National Poetry Day/'Today' by Catherine Hodgson

Happy National Poetry day, everyone!

To celebrate, here is a poem by an amazing young poet.

Poets young, old, short, tall, wherever you are from and whoever you are - keep on writing.

- Beth Jellicoe

Today (I am capable of your smile four times over)

Today is nothing to be afraid of.
You should gaze up to satellites
Like you did yesterday
Draw pictures on the glass
Opaque by the restlessness of morning
You should read a thousand books 
Say a thousand words
Hold your pencil to the paper
And show us how you'd like your life to be

Or just stop. Let your finger hover
on the window for a moment
And think
If I just let go
Right now-
But does it matter?
Because we are just human
We are not superbeings or wonders of technology
We hold our hands out and ask for more, so
We cannot be the masters of time and space and everything
So just stop.
Think.
You are nothing more than me
Our eyes see the same earth, the same sky-
Your heart beats the same drum
And I do not think that
You should be crying today.

*****

Bio

Catherine Hodgson: "I'm a fourteen-year-old lover of reading, writing, photography and Brandon Flowers. I was a Commended Foyle Young Poet of the Year in 2010, and my love if writing has been encouraged further since then. I live in Sussex and have had two blogs for two years."

'Colin-Maillard': by Agnes Marton

Quick note:  Thanks for the submissions everyone - keep them coming! We have a vibrant and surreal mix of poems here, from Agnes Marton's vivid dadaist writing to Anthony Adler's reflective poem 'Entropy'. Be inspired, and happy reading!

- Beth Jellicoe

COLIN-MAILLARD

higgledy-piggledy-hereIam-don'tcatchme-switchery-witchery-whereIam-can'ttellme-drowning-and-feathery-hereIam-don'tcatchme-crosswordme-puzzleme-jigsawme-freakshowme-addme-and-multiply-distractme-disturbme-solveme-and-dissolveme-confessme-destroyme-IDme-KOme-kidnapme-hijackme-rogerme-blackmailme-calmme-and-exciteme-tremble-and-easeme-and-fightme-and-enlightme-frameme-and-mirrorme-wholeme-and-fractureme-stream-ocean-riverme-poolme-and-jacuzzi-chimpanzee-pavian-lemurme-and-maki-ABC-do-re-mi-arctis-and-antarctis-layka-and-kontiki-orchid-and-rosemary-poppyseed-flavoury-swallowme-mallowme-mellowme-melonme-lendme-and-borrowme-pullme-and-followme-questionme-answerme-quoteme-and-floatme-and-rockme-and-shockme-and-shipme-worshipme-fleshme-and-flashme-and-flexme-and-fixme-rootme-and-trunkme-and-branchme-and-forkme-and-nestme-and-barkme-and-growthring-and-leaves-woodpeckme-wormme-and-warmme-ney-ney-and-eeyore-woof-woof-and-noch-nochme-hachoo-and-coughme-and-hiccup-belch-throwmeup-sanskrit-and-swahili-chinese-and-bengali-decipher-lucifer-nuptialdanceangel-solidme-and-fluid-maizecircle-android-K2-and-toubkalme-triglav-and-everest-twistme-and-riskme-just-upside-down-outside-in-temptme-and-sendme-but-don'teverhavearest-hauntme-and-raveme-and-lineme-and-zigzagme-curveme-and-roundme-and-flatme-and-hoover-and-vapourme-mazeme-and-pathme-and-cruiseme-and-diveme-zorb-bungeejump-klettersteig-dinosaur-cyclopsme-doldrumsme-toastme-and-butterme-salt-pepper-hotchilli-horseradish-mustardme-widenme-lengthenme-shorten-and-enlargeme-dipme-and-chipme-and-liftme-violet-magenta-turquoise-and-royalblue-nephritegreen-rainbowme-brainme-and-cicatrix-navelstring-trickleme-tickletheivories-mountainme-reefme-and-stoneme-and-pebbleme-airme-fearme-and-feverme-forceme-and-fireme-waterme-earth-windme-and-sunme-(la-terre-du-vent-et-du-soleil-moi-et-moi-et-moi)-and-rainme-and-stormme-and-snowdropme-marchme-and-mayjuneme-monday-and-thursdayme-fiveo'clock-middayme-hereIam-onetwothree-fetchme-but-don'tcatchme-hereIambreathlesslyfindmebutdon'tcatchme

