Poetry Blogs (Nov 2012)

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A Disagreement


A n attempt to bamboozle him.


D irecting the abomination

I nto my inner soul.

S corn, in the flame of passion,

A ffection going nowhere.

G iving way to struggle, looking for a

R eason to cherish

E very yearning.

E nding this bitter taste,

M aking this relationship

E stranged.

N ever will it bloom

T o a tender love.


© Hazel


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CJD or what?

The sick cow squirms

thrashes about

all too hastily contradicting herself.

Throws the silver spoon out of her pram.

And all to distract from the thought

of having to look in the mirror

at the death of improvements. 

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We'll have completed a year of Pop Up Poetry soon. We've made so many good friends among the talented people that have come to the Bar des Arts in 2012! We're looking forward to inviting some of them back in 2013, when we'll be hosting the event on the third Tuesday of every month.

Looking back over the year, there have been too many highlights to name all of them separately - the Antipoet ...

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Agnes MeadowsAndy FiverAntipoetBar des Arts GuildfordDaniel SmithDonall DempseyJanice WindleMel JonesMurray ShelmerdinePauline SewardsPop Up Poetry GuildfordSteve PottingerWill Hames

Individuality, Categories 1-7

This is from my samples section...


Individuality, Categories 1 – 7


I was only playing at burning up
For the glamour before the real demise
Whilst always trying to collect enough words to support a world
To craft a way of living
With myself and all of you, we
The collectors of experience
Have no enduring capsule in which to save them all

Always, all around, people amazed us

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Also by John Lowndes:

Reflections of an Overfed Man | Forms to Frame It | She said "I am a Vessel" |

Streaking Numbers

Little mouse wriggling like a worm

Dangling swaying to and fro

Bouncing buns with giant coat hooks

Floppy cushioned hairy chubby cheeks

Each issued with a recognized number

Placed upon each private part

Streaking in any particular numerical order 

Drunks stagger from the Nelson

Determined to strip and join in 

Badly torn shirts ripped jeans

With a trail o...

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Those cells are so cold this time of year

Sun Fight


Obsessive, yes
with the things unable to disclose –
the colour of my infant years;
the warm goo of being the only one
to proudly lamp the black open sky.
I have the ruins;
something that burns your shoulder,
hard to clench your fist in the pull
of an orange ripe from the tree.
Your hands, my dear, your hands
from climbing to ...

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Also by Marianne Daniels:

Jump | The Ugly Sister | Intermission | Discipline | Blue |






I have been beaten,

Beaten up too much

So much that I am punch-drunk,

I ain’t so much - a wordsmith

Ain’t so much a technician

On the renditions of a song


I know within the bounds

I have left of me

The utterance of magic

That bereft of me

There’s still an ember

Still a decent thinking


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Also by Noetic-fret!:

Zombie! | Planet of the Hates | The Poppy | Playing the Role | The Shortest Time Alive |


Daggers in your eyes

tempered by words of fire

and flames from your tongue

puncture my heart



Tears trickle

roll and meander

sealing my lips

healing my wounds.


As is love...As love is

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Also by Mike Hilton:


The Bricklayer

The Bricklayer


Bleeding knuckles, torn nails,

the wall about his bed remained.

Uniforms passed through, ghosts,

changing drips, injecting morphine

that killed the pain but not the past.

The bricklayer had made his bed.


Mum and Dad had dug the footings

of his wall, his fort, his prison.

Piss in his cot, poo in his pants.

Don’t touch your penis ...

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White Rabbit

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(Check out the fabulous vocals of Grace Slick on Jefferson Airplane's original. Lewis Carroll meets Psychedelia)


One speed makes it faster and one speed nearly stalls

And knob that makes it waggle will drive you up the walls

And call,  “Rabbit”, and hang on to its balls.


And you keep another Rabbit safely tucked inside your smalls

A replacement for the firs...

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Also by John Coopey:

The Continuing Story of The Walrus and The Carpenter | Compliment | Catch the Bins | Nowt To Fucking Do And All Fucking Day To Do It | The Power of Words | Avant-Garde Verse - The Last Rhyme | Ape Shit | Experimental Poetry |

How Many Questions Our Life Arise?

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Not looking at anybody doesn’t mean not to see,

To do the things you like doesn’t mean to be free.

To be at the very verge of life doesn’t mean to die.

And standing on the ground doesn’t mean not to fly.

And how much to pepper so that all could be well?

And how much to sugar to sweeten  the hell?

To live a normal life doesn’t mean not to dream.

But how long to ...

