At the Flick...

Can words haunt?
Dulcet tones,
cushions for grey walled catacombs.
Watching from behind, a
thinning pate,
side of crumpled brow,
white knuckles (always) visible
beyond.
Phones proffered –
direct dials to deliverance
from evil.
Can silence torture?
Expectant,
non-existent.
Words blur, hushed pleas,
bargains of the damned.
Forgive them, for they know not
what they do.
Can signals span eternity?
A nod (mine) to live with ‘til
the end of time.
Watching from behind, I
shield my soul
from that final snap.
Their eternal (un)forgettable
silence.
Forgive me, for I knew not
what to do.

Electric Chair Haunts US Former Executions Chief

©Carolyn Cornthwaite

Carolyn messes with paints and words and detests it when her creative flame refuses to flicker.  http://about.me/carolyncornthwaite

Wasted

I thought I wanted
(needed)
that new fridge, washer, drier, dishwasher –
devouring department stores on
wet, winter weekends – enthralled
by chrome, push button, A+++ rated efficiency
(to save our planet)
                                                Some say beauty is in the eye of the beholder
                                                I say it’s here, now –
                                                greens, blues, an autumn leaf
                                                curling in the glow of a setting sun.
                                                Hues of umber, scents of bark,
                                                soft footfalls in pristine
kitchens – steel, gleaming –
discard the old
(three years at least).
I thought I wanted
(needed)
that new TV, the latest Mac,
wireless keyboard to travers
                                                continents, myriad lands
                                                mountains, meadows, glaciers
                                                sands, where
time –
dripping, ebbing,
breathing toxic
waste and
chlorofluorocarbons.
Dumping cathode-ray
tubes on precious soils
                                                children scavenge,
                                                nails to bone
                                                work the lands
of Western Waste –
precious commodities
for our planet’s
homes.

©Carolyn Cornthwaite    

Ghana accuses UK recycling firm Environcom of illegal fridge imports

Carolyn is a writer in mind, body and soul. She does other things to pay the bills. She blogs (sometimes) and moves ever closer to her life in France. http://about.me/carolyncornthwaite

               

Clutching

At bed clothes.

Stark remains

of hope, life,

dignity.

What once was upright, beautiful –

pillar of society –

reduced, defeated upon her

pillow of death.

            Amidst her laboured rise to the

            pinnacle of career, perhaps she

            paused, lamented the

            passing of routine to

            uphold the greater good?

They say they called –

a distant ring –   

dull echoes to mark her

piss-soaked passing.

Shadows creep,

envelop tears and

frail fingers

clutch

            at straws,

            ignore their threats and

            soldier on – steadfast, strong-willed –

            perhaps she’ll change

            society?

Three rings herald the hope of death.

Three shots mark the death of hope.

©Carolyn Cornthwaite

Council workers face action after woman is left to starve

Top Afghan Policewoman killed months after predecessor's assassination

Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/. She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending.

The Unheard

If a tree falls
in a deserted forest
does it make a sound?

If you heard her murmur
her whispered call
would you answer?
If she spoke of honour (shame)

marriage (forced)

Would you care?

Behind the door of her attic lair
(bruised and bleeding, filthy hair)
lurks such evil
(frail and scared)
she’ll tempt and tease and sully all

who tread within.

If a tree falls
in Neverland
does anyone believe

the girl who trembles
at footsteps
on the stair,
hands wringing, knuckles white
as twisted truths
ring out the night?

Still they play
their glory card –
honour and family,
marriage vows,
dirty girls who mess around.
And silence reigns, supreme.

If a girl falls
in a silent land
does anybody listen?

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

 Abuse of Asian girls missed

Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/ . She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending.

That Sacred Vow

Did you see the shadow

shield my eyes

when you named your price,

sealed my fate?

Did your heart lurch

(as mine did)

when the Devil danced on your back?

Did you feel the fear

grip my guts

as you chased my chariot through

cornflower blue

corridors – freewheeling on the

brink of death?

My nine-year-old loins

ripped apart at the hands of

your marriage –

my dowry for your

drought dried fields.

