Barbados Test Match

Winter-pale, florid-posh and ruddy –

all degrees of Englishmen are here

and fill the stands around the ground.

Knowledgeable cricket-types and MCC,

the interested-enough and Barmy Army,

united in the quest for winter sun,

they arrive in groups or bring their wives

who sip beside a pool all day;

it’s mostly men with cricket tix.

There are few black faces in the crowd.

Cricket’s lost its grip on the Caribbean

and the price of tix forbids the many.

It’s sad to see a Windies home series

re-colonized by foreign fans

and money. Yes, always, it’s money.

© Richard Devereux

West Indies v England: first Test, day one – as it happened

Richard is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

The Hellas

When The Hellas was holed below,

a crew of pirates came on board

and bailed her out

so she did not sink.

They looted what there was to loot

and plundered on their way.

Anchored to the bottom

on a creaking chain

that wraps around the rocks,

she’s going under one day when.

Her paintwork’s peeled,

the motor’s permanently stalled

and half the crew’s gone overboard.

The holes are just above the water-line.

© Richard Devereux

The end of the Greek bailout

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

That Was the MUSE That Was

Allegro ma non troppo 

West of Birmingham,
the Men of the Midlands
always bought Austins.
When my father elected Harold Wilson,
he was driving a turquoise A40.

He moved to the Cotswolds;
kept his Black Country accent
and bought another Austin
– a mustard-coloured Allegro.
Perhaps he thought it would help him blend in.

When he elected Margaret Thatcher,
he wished to acquire
a mushroom-coloured Triumph
and handed down the Allegro to me.
Perhaps he thought I’d assume something of him,

sitting in his seat, steering by his wheel.
I tried to like the Allegro but
I rarely topped it up with oil or water,
or washed it. I never polished it.
I commuted in it 10 hours a week.

It started to fall apart.
I called it ‘The Heap’ –
to forestall the mocking Yuppies
I knew at the time.
The only Allegro in that part of the city.

In 1985 I drove my wife and best mate
on the cricket tour to Cornwall.
I promised, if I score a century,
I’ll buy a new car. Safe bet:
I’d never scored more than 60.

I was out – caught on the boundary for 91.
All were dismayed:
the Heap was reprieved.
I kept the Allegro a couple more years.
By then, it was not going at all briskly.

Sometimes my father asked about it.
I’d say something positive – to chime
with him on a chord of his choosing
such as ‘It’s a fine old war-horse’ or 
‘They don’t make ‘em like that any more’.

 © Richard Devereux


Austin Allegro: how the worst car of all time came to be made

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

In Memory of Grenfell 💚

Caoineadh (for Grenfell) 💚


       I summon to this
                         shadow graveside
the joys and sorrows
                             of our families.

My sister’s wonder at sweet pea
blossoming on a cold windowsill.
The speckled palette of her view
across an unfamiliar London sky.

Her daughter’s delight in dancing
in learning. Of uaigneas, loneliness
sadness, comforted by a letter
from home in her mother tongue.

Will anyone ask if she was happy -
if long hours cleaning hospital
wards bled her skin
                          dampened her soul?

Does anyone care that she was good?
                                she helped neighbours
her beliefs had no colour.

She is beloved, grá geal mo chroí.

That she missed music, singing
                 her voice strong
a skylark in London
                keening for home.

© Rona Fitzgerald

Rona Fitzgerald worked on promoting gender equality for twenty years at European and national levels. She writes poems about people and about matters in the world that concern her.

Rapunzel   Moss Height Glasgow 💚

Ur yi no feart? School pals wunner
Sae high up? Plump palms oan the sill
she learns the toon's clutter. Fitba pitches
whare Daddy plays day-bricht wi floodlichts.
Motors birl an hurl roon shinin the nicht.
Barbie-pink curtains aye open. The shops,
whare the wumman upstairs works, aw wee toys.
Hir magic show. Dancin wi the wind the swayin flats
fuel hir dreams. Oer the noise o the babby
through the wa greetin, the telly blethers.
A hundred people now feared dead
in the Grenfell Tower blaze.
Streechin oot, freckles agin the gless
she peers doon at hir building, wunners
Whit's cladding?

© Finola Scott

Finola Scott likes writing and tickling her grandchildren. A Slam-winning granny, she appeared this year at the EIBF as well as reading in Rosslyn Chapel by candelight.

Face Lift 💚

My face in lining up to check
its worn cheeks and over-hanging eyelids
in the mirror. Like any old building,

the elements have washed it
into disrepair, though not yet instability.
No need for signs warning of
falling debris.

I slap on a bit of make-up sure,
but it's purely cosmetic,
just to plaster over cracks,
add some colour.

If I had more money than sense,
they could lift me, suck me, fill me,
provide full and costly renovation.