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Also by Larisa Rzhepishevska:

Turn Around | haiku | Dreams Are Forgotten | Your Excellency |




Inflow of confetti, brings happiness and fun

Newly wed romance in the November sun

From the valley of dreams, mid the hills and dales

Azure the sky and green the vales

Tantalizing melodies in the afternoon air

Unaware of love lingering everywhere

Against the backdrop of a cloudless sky

The snow capped mountain stands so high

Infatuation or love? A beautiful...

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On Taking the Early Train

A farewell to two poets that have only just passed on: Sandra Fowler and Sonya Florentino. R.I.P., dear friends.


on taking the early train


Yes, I will try to be brave
just like you'd want me to be;
here I am waiting on shared memory:

Dear old friend, where might you be?
And where is it that we have arrived:
now we're quickly fading into oft-turned pages

that lay dog-...

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When A Cat Goes Out

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When A Cat Goes Out

He’d patrol the doorway waiting

To make his break

Or he’d scratch around the threshold 

As if he could dig himself out

All he knew was out was where

He wanted to be

When the opportunity

Was right he’d bolt

When he went out that last time

Looking for whatever he craved

Then attempted to return

There was no there

There anymore

No familiar...

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Arleta LittleCatJ. Otis Powell‽ (with interrobang)When A Cat Goes Out

It was written...



It was written that you would be my life,

my imagination, my fugitive heat


That you would be the moon in my nights,

the sun of my days, the exuberant passion


It was written ...

That I would be holy water on your lips,

all your reasons, all the follies that walk through your mind


I dream, living on the edge of your lips and in this scenar...

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love poem


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For digging in

Statuesque and patient

Giving me the rope

But holding the other side,


For caving in

Graciously and reserved

Showing me the door

But leaving the light on,


For diving in

Desperate and afraid

Throwing me the ring

Throwing me the ring

Throwing me the ring

And never expecting a catch,


For having eyes...

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Also by Cathy Crabb:

Next | In Debenhams | Posh Tramps |

Deal with a kiss

Jill was on a diet and a stone had lost,

Needed a new dress asked what the material would cost.

Jill was attractive blue eyed and dark,

"Only one kiss per yard ," smirked the young male clerk.

"Thats fine I'll take ten yards ." said smiling Jill,

And got her 90 year old grandad to pay the bill.

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Also by hugh:

Sad---Suicide,Alarm and Despair. | Women bishops swiped off the board ! | A superior view | Zlatan Ibrahimovic | Love is alive | Red light entertainment | Feisty Rosemary puts up a courageous fight | "Arthuritis" | Obama wins with a little bit of help from his female following | The nits are back ! | A contented nit | A forgotten proposal | Completely Bald | No chicks at the flicks ! |



london clay

which sucks like a clam

drawing into its abdomen

the layered years


when entered

by stabs of light

drool-stained tunnels

reveal themselves


draughts shafts wafts

odours of the past

the eerie ghosts

of centuries gone


before delving inside

beware our bride

concealing eels rodents

cockroaches and frogs


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Also by Philipos:




Summertime (and the leaving is easy) aka PTSDVSNPD*
The air is grey with barbecue fuel, choking the drivers on the roads
Kerosene chicken drummer surprise
Cruel summer Bacardi breezes 
People running from the North
92 degrees fahrenheit at the death of an errant night in town 
Ice cold blooded demon rising from the melting tarmac, walking on boiling fir...

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Who knows why

  the bullet missed, or

  the woman kissed?

Who knows why

  the volcano blew, or

  she loves you?

Do you know why

  a stream runs dry, or

  he makes you cry?

What’s the reason for

  the plight of the poor, or

  the knock on the door?

Can you explain

  the roll of the dice, or

  the emotional price?

Who knows why


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Also by Dave Bradley:

1968 | Imaginary Conversations | The deadliest artefact in history | Bread and Water | The decision to develop the H-bomb |

It's just a light.


It’s just a light.

Or a the small portion of the electromagnetic spectrum that is visible to the human eye,

It’s speed through a vacuum 299,792,458 meters per second.

The only thing strong enough to stare you in the eye

And tell you what really matters.

It’s just a light,

It’s seen things you’ll never see,

Heard the screams you told yourself weren’t there,


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ThePoetry Spoke November - Poetry Night & Guests

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'ThePoetry Spoke'

Great poetry and acoustic music

This Tuesday - 27th November - doors open 8pm!


La Gondola

22a Liscard Crescent

Wallasey- The Wirral

CH44 1AE (a stones throw over the Mersey from Liverpool)

Check us out in the gig guide...


Our Guest Poet

Roger Cliffe-Thompson


His front room was once a reconstructed crime scene (Ala...