Did Satan sing as you heard my

screams and pain

penetrated the dusk of my wedding night?

Did your mind reel

(as mine did)

when they pulled the babe from my

ravaged womb

and pressed her

lifeless

to my weeping breast?

And cattle bellowed and cockerels cried

in savage union,

as my childhood died.

And you sold my soul

for a field of corn –

one less mouth to feed

in this forsaken land.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Nigeria's Child Brides

Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/ She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending.

Sunday review

The week began on a sad note for poetry as the news of the death of Seamus Heaney broke. Caroline Hurley's excellent poem "Salt of Our Earth" paid a great tribute to him in words and images that evoked his life and work perfectly.
John Saunders' poem "Atropine" was Tuesday's poem and said a lot in a few words. The contrast with the death dealing Belladonna plant and the antidote for gas attacks is very well made.
David Mellor's poem "NOT YOU" made a good point on Wednesday about how we can so easily switch off from horrendous events such as the gas attack. The downside of being as well informed about these things is that it is very easy to feel helpless and this leads to turning away .
My own poem for Seamus Heaney "Sláinte" was Thursday's poem. Siobhan raised some good points in the comments.
Carolyn Cornthwaite's poem "How Shalt Thou Kill Me?" 
Was Friday's poem and made the point about big nations and their, sometimes, contradictory stances. It is a memorable poem.
Luigi Pagano's poem "Rumpus in Olympus" continued the story of the current business elite who actually seem like criminals, must be a camera trick, eh? 
Keep up the submissions folks and have a good week. We have some blossom happening in NZ which is certainly cheering the place up a bit.

How Shalt Thou Kill Me?

(with acknowledgement to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

How shalt thou kill me? Let me count the ways.
Kick me and strike me and leave me for dead,
then bomb my brothers asleep in their bed.
Shoot at protestors – live bullets are best,
no matter their unarmed (your soldiers confessed).
Kidnap, torture, genitals mutilate –
no level too low in your campaign of hate.
Bind me, commit me to blasphemous praise.
Burn and destroy – hang my head from a line.
Strangle and shake me and force my last breath.
Napalm’s not chemicals? Thus it is fine?
Try me unfairly, condemn me to death.
Kill tens of thousands – beware the red line –
No Chemical Warfare! RESPECT the U.S.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Obama warns Syria chemical weapons use may spark US action

Syria: Defectors Describe Orders to Shoot Unarmed Protesters

Teenage victim becomes a symbol for Syria's revolution

Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/. She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending.

Sunday Review

Hello everyone, I went to Leeds festival last weekend which was filled with music and torrential rain. I came back to your poetry on Monday which was started by Maurice Devitt with Me and my Shadow. This was a haunting story of a boy who was kidnapped in 1964 which turned out he had been returned to the wrong family. Maurice write from the perceptive of the boy, making it more haunting and heartbreaking.

Wednesday we had Cheesy Chips and a Huge TV by Carolyn Cornthwaite. This was about Jamie Oliver criticising cheese, chips and huge TVs as part of modern poverty. I felt a kind of disgruntled irony in this piece, filled with satirical imagery. I actually thought the structure of the poem was impressive.

On Thursday our own Poetry24 editor, Hamish Mack, took the reins and wrote for us, Hooray for theWreckers. The news story was a list of vice-chancellor’s salaries. It was a poem rich with imagery and irony. Carolyn Cornthwaite commented on the cannibalisation of our young and the snakes as being particularly vivid images.

Saturday was Wendy Nicholson’s Clarion Call. I chose this one to go out yesterday as I felt it was particularly strong near the anniversary of Martin Luther King’s famous ‘I have a dream’ speech. I liked how it began with ‘Why has nothing changed,’ and ends with ‘One day we shall be free!’

Unfortunately sometimes we miss days to post something, but that’s doesn’t mean we don’t read your work. Every piece is read over by all of us and we appreciate them all. Please continue to submit to us at poetry24@hotmail.comwith the title of your poem in the subject and, as usual, spread the word about Poetry24.

Michael.

