Dmitry Blizniuk: One Poem

Love the startling imagery in this poem by Dmitry Blizniuk

Canada Quarterly

DON’T BE SAD, CHRYSOSTOM

Rural silence is a thick sandwich with butter
Generously sprinkled with the sugar of meadow dragonflies.
Nothing’s going to happen here in this century.
No one’s waiting for you in the Future Simple.
When the reddish, high in hemoglobin, blueness of the evening sweeps over you, Carnivorous stars start moving their nippers.
They are real and terrible here;
They are not sick city animals muzzled with smog.
You can gnaw on the candied nuts of constellations if you like.
The moon is screwed up to the skies for centuries
Like a basketball hoop,
But an eagle-owl flies too high for a three-point shot.
A couple eat each other under a dark window:
The skin of the stumpy, thick-braided girl
Is covered in moon dust, which tastes of unwashed soap.
The kisses are rough and greedy sweet and sickly, like Turkish delight.
Such an intoxicating stability reigns…

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International Women’s Day

Poet Laureate

pexels-photo-261453.jpegTo celebrate International Women’s Day I asked you for your thoughts and inspirations. ENJOY! 

int wo 5

POETS/POEMS – Recommended Reads

Rachel Curzon – Scan poem – highly recommended (Faber and Faber) – Michelle Diaz

Julia Copus any of her spectacular poems, just so very cleverly constructed but the form is always appropriate to the meaning. – Nikki Fine

Colette Bryce who I was lucky enough to do a workshop with last year as part of a local literary festival. – Penny Blackburn

Gillian Allnutt – Ode. I read poetry on my Sociology/Social Policy under graduate course. – Rachel Burns

Mary Oliver I’m reading more of her work and folding over the corners of so many favourite poems in each book…when I run out of post-it notes! I grew up in inner city Birmingham & moved to London at 18, and it’s only in my 40’s that I discovered nature and now understand what all…

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Two Poems in Canada Quarterly

Rachel Burns: Two Poems

 

LUCE BAY

Your child runs alongside you, her laughter
rises into the air like sea fret, it is raining
the sky milky grey, you taste salt on your lips
you stop, bend down to pick up a shell
you press the conch to her ear
What can you hear?
The roar of the sea.

You walk along the beach, drifters sift
through the driftwood of their lives
carrying crochet hemp bags
filled with smooth rocks.
Gulls soar through the air,
houh-houh-houh.

You teach your daughter
to sort the good wood from the bad
that the sea is neither blue nor green
that the rocks are neither rugged nor smooth
but somewhere in-between.

POPPIES IN OCTOBER

Red poppies in the field rattle around next to dog daisies
colours that bleed into each other as a train on the horizon

trundles along the East Coast Main line like a boy’s Hornby train
on a miniature track. A grouse is flushed from its hiding place

the disembodied cry rises like a wounded child.
The sky is flawless ― clouds look like a Simpson’s cartoon.

She sees him in the blue sky, the wheat fields there is no escaping him, the smell of his skin

his warm breath, her little boy laid to rest.

Rachel Burns is currently an Arvon/Jerwood mentee in playwriting. Poems shortlisted in competitions Mslexia, Writers’ & Artists Yearbook and The Keats- Shelley Poetry Prize 2017.

New Poem in Hobo Camp Review

 

http://hobocampreview.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/rachel-burns.html

Wildflowers

The sky is a blank canvass

chalky-white lifeless

outside I can see slate grey

roofs of the neighbours’ houses

the village green

and the children’s swing frame

and the flowers are all gone

just the red berries on the juniper remain

reminding me of red cherry lip gloss

I wore to my first school disco

At Our Lady’s Immaculate

dancing with John- Paul

who last I heard joined the army.

I have the radio on in the background

and I hear the song

wildflowers

and I’m sorting out chapters

re-reading the words

my protagonist sailing her boat

out to sea- the white sail

buffering against the wind

the whole time fighting the tide

sailing the wrong way

the whole time fighting the waves

words disappearing like a blur from the page.

 

Jan in the snow – The Writers’ Cafe Magazine -Ice and Snow

Jan in the snow

 

It is snowing thick and fast on this lonely Thursday afternoon, and I miss you.

Snow lines the rooftops of red brick houses, white against an even whiter sky.

 

Trees spread their charcoal branches, thumb smudged on the stark winter page.

Children play, throwing snowballs. I hear their laughter through the frozen

 

window pane and I remember when we were both about nine, you

in your blue duffle and bobble hat. I was wearing a red hooded coat

 

throwing snowballs in the park, until our fingers were numb and our feet felt like blocks of ice in our wellingtons. Remember, the school bus got stuck

 

half way up the bank, the bus driver saying, it’s no use, you’ll have to get off.

A whole day of no school, making a snowmen until after dark,

 

two lumps of coal for eyes, orange peel for a mouth that you turned upside down

to make a frown, a stick for a nose because Mam said no when you asked for a carrot.

 

Food doesn’t grow on trees, she chased you out of the kitchen, cuffing you

around the head until your ears went red. You cried like a baby.

 

We loved every crystalline flake of it. The next day it melted away.

You stood disappointed in the blackened slush, shouting, no, no, no.

 

https://thewriterscafemagazine.wordpress.com/2017/12/16/the-writers-cafe-magazine-issue-3-ice-and-snow/

 

 

The Herald- Poem of the Day

Sightseers, 5th December, Poem of theDay

Sightseers

We visit the same haunts every year

our children’s lives marked

 

by brightly coloured pins

in the Ordnance Survey map.

 

Charting stumbling toddler years

to teenage angst, until they disappear

 

from camera view, exams taking hold

and later preferring to travel

 

further and wider, backpacking

across Europe, sleeping in hostels

 

cooling their heels on the InterRail car.

Yet when we travel, we carry

 

the memory of the children

they once were, through city trails

 

across familiar landscapes, the hillsides

the beaches, the hundred acre woods.

 

We hear our children’s laughter

in the grounds of ruined castles

 

running up the steep steps on cliff walks.

Voices shouting over crashing waves.

 

We stand on high bridges

looking down over the edge

 

awed by the sheer drop.

It is as if they have never left us.

 

We are sightseers still.

 

 

http://www.heraldscotland.com/news/15701462.Poem_of_the_Day__Sightseers_by_Rachel_Burns/