Covid care

Eighty-five years old,
she sits in the care home
and she’s not been hugged
for eight months,
for her protection;

not had her hands held
by her son or daughter
whose hands she held
for their protection
when crossing a road,

trudging to school over frozen snow
or just strolling in the summer park;
whom she hugged tight to herself
through the childhood tumbles and bruises,
the frights and fears, the nightmares.

Imprisoned now for her own protection
by the rules and regulations,
she descends further into dementia,
as the carers care for her, protect her;
but she has not been hugged

for eight months,
sees her son and daughter through a screen,
not held their hands
for how long now!
How long?

© Dave Urwin

BBC Radio 4: World at One

Dave has published two collections of poetry, Towards Humanity (2015) and Plain Song from the Backstreets of Silence (2020). Lots of his poems can be found at www.jadedmountain.wordpress.com

On the street where I (kind of) live

(with apologies to Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe)



I have often walked round these streets before,

but I’ve not so often dragged my weary feet before.

As I write this rhyme,

it’s the thousandth time

that I’ve walked round the streets where I live.



Oh the trees grow high in the heart of town,

and the crows and seagulls cry in every part of town!

Though the air is clear,

I’m imprisoned here;

I’m locked down on the street where i live.



I hear that people are fleeing

overseas by plane, car or boat.

So disempowering seeing

it’s allowed by prats for whom I did not vote …



Politicians’ faces all bother me.

I can’t tell you all the places I would rather be!

As the time goes by,

I’ll most likely die,

just stuck here on the street where I live.

© Mandy Macdonald

Thousands arrive at Heathrow in last-ditch bid to flee the UK before Thursday

Mandy is surviving the pandemic era by writing Lockdown Lyrics and gardening a lot. Her pamphlet The temperature of blue is available from Blue Salt Collective.

Sunday Double-Bill

Missing From the Lane                                                                   

The nature writer explains
why the blackbirds have disappeared
and ceased their comforting calls.

They are tucked in the hedges,
growing new flying feathers

now that the young have fledged.

© Tim Dwyer

How can a blackbird be white? It’s actually not that uncommon

Tim has published a chapbook: Smithy Of Our Longings (Lapwing Publications). His poems appear regularly in Irish and UK journals, and forthcoming in Cyphers and The Irish Poetry Chair Commemorative Anthology.

Flight to Nowhere

Land-bound for much too long
we board in our bubble, separate
from others in our distanced rows,

breathe only our own
specially filtered air,
head to the Outback,

fly over Ayers Rock – Uluru
its indigenous name,
not that it cares.

It will outlast our ownership
as we fly in the airship
we see the bleached bones
of the Great Barrier Reef,
warming.

The pilot descends to a lower altitude
so we can see the greenery, the falls,
circles back to the bridge, bowing,

the harbor and its sails, the opera
house silenced as we de-bug,
clear our throats, overcome

with beauty, we land, vowing
to begin afresh, our duty
to arise again, repay our carbon offsets.

© Betsy Mars

What happened on the Qantas flight to nowhere

Betsy Mars has published one chapbook, Alinea, available on Amazon. Her poetry has appeared widely online. In the Muddle of the Night (Arroyo Seco Press), with Alan Walowitz, is forthcoming.

Impish Delights

Who’d remember these miniatures rich?

Horse’s hairy tail who dared to pull?

Would lost pictures Granny’s needle ever stitch?

Mixed up four hues of Gran’s prized wool?



Grubby little snails in shoes who stored?

Treacle in sleepy ears who liked to pour?

Of insects dead, had the scariest hoard?

Hide naughty pails over innocent door?



Grandpa’s gruff boots, who’d misplace?

Crash biscuit tins, disturb deserved rest?

Who’d steal sniffs from his tobacco case?

Granny’s grand patience who liked to test?



Drove to distraction, his mother dear.

Children whose chuckles once counted four,

Pride glowed in her eyes, when were still clear,

With birthday songs when their voices would soar.



- The End -

© Sultana Raza

Hampstead’s Keats House faces £73,000 Covid-19 loss

Author's note: most people think back to their childhood on their birthdays. Perhaps John Keats thought of his youth with his family, when he observed his last birthday when he was still alive on 31 October 1820 in a small room in Rome. However, little could he have guessed how famous he would become, or that 200 years later, the museum dedicated to his life, Keats House would be closed down in 2020, and suffer such big losses due to a pandemic.

Sultana’s non-fiction/poems have been published in 60+ journals, including Columbia Journal, and New Verse News. Her fiction received an Honorable Mention in Glimmer Train. She’s presented many papers on Keats. https://www.facebook.com/sultana.raza.7

Non-Essentials

My ears reclaimed their virginity

in month seven of the pandemic.

So long left without ornament

they were sealed shut against

shiny blue stones from Sedona.



Soon after, I realised

all my clothes are costumes

for the games of make-believe

that go on outside my house.

So who am I, when I’m not playing?



Behind my mask I dwindle,

cast off non-essentials,

lipstick and lunchtime gossip –

wonder will I emerge

some smooth skinned cipher,

shorn of adornment

a mute maiden with white hair

and a fear of crowded spaces?



Or is there an elemental self

this time is excavating?

I can’t tell; on good days, I can hope so.

May she shine as solidly

as blue stones from Sedona.

© Susan Millar DuMars

Covid-19: Here are the changes now in place under Level 5

Susan Millar DuMars has published five poetry collections with Salmon Poetry. She recently received an Irish Arts Council bursary to support her as she completes her second short story collection. Susan has co-organised the Over the Edge readings in Ireland since 2003.

Masks

We can’t enter public space without one —

no mask, no service. 

We have to lead by example
or design
Louis Vuitton, Habits, Maya Prass, we’re
turning masks into fashion statements.

Face coverings, masks for every
occasion. The very secure mask,
the less secure mask,
the triple-layered mask,
the disposable mask,
the dental mask,
the advertising mask,
the night-out mask,
the colour-coordinator mask,
the bedroom mask — velvet, sequins, lace,
the mask just for fun,
the biker’s black leather mask,
the sadomaso mask with studs,
the animal mask — leopard, tiger, lion,
the superhero mask,
the Lone Ranger mask — for Donald Trump,
it covers only the eyes.

Longer masks, the Snood — scarf and hood in one,
safety and warmth. The ANC funeral mask,
designed to match outfit, and
a tenderpreneur’s budget.
We fight the epidemic
face-on.

© Christine Coates

A Miami cop wore a Trump mask to vote, inflaming Democrats: ‘This is city funded voter intimidation’

Christine Coates, a poet from Cape Town, holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Cape Town. She has had three collections of poetry published.