February Poets

February Poems

Following are the February Poets

Maggie Sullivan

Brian Ring

Sasha Dee

Peter Leonard Cox

William Ball

Howard Luke

Charles Browne

Maggie Sullivan

Maggie has enjoyed reading poetry from a very young age but only began writing poetry when in her thirties. She had a first collection published in 2007, called Near Death (Domestic) and has another collection coming out at the beginning of 2011. Maggie also takes part in all sorts of poetry related projects and events outside of her own writing: she has been a trustee of the Poetry Society, run poetry workshops for Cooltan Arts and is a mentor for the charity, Survivor’s Poetry, working with poets on a one to one basis towards the eventual publication of a poetry collection. The poems below are reproduced from Maggie’s first collection of poetry.

A rough sleeper works out

You need to be fit to live on the streets but,

cash strapped for a subscription

to a fancy gym, learn

to improvise:

rocks for weights;

big bits of rubble.

He works out on the concourse at Charing Cross Station,

lifts each arm in turn;

muscles strain to extend their reach

while the commuters give him

a wider berth than usual

and the police call up reinforcements.

I don’t think he’ll move on quietly this time;

eyes heavy with anger,

again and again he lifts those rocks until

he’s got them high enough to hurl

at the rest of us

like so much small change.


(written after listening to the story of a rescue worker

sent to help in the aftermath of the 7 July bombings)

There isn’t a finished picture on the lid.

You must climb into the box, subterranean,

skewed, breath the wrecked atmosphere,

search for the pieces with arc lights

and lifting gear, un-weld

limbs from metal,

work out which limb goes with which torso.

There is a foot left over.

No recognisable corners or straight edges.

This foot doesn’t fit anyone

and there is never enough sky.

Remains on a helpline

Phones still clamped to ears when we expired.

This will be a mark of modern man for archaeologists;

coffins re-shaped to accommodate

the fixed V of elbow

as cramp took hold,

blood stopped flowing

and gangrene set in.

But note, also, that Jerusalem is still playing faintly,

punctuated by the soporific tone of the recorded message

attempting to placate our remains.

They’ll dig us up years from now,

put our relics on show

in the gallery of twenty first century curiosities.

Call this era –

Rigor Mortis with hand-piece and soundtrack

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Brian Ring

Ode to a digital World

Inventing the digital world.

Ethically speaking, is  a waste on the time/space continuum ,

There are apparently only two relevant parameters

In the cerebral world of digitalia

Yea or Nay,

On or Off

One or None

And out from this come zillions of theses,

Burgeoning an entire novel world of computing co-ordinators.

Is it at the click of switch?—In theory at least.

You  can access on your very own PC. Potentially the entirety of cyberspace.

‘But what’s the point?’ you well may ask.—

This kind of science destroys personal creativity

As individualized.

It cannot answer basic questions

Such as ‘who are we?’ …’And what are we doing here?

And ‘ When you are no longer – do you exist in somewhere else?’

‘What is the significance of the paraphrased Cartesian maxim ‘ One is conscious;so one exists’

.’the world is RE- created every day’ says some-one

How can one believe it?

Key it it in with the help of the mouse!

Place the cursor where the theme is in question!

And Hey Presto!…

.  ….And no answer is given

Technical, mechanical science cannot solve all questions!

When we use that hackneyed adage—“there are no two ways about it”

We are of course being insincere and inauthenicated.

Perhaps everything is constituted in a massive

Dialectical digital framework

Poetic science or scientific poetry – are these contradictions in terms?

Do you understand all this? If so then you are digital.

Nowa teleutelectic  co-ordinating ‘computer’

That’s what science will be tantamount to.

But need to frame many inventionms on those lines—

Thzat’s not something that one would like to have invented.

Or do I mean discovered?

Let’s bring science and the poetic arts

Into one grand dialectical synthesis!


The weatherman wanted the end of civilisation as we know it-

To replace it with a far finer one.

Terrorists and tyrants alike want to destroy towns,

In order to replace them by celestial mansions in gardens

And culture palaces for their peoples.

1969—and the Baader-Meinhof strike all through the Federal Republic,

And few people wanted even a bloodless revolution.

Just who exactly were these  so-called weathermen?

They certainly didn’t intend to forecast the weather let alone change it.

They were so longer than life that they must have regarded themselves

As goddesses or god of history.

What they have left behind is smoke which cannot subsist without  fire.

But they did want to radically overhaul our urban so-called civilisation

With all its trite bourgeois ramifications

The ideal is quite straightforward consisting as it does of the

Radical overhaul  of society by a self-perpetuating set of self-appointed  Guardians of mankind.

There masters from and to the people will administer justice from the hallowed halls from them on high

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Sasha Dee

English Oak

(The English Oak is sturdy fellow

fromChild’s Song In Spring by Edith Nesbit 1858 – 1924 )

The tree is strong

The tree is old

The tree has

The heart of gold

Come rain, come shine

The tree stands tall;

After the cruel down turn

Of hell-pour of snow storm

A landscape of Siberiana

The tree doesn’t fall.

Come rain, come shine

The tree is divine!

The tree is cool

It is nobody’s fool.

Like the mother earth

The tree takes in

Rising glory

Or falling fury

In one and the same breath!

And when the rain has gone

The tree brings on

The smiling glorious golden

Looking forward to the

Next glistening blossom!!

Rosemary’s Embryo

“Things fall apart: center cannot hold”

Second Coming by W.B.Yeats

The sun comes out

And the sun goes out

So on, the world

Spins around its own axis

Making certain

That god’s garden

Is always in season

And assures timely blossoms.