Cheesy Chips and a Huge TV

Curious fingers caress, soothe,

trace the curves

admire the hues

depths of purple, blushes red.

Choose

                        cheesy chips

                        in Styrofoam

                        no plates to wash

                        in modest homes

an aubergine, that spritely bunch

of purple dusted broccoli.

Pick fresh peas – just enough –

to feed your superiority.

Refuse

                        that fucking huge

                        wall-mounted TV

                        disturbing the peace

                        of a poor man’s tea

the plastic bags

and ‘smart-price’ tins

and ‘value-added’ crates of

wine. Eat at tables. Socialise.

Safe from

                        foodbank queues and

                        public derision

                        benefit claimants and

                        poor nutrition

supermarket purgatory. Inhale

on deli-spice and herbs and scents

and crystal rows of condiments,

oozing cheese and fresh-shellfish

all the trappings of a rich man’s dish.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Jamie Oliver bemoans chips, cheese and giant TVs of modern poverty

Carolyn writes poetry and fiction and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/. She has just finished the first draft of a novel and is slowly recovering. Next time she will write an uplifting tale with a joyous ending

Ganika, Rupajivas and Pumsachali (the Courtesan and her Missing Muse)

Her hoodie hides the horrors

of a ravaged mind – strewn

with garlands and bouquets –

sweet imaginings

in time spent

sprawled,

            They trained in music, conversation, learned to

            dance and act. Took starring roles, took

            lavish salary

thrown upon an unmade

bed. Where is your legislation

now her teeth – her kids – are gone?

Is this the object of your

thrusting, the taste of things to

come?

            Their words sang beyond the courtyards,

            eyes glittered long after stars had blinked,

            hands outstretched in welcome

She could flip burgers –

ignore stale scents and fingers dripping

grease – then, long after the burger

bar has ended, she’ll remember

the taste of evil on your

tongue.            

            Their hair could light a thousand ballrooms,

            feet whisk a man to heaven and never

            would another hurt them as

She worked the streets, her private

flat, sweated saunas,

clad in bondage for the

man who never features

in this never ending

tale.

Scotland turns up heat on prostitution debate. 

©Carolyn Cornthwaite 

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/

Sunday Review

Simon Marks started the week of for us with his poem "Send us Ed – or we’ll cry" 
which commented on the seeming inability of the world's superpower to find one person. 
On Tuesday Martha Landman's "Musical Chairs, A Formidable Game" commented wittily on the bloodsport known as Australian politics. It's easiest to think of it as "The Sopranos" They may sincerely regret whacking you but they will whack you.
 On Wednesday Carolyn Cornthwaite's The Future's Bright continued her excellent run of poems lately. This one captured, succinctly , the feelings of despair which are becoming the new normal in many parts of the world.
Luigi Pagano's Final Curtain gave a glimpse of the very far future and who might inherit the earth after us. It isn't the meek after all, it's the microbes. Wash your hands, folks!
Saturday brought us Martha Landman's "A Piece of the Road"a fine poem poem about Nelson Mandela. The image of the Cape Cormorant is very powerful.
Have a good week folks. There are plenty of stories out there to make poems about, it really is all happening at the moment.

The Future's Bright

Three years ago they told me
‘the future’s guaranteed’,
three years of study was their mantra,
work and riches was their creed.

Three years later on the scrap heap,
a hundred letters sent –
I am your lost generation,
scourge of Europe’s parliament.

My God – what next – a Master’s
of frustration or a Doctor of despair?
Not a Euro for electric, food, clothes, rent –
you can forget about my hair!

You’ll find a job, they tell me,
you're young, literate, highly skilled;
but I’m their lost generation –
out-of-workers, unfulfilled.

I’m not so proud – I’ll sell my
writing, one-fifty Euros for my brain.
I’ll stack shelves in any country,
I don’t want to be a drain

and my family will support me –
we're resilient and close knit.
I turn my back upon your hand-outs
don't want a penny from your State.

So tell me, what’s your future,
is this your Baby Boomers’ dream?
All I see is desperation
whilst the Capitalists get the cream.

