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Rob Schackne’s ‘Stari Most’

from A Chance of Seasons

In Southern Bosnia
where I first knew you
where there was so much death
there was a beautiful bridge
you can’t kill memory
where there is a beautiful bridge
this is a story about Mostar
a story about Stari Most
but no, it’s a story about us
and the fight we had
on the beautiful bridge
and how I swore to you
we would both grow old
there would be no war
you didn’t listen  (I remember)
you kept on slapping me
we got home we didn’t speak
we made japrak and chorba
we cried and held each other tight
later they tortured you
then they killed you
it was a beautiful bridge
all the water gone
of course I write this.

Michael Crane’s ‘The great conspiracy’

from Poems from the 29th floor

Sitting on a tram,
watching a group
of tough young people,
I notice one of the girls
has a huge hickey
on her neck. I’m sorry
but that is hilarious.
Now I’m convinced
that the world is conspiring
against me being a serious writer

and any minute now
there will be a giant
banana cream pie flying
through the air towards me…

just before it hits me
a poem will sacrifice itself
and jump in the way
to save me from losing my mind,
just like this one did.

Richard James Allen’s ‘The Book of Bad Dreams’

from Text Messages from the Universe

(1)

You. You think you know who I am talking to. You
think it must be you. You who knows who you are.

You who will know what to do. You who will have
the appropriate response. You who will handle the
situation, whatever it may be. You.

Yes, you. Open your eyes. Wake up.
Wake up.

(2)

The streets are empty. What happened to that car?
Is someone still trying to kill you?

You are not going to die. You are not going to die.
You are not going to die.

You are already dead.

(3)

You put your hand in your pocket. This coat is too big
for you. Is it the same one you had on before?

Inside, a wallet, some keys, an ID card…but the
photograph looks different somehow…

(4)

You wake up in a tree. From your upside-down
position in the branches, people walking look like
they are doing little jigs as they perambulate. Happy,
floaty, oddball little jigs. Jigs they aren’t even aware
of.

They think they are walking
upright, but they are dancing
upside down! You laugh so
much you fall out of the tree.
You hit your head, and all goes
to black.

(5)

You wake up and you can’t remember who you are.

Perhaps this all happened earlier in the day. Perhaps
it happened just now.

Everything seems separated from itself, like a piece
of freshly baked bread that has been pulled apart.
It used to be one thing, but now it’s in warm gaping
fragments, slathered with something else.

(6)

You wake up. The sheer, delicate, translucent fabric
of time enwraps, entangles, enfolds. You drift back
into sleep.

Even as everything is so unexpected and out of
control, you have to admit that there is nothing you
like more than this endless caress of night.