getting shorter
the time available less
the days that once seemed endless
pass almost almost almost
although I come here alone
I am surrounded by voices
in a city full of love stories
and I tell you I’m here
you have no memory of it
no memory of it
you have never been through the woods
or walked the secret paths
to my midnight ballroom
some things you may know of
some things I have written of
some things are on photographs
may have left an impression
but you will not know the
rise and fall of paths
the ladder rocks
the smells of the wet ferns
unless I tell you
unless I tell you
you may think you know
how I sit and watch the Dee
the Welsh Hills
those you know from other places
but on that bench on that hilltop
it is mine and only mine
and as the sunlight towers
reach down to the fast flowing river
it reflects upon the shortening future
and the lengthening past
this I know and only this
for most people here is a now
made from words images and hope
they go like Prufock’s children
to inherit coffee spoons
while my life has been a gift
I spend walking between towers
in cities of glass
a million fly eye reflections
these are the places
I made for myself
and populate with my dreams
here in this city of class
the city of glass
Jim Bennett is alive and well living on the Wirral in the UK.
of candle wax and bird droppings,
teacups with brown-coffee stains.
This old school, with the ghosts of hippies
skating in the hallways,
and faded maps of Greenland
tacked to the ceiling.
This small house, all a jumble
of stale laughter and broken chairs,
with chipping gold paint
on a blue background.
This grand mansion, left muttering softly to itself,
an old widow- Nate, let’s dance.
This venerable hovel, well versed in sorrow,
this, the corner where they kept the potatoes,
here, the hearth where they cooked them,
there, the bed where Peggy died when there were none left.
This blue plantation, empty now of all who knew it,
empty of happiness, of new love and old,
but empty also of the pain of those who were kept
against their will,
poem in a can
what gives this poem its misty fizz
is the opening hiss
emanating from the can of Coke
in insipid spaces between sips
burning calories of thoughts
mind hunts for meanings
in the blanks between blinks
between the words
lines and stanzas
nothing to latch on to
but this empty can of poem
a line of burp
SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, presently leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India, has published a few poems in print and on the Internet. Member of PK Poetry List, UK.
The Lion Tamer
Beyond the bars, the circus crowd sits pale
to watch the beasts perform the tricks they loathe–
They hope that I, their tamer, may just fail.
But with my whip I will control them both.
I have outfaced the adulating crowd
and I have learned to ride the lions' rage–
My early quest for freedom had its shroud
in fame found here within the circus cage.
For freedom, I pursued the painted lights
(while others dreamed of flight in tame unrest)
in tearful longing past a thousand sights–
Within my trade, today I am the best
and watch the crowd behind its fearful mask
and watch the painted lights that will seduce–
The lions' foolish master, thus I ask
if there's still time to put my life to use.
Since I was young, I've been the youngest
and worshipped Venus in the sacred
and fragrant colonnades of even
her humblest serving maids.
Some of the time I've managed to
ignore the silly rules, and valued
a graceful poem higher than
a contract of employment.
And thus I've spent my life surrounded
by books and children. Now my grandson
advises me to act my age.
Poor stranger, I've been younger than you
for longer than you would remember.
I've celebrated life so long
I’ve grown too young to change.
Happiness sprouts as a humble plant
that Ogre, the purposeful, in his haste
towards a looming ambition can't
spy out, for he has no time to waste.
But Jackeline and Jack, forgetting the tale
and hunting for field mice on any ground
(imagining lions along the trail),
may find it blooming all around.
Like a River
Like a river, you carry me down
washing over my senses
the fort of my seven skins has abandoned
the rite of defence to the waves
unsheltered, my nerve-raw flesh in its freedom
spatters into the current
like a river, you carry me down
between singing, mountainous shores.
Thomas Land is a poet and award-winning foreign correspondent. His poetry has been published by The London Magazine and The New York Times, his reviews and polemics by The Times Literary Supplement and The Baltimore Sun.
for Clara, my grandmother, 1894 –1918
A pot of spaghetti sauce simmers;
streams run like veins
down the steamy kitchen window.
Her hands stained gray,
a girl pulls at pieces of yesterday’s paper,
shreds the words of war,
tears them to confetti
to bless the peace parade tomorrow.
The war to end all wars is over,
but soldiers will bring back Spanish flu
which will make her mother
now adding pasta to a boiling pot
one of the last casualties of that war.
There are flowers in this house,
the sensual dance of stargazer lilies,
mums, cosmos, and roses.
It was my birthday Monday,
and my husband brought me
flowers: a bouquet
and a single pink rose
nestled in baby’s breath.