This is not my adventure –
wasted youth and forced exile –
I guess I’ll give up
looking, join Europe’s ever-growing pile.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Young, qualified and jobless: plight of Europe's best-educated generation

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.com

Blue Sky Thinking

No one saw you fall from grace,

halfway to heaven, head lost in clouds.

No one heard your cry for freedom

or the sound of dreams dashed upon

desolate concrete.

Your furtive run for freedom filmed

by hidden cameras no one manned.

Your head awash with hallowed dreams –

face furrowed in

wondrous joy.

And, five minutes into your final

flight, wings spread, soaring

to your promised land – hopes rupture,

fray – fragile figments of

imagination.

Cocooned in fumes and thinning air,

stars spinning behind closing lids,

knuckles whiten, clutch

at hopes and thoughts that twist and turn as

tortured as the

space inside your mile-high crow’s nest.

And later, when the undercarriage moans

in protest at your excess baggage,

as doors shift and daylight once again intrudes,

you wonder – briefly –

at what remains of hope? And, as you fall,

unseen, unheard, unknown, you spy her

arms agape, eyes dulled, tears wetting flooded plains,

raining havoc upon failed crops and wasted

dreams that prompted you – her son –

to find hope within the wheel-arch of a plane.

©Carolyn Cornthwaite

 Mystery of the man who fell to earth

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/

Lest We Forget

You gave me flowers, plucked

from a bed of rose

thorns.

You picked well – that time –

fresh, young, vulnerable.

Your princess

plied with missing

pieces – filled a

gap.

I was not loved,

not wanted,

until you.

You filled me with your

alcohol, cocaine. Injected

heroin

against my…

love… my four

letter word.

I tried to talk, to run,

couldn’t form the words, so

inappropriate –

this love,

amongst the gravestones.

Terrorised, tortured – I trusted

you. Inhuman –

soul departed – that day you plucked

wild

flowers, for young girls,

between the tombstones

of abuse.

©Carolyn Cornthwaite

 Oxford gang skillfully groomed young victims then sold them for £600 a time

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/

Sunday Review

Noel Loftus' poem 'Wedding, funeral and incidental song from an old man I met in a pub mirror last Sunday'  was Monday's poem. A poem about the the passing of time and the flood of revelations on past abuse that we are undergoing.
'A Star in the Sky' by Vala Hafstad on Tuesday gave a refreshingly biting look at some the details involved with a trip to Mars.
Mari Maxwell's 'Daddy's Legacy' is a searing look at incest. Told with compassion it treats a very hard to talk about subject with honesty and is a very hard hitting poem.
Luigi Pagano's 'NHS 111' gave an insight into the current state of UK health services which can only leave one with grave concerns. Perhaps best some up by the lines
" though more is promised/
we get less and less."
Which have a familiarity to us in New Zealand.
Philip Johnson's "2am (Universal Credit Begins)"  looked at the welfare reform programme in the UK and found it somewhat wanting as it seemed to be very hard on the most vulnerable. There is a nice bit of black humour in the lines
"with that Ian Duncan Smith stealing all the string
from my straight jacket …there may not be a cord with which to hang"
'Missing' by Carolyn Cornthwaite finished the week with a very nicely done poem that showed the irony of ordinary forgetfulness if applied to nuclear materials.

Missing

I lost you on the bus when
I turned my face
to the dreamy guy
with wavy locks and pale grey eyes
as silver as the
americium-241
which I left in the bag
I forgot.

I lost you on the street when
my thoughts turned to
the cobalt-60 coloured sky
and I tried to recall
that unsealed source of
iodine-131. It  might seem slack but
my head was full of
caesium-137.

I lost you in the park when
my mind was rammed
with handsome men in hazardous
suits, brows furrowed with deep concerns.
Next time I won’t keep my
ytterbium-169
in my lap, on the bench
as I dream of men

with eyes as bold as the
thyroid gland which
absorbed the waste
I lost that day
when I turned my head and
dropped my ball of
depleted
uranium.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Radioactive materials lost in more than 30 incidents over past decade

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.com

Sunday Review

There was a lot of strong poetry published this week that covered a number of topics, all quite serious in tone yet keeping the intelligent perceptive the poet often keeps. Two weeks after the bombings in Boston, the new was stilled filled with sad stories about the three fatalities and the questioning behind the attack. Emily Rebecca Adams wrote the poem Boson Reminder as a kind of photographic reminiscence of the terrible incident. ‘Nothing beautiful can ever stay,’ she writes. A poignant look at the event, made real with the graphic descriptions. I suppose, even after two weeks, we shouldn’t really forget.

