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  • 1. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 1 of 7 Home « Previous 10 days THE IS&T GALLERY Friday, September 9 Tatjana Debeljacki asks Are there? by Helen Ivory on Fri 09 Sep 2011 12:00 BST Are There Out of Office Messenger Someone is breaking the branches?! From midnight to the dawn, The forest is trembling inside me. My trees are innocent, Thirsty for milk, Firm hands, and The scent of effervesce. Im drinking my mint tea. Im bringing tranquility without aim, Your eye protects the soft-toed And flowers for the vase. snowdrop: Helen Pletts (poem) and Romit Berger (image) When I look at it is never the same. Im starting to believe in a fertility of miracles. Is there the flame, which could turn the heavens Into the ashes? Are there any hands to pick up my ripe apples?! Image by Agnesbic *Tatjana Debeljački was born in 1967 in Užice. Member of Association of Writers of Serbia UKS since 2004 and Haiku Society of Serbia HDS Montenegro-HUSCG&HDPR, Croatia. She has published three collections of poetry: A House Made of Glass, ART – Užice; CATEGORIES Yours, NARODNA KNJIGA Belgrade and Vulcano by Haiku Lotos, Valjevo.CD-BOOK and Ah-eh- Introducing IS&T eeh-oh-ooh by Poeta Belgrade. 2008. She edits Poeta. Submission Guidelines Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Written Word: Prose & Poetry What Makes Writers Tick Haibun, Haiku & Haiga Thursday, September 8 News, Reviews & Events Images & Multimedia Mark Burnhope reviews Another Use of Canvas by Angus Sinclair by Helen Ivory on Thu 08 Sep 2011 12:00 BST The Twelve Days of Christmas CAlbert Defending Sinclair’s Title Spring Spring and Easter Another Use of Canvas, Angus Sinclair (24pp, £5.00, Gatehouse Press) C.Albert Sinclair is both wrestler and poet, a paradox immediately addressed in his debut pamphlet’s title, which introduces tensions between wrestling as entertainment, and RECENT COMMENTS as art-form. Many poems comment on lives off-canvas, out of camera-shot: ‘soft Re: Some short prose from Bobby Parker peripheral shapes / I understand to be bodies, / visual murmurs’. ‘Looking Up at the Re: Christopher Crawford on Lights’ begins in the ring (‘…a cold fizzing in my neck; / something has slipped or Giving the Big News pulled.’) then pans outwards, so that the ‘white lights suspended above’ become Re: Pippa Chapmans Insomnia hospital lights, and the poem becomes a reflection on infirmity: Re: Communal Changing by Marilyn Francis and think how an operating theatre Re: Daniel Sluman writes Dear Samaritans.. is like a wrestling arena; the outcome less certain. SEARCH I’ll admit: I was smiling to see my childhood wrestling fandom turned into effective Go poetry. ‘The Saint versus Lord Nelson’ recreates the colours, commentary and rough-http://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 2. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 2 of 7 and-tumble of popular wrestling. Pace, rhythm and sound bring the scene from screen RSS NEWSFEEDS to page: Main Page RSS Almost before the bell is rung Lord Nelson tries to swing and bundle his rival The Saint, LOGIN belly-bomb him to the mat for the quick fall – User name: but The Saint side-steps, little matador working Password: Nelson’s weight against him, all that power sent crashing to the corner… c d e f g Remember me Login Another style which has made its way into contemporary wrestling is Mexican Lucha Create an Account Libre, whose brightly-coloured masks look back to Mexican folk traditions like “Dia Why Create A Reader Account? de los Muertos”, with its now-famous floral skulls. Sinclair uses this material in ‘Face’, which begins: ‘A boxer bleeds his nose, eye, mouth. / A wrestler bleeds his forehead. / His invisible crown of thorns.’ I’m reminded of other Biblical uses of MONTH ARCHIVE the forehead: anointing for healing or burial; bearing the mark of Christ or The September 2011 Beast. The crown of thorns is a symbol of humiliation, a theme which appears August 2011 throughout, and transports us to the folk-magical close: July 2011 June 2011 In the garden, Adam and Eve May 2011 cover not only their bodies but their faces too. YEAR ARCHIVE 2011 * 2010 2009 All night, folk-devils 2008 try and remove the masks 2007 of little gods. 2006 If I wanted to nitpick: ‘Face’ scratches the surface of its material, and I wish it had weaved its strands together for longer. And while the repetitions of ‘Muscle LINKS Memory’ are appropriate to its theme, they make its final line less than surprising. Cafe Writers But I don’t. By the time I’ve reached the final poem, ‘Canvas’, its blend of violence East Anglian Writers with careful, lyrical observance of the body leaves me in little doubt that Sinclair Helen Ivorys blog was right. Wrestling can be artful: The Poetry Trust The ring’s cross-irons have developed a bend which exactly matches the curve of your spine. WHOS VISITING THIS SITE? Your bones creak in conversation with the ring. Recent Visitors ....reviewed by Mark Burnhope Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Wednesday, September 7 Clown Wife by Pippa Little by Helen Ivory on Wed 07 Sep 2011 12:00 BST Clown Wife Solly, this life will be the death of us. Fat man prat-falling, each laugh hurts like a punch for my poodle-man in a flimsy ruff. Otto says he no longer finds you funny, walks you like a tiger he has broken and taken pleasure breaking.http://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 3. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 3 of 7 I’ll hold your heart up to all of them, heavy glass jar of thick, bright honey, show how it curls in its hot descent. Solly, the boatman’s waiting to carry us away. Let it be tonight you vanish inside that costume, its empty cloud collapsing on the stage, an iron lung you won’t need where we are going. * Pippa Little says: I live in Northumberland, write poetry and collect sea-glass. Overwintering comes out from Oxford Poets next October and The Snow Globe, Red Squirrel Press, this autumn. One day I hope to find a cake stand and a hostess trolley just like my grandmothers. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Tuesday, September 6 Some short prose from Bobby Parker by Helen Ivory on Tue 06 Sep 2011 12:00 BST Her Face Flickers Before I go into the waiting room for clinical psychology I go for a piss. My bladder has been a bit funny lately. I piss too much. Sometimes its difficult to piss. As I wait for it to flow, I stare at the silver flush button on the wall above the toilet. It says Armitage Shanks. Armitage Shanks are a British bathroom company that can be traced back to 1850. I trace it back to the late eighties. There was a girl in my class called Debbie Shanks. When I went to the bathroom my mind made instant associations between the toilet and Debbie. I never mentioned this to anyone. No reason to. Its stupid. Even to this day, every time I go to a bathroom and see the words Armitage Shanks, I think about Debbie. And I feel stupid. I can barely remember what she looked like; her face flickers in the section of my memory labelled Early Childhood Before Shit Hit the Fan. But when I piss, I see those words Armitage Shanks and think about Debbie. I try to visualize her face, her flickering face kind of silver and blue. And it helps. It helps me piss. Im not sure how to feel about that. The doctor has told me to avoid fluid after six at night. I’d like to drink some wine with my wife but I can’t. *Bobby Parker was born in 1982. He lives in Kidderminster, England. His most recent collection is Ghost Town Music available now from knivesforksandspoonspress. He is currently working on the book from which Her Face Flickers has been taken. Comments (1) | Permanent Link | Cosmos Monday, September 5 Thelma Laycocks Green, green grass by Helen Ivory on Mon 05 Sep 2011 12:00 BST The green, green grass. Looking out at the lagoon, he saw that it was a peculiar shade of bluish green. Perched on the edge of it, like a large white communion wafer, was the moon. ‘It looks bloody weird!’ thought Rhys, shrugging his fingers deeper into his pockets. Venice was getting cold – soon it would be the time of ‘Aqua Alta’ and he didn’t want to be around for that. He strode into the nearest bar, ordering a ‘grappa’. Thehttp://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 4. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 4 of 7 atmosphere was warm and he took off his jacket, standing at the bar, bantam-weight, short, and as dark as any Italian. It wasn’t just the temperature which was warm; the language warmed him with its musicality, counterpointing with the pitch and toss of the rougher Veneziano dialect. For some reason his mind drifted back to Tiger Bay and to his local, ‘The Red Dragon’, where they’d all be right now, being Saturday see. Dando would be behind the bar whilst Dave and Huw and the other lads would be watching the match on the big screen. Then before Dando could call time, they’d sing. Rhys (when he was there) would do his imitation of Tom Jones, and then he would get up with old Pugh, who had known his grandad, and they’d play the spoons. A couple of weeks later, he flew to Cardiff and that night headed for ‘The Red Dragon’. It was empty. ‘Moved on to ‘The White Swan’, Dando explained, ‘it’s new, it’s beautiful and it’s taking all my bloody trade!’ ‘But Pugh will be in?’ enquired Rhys, pulling up a bar stool. ‘Pugh?’ said Dando. ‘Oh, no, a lot’s ‘appened in a year, boy. Pugh went to live with his daughter. Up north it was.’ Rhys pulled a face. Dando went on. ‘Didn’t agree with ‘im, of course. Now he’s back and they say he’s in a residental ‘ome – one of these convent places – Little Sisters or something.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ Rhys replied, that’s where Grandad was,’ and a lump rose in his throat but he swigged it down quickly. After that it was just him and Dando. His mind kept going back to Venice and to Rosa and the night he had first met her at the University disco, wearing some fantastic green concoction. Oh, Rosie! He wondered if the lagoon was still that wonderful aquamarine colour and if the moon was sitting on the edge of it, like a silver grapefruit.
 
 
 *Thelma Laycock is a poet and lives in Leeds. Her new collection, A Persistence of Colour (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2011) is just out. She doesnt write many stories. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Sunday, September 4 Liz Loxleys Cuckoo Sister by Helen Ivory on Sun 04 Sep 2011 12:00 BST Cuckoo Sister Your mother named you Denise Florence: a pencil shavings, navy knickers, inky fingered name. I bounce the syllables on my tongue: they taste of sherbet lemon; I roll them between my fingertips: the grit of salt and vinegar crisps pricks my paper cuts. Our mother called you Catherine Francesca: a dulcimer playing, Titian beauty, satin ballgown name. Like a bridemaid’s dress that cuts into your armpits, it never quite fitted. The tightrope between your names stretches taut as a cheese wire. I have watched you wobble, tumble, then climb, remount. Oh, my sister, let me bind your wounded feet. *Liz Loxley lives in Flintshire. Her poems have been anthologised by publishers including Faber, Penguin and Oxford University Press, have appeared in various poetry magazines and have been studied by school students. Liz is now studying for an MA inhttp://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 5. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 5 of 7 Creative Writing (Poetry) at Manchester Metropolitan University. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Saturday, September 3 Morgan Shniers Cracking Voice by Helen Ivory on Sat 03 Sep 2011 12:00 BST cracking voice i lied to my friends to borrow the money but i think it was worth it so i could hire the contractors and seamstresses necessary to shorten my pants and shirtsleeves a centimeter at a time and sand the rims of my drinking glasses and sides of my toilet bowl overnight so i can at least pretend that im growing too big for this all. *Morgan Shnier is a poetry student at the University of Arizona. He is a big fan, conceptually, of dogs. Several of his poems will be in the October/November 2011 issue of Milk Sugar. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Friday, September 2 Helen Of Troy Takes A Citizenship Test by Sarah Crewe by Helen Ivory on Fri 02 Sep 2011 12:00 BST Helen Of Troy Takes A Citizenship Test Tired of being Princess
 And stunned to read prophecies
 Of dumping your kids for the Eiffel boy You flee and fumble for passport stamp
 To world of woman warrior You hope a brother in Brazil
 And legs that last for days 
 Will help your case at border control Just swerve that blue bump of yours
 Away from Amazon Airport 
 Detect and eject male body scanner A trace of testosterone
 And youll be shipped straight home 
 To infinite boredom Cold coffee with Penelope 
 A list of shallow suitors
 
 Christ, big boys with boats
 Never sounded so dull You falter from fear to fierce
http://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 6. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 6 of 7 Unknown forest of redbush
 And newfound double Ds await you Did you know your new race 
 Is both fetish and feminist?