But when you are poor, all you get is
unsuitable cladding
and no real means of escape.

© Pat Edwards

Pat Edwards is a writer, teacher and performer living in Mid Wales. Her work has appeared in various publications including Prole, Picaroon, The Curlew, Ink Sweat and Tears and the soon to be published #MeToo Anthology. Pat runs Verbatim poetry open mic nights and curates Welshpool Poetry Festival.

Enquiry 💚
 
If we could, we’d ask them what it was like:
when the fire had taken hold and was rip-roaring close
and they knew, no way, were they getting out

and they wondered what it was going to be:
barbequed, flash-fried alive, sizzle and flame,
or deep-sea drowned, gulp-gulp-gulping acrid smoke.

If we could, we’d ask them what they felt:
in the super-heated furnace of their guts,
in the roaring Hell-fire of their heart,
in the blazing bonfire of their brain.

But as it is, we can only ask ourselves:
who’s fault it was, who was to blame.

© Richard Devereux

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Grenfell Tower 💚

‘Grenfell Tower’ was first published in ‘The Lyric’, Summer 2017

How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour
and leave a mausoleum in the sky?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
too young, and bid your family goodbye,
when acrid fumes constrict and overpower?
How must it feel to know you’re going to die
when rabid flames demolish and devour?

How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze but at what cost,
to suffer nightmares which will run and run?
How must it feel to try to carry on,
when much of what made life worthwhile has gone,
with home and treasures, friends and loved ones lost?
How must it feel to try to carry on
when you escaped the blaze at such a cost?

© Jenni Wyn Hyatt

Jenni Wyn Hyatt was born in Wales in 1942. She now lives in Derbyshire, and started writing poetry in her late sixties. Jenni published her first collection, 'Perhaps One Day' in 2017.


One Year 💚


One year
does not
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived -
does not
fade the image
of their faces
their voices
crying out
from inside
until the lines went
dead

One year does not stop
the anger
the pain
the numbness
the nagging knowledge
that they will not
come back -
does not stem
tears falling like rain
dropping out of eyes
that would rather not have seen
the unseeable -
nor silence ears
that would rather not have heard
the unspeakable

One year on
there is no
sprinkler system
to douse memories
no extinguisher
no Jack and Jill
pail of water
to put out
the grief smarting
in hearts
broken

One year on
empty rhetoric
can and never will
fill the spaces
where lives were once lived

One year on
one love
one green heart –
many voices
unite
through silence💚

© Bex Tate

Grenfell one year on: ‘We don’t want those lives to be lost for nothing’

Bex Tate, frustrated with the data driven education system, recently left behind her job as a Kindergarten teacher to spend time writing and pondering life. Writing poetry helps her to try and make sense of the world...as well as giving her the chance to rant a bit!!


 Grenfell (a double triolet) 💚


What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright
and names extinguished, one by one?
What could William Blake have done
to wake the rich in Kensington
before the sirens cried that night?
What would William Blake have done
as Grenfell Tower was burning bright?

What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls,
trapping the innocents in bed?
What could William Blake have said?
The names and numbers of the dead
hide under an official pall.
What would William Blake have said
to those who built the fatal walls?

© Jennifer Davis Michael

Grenfell Tower lit green a year after fire

Jennifer Davis Michael is Professor and Chair of English at the University of the South in Sewanee,TN, USA. Her work has appeared in Mezzo Cammin, New Verse News, Literary Mama, and elsewhere.

Scott-free

The Privy Councillor,
Party Leader,
Member of Parliament
(who nearly became Home Secretary),
Barrister at Law,
MA (Oxon),
Old Etonian
wanted to be free of Norman Scott.

He walked from the Old Bailey
a free man.
His ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card
was his pedigree.
The nation thought he’d got away scot-free.

© Richard Devereux

Jeremy Thorpe case 'was a farce', says ex-suspect

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Careless

O caro Loris Karius,
while others are censorious,

in the hour of your extreme distress
my heart goes out in tenderness.

Your blunders cost your side the Cup –
but which of us has not fucked up

in private and behind closed doors?
A billion eyes were watching yours

as you rolled the ball against their 9
off whom it crept across your line.

Your confidence was now shot through
and Bale’s long shot would slip through too

and gift Real the winning goal
that scarifies your tortured soul.

© Richard Devereux

Loris Karius left in tears as two calamitous goalkeeping errors cost Liverpool dear

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Grandad (Jamaica 1948)

When Grandma died, Grandad was sad.
Then he was fun and cheerful again.
Now he’s gone back to being sad –
Dad told him we’re leaving Kingston.

And going to live in London Town
And he’ll be getting a very good job
And we’ll be going to very good schools
And we’ll soon own our very own house.