Malala by Graham Robinson was about Malala, the 15 year old Pakistani schoolgirl activist who was shot in the head by the Taliban for advocating education for girls. Angelina Jolie honoured the ‘Malala Fund’ which will fund education for 40 girls in Pakistan. The poem shows, in rhymes, the determination and bravery of this girl.

By mid-week we had an obituary poem for Woodstock icon, Richie Haven. Legend, written by Luigi Pagano, is a poignant look at a small part of the man’s life which is greatly lauded as the ‘Opening artiste at Woodstock.’

On Thursday we published Blood Red Dress by Angela Finn. This was about the news story of Primark giving aid to the families of the victims of the the warehouse collapse, one of Primark’s suppliers in Bangladesh. The poem is filled with a sense of guilt symbolised in a ‘scarlet dress.’ The blood image of the dress is seen to be made in Bangladesh while ‘You hear the next day’ about the disaster.

Empty Vessel by Mari Maxwell was about the murder of April Jones and the trial against the accused that may last up to seven weeks. The angelic imagery the poem begins with rots into a dark description of earwigs and maggots. It’s a sad poem filled with powerful wording and reaches a state of anger. There something haunting even in the beginning: ‘I saw the golden halo of your / long, curled tresses. / And I gazed into your sprightly soul.’

Saturday we published Carolyn Cornthwaite’s Bachcha. This was about the arrest of a man over the rape of a 5 year old girl in India. Again, a powerful poem, which seeks to show the anger and sadness all at once. The powerful line ‘Childhood / torn from tiny fingers’ is especially evocative.

Thank you for reading and being part of Poetry24. We always ask for new submission every day so email them to us at poetry24@hotmail.com

Michael.

Bachcha

Words fade, only the
taste
of dirt
taunting my tongue
violating my thoughts.
Can I speak of such horrors?

Afternoon becomes dusk
and the Common
Myna calls your name.
You play, safe
in the shadows
of your family home.

And would they assist?
Would they add their
lawful
voice to the search for a
child of the
working class?

Yet you survived.
Battered, bruised,
broken.
Cries echoing their
depravity.
Life shattered, hope destroyed, childhood

torn
from tiny fingers.
Now will they listen?

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Indian police arrest second man over rape of five-year-old girl

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.com

Three Payments Away

The world turned slowly

last night. Shrouded

in bittersweet agony, clothed

in tarpaulin spread

upon concrete

pillows.

The world turned its head

as you slept and frost

gripped you in crooked

fingers, knuckles whitening

in blessed

despair.

Your audience a mangy dog –

teats dripping, fleas parting matted

fur, and the drunk

who pissed

in your doorway then staggered

to his comfy bed.

And the woman, creased

with time. Eyes kind and hand

outstretched

to tend the dog,

to feed and warm

yet leave you

to your final

dreamless

sleep.

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

(Forthe father who froze to death in a Kent village – we are all just three payments away.)

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.wordpress.com/

Bleak House

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit
this barren land, devoid
of jobs, of training, and further
education.
Suffer little children,
peering from the trappings
of another’s misspent youth;
parting the shreds of a brown paper bag
of cider – counts as five-a-day? – sweetened
with an anti-depressant
or a cigarette on the way
to a dead-end
apprenticeship.
Blessed are the poor
of spirit,
stacking shelves to break
the monotony
of fertile wombs and
teenage mothers and
increased risk and
bullying.
Must I walk
in the shadow of
death,
as my footsteps echo
in this bargain
basement
Britain?

© Carolyn Cornthwaite

Unicef: British children facing bleaker future under coalition

Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at wimpywriter.wordpress.com