Kerri Shying’s ‘regretsy’

there were these poems
like bats
they come at night

flap vain above my whore-bright hair
penless I fight sleep
the shapes

reach fruitless just that
inch too short
and out of ink

fourth stanza
gone you
fleeting bastards get the pen before you sleep

I think

“Night War” by Lou Smith from Riversalt

I can hear them
like Formula One cars
on a track around my head
and on my skin the flame
of contusions like tyres
exploding on tarmac.
My left eyelid has swollen
I’ve been sucker punched
during the night-long battle.
I’m a sore loser.
I introduce aids– 
mosquito coils, aromatherapy candles,
citronella oil, the air conditioner–
but they always win.
Welts on my limbs
from bites or scratching,
mosquitoes in the bedclothes–
now that’s just cheating!
I cover my face with the bedspread
my arm out as an offering

Alex Skovron’s ‘Narcissus’

In the end, of course, he got married
to himself. A civil ceremony, nothing too glib, a friend
or two, a reporter from The Mirror, the odd flame
from the past, a waiter with icy water:
his watery parents, a little perplexed, looking around,
confused because no engagement had been announced.

The celebrant was vague, her words left an eerie
echo, she quickly left. Nobody spoke. At last, he escorted
himself into the Bridal Suite: nervous, a little beery,
he sat there blushing on the edge of a single bed.

Rob Shackne’s ‘Stella Fugio’

there are stairs to take
and steps to consider, after all
the slender things we are
stars can wait a little longer
distance must be reached
love is met on the landing
(a demon black cat flashes
past, between our future legs)
we recognize each other
one going up the other down
we hardly have time to speak
platitudes of stairs and star
a bad day ahead of us or behind
a meeting later, always later

chalk-borders-by Sarah St Vincent Welch

Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘apron’

a lap for children
cover for bruised knees
pocket for safety pins
flower cuttings
catcher of stains and tears
patchwork gala of pain
where the peels curled
you fronted up for work
fronted up for work
the tie tightened
hand behind
finger knot
here  where I hid my face

What the river told me by Jane Skelton

‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton

shadows, seeking fingers, creep across the moor
as clouds roll over
a slag of suggestive, rococo cloud
reclines upon the hill’s haunches 
a pregnant Welsh pony whinnies 
hysterically into the wind 
the roosters’ chorus answers, rises from the village
the squirrels are barking
a teenage fawn hesitates on the edge of the pines 

in a cathedral in Hexham
I watch the organist practise 
trundle through a hymn 
the wind cannot be felt in here 
but trees snap, crash across the road
the smell of torn vegetation

I am stranded 

and later we hear a woman in Ireland 
was blown off a cliff in her caravan

What the river told me by Jane Skelton

broomstick orchestra by Jane Skelton

along the lake’s edge   
our burnt limbs scratch at the sky   
rapping in the wind −   
gentle ratapan, a screek   
a soft scrunching of paper
as it passed through us   
we could only receive it −   
dreaming of water   
arms upraised in frozen dance   
amid the whirlwind of fire
our spectral voices   
sing the conflagration   
mimic the crackling   
as the wind brings the burnt reek   
the acrid recall of pain  
waves unburied our song   
our creaking cacophony   
roots deep in midden   
sand falls from shell, bone, graveyards   
old feasts uncovered, old fires
fishing boats glide past   
seabirds, on indifferent trails   
we cry from the dunes   
our terrible scribble is  
crazing the ruffled water 
the wash slaps our dune   
our every wounding, a sound   
the lake whispers back   
its silky repetition   
new growth creeps forward   
our song is nearly over   
twine us in green strength

from “Riversalt” by Lou Smith

An Evening Swim at Kilaben Bay

Between the wooden slats
of the boardwalk
distant lights of houses
blur in a diffraction of amber
like Venus through drizzle
or in the curve of waves
fanning from shore
What the river told me by Jane Skelton

from “What the river told me” by Jane Skelton

Ben Boyd’s tower

The bay’s silk curtain is  
blue milk, draped from the opposite shore  
	the sea pricked out in boats  
their white sails dancing upon its pleats  
	through the spyglass he scanned  
the coves, the inlets, their crescent smiles  
	and across to Eden   
a Stink, the whale bones lying about   
	covered by feeding crows  
Framed in a high window   
he might look like a wandering ghost   
	his skin freckled, weathered   
his eyes pink-rimmed, lips dry, salt-glistered   
	a struggle climbing up   
seabirds caterwauling round his head   
	he grasped his broad-leafed hat   
lest the wind snatch it for the ocean   
	and show his thinning pate 
Toward the spindrift-blurred   
horizon, something in him yearning   
	always had, since boyhood   
he’d built a port, a place with his rules    	
	and his own currency  
though all was against him − the weather!  
	lack of labour, the laws!  
Not his fault his ventures have collapsed  
	suddenly, he was bored  
Sea eagles were circling   
an aeronaut, he might fly away
	but could only climb down
a servant came forth with his carriage  
	helped him up, awkwardly   
he glanced at himself in his mirror
   	slicked down his balding crown   
he, who felt himself a personage
	was he still comme il faut?
Along the ship-wrecked coast   
hidden vessels drift beneath the waves   
	octopuses’ gardens   
huddle in the weed-furred rotting hulls   
	in deep green whale-strong swells   
he made for the Pacific Islands   
	dragging his submerged selves   
plotting a republic, a land grab        
	sailed to his secret death   
The scorched tower still stands   
its headland now fire-razed, scalped of scrub  
	tourists potter about   
pause before the signage − warped, melted   
	and will it be replaced?   
the tower’s cordoned off − they ignore   
	pose, in its emptiness 
watch the waves slam vermilion rock   
	below treacherous cliffs  
Wind mouths the lone tower   
tourists speculate − these sandstone blocks  
   carried miles, from Sydney  
by bullock train, at enormous cost  
   who was Benjamin Boyd?  
a colonial Christopher Skase?  
   but more, a blackbirder  
wrought death, disease on his captured men  
   indifferent to their fate 
 Matting the headland now  
green and juicy growth − wattle, myrtles  
   spring out of charcoal ground  
fire has revealed the middens, the shells 
   crumbling to ashy earth  
signs of those whose place it was, and is  
   the romance is fading  
listen − other voices are speaking  
   a new naming begins