That made Grandad a bit less sad.
Dad said he’ll be sending money back home
And that made Grandad cheerful again.
He hugged me … and his eyes went watery …

He said he’d miss us playing cricket
Watch the ball – all the way – onto the bat.
Head down – sniff the leather – swing out hard.
He always said that. Grandad grabbed

My arm, then went a little bit mad –
Said he wasn’t talking about cricket
But cricket was really life itself.
‘Mark my words!’ He jabbed me hard.

© Richard Devereux

Windrush migrants still sleeping rough one month after minister's promise

Pakistan in England, Ireland & Scotland 2018

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

HMT Windrush

‘Dull, wet and rather cool’
The June that waited those who came
From Kingston and Port of Spain aboard
Hired Military Transport Windrush.

What better way to reinforce
Our hospitals, buses and trains?
What better day to dock in Tilbury
Than Midsummer’s Day ‘48?

They shiver as they come ashore,
As sea-swell legs take wobbly steps.
A daughter hides in mother’s skirts;
Her brother’s hand seeks father’s palm.

Their pristine papers duly stamped,
They’re transported up to London Town
And play a game, the four of them –
Of ‘Who Can Spot The First Red Bus?’

A Clapham air-raid shelter’s where
They first lay heads on English soil.
Morning comes and the men go off
To register as ‘Available’

At the Brixton Labour Exchange.
They found a flat in Coldharbour Lane,
But never saw Jamaica again
And still the boy and girl cannot.

Those pristine papers, mostly lost,
Are considered now ‘inconclusive’.
They cannot vouch their every move
So, if they leave, they can’t return.

© Richard Devereux

Home Office told of Windrush errors five years ago, experts say

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Head of State

Look at them!

That’s what I call a Head of State.

Can we have one please?

Instead of a King or Queen.

Michael D Higgins –

representing the Republic of Ireland

and, in the Greek corner,

Prokopis Pavlopoulos.

Silver-haired, photogenic, academics.

Elected by the people, or their Parliament,

for a fixed term. Then they go

and someone else is chosen.

When they meet, they have an intelligent,

civilised conversation

on behalf of their nations

and nothing but good can come of it.

© Richard Devereux

Irish president in Athens for talks on EU, prospects

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Mine, mine, mine

Hip hip hooray,

A bright and sunny day!

The bell’s gone, school’s out,

the boys go out to play.

They fiddle with their zippers,

they fiddle with their buttons,

‘My, my, my’ says Donald,

my one’s bigger than yours!’

Then they play toy soldiers,

little Vlad and Donald,

they line them up in long straight lines

‘Mine, mine, MINE’s the longest line!’

© Richard Devereux

Donald Trump orders Pentagon to plan grand military parade

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Degree of Support

The Ambassadors to the UN

were called upon today to cast their votes

for or against the Motion

condemning Trump’s decision

to capitalise JERUSALEM.

Israel, of course, voted with America.

As did Guatemala and Honduras.

Togo went along with it too.

The Federated States of Micronesia

lead the way and in their wake followed

the Marshall Islands, Nauru and Palau.

Let’s call them ‘The Seven Dwarves’.

The Dwarves account for 0.5%

of the seven billion.

© Richard Devereux

Jerusalem: UN resolution rejects Trump's declaration

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

Two For Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

I am a boy of four or five –

Father Christmas is real and alive!

By bed-time on Christmas Eve

he’s loaded the presents onto the sleigh,

he’s taken off from the cold North Pole,

he’s flying fast through darkened skies,

reindeer straining at the reins,

jingle bells ringing, he is bringing

presents for all good girls and boys.

He’s bringing me my Big Present.

I want it more than anything else;

he’ll leave it under the Christmas Tree,

I know I’ll find it waiting for me.

He’s coming to fill the empty stocking

I’ve just hung up at the end of my bed.

He only comes if you’re asleep.

But I am awake and I can’t sleep

and the more I try, the more I can’t sleep

and I’m becoming crosser with me.

Perhaps – he came already, saw I was awake

and flew on by without stopping;

and now he’s gone and won’t come back,

and I’ll be getting no presents at all!

Sob, sob, sobbing, I go downstairs

to Mum and Dad, who say ‘Don’t worry,

Father Christmas hasn’t come yet.

Go back to bed. You’ll soon fall asleep

if you don’t try too hard.’

I hope they’re right and before I know it

I’ve slid down the slide to the Land of Nod.

When I wake up,

there’s something heavy

at the end of my bed and,

though my room is still

more dark than light,

I can see well enough to see

it’s my stocking!

Father Christmas has been!

There’s a cracker sticking out of the top,

the stocking’s all lumpy and bumpy

and it’s full of lots

of I-can’t-guess-whats!

