The Hummingbird
Zips into the barn
toward the open window
but the window is closed.
I am near this
inaudible thud
and rush to lift
the body
from the sill,
to revive what I am
thinking is stunned.
The red neck feathers are alive
that is all, despite the light
still wanting to play.
I do not see
the hummingbird's heart
in my open palm,
do not feel
this
seed of a bird
bury itself inside me.
c- Peter Newton
Honey and Lemon
Someone once here before. You?
Who knows!
In from the rain, free but finished.
The room a mess;
old messages a week old still awaiting a response,
dust accumulated on the bed -
dunking my snout like a cat in a cup of tea -
My favourite kind (?), honey and lemon.
It assists me in the preparation of my unsure beginnings:
my family, work, the whole show,
and even with nothing.
They excavate me in order to try and help,
and I, in return, show them my ingratitude.
I prefer to pack my bags and leave.
Solitude, thoughts, paranoia;
the whole traffic for an identity.
And I perhaps another, or still uniquely the same?
I observe the mug placed on the chest.
For two days now it has been there.
I don't want to change too much.
c- Sara Ghia
Zips into the barn
toward the open window
but the window is closed.
I am near this
inaudible thud
and rush to lift
the body
from the sill,
to revive what I am
thinking is stunned.
The red neck feathers are alive
that is all, despite the light
still wanting to play.
I do not see
the hummingbird's heart
in my open palm,
do not feel
this
seed of a bird
bury itself inside me.
c- Peter Newton
Honey and Lemon
Someone once here before. You?
Who knows!
In from the rain, free but finished.
The room a mess;
old messages a week old still awaiting a response,
dust accumulated on the bed -
dunking my snout like a cat in a cup of tea -
My favourite kind (?), honey and lemon.
It assists me in the preparation of my unsure beginnings:
my family, work, the whole show,
and even with nothing.
They excavate me in order to try and help,
and I, in return, show them my ingratitude.
I prefer to pack my bags and leave.
Solitude, thoughts, paranoia;
the whole traffic for an identity.
And I perhaps another, or still uniquely the same?
I observe the mug placed on the chest.
For two days now it has been there.
I don't want to change too much.
c- Sara Ghia
Two men tall,
one from here
and one from there,
in raincoats
at a bus stop,
pace and stare.
One of them
is soaked in tea,
brisk man from Jaipur
who semaphores
an anthracitic glare.
To barter for a smile
an alien's obeisance
he, no fawn,
refuses.
The other man,
white cane and dog
doesn't seem to care.
c- Donal Mahoney
Crepuscule (for Alessia)
Fabulous bestiaries
arise out of the dusk,
their serpentine shapes
plume and splurge
like octopus ink
tarnishing the great furnace
of illumination,
as if generated by a million campfires
behind the citadel
that is eventual evening.
I watch it all from the domestic cube
where I live
and which I share with an Aztec Madonna.
The strange machinations
of our upended intimacy,
like the shifting light,
make us see our world ever anew.
Together we dream like the ancients.
c- Peter O'Neill
Untitled
Christmas done, back home again amid the rain that never stops and snuggle deep and read and sleep and eat and then repeat, repeat
c- Bob Harmer
The morning pauses.
She has forgotten to turn back the clock.
Her shoes, her lipstick,
the folded bill for the collection plate,
all lose their urgency.
She presses a button on the coffee machine.
The sun is in the kitchen,
glowing in the ruby seeds
of a split pomegranate on the counter,
catching in the feathers of a small blue bird
preening by the window.
For this hour only the broken fruit,
the blue bird, the smell of coffee
quell the clamant question attendant on the day.
The morning settles like dust from a blue wing,
like a blue feather falling to the floor,
the bells, peremptory in their own error,
are too early for worship,
too late for everything else.
c- Mairi Graham
Unlike Rhubarb
Think feline, a supine cat
reclining, sunning itself
when a fly unexpectedly
comes along
to add interest to the mixture;
the muse is something
you wish you had
as a matter of course,
on tap,
but like rhubarb
it cannot be forced;
it's a kind
of heady elixir
a rush, a grab
that spreads colour
to a monochrome picture
to bring the mind alive;
a kind of seismic stab
that unfurls an iridescent
world.
c- David Pike
Guidelines
1. Submitted poems should be of 20 lines maximum and written in English.
2. The poems should have some connection, however loose, to the idea of 'an awakening'.
3. Accepted poems will be printed here against the left margin (for technical reasons).
4. There is no limit to the number of submissions per poet but I am seeking to find 20 different poets if I can.
5. Poems should be sent by email to gwilataondotat and contain the words Poetry 2012 in the subject line.
6. When all the material has been gathered I will present it as a 12-page printable e-book in the same format that you can see here at Poetry 2010
7. There is no financial payment. I will award a few books in a random draw. A list of the chosen titles will appear here:
The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides (signed by author)
Peeling Oranges & Lemons to Dartmoor by Wendy Webb (signed by author and numbered 49/50)
Genteel Messages by Gwilym Williams (signed by author)
8. Copyright remains with the authors.
9. Previously published poems (where the author holds copyright) may be submitted.
10. I'm looking forward to receiving and reading your poems.