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Also by Chris Co:

Wirral Ode Show 2012 Competition | Superstition |

Fool On The Hill (Vol 6)


Napoleon Bonaparte once told me that I am a nation of shopkeepers. Well, he didn't say it to me personally-the Corsican Ogre had popped his clogs long before I had even donned my first pair of knitted bootees-he said it about the British in general. But if he had managed to survive another couple of hundred years, and had heard of my desire to be a shopkeeper, I'm sure that he would say i...

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Also by Ledger de la Bald:

Fool On The Hill (Vol 5) | Fool On The Hill (Vol 9) | When The Wind... |


Awaited awakening

loose lipped, tight tipped

Injecting deep into me

formaldehyde of jealousy


 Rhythmic warm chill

presses on pulsating throat

sticky skin anoints

soothing balm of obssession



Surrender fills silence

thighs pillow dormant anger

your cunning apology

having resentfully missed me


tendrilled fingertip...

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Also by Katy Megan Hughes:

On a plane to Bahrain | Mobile | Hidden Agendas |


"Annapurna Poems" Review

"Annapurna Poems" by Yuyutsu RD Sharma
Review by Alain English
Poet and translator Yuyutsu RD Sharma has put together this collection to honour the Annapurna mountain region in Nepal from where is from - a region he can no longer access due to social and political upheaval that has cut him off from the area.  His poetry speaks of the power and beauty of the mountains, in reverence...

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The Pennines

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Pennines, bleak and cold,

Scarps of grit stone, grim and bold,

Harbouring bog moors, remote and forlorn,

Cauldron, where grey winds are born.


See the falling rain curtain close behind the crag,

See the steaming cloud veil cover the hills in clag,

See the drifting hail column sweep across the lake,

See the swirling snow storm of the vale forsake.


With ...

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Also by Roy Chetham:

Significant Sight |

Letter to a Friend

Like stars of a dark midnight

The hours we share glow with sweet teasing;

Not the trembling idiocy of an undisciplined heart,

Nor the whipped frenzy of unreliable passion,

But the pleasing consideration of my mind.


I know nothing about you except the baldly obvious.

I have watched you for months,

Observing your vulnerabilities,

Admiring your strengths.


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Also by Cynthia Buell Thomas:

Thoughts Coupled |

If I'm a fish, then your a bird, he said or she said or too be honest me. I am dodgy with paper. Anything I can find. I'm not a fish.

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The Soul of an Artist

The soul of an artist,

famine or harvest.

An exercise in extremity,

symmetric serenity.


Raw yet crafted

a tool made from bone

fleshed out by interpreting existence.


The soul of an artist,

famine or harvest.

An exercise in extremity,

symmetric serenity.


A fusion of real and surreal

a soulful symbiote

intertwined with their ver...

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It’s a funny old world,

In the way that it’s turned,

With the truths that we own,

And the lies that we learned


We believed in creation,

That story just fine,

Then along came Charles Darwin,

Just spinning his line?


There’s god in his heaven,

That’s somewhere above,

And we’re showered with mercy

Unparalleled love.


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God in check

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I was asked for a poem for the newsletter the churches here send out to all the houses in the town at Christmastime. This is what I gave them and they printed. I think it's reasonably good, though it could probably still be improved here and there.

I think I see defences start to crack;
this world shall hear, and see that I am right.
The pawns pass round to right the rook's attack

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Couple Stragglers


Here’s another draft, no pun on pint-pulling intended. Oh – also, while I’m here, I might as well tell you all I’ve passed my Masters! Haven't been here for some time - hope everyone is doing well...

Couple Stragglers

She’s all kick,
twisting in her leopard prints
like she’s seen some
new meat near the bar,
meanwhile I’m saying
‘cool it Jane, he’s not
a smooth-mover, h...

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Party night at the Bar des Arts on Tuesday 20th November

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We're very excited about the next event we're running in Guildford at the Bar des Arts, opposite the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre. It's on Tuesday 20th November, and you can find it on the Gig Guide. It's the only good thing about my turning 21 again the next day - this is my pre-birthday party!

We have five guests, four of whom have been to the Bar  as features before and one whom we've met at se...

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Also by Janice Windle:

The Sun's Mythology | Pop Up Poetry - Jamming for Oxfam |

Bar Des Arts GuildfordDavid GooDónall DempseyJanice WindleMel JonesMurray Shelmerdineopen micPop Up Poetry GuildfordWill hames

Cotton Mills

Clatter of shuttle and rattle of looms

Shattered the peace of the weaving rooms

In Yorkshire and Lancashire’s high rolling hills,

Where masses of mill lasses chattered in mills

Tripping and clopping in crude wooden clogs

Under the fast-running drive-belts and cogs

Which powered machinery, oily and rough,

Manufacturing worsted and cotton and cloth.


Yet the b...