 
 You may be conscripted 
 But beats being kidnapped By a son of the sea
 Playing out your days
 As deity dinner lady Rinse your hair in the river, 
 But keep those long limbs of yours
 Safe from piranhas. Did i say piranha? 
 I meant anthropologist. Did i say anthropologist? 
 I meant obstetrician. *Sarah Crewe: I was born in 1981 in Liverpool. You can hear both sides of the River Mersey in my voice. I wish i was in The Fall. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Thursday, September 1 Clare Crossmans Flower Festival by Helen Ivory on Thu 01 Sep 2011 12:00 BST The Flower Festival When everything is gathered in as for an ark or the Last Day, I hope there’ll be a place like this: where cultivars lean against wild flowers and Sweet William is arranged among green leaves. That red Pillar roses will climb in shade through, oxeye, sorrel, yellow spikes of grass and there are five pink sweet peas and two deep blue delphiniums in a jug. That I will know as second nature, Ladies Mantle, Yarrow, Elder, Poppy, the gardens where they grew, the hands that planted them, the faces who waited to walk there on warm afternoons. Perhaps the air will be spun with mint, lavender and blossom. All the agrimony remedies from Culpepper’s book, as healing against serpents, temper. and augues. There may be no need for names: as each petal frond and stem will hold a memory of somewhere loved, fields and verges known since childhood, a wedding dance, winter goodbyes, the burn of autumn, a meadow in spring. And so collected, on cool sills, in vases and old jars this heavy headed lilt of summer, will be proclaiming laughter, our voiceshttp://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011
  • 7. Ink Sweat & Tears - the poetry & prose webzine :: Main Page Page 7 of 7 and these words: ‘This is the ribbon of how we spent our days. This was beauty. This was good. This was grace.’ *Clare Crossman has just finshed being writer in residence on Heritage Lottery finded Sharing Stories project in the village of Weston Colville.(Cambs) In March 2010 The Shape of Us was published by Shoestring Press Nottingham.She runs a writers workshop at The Tavern Gallery Meldreth and is working on a new collection. Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmos Wednesday, August 31 Chris Emerys Snails by Helen Ivory on Wed 31 Aug 2011 12:00 BST Snails are death’s pale eccentrics, the poets of disgust, they bring their great sadness to the shelves, to the world. They are the lethargy every husband chews on in his sleep, biting his cheeks. You can fit one thousand of their tiny mouths beneath your eyelid. They spend the bloodless night mouthing the word “oracle” beside the fuming pumps. The outlets gargle around their grey supper. Why are they all called Tony or Erasmus or King Nacre? Tonight they will extinguish all the red dresses of the world, then weigh out all the bones of the ear and pile them into wigwams in the wet dirt of the village. They keep trying to form this mighty ending that shimmers grey and frazzled above the velvet seats of the cinemas in all the gardens; except they never end. They are slowly weighing up the cruises of the children now. Their appearance is like a secret circus act that doesn’t stop. They break into all the graves beneath the peonies and salsify. Tonight we will pile them, pile everything of them into the whorl of a bucket and then we will fill it to the top with the forest of tears and let the silence do its work. *Chris Emery lives in Cromer with his wife and children. He is studying Creative Writing at UEA and is a director of Salt, an independent literary press. His work was anthologised in Identity Parade: New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe, 2010). Leave Comment | Permanent Link | Cosmoshttp://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ 9/10/2011