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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.
I'm drinking my mint tea.
I'm 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.
I'm 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.
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Written Word: Prose & Poetry
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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 Chapman's '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


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 Ivory's 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. WHO'S VISITING THIS SITE?
Your bones creak in conversation with the ring. Recent Visitors

....reviewed by Mark Burnhope


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.



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 grandmother's.


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 it's 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. It's 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. I'm 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 Laycock's '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’. The



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 doesn't write many stories.

Sunday, September 4

Liz Loxley's '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 in



Creative Writing (Poetry) at Manchester Metropolitan University.


Saturday, September 3

Morgan Shnier's '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 i'm 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.


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 you'll 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 



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.


Thursday, September 1

Clare Crossman's '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 voices



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.


Wednesday, August 31

Chris Emery's '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).



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