To the Weather Gods

Now I know in days gone by there were festivals of pop
Mainly one on th' Isle o Wight three days music non stop
Then Reading came, and followed by Leeds.
The point is you God's of precipitation, you knew
That a drop or two would not dampen our enthusiasm
Or stop our earthly din
Nor did you stop raining on our parade of  intense music
Or should that be in tents (lol)
But as we increased the number of our music fests
Leaving not one weekend really free from play
We did not expect you to do the same with rain.
You jest with our politicians too when they
Appoint a minister for drought or
Locally proclaim a hosepipe ban
Are you havin a larf!
Can we agree to reduce our festivals
Close Wimbledon, stop harvests,
And dare we say postpone Olympic feats.
I think not. We are at your mercy
You Cumulo, you Nimbus, Pack it in
Or we'll start burning that black stuff and then
You see how hot and acidic our anger burns!

© Mike Richardson

Rain causes gridlock at Isle of Wight festival

Mike lived in Pembrokeshire. After University in West Wales, he left for City Life. He still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.

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

Schrödinger Proposes a bill

One can even set up quite ridiculous cases.

The future NHS is penned up in a red box,

Along with the following device

(Which must be secured against direct interference by the NHS):

In a Tory proposal, there’s a so called tiny bit,

A radical restructure from the top,

So small that perhaps in the course of the parliament,

The course of its health bill passes, but also,

With equal probability, perhaps not;

If it happens, their partners discharge their duty,

And through a relay releases amendments

That transforms a small clause in the bill.

If one has left this entire system to itself for a term,

One could say that the NHS still lives

If meanwhile no bill is passed.

The politics of the entire system would

Express this by a small red box by George

Having in it the living and dead NHS

(Pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts.

It is typical of these cases that an indeterminacy

Originally restricted to the political domain

Becomes transformed into macroscopic bureaucracy,

Which can then be resolved by direct observation.

That prevents us from so naively accepting as valid

A "blurred model" for representing reality.

In itself, it would not embody anything unclear or contradictory.

There is a difference between a shaky or out-of-focus bill

And a snapshot of clouded or foggy judgements.

So David could proclaim “By George…

That is a humdinger of a bill!”

“The appliance of Science” Old Nick replies.
"The devils in the detail!"

© Mike Richardson

Health reforms - where they stand
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Mike lived in Pembrokeshire. After University in West Wales, he left for City Life. He still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.

St Patrick's Day (apologies to the Bard)

Duw Duw, I prospect not for Clogai gold

Or care not who sups Brains at my own cost;

I grieve not for those who have no garments red

Upon their backs, or forwards, bear no blues

But should I sin by wanting future glory

Then perhaps consign me to the heretic’s fire.

No Faith is better placed, as one from Little England knows

God’s peace rests and it is no lack in honour

To all would say this side of Severn’s flow

It’s best to Hope and wish for one try more

And proclaim it, West Walian, with the hwyl filled host,

Should men in blue have no stomach to this fight

Let them depart; Their passport shall be stamped

And pay their homeward fare into their purse.

Red men would rather die than miss their presence

And the fearing of a scarlet tidal wave to rise

On this eve of Patrick’s day, for green

Envy of our safest passage through their lines.

They stand well cocked, stud to stud, toe to toe

And be aroused at the name of Patrick.

He that lives through this to see old age

Will each year ready self on Dewi Sant

To get the drinks in and the tables spread

Next fortnight is St Patrick’s Day my friend

And he will raise his vest to show beneath

The redded breast with feathers three-emblemed

To say that he was there upon St Patrick’s day.

Old props forgot; but Half backs names are never lost

We’ll all remember, Bennett sidesteps three

What feats he did can yet be done again

And you at ten become as well remembered.

Household names like John the King, Edwards

Merve the swerve, The one and only Shane

Initialled too as JPR and JJ from the west

Be in their clubhouse freshly honoured too

This game shall every fan recall to son and son

And David, Patrick's heir, shall not be passed

From now till eternity’s beginning

Or twenty two, the band of brothers

Will mind of Warren’s talk to lead them on

“Whoever sheds his blood and sweat today

Shall be my brother; be he never set his foot

South of the equator, gentle though we’re not

And gentlemen antipodeans all

Would be as proud, and think they were accursed

That they could not be warriors red like you

And hold their manhood cheap while any speaks

That played with us upon St Patrick’s day."

© Mike Richardson

Gatland's Wales are good enough to take on the southern giants
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Mike lived in Pembrokeshire. After University in West Wales, he left for City Life. He still hankers after the country that has inspired his writing.