The rose’s leaves turned brown and brittle.
I’ve re-cut the stem and refilled the vase,
but the rose’s pink petals are locked,
beautiful in their way
like the damaged daughter
he gave me,
forever a bud.
The Bird and the Cymbals
an ekphrastic response to music
Caught in the pulse of the percussion
somewhere between the bells and the cymbals
is a silver bird with a single note
that pleads, Hear me. Listen to my song.
This sky-flyer is held by a repeating beating cycle.
The music calls the winged one,
but leaves her afraid.
Here comes the shimmering shower of the cymbal.
Percussion man, are you playing with this silver bird?
She wants to look again into your cymbals, find
the source of the sound that reminds her of the sea.
She needs to see who she is–who she was
before this song seduced her.
As the music rises to crescendo,
the silver bird spreads her wings wide
beats empty air
then refolds her wings and settles
tries to become a peaceful
one-note bird again.
Linda Leedy Schneider
poems taken from Some Days: Poetry of a Psychotherapist ( Plain View Press 2011)
LINDA LEEDY SCHNEIDER is a poetry and writing mentor, writing workshop
leader, psychotherapist in private practice, and recipient of a Pushcart nomination.
Her poetry has been published in over 200 literary magazines. Linda has written five collections of poetry and edited two poetry anthologies by writers she has mentored privately.
Together we walk through a flight
of trees and the sound is late.
Below us the wind is like a fountain
of green mist practising to become
water. We follow its history with
high powered glasses, where the last
rays of sun burn in a valley of wood.
We camp on the floor of its destiny
with the distance of art. You restrain
my imagination. I see the sign of a
struggle, where animal blood licks my
skin with a tongue of dark paste.
It smells of rational noises. I rip open
its belly to rid myself of its secrets and
wine. Its breath twitches in a mouth
of dead sparks.
I show you how to cut slices of raw air.
We take samples of its light. On the pencil
of my finger we draw pictures of its vision.
On mystic prairies we part like blinds of dust.
I choke on mysteries. I wind a clock that
sparkles like a tin of stars. The soul
approaches rock and sand, where hope
guides us and my home is scattered with joy.
Memories of Auschwitz
Beware the son of voices
through a hall of flames,
where the dead pass in a
furnace of continuous light.
Speak of nothing other than
the state of air.
Find among pariah’s of stone
a vast stadium of wells and
drink from the
depths of its bearded mouth.
Its jaw is blinded with pictures
Its eye is torn with feet of knives.
Its wooden flag is
lowered with charismatic kisses.
Its soul is filled with
the graves of God and children.
The sound of blood is clean, where
bodies of smoke
with sweet juices from rags of meat
rivers out of endless resurrections.
On the carcass of water by a rock
of mouthing falls
I bring the seaman’s tide, sweeter
than blood, destroyer of my wood.
I see the truth of silence but its hand
is cold with trees and flowers.
In the bush I see far away on tracks
of light a pool of drowning colours.
I dream in green pictures of ropes and
space to tie each sailor’s eye to water.
I pray to each desolate
sound the return of my blinded guests.
The anchor I root out of undrawn sand
is like a foot with sails.
I release all its secrets in ribbons of air.
Sharp as fate the
wind on my sea of disappearing voices.
Austin Mclarron is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years. Austin's work has appeared in various magazines in the U.K. over the past five years.
She's in L.A.
I'm in Boston.
We phone each other every week
but we've never met.
She argues that point.
"It's the universe, dear. We've all met."
Twenty minutes in and we are telling secrets:
She once snorted coke with a guy twice her age.
I was caught at fifteen stealing socks from a Sears.
"Maybe we can meet next year," I say.
"How about Miami?"
"Hold on,” she says while letting out the dogs.
I listen to her world. The mockingbird
trills in her lemon tree. Her crippled
German shepherd reprimands the huskies.
She’s in the garage.
"What about the Serengeti?"
"Brilliant," I say. "We'll meet on safari of all places."
"Don’t forget mosquito nets, okay?”
We could shorten these calls if we wanted
to avoid a string of interruptions —
the cries of the feral cats she feeds,
the calls waiting that beep in my ear.
But I need to tell her
I had my eyebrows tattooed on
a business trip to Vegas, and Friday
is fancy coffee day.
And she needs to divulge her latest
plan to sell the house, and hubby’s recipe for Eggs Oscar, how they
hold hands at
the hardware store and haven't had a vacation in twelve years.
We'll talk ‘til we strike that spark
Her mother, listening.
My mother, sober.