*****

Bio:

"Agnes Marton: Hungarian-born poet, editor, linguist, translator. Regularly works together with visual artists, takes part in exhibitions and art projects in Europe, in the USA and in New Zealand. Performs in 5 countries. Her book: 'Sculpture/poésie' with Mani Bour."

'Ode to an Ex-Tree': by Thomas Williams

Ode to an Ex-Tree

Long and square and flat and wood,

carved with ink and pencil blood
that flows and scrawls across white page –
the letters burn, the drawings fade.

Upon its varnished surface gleam
a thousand names, a smudge, a sheen,
and stuck to its belly, like limpets on a rock,
a plethora of chewing gum has flocked.

Upon four legs it stands so proud

within its pale brown coffin shroud.
And on the carpet’s head
the mutilated tree squats, dead
as a doornail, cut down, chopped up,
sliced from growing limbs, a living cup
emptied for a wallet full of stones.

No more a tree, no more a free, green god,

the ex-tree – now a table – creaks, moans.

Is that so odd?

*****

Bio:

My name's Thomas Williams, and I'm an 18 year old student studying English. I don't know when I started writing, and I don't know when I'll stop; so long as the ideas keep coming, my pen will keep going. I've been published in the British Fantasy Society's journal twice, and have a published poem in a new literary magazine called Unspoken Water.

'Entropy': a poem by Anthony Adler

Entropy

You fretted that your house would burn down in the night,

or that the sudden heat-death of the universe

would happen first and everything would stop. Your

father demonstrated how this worked using

two different kinds of sugar but forgot

to say how long it took: he just dissolved

the gritty static into pitch-black

grown-up coffee. It stayed with you. Then

you learnt how to spin fire-poi

in someone else’s garden, went

to parties in a field (near

a river you fell into on

a number of occasions)

and a little while later

gave me cigarettes down by

the lake at midnight. The lights

from the city smudged the stars out.

Look, you said, breathed in until

the flame caught under your

cupped fingers, watched it glow

towards the filter. Look.

It starts like this.

*****

Bio:
"Anthony Adler was a commended Foyle's Young Poet in 2007. Since that time he has battled damsels, rescued monsters, and been published in print and online. He lives not quite in London."

poems by Lenni Sanders

Poor Circulation

My handsome, my hands
are always cold.
If I was to tenderly touch your back
or your face
while you are sleeping tonight,
would you think the Grim Reaper
had come to sniff-snatch away your warm breath
in his bony, lonely nostrils?
Then roll over, lover,
and hug me closely,
make sure my blood keeps rolling,
and we’ll make such a sheet-time equator
mortality won’t have a look in,
and anything but NOW
will faint and wilt and melt.
Kiss me now, live forever,
keep us from the cold.

***

Mu and Lemuria

Scientists chew on their pen lids
and laboriously conclude

that they’re certain the lost continent of Mu
never existed;
neither Lemuria.

At great length
they put thermometers in the sea,
tippy toed right up to the mouths of caves
in their smart coats (careful not to muddy them)
and did a gastroscopy.

They took the petals off
the flowers that eat men
and smell like manna
and took them back to laboratories,

where now they conclude
that wild and uncontrollable places
where there were never television sets
to eat your tea in front of
never disappeared under the waves,
never existed.

*****

Bio: "Lenni Sanders is a messy child who scrawls in all her
notebooks when she should be writing neatly and nicely. Aged 18, she
was a Commended Foyles Poet in 2010, and has been published on paper
(North West England anthologies of youth writing) and in cyberspace
(www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com)."