Poem of the Month December 2011

Mombowie Starchild

Leicester born and bred, Mombowie Starchild is a performance poet and emcee concerned primarily with everything: the cosmic and human experience, observations on society - our passions, fears and dreams.  But she really just likes telling stories in a rhythmical, musical way.  Mombowie has performed at ‘Brightside’; produced and directed ‘The Edge’ as part of Lyric Lounge Leicester in 2009.  She has hosted and performed in the ‘Beatroot’ poetry tent at ‘Big Session’ festival in recent years and is a regular compere and performer at WORD!

Coda

 

Oh! How they enjoy her – adore her!

Enthralled, a noiselessness falls

For all the auditorium’s caught

In inaudible awe at the adroit performance before them.

Gorging on her form forging effortless fouettes en tournant:

One-legged; upon points of toes;

Spinning her spirit’s finishing throes in this – her coda!

 

Though this moment’s decades ago,

These days her frail frame’s broke

In the wake of the stroke that held her in choke;

So now each day’s played out shamefully slow

 Adagio…adagio…

 

No longer swathing the stage as she sinuously sways,

She exists imprisoned by physical fallibility;

With the additional, unequivocally more crippling disability

Of living within a system that’s intrinsically twisted;

So inevitably also her integrity’s tested;

Her dignity splintered,

As the personal aide who helped with her visits to the toilet

Is no more to be paid for by an NHS afflicted with budget cuts;

So the gloves are up

For this sixty-eight year old woman stood versus the government.

No need to wonder who won.

And when the ruling was done

It was considered economically more logical for her to wear pads for incontinence.

No matter that she saw it of some consequence she’s not, in fact, incontinent.

 

But must content.

 

For the coda’s over,

Bringing ever-closer - ever faster the everlasting curtain fall,

As a miasmic dust plasters the OBE plaque that hangs in her flat on the wall,

Where in her room at the back she lies in bed trying to detach

From the fact that tonight she: a Prima Ballerina in her past,

Shall have to recline in her own piss.

Because the truth of it is, she must pay with her pride for what her taxes should provide.

While ignoring this, she relaxes just enough for sleep to overtake her,

And drifts off into dreams of orchestras; ovations…

                                              

 

                          Mombowie Starchild

July 2011

Bernice Reynolds

Born 1943 in S. Wales and brought up in Briton Ferry, attending Neath Girls Grammar School 1954-59. Worked for the Borough Council 59-61, trained as a teacher in Derby 1961-64 and has lived and worked in the Midlands, Surrey, Herts and Essex.  Divorced, she has two daughters and two grandsons and has lived in Leicester since 2007.  Started writing poetry in retirement and realises it is never too late to try something new.

 

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Poem of the Month August 2011

Nicky Pywell

Nicky says this about herself:

I write poetry, mostly as a way to release my thoughts, which became quite dark when I became ill, several years ago, but from even from a little girl I've been passionate about creative writing, creative arts and designing.

At best my work is emotionally driver, but I also produce well using headings or themes. I also write short stories, and have started a few books of which I know all the details but am yet to complete. I have a couple of scripted pieces, one is a stage production which we acted out and another humourous outreach performance with music and lyrics that I did at Costa Coffee live.

Skip the Beat

 

Aim; to create a succession of events were skip the beat can be seen with positive and negative consequences.

 

Pacemaker man

 

Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom

When his boom skips the beat, he feels all to quick, the pain in his chest, his head it feels thick, he may fall, or swiftly take in breath.

Skipping too often causes concern, and off to the hospital blue lights, flashing now he’s anxious if he will return. Wondering why there are so many tests, he longs to go home where he can rest.

This is the news he learns;                                               

His boom needs a small box, to keep the pace; I’m not sure which emotion I saw on his face anger, relief, confused?? But his fists he clenches in his dispute. Quietly I thought he uttered “pace maker, pacemaker” how can I refuse?

Id better take the small box, offered

The choice is there but not one I can really choose or in a big box ill loose….

my boom boom ,  boom boom,   boom boom

and so he does, but some how he feels out of control its all for the best, or so he’s being told!!

No longer able to skip the beat.

 

Listen to your beat

Just sit still a while, sit and think, take time out ,

more than just a quick blink of those pretty eyes,

into your own world you can sink, survive.

Let your spirit heal, revive

You don’t have to run, no need to hide,

Just skip the beat

FEEL your alive

Yes, skip the beat

The beat that beats fast,

 The  way of the world, unlock its grasp,

And slip through the net society’s cast

Without their limits, your vision is vast

Steady you must relax, Listen to your beat,

You with the pretty eyes, cast downward to your feet

Your glitter has far too long been overcast.

Listen to your beat, not the sound of heavy footed grief

Find your heart,

Yourself your fears,

Instinct will drive you, as you push up the gears,

T’dum   t’dum   t’dum   t’dum,

Have courage as you wipe away your tears

Skip the beat and become what you have dreamed of, for so many years.

 

The dance of life

 

Take steps, move around, and don’t be too scared or too proud,

Now listen to the beat and see.