When I knew her, I never knew her very well. Well, I knew her
family was poor. Just a thin corduroy coat with too-short sleeves
exposing bony ungloved wrists. No winter boots. I’m part Cherokee,
she said, wearing her shiny black hair in braids.
She fidgeted with an unlit, half-smoked butt. Beaded bracelets cuffed
both arms. (I made these, she bragged. Cool, I thought.) Descriptions
of her weekends were incomprehensible to me — the cop she blew
(you blew?) to avoid a misdemeanor. The winter beach party
campfire, green Jeep, dope. The realtor she laid after he found her
that studio on Marlborough Street. I hooked up with this guy
from Philly, she said. He took me on an amazing trip. Wanna see
my tracks? she said, eyes flirting, then glanced away as if I were
an old boyfriend. I can’t believe it’s you, she said, All this she spilled
at Boylston station. Trolleys squealed on rails around us. I tucked
my hair behind my ear, cleared my throat to draw her eyes
away from Friends Don’t Let Friends ad, back to me.
Let’s take some pictures of your eyes,
the doctor says.
I rest my chin. I fight the blink.
Blink, he says.
I blink. The light.
Both sockets river with tears,
I think Dublin.
Liffey waters rushing and we
Swell of May.
So much, so fast.
Susan McDonough-Hintz published her first poem in her college literary magazine, Fountainspray, and won the award for best poetry in 1979. She didn't pick up her pen to write poetry again for nearly 25 years.
But these past few years have been extraordinary for her. Two of Susan's poems, "Tattoo" and "Noose," were published in the 2008 Routledge anthology, Queer & Catholic.
Shortly thereafter, She met poet Barbara Helfgott Hyett and joined the Workshop for Publishing Poets in Brookline, Massachusetts,
and hasn't put her pen down since.
A Squirrel And I
you squirrel upon the tree
you are looking down and hissing at me
you say it is unfair
that I am eating a peanut butter sandwich
and you aren't
don't be so quarrelsome
I just do the eating here
you just do the hissing there
it is not unfair
that life is not fair
Will it be birdbath
or puddle today?
The basin is dry and algae-stained
red as an insomniac’s eye
a mouse corpse soaked in cat spit
lays before the omen-heavy pedestal.
No need to dredge for the drowned slug
bloated at the end of an oily trail
limp horns entwined and one tired leg
kicked at death through its fringe
praying to be with its seacousins.
We’ll wash in a rain-filled sump
a kerbside tarn sliced by pram wheels
outside the rooms where men must live more
and read less, their tongues lolling
like sedated horses’ harnessed upsidedown.
The architecture of fountains chafes
let’s dust ourselves in sand
peck out lice like Petruchio plucking
ticks off his spaniel, then ask me
tomorrow: will it be bread or worms?
Another blow to the head, Mr Booth, and who knows –
perhaps you won’t walk out of the ring next time,
you’ll be stretchered through the ropes instead.
Even if you do make it to your thousandth round
is it worth spending the rest of your days
glassy-eyed and gibbering on the end of your bed.
Remember what happened to Joe Louis, Mr Booth?
Your speech is already slurred, one more punch
could shake your brain loose!
I was there when you fractured your hand, the knuckle
halfway up your fist after eight rounds with Sheika,
the endless broken ribs and realigning your nose.
Heaven knows I would shut up if I didn’t care.
It could happen in the gym or the ring, why not retire?
You’re no longer a contender.
Mr Booth, you’ve fought some of the greats:
two rounds with David Haye and Johnny Nelson
bringing guts and comedy to the cruiserweight division.
Think of your family. Growing old, a grandchild
on each knee, regaling those epic battles with Bruce Scott,
sipping Guinness rather than being drip fed through a tube.
Oh, I didn’t mean to… Here take mine. Look, Mr Booth,
I accept you know no other life, but others do.
Please, Tony, at least consider your wife.
Narrow pavements forced him into the charity shop,
dank paperback and dirty china fouling the air,
somnolently (shirt and suit familiar as pyjamas)
searching through other lives, less bloody,
less biblical, giddy – like the life cycle
of frog ornaments shelved near the till
or the swallows arrowing across an oriental parasol,
leaning unopened, bamboo spokes
poking through the paper.
Out he walked, five minutes later, wearing
a woollen tie, a collection of novellas holstered
in his pocket, clutching a porcelain tortoise
with a bobbing head and limbs –
each used item negating new grief,
one a gift for a person who once nurtured another.
Derbyshire-born poet Matthew Hedley Stoppard has been published in international anthologies and magazines and is a regular on the West Yorkshire performance circuit, reading verse influenced by surrealism, murky nostalgia and cannibalistic hedgehogs.