But now times are a-changing;

Bees are dying, sparrows are vanishing;

Green soothsayers are saying

The GM crops that feeding

The human beings, are killing

The birds and bees that pollinate

The crops and break the universal

Cycle set in by many millenniums.

In nature and man made world

All kinds of disasters circle, gird

Hover and soar everywhere.

Does Rosemary’s embryo apophysis;

And apocryphal apocalypse now?

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Peter Leonard Cox


( about extremes in OCD- perfectionist neatness on the one hand, but hoarding and absolute chaos on the other.)

A hyperactive mind, and most confused at home,
with heaps of scribbled notes, and little thrown away.
If letters must be found, through many files I comb,
and as you might expect. confusion rules OK.

Well organized at work, with much more thrown away,
I’ll feel most useful, and I’ll have a busy day.
Confusion rules at home however hard I try.
So organized, and yet disorganized am I.

I saw this in a dream – a park with lawns well mown,
and nice neat flowerbeds too, but areas overgrown.
The grass was mostly neat, but was in places long.
While such a lot was right, what mattered most was wrong.

My cluttered office desk, when I went home, was clear,
and nothing had been lost. Of this I had no fear.
Supported, not alone, my work was mostly fine.
I handled money well because it wasn’t mine.

I lost the job I held for over 20 years.
“You’re old. You won’t find work”- such realistic fears,
yet still I sometimes work. Of course I seek to please.
I often dot my “i”s and always cross my “t”s.

A lot goes on in FUGUES, as I have often mused.
But order always rules, and Bach is not confused.
I think too many thoughts, but if I really TRY,
then oh so very neat and organized am I!


( What can this mean? My piece is full of absurd and black humour.)

Oh what a lovely war, indeed! A pity about all those killed and injured, but a lovely war, and the earthquake wasn’t bad if you forget all about the people killed or buried under all the rubble.

Recently I had such a lovely picnic of cheese and pickle sandwiches, flapjacks and beer despite public executions going on close by.

And how lovely it was to get home from holiday last night even though my house was on fire and the roof had fallen off. After I’ve eaten this low-fat cheese spread sandwich on organic wholemeal Fairtrade high fibre gluten and nut free village bread and washed it down with a cup of de-caffeinated Peruvian coffee, I’m off to kill myself. Yippee!

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William Ball

Out of the moon / lost in a pink bubblegum bubble

Lost in a pink bubble

lost in a pink bubblegum bubble

Out of the moon vanished into nowhere.

Wandered mumbling lit Kansas

angels jumped m m m m m midnight .

Lost in a pink bubble

lost in a pink bubblegum bubble

Hopeless shadow buried.

Naked skeleton machinery waving genitals and manuscripts.

blonde true dollar Partition

candle laying sniffed.

Faded on the wall naked secret alleys   SCREAAM    horrorrs of unemployment.

Wept Harlem gibberish trucks alarms.

Lost in a pink bubble

lost in a pink bubblegum bubble

Advertising gas editors .

Ghost, sang,  fell,  leapt moans hot incarnations.

Vain waited on their knees .

Narcissus Harvard jury steps suicide amnesia.

Hopeful hallucinations who dreamt and drank millimetres after death,  confessed

Lost in a pink bubble

lost in a pink bubblegum bubble

The last radio stunned   pure bloody fingers in factories.

Cloud mind angels entered consciousness.

Abandoned robot bombs lifting visions.

Holy laughter carry flowers.

electrified walls

Mother murdered

secretaries returned  with thousands— Lost in pink bubbles

lost in pink bubblegum bubbles

Sunshine and fun

Some people can see the sunshine even when it rains

But when I get these mood swings I want to blow my brains


Some people are living in a beautiful way       technicoloured life

Everytime I look     my vision turns to grey

Lets get  happy someone said

Its easy and its fun

Ha ha ha  ha ha ha ha ha

Ha ha ha ha ha ha

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Howard Luke

Dancing Around

Dancing Around-02

A fictional character dances around

Her handbag in a club full of purses

While I wonder where have all

those dancing days gone

A body pumping endorphins from Amsterdam

To Edinburgh, receiving compliments

While dripping with sweat

In an era long gone

The dance-floor, a war zone the most

Exciting space on earth

to the die hard clubber

to the wallflower, a place of shame

Ah to be able to dance

forever says that fictional

character as she picks up her bag

and leaves.



The red buttercup stuns the mass of yellow

As the young apprentice moves to the left

About them is a bright green sun and a

Moon reflecting a disk of light

Stands  the African hero in burgundy

The European miner flicks  cigarette

Ash into  a cage that holds  a canary

Deep in the Academy work the Pakistani pupils

Deep below the masters of the classes

Seek out deviancy and bind the unholy

Charles Browne


Unconscious perfection

Was it my apparent intention?

Realising by the speed of mind

The guilt I had inside

Fear, despair, violence

Was my tolerance

From past to my creative presence

The suggestion and  persuasion

I remember I must disassemble her

The root of all insanity

Is a mind fcuked up past reality

The emotions I had within

Transcend outwardly

As everyone looks in.

Fancy Dan

Paranormal suicidal

Paranoid android

Revelations scepticism

had me slave to its rhythm

Had me blind in real time

Too much time to unravel, unwind

The tides and the ripples

And guzzling oceanic tipples

Had me spoilt for chance i fancy

real time drunk punch felt so dandy

Must then be the joker down-town

round, head round, yes all around.

Nov 2006

L.V.4. Ya’U


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