Simon Rennie is the host of the world famous Inn Verse poetry evening which is usually held on the last Wednesday of every month at the Salutation Inn, Higher Chatham Street, Hulme, Manchester. He has had work published in Lamport Court, The Ugly Tree and Muse magazines. He also features in the Foreword book. His poem 'The Search' was chosen as December 2008's Poem of the Month for the Manchester LitList website and he is the inventor of the cryptic poem format which is soon to be debuted on this site's very own e-zine. His poetry is anachronistically formulaic and irritates more people than it pleases.
Listening at the Statue to the Fallen Do you remember how the bronze bouquet Would sway in the wind on Angel Hill? Those blue-green leaves against the grey Skies are held aloft to this day still - Though never still - the city’s thrum Plays a chord on them for its own ear Enticing those alive to come Embrace the dead remembered here. And here our grass-stained jeans would kneel, Our bark-rough hands would press the stone. Braving the wind we would hear the words Sung aloud for all who ever feel Or ever felt - you are not alone We wished or thought we heard. Never Forever A film of water hangs suspended, Dancing in the sway of air; A soft lightshow Holds a sheen of colour, A stream of warm breath Bows the tension, And two dimensions Become three. Now spheres sail delicately, Slightly heavier than air; Now two breath-blown Waterworlds collide, Now they kiss - a sound Which no-one hears, And two spheres Become one. Airborne Inversion On a day made twilight by worsening weather A bullwhip wind rips through the valley Intent on trouble Pushing old ladies And scaring the dog Work is halted on church-spire scaffolds Steeplejacks quit the skeletal pagoda Tubular steel plays An external organ To a different god Agnus Mater Triply alliterative, Lamblessly loitering Without intent, content In maternal divinity; Eternal ovinity. Like a child-drawn cloud She wanders the moors Far north of Africa; Ranked fourth in the Trinity By those who protest. Black-hued hooves cloven, Her fur will be woven But never called fur; And we will define her By the food she gives birth to In the carnal procession Of one type of culture. With God as her ram, Imagine how scary To be Mary And have a little lamb.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Go Hug Grandad (26/03/2010)
All The Pies (26/03/2010)
British, Not Pure (09/06/2009)
The York's Prayer (11/03/2009)
My Butter Fingered Mind (10/02/2009)
Listening at the Statue to the Fallen (15/01/2009)
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