The Subjective Nature of News

That’s how you bang on a wall

I thought,

A URL

To a familiar smell

It’s news if it’s on

AOL

Or The BBC

BBC

What’s news to me

my three sprogs

one with a cold

two in the bogs

My eight websites

and my lost phone number

-          my eight websites

and my lost phone number

of poetry and prose

my made-up word

that nobody knows

WYOCHUNG -

the can and the Carlsberg

the thousandth rung

the thousandth rung

up  the mountain of dung

That’s how you bang on a wall

I thought

That should make them

Pause for thought

©Craig Guthrie

 http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2543500/Thats-bang-f-wall-Grandfathers-fury-drives-Jeep-house-daughters-noisy-neighbours.html

Craig is currently the featured writer in issue 36 of Erbacce Magazine. He has recently had work published in Poetry Scotland and Sam Smith's The Journal. His work can be accessed through this link: http://guthrielinks.blogspot.co.uk/

Harry

I have now deleted from my life,
An army man and an army wife,
Though it sliced me like the knife,
I saw no option.

I questioned not the courage there,
Nor intent to prove a care,
Nor the man of action rare,
But blind obedience.

If I am a parcel of vain strivings tied,
It is a horse’s conscience you provide,
So friendship for truth’s sake has died,
And suffered greatly.

It was the praise of Harry’s sin,
Applauded seven seconds in,
His ominous and passing grin,
Precisely seven seconds in,
That ominous and passing grin,
Which tipped me over.

I've not the time to argue, or,
The energy to make case for,
The pulling from all foreign war,
While ignorance of this magnitude reigns.

© Craig Guthrie

Prince Harry in Afghanistan

Craig Guthrie is from Wirral, UK. You can read more of his work on his blog, Satan is Biting My Ankle

Door to Hell

The Door to Hell is burning like resentment every day,
Consuming every promise, every tender word I say,
And still The Door remains ablaze, enticing me its way.

With purpose and conviction, the flames which never rest,
Consume the very passion to which they do attest,
With the purpose and conviction I never have possessed.

The burning cavern endless deep with 80-meter span,
In desert Karakum was formed and left to burn by man,
This Door to Hell so ghastly pure devouring all it can.

For twenty years and twenty more this blazing, torrid well,
Has lit the way to agony consuming me to tell,
That one day soon I’ll gladly pass through burning Door to Hell.

©  Craig Guthrie

Take a look inside a giant hole in the desert which has been on fire for more than 40 YEARS 

Craig is currently seeking a publisher for his book of poetry and prose "Chef and I - Lyrical Salads and Literary Vandalism" All comments, suggestions and offers welcome. More  HERE

Sunday Supplement

Includes:
Our Review of the week
Headlines: Tim Waldron's Houla
News Review: Mike Richardson's 'Random Nursery Rhyme News'
Celebrity Life: Craig Guthrie's 'Colleen'

What happened? Some kind of poetry eclipse on May 22nd  provoked 7 poets to send us poems in one hour (normally we only get 2 or 3 a day)! So here's a special Sunday Supplements with 3 extra poems.

Review

This week we had poets putting themselves in someone else's shoes: Helena Nolan speaking as Hildebrand to set the record straight about The Real Meeting on the Turret Stairs, Philip Challinor  Just Trying to Help by putting himself in David Cameron's shoes or, more uncomfortably, Lavinia Kumar's visceral Immolation from the point of view of desperate Tibetans. Kay Weeks' teasing, unrequited Joe Biden on LOVEwas yet another authentic-sounding voice.

But our own shoes can be uncomfortable too. We also heard what felt like very personal responses to recent news: David Subacchi's memories of a recent trip to Modena adding a unique perspective to the earthquake there, and particularly E R Olsen grappling with memories reawakened by the funeral of the bomber in Lockerbie at 23: the furrow in ancient ground, a ripple in my brainy surface, a wound...opened from underneath after years.

Headlines

Blood pours in Houla,
mourning echos on arid lands,
innocent lives gone.

© Tim Waldron

Syria crisis: Houla child massacre confirmed by UN

Tim teaches English at a secondary school in West Lancashire.


Random Nursery News Rhymes

Humpy dumpy sat on a wall
Singing a song on behalf of us all
All the attention was on the Queens men
Trying to rubbish the Euro again

Georgy Porgy opened his box
Heard IMF head was wearing a frock
Thought that meant that he needn’t take heed
Any advice to roll out plan B

Little Theresa in front of Blue geezers
Said put these delinquents away
When off duty coppers, tried so hard to stop her
She crimbo’d them all away

Wee Little Sebbie ran through the town
Up streets and down roads, torch lit and found
Thousands were willing to run with his flame
Then sell it on Ebay the very next day.

Little Rebekah has lost all her sleep
Didn’t know how bad times could find them
Her cell phone would ring
Comforting text things
From David with Lol stuck behind them

© Mike Richardson

Mike lived in Pembrokeshire and still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.


Colleen

I like Colleen in her blue bikini,
And she’d like me in my stripy beanie,
As long as we could keep our mouths shut tight,
We’d dance in Andalucia on Saturday night,
All would be bliss until the next day,
When I would demean her verbally in the most horrible way,
She’d throw a plate, I would duck,
We’d laugh, make up,
And go back to discussing Sartre on the lawn.

©  Craig Guthrie

Get a room! Coleen and Wayne Rooney get hot and heavy with some pool PDA in Vegas

More poetry and prose by Craig Guthrie can be found HERE

Me an That Joon

Did ye hear aboot that Joon wha bides doon the Hull,
Sh’wiz foond dade this moarnin in a bath that was phul,
Mind, she went oot wi that hoodie that wiz intae that rap,
They got meltit th’gither an thieved fae the Gap.

Sh’wiz a bonnie lass afore a that,
Now she’s left that bairn alane in that flat,
She sung at the Kirk when she wiz jist a lassie,
Far creh fae th’day when her ehz turned ah glassy.

At the Highwayman, she sung like Whitney,
Efter watchin her faither aye dae Gene Pitney.
Och, sh’hid pipes like the wind through the heather,
An she eyewiz hid time fir a fag an a blether.

Anyweh, you get back tae Jeremeh Kyill,
Yer trackie’s near dreh and yer tea’s in a whyill,
Get back tae the news an shoutin at nations,
Flickin through blame while ye flick through the stations.

Aye, an spout the twa lines ye ken frae The Man,
But treh tae remember, Joon’s life’s doon the pan,
An a parcel o rogues?
Naah,
Jist mair moths tae the flame,
Coz Agnes is fillin her bath jist the same,
Droonin her troubles an burnin her hay,
As that stream in the backgroond just bubbles away.

©  Craig Guthrie

Drunk left tot with drugs and razor blades

Scottish child poverty hotspots revealed

Study examines higher suicide rate in Scotland
------------------------------------------------------------

More poetry and prose by Craig Guthrie can be found HERE