In December 2010, I published my first collection, "Througgh the Looking Glass" (Brimstone Press). Copies at: www.brimstonepress.co.uk/books/detail/DA-ThroughTheLookingGlass.htm My second collection "Ventriloquist's Dummy" has just been published by Lapwing, and is on sale both in print and a pdf at: https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/david-andrew A review is at: http://sentinelquarterly.com/2015/10/review-of-ventriloquists-dummy-by-david-andrew Samples below
The Wrong Kind of Deafness for Judy Sanderson You have "the wrong kind of deafness." When you listen to the famous you can hear the lies but not the low warm tones that gets us to buy them. When you walk down the street you can hear the shriek of brakes but not the crump that means it's all over. When you sit in the garden you can hear the silly conversation of sparrows but not the amorous dove. You have the wrong kind of deafness said the consultant who meant you had the kind he couldn't help with. So, when the man next doors whistles you can hear him again and again and again but not the curse that says stop. When angels sing you join in, for the whinges of bloody men come through clear but not your friends when they laugh. Meaning well, the doctor said you had the wrong kind of deafness. Do you think he heard what he'd just said? 23rd August Yes; thought flows onto a page with feeling's colour: pink as a child's breath flavoured with strawberry ice-cream; umber as old shoes walked in too far to be thrown away; ice-white martini and soda that June afternoon when we reinvented love. I remember one July evening: shadow under a garden table; cupboard where your clothes hang in the dark; blinds drawn in coaches travelling across continents discovered in each other - my fingers touching under your hair as you slept. There'll be an end to saying, but not to silence: blackbird, who vanishes from this year, concluding your evening remarks; plane, beating gravity with noise heading south to join your companions in the sky's attic; you, restless, moving from room to room, between chairs' creak. What happens in a house every night when we fall into sleep at last? That August day, you and I, your last intelligible words running out, sat quiet holding hands listening to the everlasting silence between our breaths. Talking Shop for Noel Whittall 'when the Perkins diesel ran smooth calm on the summit line …' (Emma-Jane Arkady) You have engines, my friend does bikes, I buy lenses, cameras, that nicely coiled cord permitting a flash to be used 'off-shoe' up to three feet. Not secret but public sects, clues visible - a 'G10' hung round my neck; audible, a word - 'Perkins' perhaps, heard across a room through noise. We have our secret knowledge others overhearing (likely bored), can't join in with: "isn't that the one with…", "talk to Joe in Halesworth…" A nuance of kit, love of intermediaries giving a human superhuman powers, we build well our other families, of wheels, boilers, sensors, that have their generations: World War One bikes, the 'EOS5D Mark II' - the latest thing, for now. These carry us through the seasons: warm days, showery Sundays, old tyres on wet lanes, images of flushed uncles tactfully deleted. Litanies are heard: that, like litanies, never wear out with saying, but echo more; wheels of locomotives: 0-5-0, 2-4-4.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Christmas Eve (24/12/2014)
Delirium in winter: the destination of snow (21/12/2014)
Christmas Morning (21/12/2014)
A modern nursery rhyme (21/12/2014)
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