Underneath the Christmas Tree

my Big Present is waiting for me.

© Richard Devereux

NORAD Santa Tracker 2017 LIVE: Find Father Christmas' location on Christmas Eve as his reindeers fly over UK

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.


Holy Office

Silent night, holy night!
Bright and calm with jets in flight,
As the servants of our lords
Cleanse us of the migrant hordes,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Sky a passport-blue delight!
Cherubim in white Kevlar
Unto hells conveniently far,
Hustle the migrants away;
Hustle the sinners away.

Silent night, holy night!
True Brits quiver at the sight
While the lesser, alien breeds,
With their dark un-Christian creeds,
Wait on this holiest morn,
Wait for the knocking at dawn.

© Philip Challinor

UK to deport Afghan torture survivor on Christmas Day

Philip Challinor posts fiction, satire and assorted grumbles on his blog: The Curmudgeon. His longer fiction is available here.

No News

On Monday, I posted the following message on the Poetry24 Facebook page:

Hi All.

After tomorrow, Poetry24 will be publishing poems as and when.

It's been at least one per day for a little over three months, and I have to finally concede that maintaining such a rate is unrealistic. So please continue to send me your news inspired poems, 'as and when' the muse dictates.

I look forward to hearing from you, as ever.

Cheers

Martin (Ed)

This is Richard Devereux's response.

The news is there is no news

to depress the poet’s keys

or set his roller-ball rolling.

Words have lost their charm:

Brexit means Brexit. Ambiguity,

the poet’s coin, has rolled away …

down the drain.

The Tories are ‘at it’ again.

How will the NHS cope with a winter

epidemic of Tory-fatigue?

And who is shocked by another

natural disaster, by another storm

or earthquake? They happen.

Get over it. Some have to.

Stories about the ebb and flow

of the dead in the water –

are dead in the water.

There hasn’t been a terrorist attack

this week. When it comes –

we will all have been expecting it.

For a while, Trump trumped

all other news, fake or not, but now

we all play patience.

© Richard Devereux

Poetry24 Facebook Page

Richard Devereux is a member of Lansdown Poets and Bristol Stanza. His collection Bill tells the story of his grandfather, a soldier of World War One who fought on the Balkan front in northern Greece. Richard taught English in Athens and his knowledge of Greece inspires and informs much of his writing. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and on-line magazines.

The End

Old banger, two door, fading red –

hardly the wheels of high-end crime.

Reports of a shooter.

Unmarked cars track along the M5

and when he comes off at 18

and heads off down the Portbury Hundred

the ARVs shoot past, slow down,

box him in,

causing him to stop.

The guns get out,

walk over to his window,

execute the arrest

shots fired – ten.

One way only.

The end.

© Richard Devereux

Man dead after police 'surround car and shoot into it' near Bristol

Richard Devereux belongs to Bristol Stanza. His main themes are Greece, people and politics. His collection Billtells his grandfather’s tale - Private Everyman in Greece in WW1.

Secret North Korean Poet

I wear the title of my poem.

Official Haircut 17.

From the Official Haircut List.

I chose 17 at random.

And not because I like the style.

I use the Jasmine nom-de plume.

It throws the SD off my scent.

They’re still looking for a woman.

It doesn’t stop me making stink.

When I discuss our Nation’s shit.

Conductor on a People’s Bus.

I stare into the peoples’ eyes.

And see what’s really going on.

I like the rhythm of stop-start.

The none of this – too much of that.

© Jasmine Flowers

Everyday Life In North Korea
6 Surprising Things You Didn't Know About North Korea

'What Ed Milliband Should Do'

When the ex-wife of the king-to-be died
in that car crash in Paris –
that’s when Tony Blair fucked up.
That speech about the ‘People’s Princess’
seemed great at the time –
the whole country backing a Labour Prime Minister,
but then he went and advised Her Majesty
to get back to London pdq and join in
the widespread looking sad.
He thought he was showing leadership,
being patriotic; what he should have done
was let her continue her holiday in Balmoral,
stay away, let us all manage without her.
Then he could have announced:
I won’t be having tea with her no more.
I won’t be visiting the Palace.
If she has anything she wants to say to me,
she can write in, just like Citizen Spart,
and my Officials will send an acknowledgment, as they do.
Hanging round palaces doesn’t do
for Labour Prime Ministers, it sucks them in.
Ed Milliband should make it clear
he won’t be having tea in the Palace.

Richard Devereux

http://yougov.co.uk/news/2014/10/26/ed-milibands-leadership-rating-hits-33-month-low/

I belong to the Lansdown Poets, Bristol. My first love is Greece - I won Bristol Poetry Festival's  Dead Poet's Slam as Giannis Ritsos. I've been published on the Stare's Nest.