 Would you skip, if you were me?

For when you dance with the vibrant life, the hard and the fast,

 Your path will find.

Swishing and stepping to the music’s beat

Be very carful now; don’t step on anyone’s elses feet

You see my girl a twirl is not just a twirl when into arm of strangers you hurl

Befriend them all, and look upon life as it were a ball,

The tempo might change, be careful.

Your ankle we would not want to sprain,

For then the dance you would refrain

Skipping a beat, swapping my shoes to go dancing in golden hues.

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We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one September 2011

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Poem of the Month May 2011

Pam Raymond

Pam has been working full time as an administrator at the National Space Centre for over 5 years, with what she describes as “the most amazing team of people”.  She loves to write poetry and paint as a form of liberation; other out of work activities includes Kung Fu and Tai Chi as a qualified Tai Chi instructor.

Pam Raymond

The Dance – A Taste of Tango

A quiet pulse, a gentle rhythm caught in the air.

Fingers finding melody tap, tap, tap on a chair.

Slow smooth footsteps draw near, a heart beat,

Hands unhurried extend, enticed from the seat.

 

First touch, fingers tenderly, taunted, teased,

A spark ignites, gently held hands now seized.

First step, flexed feet are now firmly driven

As one, the melodic tune is fiercely ridden.

 

Warm breath so close, a fleeting flame felt

A fragrance, a scent of perfume briefly smelt.

Energised,  eyes meet, a momentary stare

A  potent pause, a sensual second to share.

 

Heels clicked, skirt flicked, strutting movement,

twists and spins, swirling in submission sent;

the room, unfocused, a haphazard haze,

the daring dancers swaying in a distant daze.

 

So engrossed, no thoughts, nothing to distract,

an audience aroused, absorbed by this act.

Blending boldly, each reckless spirit set free,

unfaltering in the music's rhythmic energy.

 

Eyes meet, by this gaze, gracefully connected

though in movement, arms and legs deflected.

In time, in tune, they meld, they melt together;

desiring, wishing this dance will last forever.

 

An elixir, an elicit passion devours the room,

to be extinguished with the music all too soon.

Hands held released,  the enchantment departs.

Yet magic will remain forever in both hearts.

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We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one June 2011

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Poem of the Month April 2011


Roy Marshall
Roy has been writing songs and poems since childhood. His first ever spoken word performance was at WORD! In 2009. He has since been published in a number of magazines and has a pamphlet forthcomming in 2012.
His website is roymarshall.wordpress.com

Roy Marshall

Fox

 

Who has wondered the city

since the city's birth,

 

who searches for a vixen

to raise him from the earth,

 

who is insomnia, animated

in sodium light,

 

who is a ferrous key

in the black lock of the night,

 

who skulks past the perma-lit

offices of hell,

 

who killed the Rat king

to the Hendrix sound of rails,

 

who ate the heart

underneath Kings Cross,

 

who heard the Minister listen

to the silent lips of God?

 

Who else? Fox.

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Eddie Lunt

Virgin Birth

I lie beneath that blinding star,

The cradled straw stands warm and dry,

The wise men watch from kingdoms far,

The shepherds shrive the hills and sky,

To hear the voice of pain I fear,

To know that child I bear a boy,

To know that coming birth is near,

To fear the Earth may find no joy,

It is not this which makes me weep

And brand as beast the child I hold,

The dreadful truth that breaks my sleep,

To know that marriage bed was cold,

The spotless form lay thinly veiled,

The one last stronghold to be stormed,

How should we tell them that we failed

And how these bones and flesh were formed?

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We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one April 2011

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Poem of the Month February 2011

Jacob Saunders

Jacob is a true Loughbrarian having been born and raised in Loughborough with only a few years out to get an education* at Bath University. He started writing poetry years ago but never thought to perform until he heard about Pinggg...K! at the LGBT centre in Leicester and after this poem went down a storm decided to lose his Word virginity.

*by education we, of course, mean painful debts and a useless understanding of NUS politics.

Jacob Saunders

An alliterative love story, from A-Z

An afternoon and arthritic Beryl bustles brightly, bringing biscuits,coffee, crossword. 

Chattering carrying clattering cups. 

Crash!

"Crumbs, clumsy"

Dropped drinks damply damaging the delicate exposed elderly epidermis of her firm friend. 

Fanciful foolish feelings, fully forbidden flow forward gushing unguarded as Gladys gaily grabs handfuls of hot wet hem. 

Her hand hovering over hidden intimacies. 

Indecent, improper imaginings immediately immaterial as juddering j-cloth dries gently just under dress.

Just drying?

Dress dropped.

Geriatric kiss.

Lifelong love 'luminating, lifeless lust livens.

Lips moisten

Movement murmering, monumental. Making no noise, no need.

New octogenarian opportunities opening, oppressive otherness passed.

Parts previously pert presently plunge.

Pleasantly pressing, pecking, petting, quietly, quickly, quintissentially quaint, roaming, rolling, roving, reaching 'round areas readily rotund.