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Path of Peace

It wasn’t that her parents wouldn’t attend

because the wedding clashed with Remembrance Day

and poppies exerted a powerful hold;

nor that my Best Man was newly diagnosed

as a schizophrenic cum manic depressive –

though we were both in two minds about that.

Neither that my brother-in-law turned up

in a T-shirt bearing the legend



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Also by Ray Miller:

Sky Garden |

'Tempest of the Sheets'


I dreamt I had a friend,
She was perfect for me:
Glittering between my sheets,
As I lay numbed by my pillow.
She poured to me, dreadlocks tumbling
Wrapped me with tanned arms,
Understood my need for peace and love,
Knew me and what I wanted,
Gave me the jewellery that best becomed me,
Bracelets and bangles of wood and gold,
A breastplate of precious stones:
More a de...

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Lost boy

Memories of childhood best left cobwebbed and dead when no soft words were given only harsh ones were said happiness unheard of,no meanings to fun all were elusive,he never ran with the sun now he's doing penance dogged by his best days defiled he's a prisoner inside me that unloved little child



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new blog feature

When reading someone's blog, you can now go directly to their profile by clicking on their name - the large green letters next to the photo spot. Try it and see! and let us know if it's useful. Don't if it's not :-)

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Connected by invisible speeches

The white glare stares cold onto your eyes

Tiny words crawl through your intrigued mind 

Invisible opnions make choices without proof

Connections creep from your invisible speeches 


Tiny words spin out above the earth

Invisble speeches bounce back to your heart

The white glare stares back onto your eyes

Both Connected by invisible speeches 




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Also by Martin Miles:

Revive |

Things I Like


I like
New Socks
Staying in bed till 2 O'Clock
drum and bass
tax rebates
An entire pack of Jaffa Cakes
clear skies
free wifi
the book festival in Hay-on-wye
Drinking beer,
New year
The ability to move my ears
Derren Brown
My dressing gown
Solving an 8 letter word on Countdown
Chinese F...

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Also by Daniel Smith:

To The Girl I Haven't Met | Circus School | To The Girl At The Bar | Mr. Fantastic | Welcome To Hereford | Young People and Poetry | The Night Before & The Morning After | Video Games | I Am Dan | I Wrote This Poem Just To Get Girls | A Letter To My 12-Year-Old Self |

Poetry in translation migration situation

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I know these aren't new!

As more work has been done on the Group Profiles software (thank you , lads) I am consolidating the translated works that reside on our site into the Poetry in Translation Group. This is in anticipation of our developing the translation work further, of getting more people to set up their own group profiles- for writing groups or for event organizers, and of further...

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Also by Poetry in Translation Group:

testing |

Remembrance Observation

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He punches at a name in stone

as if the warmth of knuckle and fist

could penetrate the cold,

a brother’s arm plunge deep

beyond the gilt

to find its home

curled up in sleep

upon an ocean bed

connect with flesh and bone.




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Also by Isobel:

Small Talk |


Camper Van


Another busy day, another busy week

There must be more to life than working week to week.

I’d like to jack the whole lot in and buy a campervan: I’d drive leisurely down to France and maybe even Spain

Nothing would be too much trouble, nothing would be a pain


Some days I’d have baked beans for tea or maybe fillet steak

And they’ll be days when I’m going far too f...

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Also by Steve:

Social Media |


Railways cento

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There were flags, and a few maps.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

A soldier and wife, with haggard look.

The convict, and boy with violin.

The river’s level drifting breadth began.

Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.

For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Letters of thanks, letters from banks.

And for that minute a blackbird sang.


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CentoWrite Out Loud November poetry exercise

This is the start

This is the start,

Though it feels like the end.


Moved away from falls from graces and friends.


A mixture,

Of social and sexual depravity,

Driving Me.

I need to find a way to overcome a force 5 times gravity.


In this state,

It's easy to fall into past mistakes.

Like Peruvian towns,

Rebuilt on the sites of earthquakes.


Got ...

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Also by Wez Jefferies:

G.I.A.B.O. | I might look like a mortal man to you | Lack of information is obscene and cronic | I'm from a land where | My Opinion of the Christian God is shitty |

real liferebirth




She’s moved in

And her panties are slouched across

Every radiator and in the kitchen

Fruit piles like windfalls and the whole

Place exhales a new freshness


Having her here for more than just sex

Has taken some getting used to


I mean

There is only one toilet

One bed side table

One lamp


She is leading me to new experiences ...

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The Scifi prophet's dream.

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It is said the word was added.                                   
Above the door.
After being liberated.

there will be a handprint ingrained
where she tripped for a moment.
Above the door.                                                              
After being liberated.
It is said the word was added.

for a moment she stumbled and the
handprint was ingrain...

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