Realising.

Suddenly.

Stop.

Shakily smoothing silken skirts, silent sorries as sensual sapphic stroking ceases.

Trying to talk takes terrible time.

Unbuttoned after unrealised, unbidden, unrestrained urges- uttering ubiquitous vagueness is virtually worthless.

Wary women wondering what wicked warmth would wander... 

Waiting.

Wishing.

Worries wane when:

"Wow, what wonderful-"

"Experience?!" Exclaimed exuberantly.

"Excellent"

"Exquisite"

"Exhausting!"

"You? You're?"

"Yes"

Youthful yeses zealous as zips unzipped.

Kerry Orange

Kerry is Lecturer in Creative Writing at Loughborough University. He is currently working on a series of poems for a Museum Buddies project based at Alford Manor House, Lincolnshire. Other projects include a series of landscape poems and a translation of a novel by Ingrid Thobois. www.myspace/kerryorange

Kerry Orange
Autumn at the Bus Stop

The woman in the headscarf asks

(as the wind bangs three times on the 17B shelter):

“Is this bus going to the Universe?”

I’m sure I’ve not misheard

and turn to look

down on brimful eyes and bitten mac.

The letter she holds is pinched, the head is smudged,

her tan handbag open, the clasp... helpless.

And I say

“It hasn’t got much choice, has it?
What else is there?” 

And I... smile.

And she frowns, trying to get

The Question

understood, not sure if she’s misheard

and thinking it can’t get much worse,

asks again: “Does-this-bus-go- to THE UNIVERSE?”

The wind whips on, carrying my answer

college road mercilessly down.

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We're scouting for YOUR work at WORD!  - next one March 2011

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Poem of the Month January 2011

The first WORD! of 2011 brought its usual collection of ecclectic poets showcasing their wonderful work. Baring this in mind is was practically impossible to chose only ONE poem of the month, so Pam Thompson & Tara Gatherer share with us their highlights of the evening below..

Jayne Stanton

Dear Diary

I’m sick of being a side wheel 

a cog wheel, a tread wheel.

I’m ready to cartwheel,

freewheel without a spare wheel.

I’m stepping out of my down-at-heel

flat heels.  I’ll take to my heels,

ditch the excess baggage:

social, parochial, filial, familial 

marital, parental, accidental

all things sentimental. 

I’ll shelve them 

somewhere compartmental 

try being truly experimental

maybe achieve something monumental.

I’m sick of feeling comfortable 

of acting the Little Miss Sensible 

predictable, adaptable

one hundred percent unflappable 

-or merely disposable.

I long to be adorable, delectable 

improbable, unstoppable

and much much less dependable.

I’ve had my fill of winter times

down times, bad times, war times

downright not-on-your-life times

-now they’re past times. 

This year I’ll work flexi-time

permit myself some fun time 

give myself a break time 

a blissful peace and quiet time

a doorstep slice of dream time 

It’s high time

I tossed my cares away

and took that long overdue breakaway. 

I’m making a super-swift getaway 

I’ll be a runaway stowaway

a desert island castaway

far, far away…

…maybe not straightaway

but sometime soon, anyway.

Conor Cantle

This year

This year I turn 21,
but you can still catch me doing childish things,

watching cartoons, reading comic books, going to laserquest...yeah,
and the last time I was there I met a child

his name was Nim and he was seven years old,
dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes,

he stood there like a shadow.
A shadow with a laser.

Our eyes met and I said Nim,

don't do this to me, don't make me feel old,
I need you to do something for me Nim...
I need you to remember when there were only four channels,

when The Simpsons were on BBC2,

the first series on robot wars and the new BBC ident

with an aerial that went backwards,

He stared back at me with those cold,

cruel...mostly confused, eyes.
I cried Nim!

Can you remember when you had to choose between plugging in the phone or the internet,

...yes, you had to plug in the phone, you know, like a cassette player, or a VHS.
Oh please tell me you remember finishing a film and then rewinding it, tell me you remember that,
Tell you remember the dial up noise? 

I crouched down at eye level and I told him...dododododododobrrrrrrrbrrrrr...
How else would you know the internet was loading?

This year I turn 21, with so much left to remember, 

This year I turn 21, and one day Nim you will be where I am,

and I have no idea where I am.

David Pollak

Dark and White

You are dark brown and I am rosy white

It’s clear that we’re a quite divergent pair

But in my arms you feel completely right.

Although it feels so dreadful when we fight

In our contrasting ways we make things fair –

You are dark brown and I am rosy white.

You’d like to eat hot curry every night

And I prefer to dine on milder fare

But in my arms you feel completely right.

You credit Hindu gods with power and might;

Such faith is something I just cannot share -

You are dark brown and I am rosy white.

I rather like the difference in our height

And how we treat each other with such care

For in my arms you feel completely right.

My life has passed from darkness into light

And all my worldly goods with you I’ll share

You are dark brown and I am rosy white

And in my arms you feel completely right.

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